London's Most Wanted Rake

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘You’re thinking too much,’ Alina murmured beside him, snuggling into the notch of his shoulder.

  ‘I was thinking about you.’

  ‘That gives us something in common. I was thinking about you.’ Her hand disappeared beneath the sheets. A moment later he felt it close around his cock, warm and sure.

  ‘What about your maid?’ Channing asked, but it was pro forma. At the moment, he could not care less if the whole house party walked in on them.

  ‘Don’t worry—’ Alina smiled ‘—she likes you.’

  ‘And you?’ Channing was fishing in deep waters now, but he’d been lucky so far. ‘Do you like me?’

  Alina leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, her thumb running over the head of his penis in a delicious caress. ‘What do you think?’

  It was not an answer, but he was too smart to press his advantage. He’d let her be in charge for the moment. He’d have his chance later. He had a little game of seductive Q and A in mind that would help further his cause. The competitive part of him felt as if he was running in second place. She had what she wanted—he’d got the introduction for her—and she had the pleasure of his company in bed to boot. What did he have? Certainly nothing he’d thought to use the latter to acquire. Was she using him again? Was he letting her?

  He gave a gasp as her thumb hit a sensitive spot. He didn’t mind right now, but he was going to. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let her use him again

  * * *

  The lack of an explicit response from her had nagged at him the rest of the day. It had nagged him throughout the picnic to yet another nearby set of Roman ruins and it was nagging him still by the time he returned to his room to dress for dinner and the ball that was to follow. The house party would end the day after next, giving the guests time to recoup after the late evening of dancing tonight.

  Technically, his obligation to Alina ended then, too. Amery’s contract would be fulfilled. He should feel relief, but he didn’t. After having reconnected with her, he felt nothing but loose ends at the prospect of leaving her. In part, those loose ends were the situation with Seymour. But also, the loose ends stemmed from things done but never spoken of in their past. Did they dare address Paris? Did they dare address the Christmas party? They would quarrel certainly, which was no doubt why they’d not brought either episode up. And what would it solve?

  Channing dismissed his valet and headed downstairs, tucking a sapphire stick pin in the snowy folds of his cravat as he went. Still, he could tie up some of those loose ends tonight in regards to Seymour.

  By his estimate, he was a little early. Alina would not be down yet. She would make her entrance as always right before the dinner bell. But when he entered the drawing room, he found he was absolutely mistaken.

  Alina was present early and she was already engaged in conversation with none other than Roland Seymour. A spear of intense dislike stabbed through him. He was seldom a jealous man. Women came and went through his life and he spared them little covetous thought once their time together had passed. It was the nature of his business. But this—watching Alina focus all the attention of her blue eyes on the undeserving Seymour, knowing she stood close enough that Seymour could smell the delicate floral scent of her, that he could even drop his eyes a shade lower and glimpse a peek at her exquisite cleavage—this was torture.

  Seymour leaned close. Alina laughed up at him and Channing knew raw envy. It was primal and poorly done for a man of his sophistication and experience. She couldn’t possibly be interested in the likes of Seymour, not when she had had him in her bed. He’d given her pleasure last night, she’d gifted him with pleasure as well. One didn’t go to such lengths for a man who meant nothing: the Moët, the intimate caress of mouth and hands on him by the fire. It would be a long time before the memory of her naked body silhouetted by the flame, the Moët in her hand as she poured for him, would fade to respectable proportions. A man could die happy after a night like that.

  And yet she had come down early and sought out the questionable Roland Seymour, who, even at this late date in the house party, remained on the fringes, having failed to penetrate the inner circle of the more elite guests like Durham and Barrett. Even the host spared only the required amount of time politeness demanded with Seymour. So what did Alina mean by it?

  It seemed he was asking that question about a lot of things she did, yet clearly Seymour meant something to her. She needed him for something, something important enough to drag her to this house party, which, aside from its inspired egg hunt, was not so special in its location or guest list. The Comtesse de Charentes surely had better choices for how she spent the short break before the Season began and for how she dared to risk her reputation.

  ‘You’re staring.’ Elliott Priest came up beside him, a friend from the London clubs who’d been invited, too. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever seen you stare before. But then, there aren’t many women like her. I can’t blame you. I’d stare, too.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I wonder what she sees in him?’

  Channing gave a short laugh. ‘I was wondering the same thing myself.’ Elliott provided an excellent diversion. It would serve him far better to pass the time before dinner chatting with Elliott than it would to be caught staring at Alina. So for the sake of appearances he applied himself to Elliott’s conversation, letting his gaze drift only occasionally to the corner of the room Alina occupied with Seymour.

  * * *

  He was watching her. Alina could feel the intensity of his gaze even at a distance, as brief as it was. Thank goodness Channing had stopped staring outright. It had been difficult to pretend she wasn’t aware, difficult to give Seymour all of her simpering attentions. Play the game, she’d admonished herself. But it was hard to keep all the games straight. Only the first one was going well. She had Seymour right where she wanted him. She had Channing right where she wanted him, too—in her bed, but that game was becoming murky, probably because it had ceased to be one. She knew better. The last thing she needed was Channing around to poke his nose into her business with Seymour. It was bad enough he was staring daggers across the room at her and he didn’t even know exactly what she was up to. He would certainly not like it any better when he heard the particulars. ‘Do you think Mr Deveril will be a problem?’ Seymour’s comment forced her to focus.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s not a man of business, after all,’ Alina said dismissively, implying that Channing’s pursuits were more leisurely in nature.

  Seymour cocked a knowing eyebrow in her direction. ‘I don’t doubt that at all—one hears things, you know.’

  Alina fought the urge to bristle. It was one thing to be dismissive; it was another to be derisive. A man like Roland Seymour had no right to sit in judgement on the son of a peer. But she hated herself for the quick defence. This was the problem with Channing, he was so likeable even when she knew better. It was his job to be likeable. He’d made likeability into an art form and into a fortune as the head of the League of Discreet Gentlemen, something most of London had yet to empirically verify.

  She put a hand on Seymour’s sleeve. ‘Thank you for signing the contracts before dinner. I will be able to enjoy my evening now, knowing that everything is in your capable hands.’

  The dinner bell rang and the gentleman she was supposed to walk in with came to claim her. Alina felt a sense of relief. In England, a decent woman didn’t leave one man to seek the company of another, but she hated being trapped with Seymour now that her business was conducted. There was nothing more to do on that end but wait and watch. He would reveal himself soon enough and she would be there to ensure he never took advantage of another woman again.

  * * *

  Dinner was festive. Everyone was in high spirits from the picnic and the anticipation of the dancing to come. She made conversation with the married gentleman on her left and the single gentleman on he
r right, miles down the table from Channing, which suited her purposes at the moment. She wanted to avoid his questions about Seymour. It was temporary relief only. She couldn’t avoid them for ever.

  Everyone had worn their ball attire to dinner and adjourned to the drawing room for dancing. Immediately after the meal, local guests had begun to arrive and the women had been given darling little dance cards done up in pale-pink card stock and embossed in gold trim to dangle from their wrists. It didn’t take long for Channing to materialise at her side and claim two dances.

  ‘I should like to claim more than two,’ he drawled pleasantly, picking up the pencil and signing the card with a bold C.D. in the third and last slots. ‘He returned the card to her. ‘However, I realise we can’t have anyone from the party carrying tales to London.’ She understood he was daring her to a public breaking of the rules.

  Alina lowered her voice to a seductive pitch. ‘Does that mean I’ll be drinking Moët in my room alone?’

  Channing flashed her a quick smile. ‘Absolutely not. It’s only necessary to be discreet if there’s something to hide. One implies the other, you see.’

  Alina dropped her eyes in a demure pose. ‘I must thank you for the clarification, Mr Deveril.’ There were others beginning to approach. Channing couldn’t overstay his welcome.

  He laughed and raised her hand to his lips in a showy gesture. ‘You don’t fool me for a moment. Until then.’

  Until then. When was that? Until the third dance when he brought up Seymour? Until the last dance when he’d bring up Seymour? She’d fully expected he’d take the first chance to ask her what she and Seymour had been discussing so avidly before dinner. But he hadn’t. He’d merely signed her dance card, flirted a bit and moved on to sign other dance cards. Which he was expected to do—it was his job as a party guest to see that all the ladies were accommodated with all the dancing they desired.

  She ought to take his coming to her first as a private sign of his esteem, a sign that he’d built his evening around her dance schedule, but she couldn’t. She knew too much. They were playing a game, although it was hard to tell which one. Had this been about Seymour or had it been about the other game? Why hadn’t he asked about Seymour? Or maybe it was just about getting even because now all she wanted to do was run across the drawing room and shake him and shout, ‘Why won’t you ask me about Seymour!’

  Alina tried to set such thoughts from her mind and enjoy the dancing. He would ask her when he asked her and there was nothing she could do about it.

  * * *

  The thought was there at the back of her mind the whole evening, creating a layer of tension. The third dance, a waltz, came and she fully expected Channing to mention it. A waltz was the perfect time to ask since there were no partners to move between. But all he did was flirt with his eyes and make love to her with the fluid movements of his body. She doubted anyone danced the waltz as well as Channing Deveril.

  It was empirically true. The unbidden memory surfaced as he swept her through the steps. It had been at the ill-fated Christmas party, their last engagement before the contract officially ended. There had been dancing and Channing had been a most sought-after partner. She’d watched him dance with all the young ladies, each of them feeling like a queen when he was with them, the way she felt when she was with him. They were all just another job to him, even her, no matter what she wanted to believe.

  That was when Alina had known with abject clarity she could have all the sex she wanted with Channing Deveril, but she could never have him. Not only because she was a widow with a scandalous Continental past, but because his heart could not be engaged, at least not by her. This time, she hoped to manage better, however. This time, she knew the limits. She could have all the earth-shattering, mind-bending sex she wanted, but nothing more.

  The dance ended and he returned her to the group of people she’d been talking with before the dance. Not a word had passed between them about Seymour and the rest of the night loomed long before her. Nothing is free. This was how he was going to make her pay for keeping her secret.

  The intervening dances were distractions, merely ways to count down until Channing claimed her once more, putting her night of waiting to rest at last. Surely now he would say something?

  The last dance was to be a waltz, too, and, for special effect, Lady Lionel had the room dimmed, leaving only a few select candles burning to give the room a decidedly romantic feel. The effect was quite divine, Alina thought, as Channing led her out on to the dance floor.

  Channing moved her into position, his hand at her back, her hand at his shoulder. His voice was low in her ear and she could hear the smile in it and the undercurrent of desire. ‘For a hostess with a mediocre reputation, Lady Lionel has outdone herself. First the egg hunt, now this.’

  Her own response was a little less friendly in nature. She wasn’t ready to capitulate to his warm charm just yet after what he’d put her through this evening. She opted to get the issue out in the open. ‘Too bad you’re going to ruin it.’ It truly was because it was positively heavenly to be danced through the turn by Channing.

  ‘Exactly how am I going to do that?’ Channing executed a sharp swirl to avoid a collision in the dark. The motion brought her up against him, creating an intimate awareness of his body, of his thighs where they brushed her skirts.

  ‘You’re going to ask me about Seymour.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You are, too. You were staring daggers before dinner.’ Perhaps she’d imagined too much. Perhaps he really didn’t care about her business with Seymour beyond curiosity’s sake. Why would he? He was here with her on a job, just as he had been at the Christmas party. That had been her mistake then, too, assuming that it was more than a job.

  He laughed softly. ‘I assure you, I am not going to ask.’

  Now her curiosity was piqued. ‘Why not?’

  He bent his lips to the spot below her ear, his breath light against her skin. ‘Because, Alina, I don’t want to ruin it.’ He swung her into another turn and brought her up close against him, his voice husky with the desire she’d heard earlier. ‘I have every intention of being in your room within the hour.’

  And because that sounded much more promising than any argument over her business with Roland Seymour, Alina said, ‘I do, too.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It might have been her room, but the seduction was all his. He seduced her with chocolate and a second bottle of Moët. There was no better aphrodisiac in the world than champagne and chocolate, if you were Alina Marliss, unless it was the sight of Channing Deveril naked in the candlelight, pouring that champagne. But it would have been remiss of her to assume he would make the night a repeat of what had gone before. That was a mistake only an amateur would make and Channing was no amateur. They’d already eaten bon bons together in the summerhouse and drunk Moët in the nude, which was why doing it again was such a tantalising prelude to the unknown. Alina smiled to herself, a low, simmering heat unfurling in her belly. She understood; this was his pay back for not being told about Seymour. She’d made him suffer a bit this evening with curiosity and now he was doing the same, just the same as he had on the dance floor, making her wonder what would come next. But this was not her husband’s fear-based wonder, this was wonder driven by titillation and there was a vast difference.

  When her glass of Moët was almost gone, he rose from their chairs by the fire and issued his first command. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  Ah, so it was to be that sort of game tonight, Alina thought as he moved to another part of the room, his back to her. He wasn’t going to watch as she disrobed. Of course not. That might derail the game, derail his control as the game master. She could hear him assembling supplies as she stripped out of her robe and underthings.

  ‘Shall I sit?’ she asked, fully willing to play whatever game he
had in mind. Channing returned with a tray full of items. He made a great show of studying her, naked in the firelight, and then studying the chair.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ he mused aloud. ‘The chair is perfect.’

  ‘Perfect for what?’ she enquired, taking her seat. She was more than a little aroused already just being naked in front of him and knowing that he watched her.

  He knelt before her, the table and tray within easy arm’s reach. ‘Pour le petit mort avec chocolat.’ He spread her thighs, running warm hands along their insides and drawing them wide to the legs of the chair. It was arousing to be so vulnerable, so open to him.

  He reached for the tray and took off a roll of cloth. ‘Silk,’ he murmured huskily, unwinding a long strip. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bind it too tight, just tight enough.’

  Tight enough to hold her, tight enough to keep her from coming to her own aid. Alina’s throat went dry, the prospect incredibly titillating as he bound her legs to the chair, her hands to the arm rests. He pulled at the bonds in an experimental tug, giving her a wickedly satisfied look when they held.

  Her eyes followed his hands back to the tray. He picked up a bowl and a paint brush. A paint brush? His eyes held hers. ‘Now, I shall paint you. You shall be my study in chocolate.’

  She could smell it now, the scent of melted chocolate, a most erotic scent on its own, but even more so when mixed with the salty, musky scent of sex. It was the smell of her, she realised. And of him. The smell of consent and excitement; a very different smell from fear. She knew. In the dim light of the fire, she could see the liquid bead of his own arousal lingering on the head of his phallus. There would be pleasure waiting at the end of this and the journey was part of that pleasure.