An Officer but No Gentleman

by Bronwyn Scott

  “I appreciate the concern, but I have handled worse.” Cossacks in the Russian Steppes, for instance. She gave him a polite smile and took a bite of tender baby carrot.

  Grahame set down his knife and fork. “I am not talking about your ability to handle a drunken diplomat looking for a quick paw in the corner. I have no doubts about your aptitude in that regard.” It was time to dispel his doubts about her aptitude in other regards. Elowyn leaned forward over her plate, putting her cleavage on display, and fixed him with a smile designed to bewitch while her hand slid beneath the table and under her skirts. She gave a flick of her wrist. The next instant, a knife jutted out of the center of Grahame Westmore’s steak.

  “Lucifer’s balls!” Grahame roared, pushing back from the table in alarm.

  “His balls are fine. I’d be more worried about yours.” Elowyn stood and reached over the table to yank the knife out of the meat before retaking her seat. “As I said, I can handle them. Besides, Grahame, it’s not nice to stare.”

  “It sure makes things more interesting, though,” Grahame retorted as he pulled himself back up to the table.

  * * *

  Interesting hardly began to cover it. He’d never wanted a woman more. She’d just pulled a knife on him in the middle of dinner and he was still aroused by her. What the hell was wrong with him? He watched her reach beneath the table and resheathe her blade, his body eager to discover what else what up her skirts.

  She resumed eating as if nothing had happened. “I understand you’re out of the military now, so how do you spend your time? Do you take missions like this one often?” It was a casual enough question if it were being asked of anyone else. But she had no idea he worked for the League of Discreet Gentlemen, that he’d spent his last four years selling pleasure to women rich enough to pay for that most elusive commodity.

  “No. This is my first assignment.” Graham took a bite of steak.

  “Then you’re a virgin.”

  Grahame was entirely unready for the comment. He choked. The meat he’d just swallowed popped back out on his plate. He took a quick gulp of wine. “I beg your pardon?” He hadn’t been a virgin since he was fourteen and a half and a Seven Dials whore had given him a free one. He was lucky he hadn’t caught the pox.

  “This is your first time.” She smiled coyly as she sipped her wine. He could watch her sip wine all night. Perhaps that’s why Horace had brought the second bottle.

  “And you?” Grahame tried to regain his aplomb. It was rare he was taken by surprise. He usually saw quips coming. The women in London had rather limited imaginations when it came to word play.

  “No, this is definitely not my first. More like my fifth. Move, that is.” She gave him a seductive glance that ratcheted up the temperature in the room. He was glad he’d already decided to forego celibacy. His morals wouldn’t have stood a chance against her otherwise.

  “I’m sure the move this morning was rather unorthodox.” Not like this dinner wasn’t. Barging into her home without an introduction was looking like a minor infraction compared to Elowyn pulling a knife at the table.

  “Is that your idea of an apology?” She slid her hand up and down the stem of her wineglass in a manner reminiscent of a hand sliding on a stem of another sort. It was giving him ideas about what to do with the crème fraîche besides putting it on pie, well, on apple pie, at least.

  “I was unaware an apology was needed.” But he was aware he was driving her crazy as much as she was driving him. She wanted compliance and he would not give it to her. Whether by accident or design, they’d fallen into a most scintillating game of tease and denial, a game he’d played many times before with his clothes off, but never on, never like this. Scintillating wasn’t quite strong enough. The word erotic came to mind. This was foreplay at its most refined level where it was hard to determine exactly who was seducing whom.

  “It must be nice to live in your world where everything is so obviously divided into black and white.” Her hand moved to the topaz at her neck, drawing attention to the cleavage on display.

  “I am to understand diplomacy is more gray, then?”

  She gave a short laugh. “One hundred times grayer. Everyone’s got an angle. One never knows if one is looking at the real person or a carefully cultivated image. What’s your angle, Grahame?”

  He sat back in his chair, starting to enjoy this. “Maybe I don’t have one.”

  “Of course you do.” Green eyes challenged him. “You just admitted it when you said you didn’t take jobs like this. So why now? There must be something you want badly to travel all the way to Vienna.”

  A future, a career, a chance to start over. There were so many things he wanted, so many things he hoped Vienna could give him. Elowyn rose and went to the sideboard to retrieve the second bottle. He followed her with his eyes, catching the sway of her hips beneath the silk, mentally outlining the curve of her derriere, how it would feel cupped in his hands, how easy it would be to simply come up behind her and press her forward onto the high, flat surface of the console. Did he dare? Their games tonight indicated such a move would be welcome.

  Grahame was on his feet without thinking. She would let him know if it was too much; after all, she was the one with the knife. His hands were at her shoulders, his thumbs massaging the column of her neck. He could feel her pulse race in welcome. “What if I said I wanted you?” he whispered hoarsely at her ear, breathing in the smell of fresh-washed hair and woman aroused. “What if I said I wanted to take you, right here, right now, just like this?” He pushed his hips against the soft curve of her bottom, his erection evidence of his intentions.

  Her answer came without hesitation. “I would say yes.”

  Chapter Six

  Elowyn trembled. This was by far the most erotic thing she’d ever done, the most decadent, the most exposed, the most everything. It had not escaped her that Horace could come through the door at any moment and discover them.

  She could hardly think about that when all her senses were coalesced around Grahame—around the press of his phallus, long and ready against her buttocks, the warmth of his hand at the back of her neck, pushing her forward onto the sideboard until he had her positioned for him.

  Grahame was the center of her world now. He had her skirts up and she shivered at the delicious decadence of cool air on private skin. She felt him shift behind her, heard the rustle and slide of his own clothes as he took himself in hand. Elowyn braced her weight with her arms. When penetration came it would be swift and fierce. She was ready for it.

  His phallus was hot and naked behind her, brushing against the cleft of her bare bottom but it was his hand that cupped her, his fingers that entered her. “Are you ready for me?” His voice was harsh with desire at her ear.

  “So ready.” Her desire matched his in breathlessness. She moved on his fingers, hardly able to keep herself from doing anything else. His fingers withdrew and pressed against the skin hiding her pearl until she thought she’d scream from the exquisite touch. She squirmed and he held her, one strong hand on her neck, holding her down, her cheek flat against the cool wood of the sideboard. He came into her then, swift and sure, his phallus sliding into her depths until she was certain it touched the very edges of her womb.

  She gasped. This was a fantasy come to life, this man deep-seated in her, her body flowing around his. She could feel her own heat, her own slickness as he started to move—back and forth, back and forth. She was a wanton, indeed, to enjoy such feral sex, but enjoy it, she did. She could hear Grahame with his rough love words at her ear as he rocked into her. “You’re so wet, so tight, your cunny is sweet heaven.” He nuzzled her neck with his mouth. His hair had come loose, tickling the bare skin of her shoulder, soft and loose, an antidote to the coarse hair that pressed against her bottom.

  “Scream for me, Elowyn,” he urged in a rasp,
evidence that his release was nearly upon him. “Go ahead, no one will hear, they’re too busy with their own fun.”

  He surged into her, hard and insistent, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster and stronger. She had no choice but to give over to the pleasure they elicited. She was vaguely aware her own arms had failed, that he was holding her up, as the threshold of her climax approached and she let herself go, crossing over into the shattering oblivion of desire replete. She did scream then, in joy, in release, in freedom. She soared with new wings in those moments, but not alone. Grahame was with her, his groan primal and rapturous as his body tensed and pulsed with hers.

  * * *

  How long had it been since a climax had taken him so thoroughly? Grahame bent over the basin in his room and splashed another round of cold water on his face, trying to cool down his heated body. Even now, everything seemed surreal, existing in fragmented scenes in his mind. He’d helped Elowyn restore herself; he’d escorted her upstairs. He’d done all the things protocol demanded in such situations and yet the sharp edge of clarity that accompanied his release had not ebbed.

  He searched for reasons. Perhaps it was the spontaneity or the potential publicity of the act which had worked so strongly upon his senses? But that theory was full of holes. He’d had public encounters several times and never had the edge lasted like this. Spontaneity, too, was something to which he was all too well accustomed.

  There were other explanations he could put forward. Maybe it was the novelty of having chosen this interlude for himself? There was no contract expecting him to perform. Perhaps the freedom had spurred him on? Or perhaps it was the woman herself; a beautiful, well-bred woman had wanted him for himself, not for his notoriety, not for the fulfillment of some need to impress her friends or any of the other reasons London’s ladies sought him for their paids. Elowyn had no inkling of who he was or what he could do to a woman and she’d wanted him, anyway. It was heady knowledge for a man of his humble origins to think a woman of her quality would freely choose him, that he could belong.

  There was the old ghost again. Grahame faced himself in the mirror over the basin, staring hard at the primal reflection. The military had made him rugged but it had made him ragged, too. He traced the thin line running toward his shoulder, one scar of many that had contributed to the man he was today—a leader of men, a lover of women. But still, deep inside, that man harbored the needs of the boy who had never wanted more than to belong, somewhere.

  The military had been such a place for him. The camaraderie he’d built with his men had filled that need until they’d been scattered, proving that even the hard-forged bonds of shared misery and loss were temporary. There’d been a sense of belonging at Argosy House with Channing and the boys, where he was accepted among them, even if he hadn’t been of the same birth. They’d formed bonds based on laughter and escapades and they, too, were free to scatter as the world beckoned. D’Arcy had already gone. He wanted more than that, more than temporary friendships. He wanted an unbreakable bond with someone, something that could not be torn apart by distance or circumstance.

  It was his ultimate fantasy, a fantasy he played out nightly with London’s women, the fantasy that he belonged in their world. Tonight that fantasy had deepened dangerously. He could not have Elowyn Bagshaw any more than he could have any of the other women. With Elowyn the end was so obviously near. When they reached Vienna, all would be over. There wasn’t even an illusion, a hope of permanence.

  Grahame jerked, startled by the sudden knock on his door. “Come.” He reached for a towel in a belated effort to address his shirtless dishabille, his hair still damp from his ablutions. Chances were it didn’t matter. His visitor was most likely Christopher, come to report on the horses and the wagons. Still, he knew he’d grabbed the towel because he hadn’t given up all hope.

  “Hello, Grahame, it looks like you were expecting me.” The sultry voice at the door sent a shot of white-hot desire to his groin. Her eyes flashed to his crotch where a new arousal stirred. Dammit! His trousers were undone. He’d forgotten and it was too late to do anything about it now except to let her watch the effect she had on him come to life.

  His eyes drank in the sight of her—the white, satin robe belted at her waist, the fabric hugging the full curves of her breasts, the chestnut hair spilling seductively over one shoulder. Then it hit him—she’d crossed the hallway dressed like that.

  “Shut the door, Elowyn. I can’t have you traipsing around the hall like that,” Grahame growled. “Have you forgotten the guests downstairs?”

  Elowyn shrugged and stepped inside, holding up a white, ceramic ramekin in her hand. Grahame recognized it as the one from dinner, the one placed next to the pie they’d never gotten around to eating. “I came to tell you, if you’re in the mood, dessert’s on me.”

  Good God, the woman was a temptress! He could see her in his mind’s eye, a naked Elowyn streaked with crème fraîche and laid out before him. Her eyes roamed low, a wicked smile on her lips as she watched his arousal complete.

  Maybe he could not have her forever; maybe she could no more fulfill his need to belong than any of his other attempts, but he could have it tonight, and the next and the next and perhaps that would be enough. It was the only deal he could make with himself that would preserve his sanity as he stood there, half-dressed and fully aroused. “Now that you mention it,” Grahame drawled. “I think I could do with a piece of pie.”

  Elowyn dipped her finger into the pot and licked it with a flick of her tongue. “I thought that might be the case.”

  Chapter Seven

  Elowyn was ready for him. He’d taken just enough time to put on a shirt before crossing the hall. Grahame shut the door soundlessly behind him, taking in the terrain out of old military habit. Her room was a far sight cozier than his chamber. She and her maid had taken efforts here with sheets and pillows from home. Candles and the firelight added a seductive element, or maybe that was just her. Grahame was starting to think any room would be more seductive with Elowyn in it.

  “You’re a quiet mover for such a large man.” Elowyn stepped into the light. She loosened the belt of her robe, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of skin and shadow.

  “I can be. Stealth comes in handy in the military.”

  “And in dining parlors, too, apparently.” Elowyn ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  Elowyn shook her hair free from the single tie that held it. The chestnut hues caught the light of the fire, dancing like a veritable autumn flame. She held his eyes, her mouth curving into a knowing smile. With a shrug, the robe began to slip—first one shoulder, then the other until the robe pooled at her feet, leaving her entirely naked to his gaze. The fact that she did not mind his rather blatant perusal registered somewhere in his brain. And why should she? Elowyn was marvelous naked.

  High, firm breasts with pink nipples played peek-a-boo beneath the long curtain of hair draped over them, not unlike Botticelli’s Venus, he thought. Her skin was pale, too, porcelain-smooth in its perfection, a perfection so different from the tanned roughness of his own. Grahame stepped forward, his body aching to worship this goddess of autumn and flame. It was time to do his part. But Elowyn stopped him with her eyes and an infinitesimal shake of her head. Apparently, her part was not yet done.

  “Have a seat.” She gestured to the chair pulled close to the fire. Grahame sat, hardly able to look away from his Venus. The firelight played across her body, adding grace and mystery to her every move. She stood in front of him, the ramekin in her hand, and Grahame’s mouth went dry. She meant to do it. She meant to seduce him. Elowyn tossed her hair back over her shoulders so that nothing obscured his view now. With deliberate slowness, she scooped up the crème with her fingers and began to draw her hands down her body, circling the areolas of her breasts, then the breasts themselves with the crème. She cupped and lifted each breast, running her
thumbs across her nipples for him, her neck arched in delight, a little moan on her lips until Grahame thought he’d come in his chair. Yet he could not look away.

  Always, the trail of her hands led downward, past the flat of her abdomen and the curve of her hip, a map to her pleasure, a key to her expectations until they rested on the auburn mons of her triangle. The silent invitation was not lost on him. She wanted his mouth on her in the most intimate of ways.

  Elowyn stepped back and lay on the bed, legs parted, her inner femininity exposed to him. Her hand moved between her thighs with the last of the crème and Grahame forgot all else. Her voice beckoned, a goddess calling to her supplicant. “Now you may come and feast.”

  Grahame shed his shirt, his hands moving swiftly to the waistband of his trousers, nuisance that they were. He hadn’t spent much time with them on tonight.

  “No, leave the trousers.” Elowyn gave the languorous command from the bed. “We’ll take them off later.” As long as his erection didn’t get there first. The way he felt right now, he wouldn’t be surprised if his cock simply burned a hole through the fabric and ripped its own way out. He couldn’t ever remember being this thoroughly aroused.

  Grahame braced himself over Elowyn, reveling in the ease with which he fit between the cradle of her legs, but that would come later, much later if he understood correctly. She was all temptress beneath him, her eyes glowing green embers, her body smeared with crème, awaiting his ministrations. “Has anyone ever told you what a vixen you are?” He didn’t let her answer. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to believe this had been inspired by him alone. Grahame bent his head to her breast, and began to lick.