by Cara Elliott
“I’m not Emmalina,” she whispered again, hoping that voicing the reminder aloud would help her resolve just who she really was.
Devlin pressed a kiss to her brow. “The Creative Muse might have an argument about that.”
“I—I can’t think straight when you do that,” protested Anna.
“Sometimes it’s best not to think, but to simply trust your feelings.”
“But primal passions can be so very dangerous.”
She felt his mouth quirk against her skin. “Ah, that word again.” A note of humor shaded his voice, along with a softer undertone she couldn’t quite define. “You must decide for yourself how much risk you are willing to take.”
For a ruthless rake, he was acting with surprising gentleness. As if, in spite of all his predatory wiles, he was just as uncertain as she was about what scene ought to be written on the page.
Passion—their actions would be inscribed in indelible ink. There would be no chance for revisions, no crumpling of the paper and starting from scratch.
“Lord Davenport…”
“Devlin,” he murmured. “Given the fact that we know each other’s intimate secrets, formality seems a little silly.”
“Devlin.” His name, like his kisses, felt nice on her lips. Anna slipped her hands beneath the lapels of his coat and let her fingers explore the muscled contours of his shoulders. “For an indolent idler, you are surprisingly strong.”
“I have my weaknesses. They are what most of Society sees.”
“Why is it that you hide your talents under a haze of brandy and reckless behavior?”
“You, of all people, ought to know the myriad reasons for that, Anna,” he answered.
“Yes, but I’ve always thought that for a man, it’s different.” She liked the way he felt. The hard chiseling of his shape was softened by a pulsing warmth. Drat the thin linen of his shirt—she itched to feel his skin against hers. “You are allowed to pursue your passions in every form.”
“Only lowly peasants work with their hands,” said Devlin in reply. “That I wish to refill the family coffers through the sweat of my own labors would be even more shocking to the ton than your plying the pen of a published author.”
They locked eyes.
“You sell your artistic creations,” she guessed. “And then use the money to restore your family estate?”
“A Herculean task, but yes. That is the idea.” A sigh. “There, you know yet another sordid secret about me,” he added.
“It appears that your horns and cloven hooves are just a clever disguise,” she said, watching the amber depths of his gaze turn a little more molten.
“Don’t deceive yourself,” said Devlin a little roughly. “I am no angel.”
Anna felt a sudden flutter inside her. Something akin to a winged creature breaking free from its cage. Her hands came out of his coat and entangled in his long hair.
“I—I don’t think that I am either.”
He held himself very still. “Are you sure?”
She hovered for an instant between Heaven and Hell.
And then took the plunge. “Yes. Very sure.”
Devlin needed no further urging. With a low groan, he kissed her, a hard, demanding embrace that made her body feel boneless.
Slumping back against the wall, she twined her fingers in his silky strands and opened her mouth fully, reveling in his textures, his taste. His heat.
A honeyed warmth seemed to melt through her limbs. No wonder she had more than once heard a fleeting phrase whispered in the ballrooms of Mayfair.
Sweeter than Sin.
“Sin.” The sound stirred deep in her throat.
Devlin framed her face between his palms and moved his lips to the corner of her mouth. “Some would say so, sweeting,” he murmured. “But in truth, Sin is not so easy to define. It can have a multitude of meanings.”
“A philosopher? Again you surprise me,” replied Anna, running the back of her knuckles along line of his jaw. “You had better be careful or your reputation as a dissolute wastrel will be ruined.”
“Ruined.” His husky laugh tickled against her flesh. “Ah, now that’s another word open to interpretation. But as someone skilled in the nuances of language, you know that.”
“I—I would rather not talk about l-language,” stammered Anna. Speech was becoming increasingly difficult as he tilted up her chin and trailed a flutter of gossamer kisses down her neck.
“I agree.” His tongue dipped into the hollow of her throat. “No words, just sensations.”
A shiver skittered down her spine.
Devlin must have sensed her reaction. He laughed again, his breath a little like a puff of smoke, redolent with a hint of flames and fire.
Impelled by a need she didn’t try to name, Anna caught the tails of his cravat. A tug and the knot came undone. Another pull sent the length of linen floating down to the floor.
Devlin responded by untying the tapes of her gown. She felt the fabric slip from her shoulders. A lick of cool air tickled down her arms as he slid off her sleeves, allowing the garment to bunch around her waist.
His fingers slipped around to her back, and she felt them graze the lacing of her corset. “You ladies really do make things difficult for us ruthless savages. Luckily, I’m used to working with my hands.”
The delicate knot yielded to his deft touch. A series of tiny tugs loosened the silken strings. Anna sucked in a breath as the lace and whalebone stays pulled away from her skin.
“That’s better,” murmured Devlin. “You’re beautiful,” he added, gazing at her bared breasts. “Just like the Botticelli painting of Venus.”
“N-no fluted clamshell,” she stammered as a blush painted her flesh pink. She knew she ought to feel embarrassed, but the look in his eyes stirred a very different sentiment.
“Even better,” he rasped, shifting his stance. “It would only crack under my weight.
His words trailed off as his mouth closed over her right nipple.
Anna nearly fainted—not from shock but from pleasure. The wet warmth sent a shiver spiraling through her body. Releasing a moan, she twined her fingers in his hair, reveling in the texture of the dark strands.
Devlin teased his tongue round and round—the tip of flesh felt on fire. Just when she was sure she couldn’t bear it a moment longer, he released her.
Only to shift his caress.
He was right—there were no words for this.
She must have cried out for Devlin lifted his head and suddenly his lips were on hers. “Hush, sweeting,” he whispered, his voice a little ragged.
Anna clung to his shoulders, feeling weak in the knees. Her whole body was feeling strange, as if all her bones were melting to mush. “But I need…”
“I know what you need.” He began hiking her skirts up. “And damn me for a scoundrel, but I need it too.”
The ridge of his arousal was pressing hard against her belly. Easing a hand down and between their rumpled clothing, she found the fastening of his trousers.
The swooshing of fabric echoed the little gasps and groans now swirling through the air.
“Devlin.” Muffling her cry against his coat, Anna slid her palm along the steeled velvet length of his cock.
In answer, he found the slit in her drawers and delved his fingers deep into her feminine folds.
Was it possible to expire from ecstasy?
The question hung hazily in her head for a brief moment. And then, as the head of his cock nudged between her thighs, all rational thought dissolved in a sigh.
“Spread your legs, Anna,” urged Devlin.
Flesh against flesh—the intimacy was almost too much to bear. She arched up, wanting more.
More.
His tip teased over her slickened skin. With a groan, Devlin took hold of her hips.
“Yes, yes,” she gasped, hardly recognizing the smoke-dark sound that slipped from her throat.
Closing her eyes, Anna leaned back and surrendered h
erself to the moment.
Chapter Fifteen
Thump, thump, THUD.
Anna slowly realized that the ever-loudening sounds were not her own hammering heartbeat but rather the efforts of someone trying to open the door.
The Devil take me.
Devlin froze, their bodies on the brink of joining.
Shooting up straight, she shook off the haze of passion and tried to move for the sitting room. But with Devlin’s arms around her and her drooping skirts now tangling her feet, she would have fallen had not he managed to keep his hold.
“Damn,” he swore, sounding just as fuzzed as she felt.
The latch rattled again.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered aloud, then in a louder voice called, “Just a moment! I’m coming.”
Frantically feeling around the bunched folds of her gown, Anna found her sleeves and tried to thrust her arms inside them.
“Stop wiggling for a moment. I need to lace up your corset.” Devlin expertly threaded the strings through the tiny hooks, though she felt his hands were a little shaky. “Halfway done,” he muttered, turning his efforts to fastening his trousers. “But it will do.”
Anna yanked her bodice into place, madly searching her befuddled brain for some way to stave off scandal. “Oh, Lord,” she repeated, casting a beseeching look to the heavens.
Her gaze stopped at the window…
Devlin followed her eyes. Leaving his shirttails flapping, he scooped up his coat, rushed to the sill and flung the casement open. “There’s a wide enough ledge. I should be able to make my way around to your sister’s room.” One booted leg swung up through the opening. “Let us hope she’s left the latch undone. I would rather not have to kick through the glass.”
“On second thought—” she began, suddenly picturing what a dreadfully long drop it was to the ground.
Devlin cut her off. “There’s no time to argue.”
Given their disheveled state, he was right. “Please be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve no desire to end up splattered like a pigeon egg on the stone terrace.”
“Wait!” she hissed. “W-we need to talk. Meet me by the garden fountain in a half hour.”
He hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
“You…” But he was already gone.
“Mademoiselle?” came Josette’s muffled call.
“Yes, yes!” called Anna. Pushing a twist of loosened hair behind her ear, she hurried to the door and threw back the bolt. Thank God there was a good excuse for her disheveled appearance.
“Mademoiselle!” Josette quickly mastered her show of surprise. “I thought you were with the picnic party. Is—is something amiss?”
“I was feeling unwell at breakfast, and so I begged off from the excursion,” answered Anna in a rush. “I came up to lie down and did not wish to be disturbed by the housemaids, so I decided to lock the door.” Pressing her palms to her temples, she added, “And then I fell asleep and was plagued by horrible nightmares.”
Her maid’s expression remained impassive, save for a tiny twitch. Along with mastering the art of designing beautiful clothes, the French had perfected the subtle gesture of arching a skeptical brow.
Following Josette’s gaze, Anna quickly tugged at a pesky little lump in her bodice, belatedly realizing that her half-unlaced corset was sitting askew. “Is it me, or is it awfully chilly in here?” she asked, snatching up the shawl she had earlier dropped on the sideboard and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.
“Yes, there does seem to be a draft…” Her maid moved around the tea table and angled a look into the bedroom. “Alors! Look, the window is wide open.”
Anna’s gaze was instead riveted to a spot on the carpet, where Devlin’s cravat lay in a tangled coil. “A gust must have blown the latch loose,” she called, taking two rapid strides and kicking the offending garment under the sofa.
“Hmmph. We must ask the housemaids to be more careful,” called Josette, as she leaned out to grab the heavy brass frame and swing it back into place.
Had Josette spotted the telltale twist of linen? Impossible to know, but her maid had awfully sharp eyes, especially when it came to matters of fashion.
Reminded of her own sartorial faux pas, Anna drew the shawl even tighter across her chest. “Thank you. That’s much better.”
“Shall I fetch a pot of chamomile tea from the kitchens?” asked her maid. “Its calming effect may help you to enjoy a restful sleep.”
“Actually, I am feeling wide awake now,” replied Anna. “Indeed, seeing as the weather is so nice, I think a walk outdoors may be just the tonic I need.”
Another twitch of the raven-dark brow. “Would you prefer to change into another gown? That one appears a trifle wrinkled from your nap.”
“Oh, no need to bother. I shall just smooth out the skirts.”
“I can do that.”
“No, no. I promised you the afternoon off. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself,” she insisted. “We shall have to change for supper soon enough.”
“As you wish.” Josette put away the pile of freshly pressed handkerchiefs she had brought with her and quietly withdrew from the room.
Expelling a harried sigh, Anna fumbled her clothing into some semblance of order. The corset would have to remain undone, but her fretful tossing could explain the loosened lacing. After fishing out Devlin’s cravat from under the sofa and hiding it beneath her shawl, she headed off to the side staircase leading down to the gardens.
Anna was early, noted Devlin, as he made his way past the privet hedge. So much for his hope that her resolve might wilt once she had a moment to reconsider how dangerous a path she was treading.
Yes, dangerous. Despite his making light of the word, he was concerned about drawing her any deeper into the shadowy netherworld of intrigue and deceit. Yes, she might have a spine of steel. But…
Unlike me, her heart is unblackened by sordid realities.
“I thought perhaps you might not come.” Anna rose from her perch on the fountain’s marble pool as he approached.
“I considered absenting myself, except I decided there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that you wouldn’t come track me down,” he replied.
“A wise decision.”
Sunlight played over her face and he felt a painful twist in his gut. She was sweetness and light, while he was dark as the Devil.
“No, it’s a fool’s decision,” he murmured, offering her his arm. “Would you care to walk within the walled rose garden? The stones offer a shelter from the breeze, along with a modicum of privacy.”
“Very well.” Anna set her slim hand on his sleeve.
Devlin made himself look away, willing himself not to think about how her graceful fingers had felt entwined in his hair. It was, however, damnably hard as the heat of her gloved palm began to penetrate the layers of kidskin and wool.
Clearing his throat, he tried to distract his evil thoughts. “By the by, I am curious. You and your younger sister both pen literary works, and Miss Caro has informed me that one of the Oxford poetry journals has recently published one of her sonnets. Does your elder sister write as well?”
“Yes,” answered Anna. But she did not elaborate.
“Is she, too, published?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of writing?” he pressed.
Anna hesitated. “I am not at liberty to say.”
Devlin considered the reply for a long moment. “Does Wrexham know?”
The question provoked a peal of laughter. “That is a story in itself, but yes, of course he knows.”
“And the earl approves?”
Amusement gave way to a frown. “Whether he does or doesn’t is beside the point. It wouldn’t change Olivia’s passion for what she does.”
“And yet he could, by all husbandly rights, forbid her to publish.”
Her expression turned martial. “Ha! I should like to see him try.”
Devlin quirked a grin. �
��Actually so would I.” The earl was a highly decorated war hero who had vanquished countless French dragoons in hand-to-hand combat. But facing off against one of the Sloane sisters would be the ultimate test of a man’s will and nerve. He wasn’t quite sure on whom he would place his money.
“Be that as it may, there won’t be any fight over her activities,” said Anna. “Wrexham is quite proud of what she does.”
Another novelist? Devlin tried to think of what other authors were wildly popular with the reading public. No name, other than Sir Sharpe Quill, came to mind.
“Scholarly books, perhaps?” he guessed. “Like your late father, is she an expert on some esoteric subject like rare beetles or butterflies?”
“No, Olivia is not overly fond of bugs,” she replied dryly. “But enough of Olivia and her secrets—I assure you I won’t let the cat out of the bag. We have more important things to discuss.”
“Such as?” asked Devlin, even though he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know the answer.
“You are an experienced gamester,” she went on.
He maintained a wary silence. A cardinal rule in gambling was to hide any show of emotion.
“So I suggest we lay our cards on the table, so to speak.”
When he didn’t react, Anna let out a small huff of impatience. “Must we continue to play games, sir? You are clearly up to something havey-cavey with your secret lists and midnight forays.”
“So you wish to know yet more of my secrets?” he asked.
“It seems only fair. You know mine.”
His voice turned a touch harder. “All of them?”
“Well, yes. Isn’t the fact that I write racy novels enough?” Her brow pinched in consternation. “Ye gods, what other horrible deeds do you imagine I am doing?”
Unless his skill at judging people had gone wafting off with the North Sea squalls, she was telling the truth. The question was, should he respond with the same candor? Baring his private business arrangement with Thorncroft and the Home Office was not nearly as comfortable as baring his body.
