“Because if you’d shown up for dinner in that, darlin’, I would never have made it through our private discussion without trying to ravish you.”
“I know.” She cast him a sultry smile. “That’s precisely why I wore it. To make you burn.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise him. “Damnation, Delilah, you’ll be the death of me yet.”
With a grin, she tossed back her fallen hair and thrust out her fine, high breasts. And he burned. Every inch of the rest of the way to Gretna Green.
Chapter Eighteen
Dear Charlotte,
I doubt the rash of elopements will hurt the school’s reputation. I don’t think anyone will protest the Kirkwood wedding; he’s of good blood and connections. But the other might cause gossip—assuming that the major can recapture Lady Amelia before the marquess marries her.
Your concerned cousin,
Michael
They were wed in a marriage house beside a Gretna Green inn, by one of the famous anvil priests. Amelia tried not to think how she looked in her rumpled evening gown and a corset so tight her breasts practically spilled out of it. She had to borrow pins to put up her hair, since her own had vanished during her hours of drugged sleep. But the parson didn’t seem to care about her appearance—no doubt he’d seen plenty of travel-weary brides—and treated the wedding as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Which it was, unfortunately. As adventures went, Amelia found it more tame than expected. First, they had to attest to their willingness to marry—she shuddered to think how Lord Pomeroy had meant to accomplish that.
Then they spoke their vows. She hesitated after the parson said, “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Was she mad to marry a man she barely knew?
Then Lucas said, “Darlin’?” in that low, sensuous drawl that made her toes curl, and she hesitated no more. “I will,” she said firmly.
There were no long prayers, no taking of Holy Communion, nothing that resembled the usual nuptial service of the Church of England. Indeed, it hardly seemed like a real wedding at all.
Until the priest asked for the ring, and Lucas placed a ring of his upon her left hand. It was too big for her ring finger, so he put it on her middle one. The weight was a potent reminder of her new status.
Never again would she wonder about her future—pondering what country she might visit first and whether she would get there by packet boat or clipper ship or even camel. Her future had narrowed to the man standing beside her, and she hardly knew anything about him. Lord help her.
Yet he’d come to her rescue when no one would have expected it, when rescuing her affected his own plans. So surely he must feel something for her. Not love, since he’d made no mention of that. But a little affection?
And certainly a lot of…wanting. It was more than some women got from their husbands. Of course, none of them had to worry that their husbands meant to haul their stepmothers off to jail. But Lucas had made an excellent point earlier: if Dolly was Dorothy Frier and had taken part in the embezzlement, she deserved to be apprehended. If she wasn’t, then Amelia had nothing to fear.
Besides, Dolly or no Dolly, she couldn’t think of another man she’d rather marry. That thought got her through the rest of it with a measure of ease.
After the wedding, the anvil priest was in a jovial mood, introducing them to several people at the nearby inn as she and Lucas sat down to a substantial breakfast. Apparently, while runaway weddings were common, weddings between American soldiers and earl’s daughters were rather rare.
Their hosts’ festive glee was infectious, so despite her exhaustion, Amelia regaled them with tales of London. She even told them of her own Scottish friend, Venetia. To her surprise, they’d heard of Lord Duncannon and his mysterious tormentor, the Scottish Scourge. Unfortunately, she could tell them nothing about why the thief hated the lord.
After breakfast, Lucas rented a room there for the night. “We’ll set out for London tomorrow,” he told her. “We both need rest.”
Rest, hah!They both knew it wasn’t rest he had on his mind.
Yet when they went up to their room, he took one look at her weary motions and ordered her to sleep. She insisted upon writing Dolly and Papa to let them know what had happened, but by the time she was done, she couldn’t even muster the energy for a bath. She swayed on her feet when Lucas began undressing her. As he stripped her down to her chemise and drawers, her eyes were closing of their own accord.
“Perhaps I’ll have just a little nap,” she murmured, as he bundled her into the bed with the impersonal efficiency of a servant. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Hours later, she was awakened by the late-afternoon sun streaming in through the window. She’d slept so heavily that it took her a moment to remember where she was. But the man’s coat slung over the nearby chair and the boots lined up with her evening slippers by the door reminded her only too well that she was no longer Lady Amelia. She was Mrs. Lucas Winter now.
But where was Lucas? She turned toward the fireplace to see her new husband half-sitting, half-lying in a large brass tub that hadn’t been there before. His eyes were closed and his breathing even, but the water was steaming, so he must have just fallen asleep.
Good. Now she had to determine one thing: had Lord Pomeroy done anything to her while she was drugged?
She didn’t think so. Oh, he might have caressed her, but her corset had still been awfully tight when Lucas had taken it off her. Pomeroy would have had to pry her breasts loose from it to fondle them, and he would have had trouble getting them back in.
She swallowed. Whether he’d fondled her breasts wasn’t the problem. The slit in her drawers would have allowed him to thrust…whatever he liked inside.
Drugged or no, wouldn’t she remember it if he’d actually done the deed? Wouldn’t she feel different, sore or irritated or something ?
There was only one way to be sure. She lifted her chemise stealthily so as not to awaken Lucas and examined her drawers in minute detail.
Then she sank back with a sigh of relief. No virgin’s blood. He couldn’t possibly have taken her innocence without getting blood on her drawers, so she was still chaste. Thank goodness. She would have hated to go to her new husband’s bed unchaste, even if it wasn’t her fault. Things like that seemed to bother men.
An odd sound filtered into her senses—a sort of rhythmic sloshing. Had Lucas awakened? She sat up and looked over at him. No, his eyes were still closed. But his breathing seemed to have changed, and that sound…
She slipped from the bed and crept near enough to see that his arm was moving. Rhythmically. Making the sloshing noise she was hearing.
Why, he wasn’t asleep at all, the scoundrel! Instead he was…touching himself. In that way.
Though a blush stained her cheeks, she edged closer. She certainly didn’t mean to miss this .
Sadly, she couldn’t see beneath the surface of the soapy water. But she saw plenty above—shoulders broad enough to please the most discriminating female…well-muscled arms, one of which flexed deliciously with every stroke…and a nicely sculpted chest covered with little rivulets of black hair.
But it annoyed Amelia that she couldn’t see the rest of him. Well, she’d have to remedy that situation.
“Enjoying your ‘bath,’ husband?” she teased.
Lucas started as violently as a footman caught napping. “Hellfire and damnation, Amelia!” To her amusement, he actually blushed as he jerked his gaze down to check that his “sword” was adequately hidden. “Don’t creep up on a man like that, for God’s sake!”
“Decided to start the wedding night without me, did you?”
“What are you doing up anyway?” he grumbled. “I expected you to sleep f
or hours more. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken the bathwater. I figured it was better to use it before it cooled.”
She burst into laughter. “Yes, I can see you were making good use of the bathwater.”
It finally dawned on him what she’d seen. He groaned. “I only meant to…take the edge off my hunger. To make things easier on you later.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” she said cheerily. “But sit up a little. I want to watch.”
He blinked. “You want to what ?”
“Watch you stroke your ‘sword.’ Why not? We’re married now.”
Glancing away, he raked his fingers through his wet hair. “Good point. Yes, a very good point.” He was mumbling to himself as if thinking through some plan. “Might not be a bad idea.”
“Lucas?” she prodded.
His gaze swung back to her. As he took in her state of dishabille, his eyes darkened to a smoky black. Then his lips curved in a smoldering smile that sent sensual shivers down her spine. “Fine, you can watch.” Settling back against the tub, he rested his arms on either side. “But my sword will need ‘encouragement’ after being startled out of its wits by my wife.”
“What sort of encouragement?” she breathed.
Scouring her with a glance hotter than the roaring fireplace beyond him, he rasped, “Untie your chemise.”
“Oh.That sort of encouragement.” She suddenly found it very hard to breathe. Now this was an adventure. She did as he bade, her fingers fumbling a little on the ties in her eagerness.
As soon as she had them undone, he said in a low rumble, “Take it off.”
She needed no more prompting than that. Feeling devilishly wicked, she slid it off to bare her breasts and drawers. But the hungry glance he slid over her only made her impatient for more of him .
“You said I could watch you,” she reminded him.
He rose abruptly from the water, and she sucked in a breath. Next time she saw Venetia, she’d have to answer her friend’s question about whether the major had a sword worth worshipping. Oh, yes. Definitely yes.
His member jutted out from its nest of hair, as gloriously rampant as any sword raised in battle. She stared at it with unquenchable curiosity, marveling at how long and thick it was, and how much longer and thicker and more intimidating it grew beneath her avid gaze. And when he seized it and began to manipulate it as easily as if he were polishing his real sword, she added “sturdy” to its qualities.
“All right, Delilah,” he growled, his breath coming faster, “your turn. The drawers. Take off…the drawers.”
Casting him what she hoped was a provocative smile, she took her time about untying them.
“Now,darlin’,” he said, with an officer’s tone of command.
“Why, yes, Major. Whatever you say, Major. At once, Major.” She dropped them to the floor.
His sudden silence would have alarmed her if it hadn’t been matched by a sudden quickening of his hand on his “sword.” “God have mercy,” he said hoarsely, his gaze sweeping over her greedily, admiringly. “You sure are a fine piece of work.”
Feeling suddenly shy, she gave a nervous laugh. “If you can say that when I haven’t bathed in days and my hair is tangled beyond recognition, then you’ll make a very good husband.”
His hand stilled. “A very inconsiderate husband, to be rushing things. You should come bathe while the water’s hot.”
“There’s room for us both, isn’t there? Why don’t we bathe together?”
A fleeting expression of alarm passed over his face before he nodded. “Whatever will make you more comfortable…”
He trailed off awkwardly, then sank down in the tub again. He was acting quite odd for a man on his wedding night. Of course, she really had no clue how men behaved then. Perhaps they were as nervous as women.
When she climbed in facing him, he said, “Turn around and sit between my legs.”
She did as he said. The water was still blissfully warm, and with both of them in the tub, it rose almost to the top. Uttering a sigh of sheer pleasure, she sank down to immerse her head, sending some of the water sloshing over the edge. Then she slid back up to lean against his hair-roughened chest.
The rod of his arousal dug into her back, yet all he did was reach for the soap and lather her hair, his hands working soothingly through the tangles, scrubbing her scalp, turning her boneless beneath his ministrations. Once he dropped the soap, she snagged it to lather her shoulders and under her arms.
But after she rinsed her hair, he took the soap from her. “Let me,” he murmured against her neck.
So she did. And it was wonderful, simply wonderful.
He started with her breasts, lathering her thoroughly. As his long fingers worked magic over her rapidly hardening nipples, he kissed her hair, her ear, her shoulder. Soon his hands were everywhere, soaping her back and then her belly. He lathered her legs while he trailed his open mouth down her neck, kissing, sucking…heating her blood until it was hotter than the bathwater.
She ran her own hands up his calves, past his knees to his thighs, reveling in his sharp intake of breath when she stroked the insides. “Delilah,” he muttered, pressing a hard kiss to her neck. “Tease me, will you?”
His soapy fingers slid between her legs to fondle her, tenderly at first, then more boldly. She answered him in kind by kneading his thighs as high as she could reach, delighting to feel his flesh stiffen even more in the small of her back. He retaliated by delving his finger inside her, rubbing her so deftly that she groaned.
Abruptly, he stopped. Planting his hands on either side of the tub, he shoved himself up, then stepped out of the tub. “Come, let’s go to bed where I can do this right.”
She laughed as she rinsed off the soap. “It seemed pretty ‘right’ to me already.”
He wouldn’t look at her as he dried himself with the towel. “It’ll be more comfortable for you in the bed.”
“Really? Have you found a miraculous solution for eliminating pain from the process of deflowering?”
When he shot her a stricken glance, she realized something more was behind his odd behavior. And she was fairly certain she knew what it was.
Her throat felt tight and raw. “You think Pomeroy took my innocence, don’t you? That’s what’s bothering you.”
“No…yes…well, we don’t really know what he did, do we?” Jerking his gaze from her, he wrapped the towel around his waist. “He could have done anything to you while you slept.”
She shook her head no. “I would remember it.”
He paced beside the tub. “For God’s sake, Amelia, you didn’t even remember that you’d been gone for two days.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” she protested.
He whirled on her, shock filling his face. “Of course it wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. That has nothing to do with it!”
Heart aching, she rose and left the tub, then picked up the towel. She held it up to hide her body. “It has a great deal to do with it if you’re disappointed because I might not be chaste—”
“Disappointed!” He gaped at her, then groaned. “Oh, Christ, I’m an idiot. That’s not why…” He came up to gather her in his arms. “It’s not whether you’re chaste that matters to me.” He kissed her temple, her brow, her hair. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
A cautious relief bloomed in her chest. “That’s unavoidable if I’m chaste. And if I’m not—”
“If you’re not, I don’t want to make it worse.” He cupped her head in his hands, and the look he gave her was so tender it made her chest hurt. “He…he might have bruised you or caused you pain that I could aggravate when I—” Pure remorse filled his features. “I can’t stand the thought that he drugged you, that he might have hurt you. I should have prevented it. You should never have had to endure such a thing.”
“He didn’t hurt me, Lucas.” She brushed a kiss over his lips. “I think I’d know if he did.” Leaving his embrace, she walked over to pick up her dr
awers. “There’s no blood, you see?”
“Some women don’t bleed at their deflowering.”
“How do you know? Do you make a practice of deflowering virgins?”
“No!” He drew himself up at the insult. “I read it in a book, for God’s sake.”
“A book?” She felt better by the moment. Much better. Almost giddy. Dropping the towel, she came toward him, a slow smile curving up her lips. “You read a book to find out about women? Fancy that.”
His eyes ravaged her, and the towel he’d wrapped about his waist started to lift of its own accord. “It was…a medical journal…” he choked out.
“A fine excuse,” she teased as she reached him. Jerking his towel free of its knot, she dropped it to the floor. “But more likely it was some collection of tales cobbled together by an Englishman to titillate—”
His mouth crashed down on hers as his arms shot round her waist to pull her tightly, achingly, into his embrace. She swung her arms about his neck and held on as he plundered her mouth with glorious abandon. It seemed ages since they’d kissed, not just a few hours, and she meant to make the most of it.
Lucas also made that vow to himself as he thrust his tongue deep inside her mouth. He would make this good for her, even if it killed him. He still felt uncertain of how many liberties he should take, how much he should press her, but given her enthusiastic response to his kiss, maybe he wouldn’t have to be as careful as he’d feared.
He kissed her lips, her eyelids, her hair…her lush, silky hair that he never could get enough of.
“Take me to bed,” she breathed against his cheek. “Please. I’ve waited ages to find out what it’s like to be with a man.”
“Whatever my lady wishes,” he said as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed.
He laid her down, then paused just to look at her, at the kittenish smile on her lips, at her swanlike neck with skin so delicate he just wanted to devour it, at the sweetly upthrust breasts that had driven him half-insane on the xebec. Climbing onto the bed, he parted her legs so he could kneel between them while he gazed at her slender belly and the smooth skin of her thighs. And what lay at their juncture, open, waiting. For him.
Never Seduce a Scoundrel Page 18
