Rakes and Rogues

by Boyd, Heather

  She bit her trembling lip and tried to collect her wits. If she had time she could work herself into the woman of Fenton’s dreams—dreams that would last beyond the here and now…

  …if only she had time.

  “You may come, Lord Fenton.”

  She sat heavily upon the sofa and buried her head in her hands. There was no time. No time to insinuate herself into not just his heart, but his soul, his psyche. No time to receive the marriage offer that would save her from Lord Slyther.

  The season was winding down. Matches were being made and the capital was emptying—as were the Brightwell coffers. With the parlous state of their finances came desperation. Fanny could not risk refusing Lord Slyther in case Lord Fenton proved as disappointing as Alverley. Her mother would never allow it, for, unless Fanny married a man who not only was prepared to overlook her lack of dowry but would be generous to the rest of her family, they were all lost.

  “Miss Brightwell!”

  She jerked up her head at his entrance and hope clawed a jagged journey from the soles of her feet to pound in her chest. Framed in the opening of the silken tent, the smile that hovered about Lord Fenton’s wide sensuous mouth echoed the salvation in his eyes.

  Everything for which she could have hoped was reflected in their depths. Admiration, curiosity—and, above all, desire. Yet while it was his desire upon which she’d pinned her hopes, it was the kindness of his words that gave her the reassurance she needed.

  “I’ve brought needle and thread,” he said, offering her the tools to restore her respectability, “which I snatched from the sewing room when I witnessed the unfortunate results of your fall.”

  She managed to muffle the hysteria that tinged her laugh as she rose and took up the threaded needle.

  “I’m not sure I’m in a position to play the seamstress.” With a wry look at her jutting bosom, which obscured the seam she must sew, her hand trembled as she handed the needle back to him. “Perhaps you, Lord Fenton, have hidden talents.” Her smile was as unsteady as her shaking hand. What was happening to the cool façade she’d cultivated to such a fine art? Her nipples ached and she was conscious of the sudden heat and moisture between her legs.

  She swallowed, barely able to force the words out through dry lips. “I cannot see to sew, but you will be my hero if you can stitch a straight seam.”

  Lord Fenton took the needle, resting his other hand upon her shoulder. Whether that was to steady her or himself, Fanny wasn’t sure, but that was immaterial as her whole body seemed to come alive at his touch. A dull, needy ache started in the pit of her belly as his eyes, full of sympathetic understanding, bored into hers. The usual, calculating gleam of the rake was replaced with something deeper and more sincere that nearly took her breath away.

  But it was his lack of skill with a needle that, in fact, did so. At her exclamation of pain they jerked apart.

  “My apologies!” he cried, reflexively clasping her wounded breast.

  Each froze at the contact. With a soft gasp Fanny swayed and he caught her to him. His touch seared her soul, branded her his, melting her insides into a pool of heated longing. It was apparent he wanted something between them to happen as much as she did. She could feel his enormous erection pressed against her stomach. Lord Slyther had at least imparted some useful information on the mechanics of intimate relations between men and women. The thought burst into her head that, as God was her witness, she had no intention of allowing Lord Slyther to rend her asunder with his Magnificent Member when the man before her was just as willing to do so – and, oh, so damnably irresistible.

  Suspended in an agony of waiting, she watched Lord Fenton’s sudden awareness combust into something far more primal, tensed for his response, then wilted as he gathered her in his arms with a low groan. She had wit only to be thankful for the fact that the needle was no longer between them before she responded—completely, and with every particle of body and soul.

  “Oh, my Lord!” The fast and furious pounding of her heart and the urgency of her breathing almost deafened her. Or was that Lord Fenton’s breathing? The gaze he trained upon her was rapt. His eyes were glazed. In fact, for a moment he looked like a sleek, handsome wolf contemplating his dinner. Miss Fanny Brightwell? Oh, she was more than ready. Her nipples ached with need and she felt herself relinquishing all logical thought as her mind was tugged ever more insistently into the dangerous swirl of sensation that threatened.

  When his mouth came down on hers she was ready and eager as she’d never been with Alverley—as she’d never been with any man. Her heart, pumping ever more furiously, seemed to carry hope, fire and passion through her veins, not the familiar resignation wrought by a man’s interest. The body she’d groomed since womanhood, the mind her mother had filled with careful calculation, all for the purpose of snaring a husband, no longer screamed its endless litany of ‘caution, as long as you catch him’.

  Fanny’s mind emptied itself of every last drop of the careful advice with which it had been filled by her mother over a lifetime. As Lord Fenton’s hand contoured her from breast to knee, resistance was the furthest thing from her mind. The inner voice of warning that should have pierced her consciousness was stifled by the heady sensations that pumped through her like honey.

  “You are exquisite,” he murmured against her lips as his hands roamed all over her, making her gasp as they skimmed her waist and thighs, cupping her bottom and pulling her against him—hard against his jutting erection.

  She sucked in a breath at the contact. Lord Slyther’s sly insinuations and the forced physicality in which she’d been an unwilling participant the night before had been her first initiation into the underworld of desire. Of the effect desire had on men. There was nothing sly or forced about this contact.

  Excitement took on a life of its own as Lord Fenton's mouth, a hot, wet cavern of mystery and delight, became a playground of tangling tongues and panting desire.

  A desire that became increasingly mindless in response to her throbbing need as he bent to clasp her knee, hooking her leg over the armrest of the Egyptian sofa. He cupped her face before burying his mouth in her décolletage, his lips probing, his hands massaging until her breast burst free of its confinement and his tongue curled around her nipple.

  Delighted, she moaned, arching against him, prickles of excitement shooting from her breast to her lower belly, the apex of her legs now a mass of quivering sensation. When he cupped her mound she cried out with frustration at the intrusion of her clothing against heated skin, an unnecessary layer that kept them apart. For they were destined to be one— she felt it in the basest regions of her mind, body and soul.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped as the laving of his tongue heated the tip of her nipple beyond endurance. In an agony of ecstasy she rained kisses upon his crisp, dark curls, unsure whether to push him away or hold him closer.

  She thought she had reached the summit of her pleasure, but it was just the beginning, she realised, as he insinuated his hand beneath the hem of her gown. She held her breath, poised on the edge of she knew not what as he trailed gentle, probing fingertips up her leg. He massaged the heated, highly sensitised skin of her inner thigh with agonising slowness, until he reached her mound, slick with the juices of her desire.

  “You like it?” His voice was hoarse as he stroked the contours of her body with a tenderness at odds with the hard masculine strength of his own. It seemed he had barely the strength needed to groan, “Just say the word, and I’ll do whatever pleases you, my love.” The tension and effort it clearly cost him to remain gentle only intensified the thrill. He was hers to command and she was enthralled.

  Gasping as he gently parted her folds with probing fingers to resume his secret exploration, she felt as if her soul were on a string he was pulling ever tighter. And tighter. The rhythmic motion was creating needs she had never known she had. She held her breath, digging her fingers into his back and shoulders as he pleasured her, the tension within building to almost
unbearable limits.

  His breath, husky with need, tickled her ear. “I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman.” Briefly, he held her face with both hands and she breathed in the scent of her own desire—a musky, heady fragrance that made her mind swim into a nether realm where her life existed on another plane and her body was a temple to this man whose touch unleashed such dangerous, forbidden impulses.

  She clenched her jaw in sudden determination that overrode every sensible notion her mother had ever instilled in her when it came to weighing up her future.

  Lord Slyther was a sure bet. She’d marry him tomorrow and perhaps be a widow within the year. Or ten. Meanwhile Fenton would wed another.

  She couldn’t let it happen…wouldn’t let it, whatever the sacrifices she must make. Fanny had never truly desired anything with complete and utter conviction as she desired Fenton as her legal wedded husband in that moment.

  Whatever it took, she would…

  All rational thought was sucked out of her brain by his next exquisite ploy.

  Fanny gasped, shuddering with shock and excitement as Fenton slid two fingers deep inside her. Rhythmically, he moved them in and out while cupping the back of her head with his other hand.

  Then, suddenly, he was on his knees, easing her down upon the sofa while he bent before her, parting her legs and glancing up at her for but a moment before she felt the sweep of his tongue across her slick opening.

  She bit down upon the ecstatic moan that burst from her, managed to gasp, “Oh, dear God, what are you doing?”

  But he did not answer, so engrossed was he in pleasuring her with his hot, clever tongue. Moisture slid down her inner thighs and she arched backwards as she twined her hands in his hair.

  It was ecstasy, but it was agony too. She ground her hips, desperate for something she couldn’t articulate, while the tension within her built in ever greater waves.

  “Nearly there, darling!” He withdrew for long enough to grin the self-satisfied grin of someone who knows they’re excelling at their task, before clamping his mouth once more upon her mound.

  She gave a squeal of shock and pleasure. It was too much! She couldn’t survive another minute of such exquisite…

  Then she was caught in a maelstrom of sensation that threatened to rend her asunder. A split second of screaming silence, a red and black haze veiling her pounding brain, then wave after delicious wave of molten desire washed over her, blinding her to all but the man who held her and the magic he wrought. If this was the carnal desire her mother had warned her against, she’d throw every stricture to the wind to drown in it. His masculine, leathery fragrance and the hardness of muscle and sinew beneath his watered silk waistcoat combined to intoxicate her.

  He was as enraptured—she could tell by the excitement of his breathing, the gleam in his eye as he rose to hold her, and his bulging breeches, which pressed against her stomach. The contact, which should have terrified her, only intensified her sense of feminine dominance.

  He wanted her as much as she wanted him and the key to her happiness lay in sustaining his fascination with her.

  Her mother would have told her that a graceful retreat would leave him dangling for more. The faint voice of her own sensible self said the same. But Fanny didn’t have time to take risks. And letting him go with nothing more than a kiss to bind them was too great a risk.

  Or was it that her pleasure was mindless and she’d never felt so secure in her powers of attraction?

  He hadn’t stopped kissing her and now it was starting all over again as his clever fingers played her like a harp. The intense sensation that started with the throbbing between her legs and built up in every fibre of her body, pulling on her heart strings until they threatened to snap, was enough to make any girl cry out for more. She was gasping her desire for—what? She could not know and when, with a groan, he dragged his mouth from hers to say, raggedly, he was honour-bound to release her, the idea was like an end to her world.

  “No!” she cried, her hands fumbling for the buttons of his breeches. Rake’s Honour. He wanted her, and if he took her now she’d be his forever. The powers she exercised tonight would be nothing to those she’d exert to ensure he never regretted it.

  The next few moments passed in a whirlpool of ecstatic sensation. Her cry of assent redoubled his passion. She did not know how he’d managed it, but her legs were wrapped around his waist and she held his swollen member, hot and heavy in her hand as he plundered her mouth like an oasis in a desert. His deft, clever hands swept over her bottom, turning the swollen bud at her very core once more into a quivering mass of sensation. When, groaning, he thrust himself into her, the surprising second of searing pain was immediately swept away by an encore of the first act—wave after wave of blissful, wicked, intense pleasure.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dazed, Fanny gave herself up to the rocking motion of the carriage as she sat quietly between Lady Harwood and her sister. Antoinette’s chatter was a welcome diversion. Clearly, the girl felt no shame or remorse about her conduct with Bramley.

  But what of Fanny’s own behaviour?

  Sinking into her cloak and closing her eyes, she relived the heady passion followed by its sweet aftermath.

  The urgency of their physical need had taken them both by surprise. Even now, she was conscious of the throbbing between her legs at the mere thought of him. He’d invaded the very core of her in more ways than one. She closed her eyes and dreamt again of the explosive sensations he’d unleashed at every juncture of the exquisite, forbidden act that had bound the two of them. A thrill swept through her at the thought. Lord Fenton was bound to her. He’d said as much as he’d cradled her in his arms, whispering sweet endearments while he gently kissed her eyes and lips.

  Yet, as she reflected further, a faint thread of doubt intruded, disturbing her thoughts as the carriage’s jolting disturbed her comfort.

  Was that his modus operandi with all the women he seduced? Did he tell them he’d never before been struck by such powerful desire and that the planets in alignment had decreed their fates were forever entwined? Whatever that meant.

  As Antoinette chattered, Fanny’s brief euphoria gave way to hopelessness. In the morning she would marry Lord Slyther. What choice did she have? Neither he nor her mother would allow further postponement, so what possible hope had she of eliciting anything from Lord Fenton before it was too late? Anything that would give her reason to delay her nuptials for a few more days.

  After delivering Lady Harwood to her modest lodgings, the carriage deposited the two sisters in front of theirs, but before the jarvey was dismissed Lady Brightwell came hurrying down the front steps dressed in a dark cloak.

  “Inside with you, Antoinette—Fanny, we’re going to see Lord Slyther.” She rubbed her hands together as she waited to be assisted up the step, while Antoinette obediently disappeared through the front door. “He’s impatient, Fanny. You did well last night. Perhaps Lord Slyther has the priest and witnesses already waiting.” She squeezed Fanny’s arm as she settled herself on the carriage seat beside Fanny. “Tonight could be your wedding night!”

  Fanny didn’t know whether to scream, faint or be sick.

  “Come, girl, show a little jubilation. You have done well. Very well.”

  Dully, Fanny stared ahead. After a long silence she whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this, Mother.”

  “Whatever is this nonsense, Fanny?” A note of alarm crept into Lady Brightwell’s tone. “Lord Slyther is a viscount. He is rich. He has promised to be generous—”

  Despair threatened to undo Fanny. “Provided I become his slave. Oh, Mother, he made me do the most appalling things the other night.” She slumped against the cold window. “You have no idea. I thought I was going to die of shame—”

  “Do you imagine you’re the only young woman who has had to barter her body to buy a life?” Lady Brightwell’s dismay turned to anger. Growing anger. “Would you see us cast into the streets, or forced into
a grinding, menial existence because you are not prepared to do what every other young woman has to do in order to satisfy a man? Yes, men are disgusting creatures and Lord Slyther is probably worse than most. But he has one redeeming feature, Fanny, that you can’t ignore.” Directing the full force of her fulminating glare upon Fanny as the carriage drew up in front of Lord Slyther’s elegant Mayfair address, she comforted her daughter, “He cannot possibly live long. Then, my dear, your reward will be widowhood and, if you play your cards right in the meantime, a sizeable widow’s portion. Now, get out of the carriage and do what you have to do without that long face!”

  Terrified, Fanny waited outside Lord Slyther’s bedchamber, where she’d been instructed to see him. Her mother had been ushered to the drawing room.

  As the door opened to admit her she nearly gasped at the foetid sickroom air but managed to retain the pleasant and decorous smile demanded by her mother.

  And by herself, for her mother spoke the truth. Only careful calculation was going to get Fanny what she wanted.

  She curtsied. “I missed you this evening, my Lord.” She made a point of fingering the ring she had been given upon its chain. There had been an uncomfortable moment when Lord Fenton had whisked up Fanny’s handkerchief, in which the ring had been wrapped, in order to assist with some discreet mopping up. Fortunately for her white muslin, she had not bled—her days as a keen horsewoman during the family’s exile in France had seen to that.

  When the ring had fallen from the handkerchief into Lord Fenton’s lap, along with Lady Harwood’s retrieved bracelet, he’d but glanced at it. She had hoped the coat of arms would not be familiar to him. He had certainly made no comment as he’d returned the items before resuming his post-coital comforting.

  Comforting it had been, and it was all Fanny had to sustain herself with, for now Lord Slyther was struggling up on his pillows, his grimace of pain contorting into one of relative pleasure to see her.