He bristled at the observation. Hunched in front of the grate, he stared at the fire, remaining silent.
The rustle of fabric revealed she had heeded his advice and removed her cloak. “No servants tending you. No furniture for reposing. You are a man of contradictory natures. I cannot help but ponder them.”
He jabbed the poker into the fire until he was contented with the results. “It is not my intention to be mysterious, Wynne. You are witnessing a man at the beginning of a new life. I simply have nothing of my old life I wish to meld with my new.”
Frowning at his hands, he realized his gloves were soiled with coal dust. He peeled them off and tossed them into the shadows. He glanced up at her. She had placed herself a few steps behind him, clutching her cloak in front like a shield. Her bejeweled mask glinted in the fire, capturing his attention. Rising, he stretched his cramped muscles with the elegance and grace of a sleek cat. Impulsively, his hand shot out in midstretch and ripped her mask off, the wire and mesh crushing easily in his grip. He tossed the ruined mask into the fire.
More offended than fearful, her green eyes reflected the flames. “Why the devil did you do that?”
“No masks allowed, Wynne,” he declared, taking her cloak from her. “Not here.”
His announcement caused her to become skittish again. Interesting, he mused. She moved out of the circle of warmth and light, returning to the window again.
“The weather is clearing.” She opened the window. Tendrils of rain-purged fresh air mixed with warmed air from his fire.
Keanan shook her cloak out. It fanned out, inner lining outward, in front of the fire. “The window isn’t the best choice if you are thinking to flee, Wynne. And there is the height to consider. It wouldn’t do if you broke your ankle in a fall. You will have to be cleverer if you hope to avoid my clutches.”
Seemingly distracted by whatever she saw through the window, she pushed back the stray hairs tickling her cheek. “Whoever said I was plotting an escape?”
He froze half crouched, like a predator sighting his prey. His nostrils flared slightly with each breath, the scent of her brought to him by the evening’s breeze. The elemental strike of desire knifed through him. Keanan tried to master the lust her casual admission incited.
The woman was still a mystery to him. Her actions and words tonight painted her as a forthright siren, although he knew her to be an innocent. A light breeze caught the gossamer fabric of her costume, causing it to billow behind her. She appeared ethereal dressed in white. A yearning rose from deep within him. He wondered if she understood that any sign of willingness on her part would free the bonds of his self-control.
Keanan did not notice that he had taken steps toward her until the floating ends of her make-believe wings lightly caressed his face. She whirled around, her expression showing her surprise at his stealth. He lifted his hands slowly, palms forward, a gesture to gentle her. He wanted to reassure her that she was safe with him. However, they both knew it was a lie.
“Come back to the fire,” he urged, when comforting phrases eluded him. She followed him back to the fire and settled on her cloak. “Despite your poor impression of my home, I do possess some luxuries. Are you hungry?” The negative shake of her head pressed him to ask, “Perhaps something to drink, then?”
He hunkered down next to her, his larger frame taking up most of the space on the cloak. That alluring, mysteriously feminine smile of hers was back in place. “Who would have guessed that I make you nervous?” he said.
She laughed then, her delight confusing him all the more, even as he snarled a wordless denial. “Why did you bring me here?”
She boxed him neatly with the unexpected question. His innards prickled just beneath the middle of his ribs. Perhaps she was not the only one who possessed a fine case of nerves. Rubbing the spot, he stared into the fire.
“I have ambition. Always did. I needed to show you there was more to me than brawn and violence.” Feeling her perceptive stare on him, he pushed on, shrugging off his discomfort. “This house is the beginning of the refined life I have planned for myself.”
“These plans you have made … are you a slave to them? I put forth, what happens if the unexpected occurs?”
The unexpected. That summed up Wynne Bedegrayne storming into his life. Unbeknownst to her, she had jumbled his carefully crafted plans, leaving him bemused and hungry to fill needs he had never thought he had. If he were a good man, hell, even a kind man, he would bundle her up in her cloak and stuff her in a carriage for home.
Bewitched, he decided. Hopelessly lost in those green eyes. Her innocence shined like a beacon, warming his soul for the first time in his life. How could he turn her away? Why would he want to?
Perhaps sensing his inner chaos, her gloved hand reached out and cupped his cheek. Keanan leaned into her impulsive gesture, accepting her comfort. She was here because she wanted to be. Greed bubbled inside him. Already wanting more, his thoughts leaped forward to the morrow, when she would likely cast him aside. He ruthlessly buried the automatic denial that burned in his chest. He had spent his life surviving on meager scraps. He could be content with anything this lady willingly offered him.
“You are going to kiss me, are you not?” she asked too politely, almost concealing the passion that swam just beneath the surface.
Keanan took her hand. Bowing over it, he set to the task of removing the offending gloves denying him access to the flesh beneath. The next time she touched him, he wanted to feel her warmth and the silk of her flesh gliding over him. “Aye, Wynne. I’ll be kissing you. And more, much more, if you let me.”
* * *
His gentleness always surprised her. It seemed contrary to a man of his size. Large fingers, as nimble as those of any seamstress, peeled and worked her gloves off. Tracing the shape of her fingers with his nails, he intertwined their fingers. Wynne felt shivery from his contact.
“There is a strength in you that makes me forget how small you really are,” he marveled, comparing the size of her hand to his.
She tugged her hand out of his, feeling the need to put some distance between them. The action was instinctive, something she had always done to protect herself from males who had come too close. “Not that small,” she countered.
Keanan’s white teeth flashed at her fractious tone. “Aye, just small enough.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Christ, what a pout you have, woman. All I want to do is devour you.” He scooted closer. Framing her face with his hands, he murmured, “I should be slapped for the fantasies I’ve woven on your behalf. Your father is likely to hang me if I act on them.”
Since he had her head locked in his grasp, all she could do was peek from side to side. “I do not see my father lurking about.”
He rewarded her sauciness by pressing a hard kiss to her lips. “You tempt me. More than any—” Keanan drew a deep breath, starving for air. His lips rested on her forehead for a few seconds before he released her, pulled back. “Where is your good judgment? You should scuttle my nob for laying my hands on you.”
For all his teasing, Keanan Milroy was not a jaded rake seeking his latest seduction. He desired her. Wynne saw proof in the way his hands trembled when he reached for her. She heard the catch in his voice, as though the ardor building within caused him pain. In spite of her innocence, she was not oblivious to the rigid swell pressing an intriguing outline in his breeches.
Even the air around them smelled different. Human musk and suppressed passion charged the air. Combined with her feelings for Keanan, it created a powerful aphrodisiac. It empowered her just as much as it swept away her lingering resistance. Perhaps he was feeling it, too. He just had more strength to delay the inevitable.
She bridged the several feet he tried putting between them by placing her hands on his broad shoulders. His muscled frame should have been impossible to manipulate. Nevertheless, he moved against her with gliding ease when she pulled him closer. Angling her face upward, she whispered, “I regret i
f this shocks you, but I have a few fantasies myself. If it pleases you, perhaps we can compare our interpretations of being devoured by the other.”
His pupils dilated until there were only rims of indigo. Groaning, whatever oath he uttered was obliterated when his mouth clamped down on hers. The stunning ferocity caused her to gasp, but that, too, was swallowed up in his capitulation. Her eager innocence was never more apparent, for it paled in comparison to his experienced male onslaught. This revelation tempered her desire. Nevertheless, her growing reluctance did little to dampen Keanan’s enthusiasm.
A tidal flood of emotion flowed from him. There was no tenderness, no reverence in the fingers that dug into her upper arms. This was need. As promised, he devoured her mouth. Firm, demanding lips gave way to teeth. He nipped her lower lip and then used the tip of his tongue, easing his branding.
“Open for me. Let me in,” he entreated, nipping the length of her jaw.
She shivered, feeling her nipples tighten in response to his guttural plea. Wynne closed her eyes, uncertain of what he wanted from her. Was he asking for her trust? Her heart? She feared the choice had been taken out of her hands weeks earlier when he dragged that dreadful Mr. Egger from her.
Clutching his waist to steady herself, she shifted her mouth out of his reach, forcing him to pay attention to the words she had never given another man. “I love you.”
His grip became almost unbearable. Noting her discomfort, he loosened his hold and rubbed the injured flesh. Keanan hauled her into his lap, hugging her closely to his chest, preventing her from seeing his face. Her confession had stunned him. Wynne could not fault his response. Saying the words out loud was making her feel light-headed. She had just bared her heart, leaving herself vulnerable to rejection. Doubt constricted her lungs until she could not breathe. His continued silence forced her to consider that she might have misunderstood his plea.
“Shall I take back my heart, Keanan?” she whispered, knowing such an action was impossible.
Maintaining his hold on her as if fearing she might flee, he transferred her in his arms so he could see her face. “No,” he said solemnly. His hand stroked the hair near her left ear and then moved on, exploring her intricate coiffure. Whenever his fingers brushed against one of the bronze combs securing her hair, he plucked it out. The weight of her hair, free from its confines, tumbled down her back. He smoothed her tresses with his fingers; his curiosity and admiration were evident.
“Why do you bind up such beauty?” Her hair sifted through his fingers. The length fell almost to her waist. Vanity had kept her from cutting it, even though she admired the shorter locks many of the ladies of the ton possessed. Watching Keanan rub his face in a fistful of her hair and marvel at its texture, she did not regret her decision.
“It is not proper, nor is it practical walking about with it unbound.” She gave him an exasperated look when she sensed he was about to argue. “Not even for you.”
He kissed her playfully, using his tongue to tickle her upper lip. She granted him a smile for his efforts. “I don’t think I could bear having other men see you thus.” He kissed her again. The tenderness of it melted her heart. Keanan had leashed his hunger, attempting to prove to her that he was worthy of her gift. “Only for me, when we are alone like this, will you free your hair from combs and jewels?”
“If you like.”
Elated, he slipped his right hand underneath her mane and cupped the back of her head, drawing her mouth to his. He suckled her lower lip. Draping one arm over his shoulder, she wiggled closer. He moaned at her movements. Needing to deepen their kiss, his tongue boldly pushed into her mouth. Before she could question the action, his tongue swirled against hers, enticing her to return his torment. Pleasure frothed through her. Hesitantly, she copied his movements. A low growl rumbled in his chest at her tentative probing of his mouth. Crushing her to him, his arm became an unyielding truss.
“Not enough,” he mumbled. “Closer.”
She kissed the small indentation of his chin. “Yes.”
Wynne clung to him as his fingers worked the glass buttons down the center back of her dress. He was a quarter of the way down before impatience overruled caution. Muttering an apology, he tore open the back, sending a shower of tiny glass buttons clattering around them.
She expelled a nervous choke of laughter at the destruction of her dress. “Beast. How ever will I travel home now that you have ruined it?”
Keanan’s feral grin did little to relieve her concerns. “Perhaps I have no intention of sending you home.” Seizing the melon sleeves, he pulled the bodice down to her waist. “I could keep you naked at my side, drugged by my kisses. Aye, the idea has merit.” He turned her in his lap so he could give his complete attention to the laces of her stays. “Infernal trappings.”
Awareness tingled just beneath the surface of her skin. Her body had never felt so animated, as if she could divorce her mind and body into separate entities. Liberated now from her whalebone bindings, blood rushed into her constricted torso. Studying Keanan’s grim determination, she knew he would not be content until his hands had uncovered every barrier. Still respectably covered from the waist down, she crossed her arms over her breasts, covering what the sheer chemise revealed. “There is an imbalance that needs remedying.” She looked pointedly at his coat.
Keanan shrugged out of it. A few buttons undone, and his waistcoat was discarded. “I would rather be undressing you,” he complained affably.
Wynne could not help responding to the wicked gleam in his eyes. The man’s very nature tempted her in ways she had never contemplated. His expression all but begged her to join him in his mischievous love play. Deciding her protective stance was denying her what she truly wanted, she reached out to untie his cravat. She had never undressed a man before, and her first effort felt clumsy.
Keanan’s fascination with her own body did not help her concentration. His finger idly traced one areola through her chemise, and then the other. Each breast swelled and tautened from his rapt attention.
Wynne unwound the long cloth from his neck and was pleased to see only three buttons on his shirt. The slight tremor in her fingers forced her to focus on her own task.
“Permit me, sweet lady.”
She jumped at his voice, immediately withdrawing. He tugged the ends of his shirt trapped in his breeches and pulled the garment over his head.
He was beautiful. Years of labor and fighting had sculpted his muscles to masculine perfection. Her fingers touched his defined collarbone and trailed over the hard slope of his shoulder. Intrigued by the triangle of brown hair on his flat abdomen, she petted him and was delighted when he shuddered. Moving her hand lower to the buttoned flap on his breeches, his hand gripped her wrist.
“Not yet. I’ll last longer if they remain in place until the last.”
Bewildered, she frowned. “What are you prolonging?”
He groaned, placing a kiss at her temple. “Such an innocent.” He untied the strings to her petticoats at her waist. “You deserve pleasuring, Wynne. Only my best. I need my wits to make that happen.” He pulled her chemise out of her petticoats and was prepared to draw it over her head when she stopped him.
“So?”
He snorted in disbelief. “So, my damson, how can I see to my task when your hands are stroking me like I was made from the finest pelt, and your greedy, hungry eyes are begging me to fill you!” To quiet her questions, he distracted her by removing her chemise and tossing it away.
“Stand up,” he commanded hoarsely, helping her to her feet in case she thought to tarry.
Unfettered, her dress and petticoats slid over the flare of her hips to puddle at her feet. She was naked except for her knee-high white silk stockings and her slippers. Staring at her abandoned clothing, she fought the urge to drop down and retrieve her dress.
Her gaze flashed over Keanan’s face at the unexpected low, soughing rumble deep in his throat. His teeth were clenched, the muscles in his neck corded
in restraint. He had fallen on his knees; his hands were fisted on his thighs. The only part of him he allowed freedom was his gaze. With an intensity that would have frightened her in any other situation, he examined every part of her, committing her to memory. Striking his fist on his thigh, he swore and looked away. Suddenly ashamed, she plunged down to retrieve her clothing.
“No!”
His tortured demand startled her, causing tears to drench her eyelashes. He wrenched her hands away from the fabric and hauled her to him by maintaining a steely grip on both her hands.
“Release me.”
Mute with regret, he shook his head. Certain of his strength, his left hand slid to her lower back. Tilting her chin up to his waiting lips, he sank deeply into the kiss. It ended with a claiming sweep of his tongue, leaving her with the taste of him.
“Stay.” His voice was as stark as his expression. “I thought—” He lowered his head and kissed her breast. A jolt of awareness burst within her. “I am not noble, Wynne. I thought I could offer you pleasure, then turn you loose, hiding my baser needs from you. You deserve a proper aristocratic lover, a man who can—”
He looked up when her hands caged the sides of his head. “I choose you. I have bared my body and heart to you, something I have never done for any man.” It was strange. When Keanan faltered, she found the strength to give them both courage. “Men do not believe women are capable of true desire. They are fools. I feel, Keanan.” She clasped a hand over her heart. “I need. All I want to do is press you to me, wishing I—” Defenseless, she closed her eyes, realizing how inadequate her words sounded.
A feather-light kiss on her eyelids opened them. She saw the joy in his eyes before it formed on his lips. The shadows were not completely gone from his eyes, but her admission had assuaged the guilt for taking something from her that he had decided he did not deserve.
Her arms curled around his neck. Keanan scooped her up and reverently lowered her to the floor. Meeting her steady gaze, he unbuttoned his breeches. He sat down to remove his shoes and stockings. Instead of stripping off his breeches as she had expected, he knelt at her side. Fingers grazing her thigh, he untied each garter and slid her stockings down, discarding them with her slippers.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 16
