The Writer and the Rake

by Shehanne Moore

  How could this feel wrong? Fame. Success. Riches. Stay here past tonight and that wouldn’t happen. What would was her being heavy as a house in nine months.

  Her gaze fell on her bag, sitting there innocuously on the table. It didn’t need to fall on the contents to see the way out of this dilemma.

  “Mitchell?” She undid the clasp. “You know what you said?”

  His voice came from the dressing room. “What about?”

  “Oh, don’t be coy. It’s very unbecoming in a man of the world.”

  “I think we agreed?”

  “Yes. We did. But if your worry and mine is about me getting pregnant. I have the perfect solution.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The fruit flavored contents of my bag.”

  Unlike him she never went for broke, thinking this would be the way to turn this round on him but it would be interesting to see how keen he really was to stop the sex.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mitchell Killgower sat on the chaise longue and flicked his gaze over her eyes, the color of gleaming granite, the chestnut hair curling in soft waves about her shoulders.

  “The fruit flavored contents of your bag?”

  He had wondered. In fact it was funny how his mind had boggled and he’d had the most unpardonable, the most inexcusable thoughts about them. Not only did assurance caps seldom come fruit flavored, generally they belonged in whorehouses. Now, considering the way she tore the packet open with her teeth he’d to ask himself. Was that where she was from? What she hid behind those eyes of hers?

  Not that it mattered. The inroads she’d somehow tunnelled into his heart, with a blunt spoon went beyond the footprints. She may be everything Gabriella hadn’t been, she’d still made her position crystal clear.

  Of course, with Gabriella, he’d done his level best to make love to a woman who detested him as much as he did her. Gathering clouds in a basket was probably easier. He still wasn’t getting into a position where he fell for her. Not only because he’d never lasted with a woman, because he’d rather be poor than have this one at his side. In addition to the fact she was trouble, he’d had to think on his feet. Damn Fleming to hell for spouting that rubbish. If he hadn’t she’d be on her way out the door.

  “Yes, Mitchell.” Her diamond bright smile caressed him. “I mean, I could tell you, but why don’t you guess? Here.”

  What she handed him may not have been like anything he’d ever seen that way, he still managed to keep his face straight.

  “You know, I’ve honestly no idea but I believe you said it was a balloon.”

  “Oh now you’re being tiresome. So let me spell it out. This balloon makes it possible for us to be together.”

  He glanced down, squeezed his finger and thumb together. This probably was a hell of a lot better than that tortuous business of sheep’s intestines. He had one in the drawer but come on. The soaking it in water, the struggling to get it on. He fingered it some more. Then he set it on his knee, glanced up at her in the candlelight wavering along his veins.

  “In what way? Do we fly away together?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her try to hold her poise.

  “What way do you think? Oh, come on darling, or I will laugh my head off. A first.”

  “You’re probably confusing me with someone who does think. Thinking has always gotten me into trouble. So I don’t do it often.”

  “Really? Well maybe that’s what’s wrong with—”

  “But sheep guts is for disease.”

  “Pardon? I don’t quite foll—”

  “The spread of it anyway. So you won’t mind me asking, is this banana flavored thing for more? Because, as things stand it seems to me you believe I am diseased. Or maybe you are.”

  The unfathomable eyes he’d need a mallet to break down and get behind looked straight into his but he believed he saw the faintest flicker. He sat back folded his hands across his stomach. In another second he’d suck in his cheekbones. He’d always been a master at scoring points. Then he’d take refuge in the fact she’d insulted him. A pity. If this thing meant he could have sex with no worries. A pity. Period. But there. He wasn’t doing this. For once he’d have restraint.

  “Fine.” She stretched out her hand, her smile effortlessly curved as a rainbow, although there was the faintest quiver about her mouth and as ever that smile never touched her eyes. “Never let it be said I’m anywhere people believe things I don’t think and think things I’m not.”

  Christ, her hand, lifting whatever the hell that thing was off his thigh was all he didn’t need. Only with the greatest difficulty did he manage not to leap off the chaise longue. At thirty-two, he should know better. Especially against a brick wall a cannonball volley couldn’t break. But she’d go in a moment. Let him count the seconds. It was just a case of holding out till then. At thirty-two, he could surely do that. Be glad that he had too. Instant gratification had been the story of his life. It had gotten him into trouble with that serving woman all the years ago. It had led to him being married off. Perhaps had Gabriella liked sex, things would have been different. But it was a long time ago to think about that. Too long for him to change.

  And yet.

  There it was again, that thought hammering in his brain. She danced too fast. Because of what he glimpsed in her eyes? That tiny drip of vulnerability that ran into his heart. That bleeding drop that said maybe they both needed saving. That one he needed to ping from his sleeve. Would ping.

  And yet?

  He covered her hand with his. Christ, please don’t ask him to do anything more demonstrative when he was the kind of man he was. He hadn’t even meant to take her hand. But in his defense, it was smooth and soft beneath his, except for the damned nails. The edges were imprinted on his thumb pads for all the wrong reasons—no edges and bugger all nail. Please don’t ask him to ask her why. He was already wrestling with the fact he’d taken her hand. Did nothing about him ever change? Apart from the fact he’d done it when he was trying to don his most sneering, hard to fathom, expression.

  That was bad enough. What was unpardonable was that he met her gaze. Hopefully because he wanted her to see she wasn’t calling him out here, exposing him for the wayward fraud he was. He’d look the other way in a minute. Or would he?

  “You know something?”

  “Quite a lot actually, darling. but nothing we should discuss here.”

  “I probably find your cigars give a better sense of wellbeing.”

  “My—”

  “But, let’s give this a go.”

  He knew he could, although that was different from knowing he should, when he definitely shouldn’t.

  “A go, Mitchell?”

  His throat was unexpectedly dry. “It’s what you said.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  He meant what she’d said just now, not that they should give it a go now. But before he could stop her she straddled her legs over his thighs, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth, cooler than the dew on a ripening peach, warmer than brandy on a winter’s night, on his. So soft and succulent, the world slowed and he clasped the sides of her face, slowly widening the kiss.

  Her fingers stroked his face, her perfume running through his blood in a heady rush. He’d no idea what it was but the scent spun in his veins like a drug. Her body fitted against his—a velvet glove, soft, pliant, all the things she wasn’t. All the things he was reasonably certain she wasn’t. All the things it didn’t matter a damn whether she was, or wasn’t. Her fingers stroked his, brought his mouth closer. What the hell was going on here? Where was last night’s mad rush?

  His fingers unfastened the tiny buttons on the bodice of her gown. Her hands were soft as snow on his face, her body a warmly burning flame in his arms, silky soft in
the chemise. And it could wait but why heap on more things to regret by running his fingers over her chemise, the round fullness of her breasts, teasing his fingers through her hair, drawing it up from her face?

  He never gave himself to women with this much tenderness, experienced the feeling he was entering unknown territory. But, she traced her fingertips beneath his shirt, over his naked back and he didn’t give a damn. All he could see was her eyes, with none of their usual hardness either. The little pulse in her throat was so delicious he pressed his lips to it, savoring her tiny moan.

  He drew back as she undid his cravat, eased his shirt over his head. Every stitch went in a heap on the rug but not as it had last night. Now came the moment he was going to have to fit that damned thing which was nothing like a sheep’s intestine and not look stupid about it.

  A man like him who’d had more women than a tree did leaves who could hardly take his eyes off her to reach for what she’d brought. But he did. He’d already worked out something so small was going to have to be stretched. A few adjustments and she sat up and kissed him.

  The heady intoxication was something he must fight with every fiber in his being. A bloody awful job he was making of it here, but he would, when the moon climbed down from the sky again. This, like the rest of his life was a dalliance. No more, no less. From now on, he’d make damn sure it stayed that way too. Killaine House was his goal. If it came down to it he’d rather be poor than have her at his side to get it.

  Chapter 16

  “Damn it. The bloody door. I’ll get it. You seem a little preoccupied?”

  Brittany jerked upright on the chaise. She was preoccupied. Dodson was standing, tall as a grandfather clock, at the bedroom door, his powdered wig seeming to have grown three stories since last night at supper, his hands, like kippers in gloves, clasped against his thighs, the only miracle being he didn’t chime like that same clock.

  Mitchell Killgower strode from the darkness of the dressing room to the dazzling bright sunlight of the bedroom, dragging his dressing gown over his magnificent back as he did. It meant only one thing. Her Amazon rankings must have tanked by now.

  She reached for the blanket that was tangled around her knees. “Oh, I’m just . . . just . . .”

  Stark naked.

  Dodson tried seeing over Mitchell’s shoulder but Mitchell took the breakfast tray from him. He strode back towards Brittany and set it down across her knees with a flourish, leaving Dodson still standing there.

  “Here.”

  Brittany’s eyes widened. The fact that like the average historical romance hero he’d had trouble fastening his shirt, would surely give Dodson plenty to report back to Christian. In fact Mitchell wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just breeches and shaving soap. “I wish the bloody woman would leave us alone. Why don’t you go, Dodson? Go and report that to her?”

  “If you insist, sir.”

  “Consider it an order. Now go, Dodson. Leave us.”

  The door closed. She reached for the bone china cup and lifted it to her slightly trembling lips. Chocolate coffee, biting, dark and not remotely to her taste, scalded her tongue. When she considered the tale Dodson was going to take back to Christian, there was something quite jaw-dropping about the way Mitchell Killgower delivered orders. Monosyllabic as a one-key piano, brusque as a cow’s backside, sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. And wiped the soap off his face afterwards.

  Sebastian always said if ‘you couldn’t beat them, you should join them.’ She couldn’t. It would mean staying here. Her heart contracted at the thought, her gaze, icing as she considered the short wavy hair, killing cheekbones and mouth that wasn’t just born not to smile, the mouth that thought smiling was a crime. His shoulders and chest were, the biceps weren’t just a crime, they should be jailed.

  Of course she was out of fags, since he helped smoke all of them, but even despite all these things, how could she have let herself get so out of hand last night she hadn’t just pulled one of the servants? Why hadn’t she sprung from the chaise there just now and pulled Dodson? What the hell else was stopping her from going home?

  She set her cup down on the rose-patterned saucer. “So?”

  He threw the towel down on the washstand. “What?”

  “How are you today? I mean—”

  Coffee scalded her throat and tongue as she grabbed the cup and gulped a burning mouthful. She’d never seen him do anything so ordinary as shave. While anything was better than thinking about last night, of the candlelit hollows on his face, the way he’d looked at her and—all right, she’d looked at him, a tiny baby bit, she wouldn’t say it was more than that—she’d never have asked such a stupid question if she’d been in here with him from the start. She’d have told him to put some clothes on for a start. To get off of her for a second. Yes, she had the condoms but they wouldn’t last forever. None of this was clever.

  He peered at himself in the shaving mirror.

  “How else could I be, Brittany?”

  “Oh, probably more intrigued than ever, darling.”

  He flicked his hair back from his forehead. “What by, exactly?”

  “Oh, this and that. But there, let’s not quibble, seeing as you are your usual charming self this morning.”

  Last night had turned out badly. She’d thought a quick shag on the chaise, or something, him absolutely going for it because she was a surprising woman who had condoms and he was a rake ‘apparently.’ Not sheer midnight ecstasy in tangled sheets. Ones that were still in that state this morning. Not that he seemed terribly interested in the state of the sheets. There was still no denying that her need to get home wasn’t all to do with running out of condoms, the state of her Amazon rankings either.

  She slipped her foot from beneath the blanket. Maybe he’d like her in that sleep mask and nothing else for a start and it would return this to a more normal footing, if she had to do this again. The mask was through in the bedroom somewhere in the tangle of cuff links and snuffboxes in the bedside cabinet. She didn’t want to make it too obvious when he was watching her in the mirror.

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to get up. I’ll speak to the servants this morning.”

  On a sliding scale of one ten with one being sort of sufferable, this should surely be twelve, how could he do that? Still she did her best to fix on her most seductive ‘sexpression.’ “Who says that I am? No, I was thinking . . .”

  He straightened and strolled to the wardrobe. “So was I.” He rummaged inside. “That you shouldn’t trouble yourself about these things. Just stay where you are, all right?”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean just do as you like and leave me to do as I like.”

  “And what does that mean exactly? Visiting some of your lady friends?”

  Why the hell, when sex was just sex and she’d had enough of it to know, hadn’t she bitten her tongue? Why should it surprise her he’d had his fun now he made his excuses?

  Especially when it would make it easier for her to kiss someone else if he did? Right away too.

  He exhaled sharply, leaning both palms on the washstand. “Look, Brittany.”

  “Yes, Mitchell?”

  “What happened last night was unexpected.”

  “Oh don’t worry about it, darling. You can do what you like, we’re not bound to one another.”

  He raised his head, raised his gaze higher, flicked it downwards, tilted his head.

  “Look, Christian sent another directive while you were gone and right now I’m still wondering how to deal with it. That’s all. There’s things I don’t automatically expect of you.”

  Why did she sense that he was lying? “Well at least you don’t throw yourself at my feet telling me you don’t want to do what you like and asking, is this really what I think?”

  “No, I
don’t.” Now he flicked his gaze over her. “Perhaps because I’m not the prick you think.”

  Her gaze, probably already icy, froze. “I’m sorry?”

  “What I say. At least I’m not asking if that’s still what you think. Now.” Another drawer was yanked out as he raked for a shirt. “Me talking to the servants is the least I can do when I may need you to at least consider Christian’s latest barmy idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “The one I don’t know if I even want to agree to. And when I don’t, I certainly don’t expect you to agree.”

  “Well, that depends what on?”

  “On what do you think?”

  “Please do enlighten me.” In the single flicker of his eyelash, the scent of his soap, unwelcome memories flashed of the warm press of their bodies last night. She’d no doubt that last night he’d hidden himself in subterfuge. Was it ridiculous to think he just might be doing it again? Just as she considered how easy it would be to go kiss a servant if he went off with some woman too.

  It had always been easier to tell what a mountain thought than him. She rose, wrapped the blanket around herself. Regardless of what he asked she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to be here. Whatever he chose to do wasn’t her affair. Not when she stood on a perilous edge and this man wore more veils than Salome. She did too.

  “When your mind’s never empty? But, since you want to know, I’ll tell you. Christian’s holding a ball.”

  “A ball? Is that all? I thought you were going to say something of real note.”

  “For us.” He tugged on his shirt.

  “And? Oh darling, you’re not serious? You don’t expect me to go? I mean . . . well . . .”

  “Obviously we won’t go, but that was easier to do when you’d disappeared, when she sent the damn thing knowing you were gone.”

  She lowered her gaze. The rumpled sheet lying on the floor with her dress and chemise was worthy of her contemplation. Why make a fuss about nothing? If she hadn’t made that bloody great fuss at the table last night would she still be here? Getting in bloody deeper. She didn’t need his assurance that he liked her or anything. If he wanted to go for broke again that was his affair. Getting home was hers.