by Lauren Smith
Right here in the library…
* * * * *
Cedric bent his head, his lips seeking any part of Anne that he could reach. She gasped when he reached the soft swell of the tops of her breasts and rained kisses down upon them. He was eager to delve beneath her bodice, to taste the pearled tips of those nipples, but reminded himself to slow down—he wouldn’t bed his future wife in the library of his friend’s house…well, at least not a woman like Anne. She deserved far better than that for her first time.
He didn’t want to rush their lovemaking, not when he knew it would hurt her. But he could give her a taste of what was yet to come. Cedric rolled his hips hard against hers, grinding his erection against the silk of her underpinnings. Anne arched off the settee with a startled moan, pressing herself against him.
Cedric’s lips trailed back up her throat to her mouth to nibble on her bottom lip until she whimpered. She seemed entirely unaware of the little sounds she made. Her inner wanton woman was in full control, and not just of her. Each sound, each shift of her body wreaked havoc on his sanity. And then she spoke…
“Are…the Arabian mares here in London?” Her voice was breathless, and Cedric rubbed himself harder against her, wanting her silent save for cries of pleasure. But he fought off a smile when she struggled again to repeat her question. His woman certainly did love horses.
“No. They’re in Brighton.” He nuzzled her neck before biting down hard without warning, like a lion holding his female still for mating. She gasped in surprise, her fingers digging into his shoulders clawing him, not to release her but to hold him to her body. Cedric felt ready to roar. He’d found her weakness, that smooth delicious neck. Every woman had a secret spot that would drive them wild, make them senseless. Men had fewer such spots, obviously, but as a rake, Cedric had learned early on that finding a woman’s pleasure point was the key to success, both for her enjoyment and his own. Having found Anne’s, he would be merciless.
“Brighton? Why Brighton?”
Damn, the woman still has enough sense to talk? I’ve been out of practice too long. Cedric sank his teeth into the skin between her neck and shoulder, his hands sliding along her sides, then up under her skirts to cup her bottom. He jerked her into him just as he rocked himself ferociously against her. Anne twitched and trembled with violent shivers, murmuring a started exclamation he couldn’t hear over the roaring of the blood in his ears. Damnation, the woman would be his undoing with her natural sensuality.
Never enough, I’ll never get enough of her.
Cedric caught Anne’s lips with his, invading the silken recesses of her mouth, questing for her timid tongue.
Every touch, every stroke, each delicious sensation and taste was all he had in the darkness, but it was glorious. Anne was glorious. Experiencing such passion as this with her was different from anything he’d ever expected. How was it possible that it was better than even his darkest fantasies had promised?
Never enough… Cedric tensed with his own need to come as Anne climaxed beneath him. Caged in by his arms, she shook with the aftermath of the moment and then buried her face in the groove of his neck. The intimate gesture, the silent communication, warmed his entire body with something that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure he’d just experienced.
Her hot breath, coming out in tiny pants, only heightened the pain in his groin. He would have none of his own pleasure, not tonight. But this was progress. He’d achieved the feat of truly pleasuring her, something he was certain no man before him had ever accomplished. There was a primitive sense of satisfaction from knowing that he was her first in that regard.
Cedric eased his weight off her. “Are you all right, my heart?” He could feel her start to pull away, but he caught her waist and tugged her against him as they both sat up.
“I don’t know. Is that how… Does it always…” Anne seemed unable to find the right words. He could only imagine the confusion she must have felt at experiencing a climax for the first time. La petite mort could be frightening but also exciting for a young lady who didn’t know what to expect, or so he’d been told.
“If done properly, then yes. And I do believe I know what I am doing when it comes to this sort of thing.” Cedric wished he could have seen her face. It was the one thing he’d loved most when in bed with a woman. There was something stunning about how a woman’s face lit up with ecstasy and joy as she came apart in his arms.
I will never see such joy on Anne’s face.
“What if someone had come upon us?” Anne asked, her body stiffening in his loose hold.
“They didn’t. And even if they had, we are engaged, and in a week we will be man and wife and it will no longer matter. Besides, no one under this roof would judge us.” Cedric brushed his knuckles over her cheek. Anne leaned away from his touch.
That one small action sliced his heart. Would she always pull away from him? He could not marry a woman who fought him at every turn. He wanted, no, he needed someone who would not shy away from his touch. Cedric dropped his hand with a heavy sigh and let go of her waist.
“You should go. I wish to be alone.”
Anne didn’t move.
“Please leave me,” he said more loudly.
“Why?” Her surprise sounded genuine.
“Anne, stop. Your due diligence is appreciated, but you never wanted to be here with me. Just go back to the others. I would hate to further disgust you with my advances.” Cedric rose from the settee and turned his back to where he believed her to be. He was still hard and it angered him that he wanted her so much even when he was as upset as this. He desperately wanted to bed a woman who hated his very touch, and touch was the one sense he most relied on now. The irony was almost laughable. Almost. His only advantage was to use her inexperience with passion to overwhelm her.
“You don’t disgust me, Lord Sheridan,” Anne insisted.
Cedric huffed. “You can’t seem to escape me fast enough whenever I let you go.”
“I merely can’t abide the thought of intimacy before our wedding. I want to obey the rules, even though I know you are far past that point in your…experiences.”
“Rules? We’ve broken most of the rules already. One more shouldn’t bother you, Anne. That is how I know you don’t want me. When two people desire each other they have trouble waiting. They don’t go stiff in each other’s arms or pull away from a devoted caress.”
Cedric frowned, considering his options. It wasn’t too late to call off the ceremony. They had a few days to undo the wedding preparations.
“I’m crying off, Miss Chessley.” He no longer felt the desire to breathe her given name. He’d once loved that her name was one smooth syllable, so easily murmured like a lover’s sigh after a moment of bliss. Now it brought him pain.
“Crying off?” Anne’s voice rose sharply.
“Yes. I do not wish to burden you with a husband you don’t desire, and I will not shackle myself to a wife who loathes my touch.”
“You truly think I loathe you? Look at me!” Anne spun him forcibly to face her.
“I can’t look at you. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”
“I haven’t, because you won’t let me! You are constantly throwing it in my face, and your friends as well, reminding us of how worthless you think you’ve become. I do not wish to marry a man who has rebuilt his life around pity. It’s infuriating, Cedric!” Anne jabbed a finger in his chest. Cedric couldn’t help but grin at her fury.
“What could you possibly find so humorous?” she sputtered.
“You called me Cedr—” He was jerked down and Anne’s mouth fastened fiercely on his, with a thrust of her tongue and a powerful hunger laced in the rhythm of her lips.
When she finally released him she poked him hard in the chest again.
“Never think that I do not desire you! And if you even think to cry off, I s
hall tell everyone in Mayfair that you’ve compromised me and you’ll have no choice but to marry me. Emily will have Godric drag your body into St. George’s by your feet if he has to!”
She spun on her heel and left, the dazed viscount smiling like a lad.
She desires me!
Chapter Eight
The White House in Soho Square was filled with the sounds of the rich and elegant seeking their pleasure. It was a night for devilry and revelry. The young bucks who’d been trapped at balls, parties and sandwiched in the crowds at Almack’s since the beginning of the season in January were finally able to escape to less reputable locations and enjoy themselves freely in ways they could not with the eligible ladies under the watchful eyes of their mothers.
Even a few ladies who’d borne their husbands the required heirs were taking the night to slip away from their cold marriage beds, along with some adventurous widows scattered throughout the expensively furnished rooms of the most famous pleasure haunt in London.
Samir Al Zahrani exited the Skeleton Room, one of the more macabre themed areas within the establishment, his soul blackened with greed. The English provided him a perfect market to carry on his trade, both legal and otherwise, with discretion and near anonymity.
Even his father, one of the emissaries visiting London, was unaware of the full extent of Samir’s business affairs. Willfully blind, was perhaps more accurate. His father was a man of honor and would have tried to stop him, but Samir knew his father was an old fool who did not recognize opportunity when it presented itself. While his father’s business struggled, Samir’s thrived, and soon he would surpass his father in both wealth and influence.
He moved through the house, admiring the array of mirrors and the other unusual additions to the mansion that entranced and enthralled its well-paying guests. His purse was fat with coins and banknotes from his most recent sale of exotic women to furnish the house. No slaves in England? Perhaps officially. But those who thought as he did had their quaint little ways around such naïve ideals, and to avoid unwanted scrutiny.
New inventory was in constant demand in the cleaner pleasure haunts. Wealthy men did not want to bed weary and worn middle-aged women. That was where he came in. Samir Al Zahrani traveled the world buying and sometimes stealing rare and exotic women, and occasionally men, to sell to the highest-paying customers. Such as the operators of the White House.
But Samir’s business had little to do with his presence in England today. He’d lost a pair of his most precious assets here a year ago. Two mares sired by his father’s famous Arabian racer, the one the English called Firestorm.
Samir had been cheated in a card game by a damned Englishman, Sheridan. He would pay for his arrogance and trickery. Samir had vowed to kill the viscount and take back his mares. But revenge would take time, so Samir had soothed his wounded pride for a time in France before coming back.
He’d considered hiring a few local lowlifes to murder Viscount Sheridan and make it look like a robbery. His own private guards could have handled such a thing, but this required more care. The last thing he needed was for Sheridan’s death to be traced back to him or his country. That would be bad for business. Tonight, he’d left his guards at home and ventured the streets alone.
As he was on his way out of Soho Square, a coach rattled past him and stopped, blocking his path. The muted glow of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate the darkness that cloaked the black coach in his path. Samir felt his hackles rise, like a dog sensing a threat yet unseen. Perhaps he should have brought his guards after all…
“Get out of my way!” he snarled up at the driver perched on the coach’s front, but the driver remained silent. The door of the coach opened and a well-manicured hand slid out from the inky depths, inviting Samir to come inside.
“You are Al Zahrani, the Arabian merchant, are you not?” The voice was thick with its arrogant presumption of being correct.
“Fortune favors you tonight. I am Al Zahrani,” Samir growled. Did this Englishman just think the first dark-skinned man he passed by was the one he sought? He had survived battles in deserts beneath a sun so hot as to kill any man from this wet country. He did not fear one smug English aristocrat.
“We have a common enemy, you and I.” The hand beckoned him again, but Samir hesitated.
“And what enemy would that be?”
“The man who stole your mares. Viscount Sheridan.” The voice spoke Sheridan’s name with such loathing that Samir smiled. His inquiries had reached the right people, it seemed.
“You too wish this man dead?”
“Someday. But first I want him to suffer, to be humiliated, to never know peace up until the moment of my choosing,” the voice from the coach said. “Come into my coach and we will talk.”
So, he’d met an ally—a dangerous one, but an ally nonetheless. The enemy of my enemy… Samir hesitated, then reassured himself that his curved blade still rested in the silk lining of his British-style coat. He stepped forward into the carriage.
It was almost pitch-black, but Samir could make out the tall form of another man across from him. A pale face with hair so dark it melted into the coach’s grim interior gave the impression of a disembodied face gazing back at Samir.
“How long have you been back in London? Did you arrive with your father, Ramiz Al Zahrani?” the man asked. Samir had the distinct impression this man knew the answer to his own question. It was a test of honesty.
“Four days. How do you know my father?”
The man waved his hand. “I know quite a bit about him. A well-respected gentleman, welcomed in all London circles. He’s a credit to his country.”
Samir detected no falsity to that declaration, which begged the question why a man who valued his father would be here now talking to him about murder and revenge?
“And have you sought word of Sheridan since you arrived?” the man asked.
“I have been busy selling my wares.”
“That is a matter which you and I will speak more of soon. I think that your business interests and mine might just find common ground.”
He sensed the man was not referring to his legal facade.
“You have an interest in my business?” Samir’s laugh was cold.
“I most certainly do. As I understand, you seek to take some of our stock back to your country. My sources’ opinions vary as to the why of the matter—some say it’s because of the exotic price they would fetch, others the prestige it would bring and how it might play in terms of power and influence. One acquaintance is convinced a wager is involved somehow.”
Samir smiled. The man didn’t just want him to know that he had information, he wanted him to know he had a number of people supplying him with it. It was an indirect means of laying out his credentials. Spymaster, perhaps? But Samir had his own means of learning about people. Answering a single question could speak volumes. “And what do you think?”
“The why is irrelevant to me,” the man said simply. “I am here to help supply you with some produce. Say, Viscount Sheridan?”
Samir held his breath. Was this man serious? “You are suggesting I kidnap a viscount on English soil? That would be impossible.”
The Englishman chuckled softly. “That is exactly what I’m suggesting, and it is my experience that few things are impossible, only difficult. If you want to succeed and escape the law, you need only to ask.”
“He’s still the same arrogant bastard he was. I believe I can handle him on my own.”
The Englishman shook his head. He might have been smiling. “Much has changed since you’ve been gone. Did you even know that Sheridan has gone blind?”
The man shared this bit of news with such delight that Samir had no remaining doubt that this man wanted Sheridan dead as well.
“Blind? I had not heard. That should make matters easier, however, not more difficult.”
“Then you do not know the company he keeps. As long as Sheridan is in London, your quest for revenge will indeed be impossible. You also don’t realize how little time you have. Next week he marries a wealthy heiress, the daughter of a recently deceased baron.”
“And what has this to do with me?” Samir demanded.
“His bride has fine English-bred stallions that Sheridan intends to breed with the mares he stole from you.”
Samir clenched his fists. His mares were meant for breeding only to other Arabians.
“And what is it you propose to do?” Samir asked through gritted teeth.
“Sheridan marries in five days. I have a man employed at the Sheridan house, and I have learned that Sheridan intends to honeymoon in Brighton. This is where he is keeping your horses. Conveniently, this would also keep him far from those who would protect him.”
“What do you want from me in this plan of yours?”
“You have control of a ship?” They both knew that he meant Samir’s slave ship.
“Yes. I have the services of a ship. The captain has orders from me to dock when and where I tell him.”
“Excellent. Here is my plan.”
Samir leaned forward to listen to the Englishman, a satisfied smile on his lips. Viscount Sheridan and his lovely bride would soon be begging for death, long before Samir would grant them such a mercy.
* * * * *
Hugo Waverly watched Samir Al Zahrani exit his private coach and continue on his way. A minute later, the coach door opened again and Daniel Sheffield ducked inside, seating himself across from Hugo.
Daniel was his best man. The quickest, quietest, and deadliest of all the spies Hugo was in charge of for His Majesty. The man was only in his midtwenties, yet he’d been on more missions than any spy in England.
Daniel swept off his hat. “Well, my lord? Did he take the bait?”
