Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

by Ann Lethbridge

  Each movement of his body sent glorious sensations rippling beneath her skin. His tongue teased her lips, filled her mouth and she succumbed to the heat and the fire. Conscious thought became impossible as, hot and moist, his mouth licked and nibbled at her jaw, her throat and finally the rise of her breasts.

  And she panted for more, as he lingered in the valley between her breasts, nuzzling and kissing the sensitised skin. With a whimper, she grasped his hair, brought his mouth to peaks tingling with anticipation.

  He licked one, then the other. Circling his tongue around each hardened nub, nibbling, promising bliss, until she thought she might go mad. At last, his mouth, hot as fire, closed around her nipple. He suckled.

  Sweet agony. Back arched, her hips rose off the bed. He slid deeper inside her, tormenting her, as she sought her release.

  And he held her there, between bliss and torture, driving her higher, tightening the connection between them, yet never letting her reach the precipice, where bliss awaited in silken black depths.

  “Garrick,” she moaned, “please.”

  Supported by arms knotted with muscle and sinew, he lifted his head, eyes molten and heavy as he gazed into her face. She clenched her inner muscles around his flesh as he’d taught her so many years ago. A growl of hunger rumbled up from his chest, and then his hips drove him into her, hard and fast, almost furious, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl.

  Yes. Hard and fast, and very good. She clung to his shoulders, feeling his heat, his skin slippery, rising up to meet each forward thrust.

  He tilted his pelvis, the base of his shaft grinding against the sweet place between her legs.

  Every nerve tightened, until she thought she must break. Agony twisted his features as he stared into his own abyss. “Now, Ellie.” The plea in his rough voice tipped her over the edge. She shattered.

  A tide of heat rushed outwards, turning her limbs to molten lead. She lay gasping for breath and he slipped out of her body and, shuddering, spilled his seed into the sheets, then stretched beside her and pulled her into the crook of his arm.

  Even as she lay, blissful, warm, panting for breath, a faint tinge of bitterness twisted her heart. Even in the heat of passion he’d been in control, where she’d been completely abandoned, thoroughly wanton.

  She turned her head to look at him and he brushed her lips with his mouth, a brief caress, as soft as a butterfly wing. “Rest, sweetheart,” he murmured, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

  ———

  Was it minutes or hours later when she opened her eyes? Held fast in the circle of his arm, her cheek on his warm chest, his breath tickling the lock of hair on her forehead, she watched fire weave patterns on his skin, gleam on the arc of his cheekbone, shadow the hollows of cheek and throat.

  The scent of his musky cologne filled her nostrils. Tenderness seeped into her heart, the trickle building into a stream, then a river, perhaps even an ocean, it felt so vast. She raised her head and kissed his jaw, the stubble rough against her lips. He was lovely in sleep, relaxed, his deep, even breaths stretching the muscles of his chest, which might have been carved from marble if it weren’t for the dark sworls of hair.

  She drank in his well-remembered features. The hard planes of his lean cheeks, the firm, sensual lips. The face she saw each night in her dreams was softer, more boyish. This hard new face had character, determination, and perhaps even shades of cruelty.

  The thought shimmered through her body, frightening and exciting. Impulsively, she pressed her lips against his. If only she could tell him what she’d locked in her heart. Too late. Unless she went down on her knees.

  He tensed, his eyelids snapping open, his gaze at once alert. His vision focused and he huffed out a breath. “It’s you.”

  “Yes. Me.” Her heart twisted. Had he hoped for someone else? No matter. Tonight he was hers alone. And because she could, she kissed him again. And his hand came up to catch her nape, to angle her head and he deepened the kiss. He rolled on his back, bringing her with him, drawing her up on to his body.

  His strong muscled body. His burgeoning erection. A thrill shot though her core as she felt him harden. Perhaps she could show him how well she remembered, with her hands, her lips, her body.

  She traced the seam of his mouth and when his lips parted, she swept his mouth, teasing his tongue with hers, tasting. He grunted, a low guttural sound of approval, and sucked. Ripples of pleasure rushed outward from low in her belly.

  God help her, the man knew her too well.

  Thoroughly aroused, she rocked her hips in small circles against his groin.

  “I want to be inside you,” he said, raising his shoulders, reaching down, using his hand to press the head of his erection against her mons. “Now. Lift up.”

  “Not yet,” she said, her voice huskier than she had ever heard it.

  “Heaven forefend, woman, do you want to kill me?” He dropped his head back on the pillow.

  Smiling, she claimed his lips in a swift kiss. “Only a little.” She kissed his forehead, his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw. He squirmed and hissed in a breath when she explored the depths of his ear with her tongue, salty and bitter, and very sensual.

  His hands gripped her buttocks, large and firm, squeezing gently. He ground his hips against hers with a groan.

  “Let me inside you.”

  “Hush, let me play a while.”

  Shifting to her side, she pressed her lips to his throat, wandered lower, across his shoulders, to his chest, the springy curls rough, the flesh beneath hot and salty and musky. She ran her palms over his flat male nipples and they puckered and hardened. Next she traced the plane of his belly; muscles beneath tanned skin rippled like waves on an ocean, as they tensed beneath her mouth. Too shy, too young, to do more than peek at him before, now the strength and the beauty of his body left her in awe.

  “God. Ellie. Don’t stop.”

  She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his expression one of agony.

  She took pity on him and her hand found the hard, hot length of his erection. Watching his face, she wrapped her fingers around him, then squeezed.

  His eyes opened wide. “Harder.”

  “Won’t it hurt?”

  “God, no.”

  Taking him at his word, she squeezed and he moaned and took her hand in his, showing her how to stroke, from tip to base and back without releasing the pressure.

  The tip darkened, while the shaft hardened and pulsed against her palm. “Oh, my.”

  A small drop of moisture glistened in the tiny slit at the tip. She licked it away. Salty, warm, musky.

  His hips shot off the bed. He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her over him. “Enough.” It sounded more like a growl than a word.

  A shudder of pleasure held her enthralled and instinctively she straddled his hips, somewhat like mounting a horse astride, except her naked female flesh pressed against his hard penis and the heartbeat beneath his skin matched her own little pulses. The rough hair on his leg grazed her inner thighs. Quite wicked and absolutely tantalising.

  Lifting her with one hand under her bottom, he guided himself inside her body. Rigid and hot, he stretched her. She slid down the delicious intrusion. Hands about her hips, fingers digging into the swell of her buttocks, he helped her set a tantalising rhythm. Definitely like riding a horse, but far more enjoyable as the friction brought new and delightful sensations. If it were not for the tension in his face and the corded muscle and sinew in his large powerful body, she might have thought him submissive to her command of their lovemaking. Hers to do with as she willed.

  Would that it were true. The wicked thought thrilled her to the core.

  Wanting his touch, she brought his hand to her breasts. He curled his fingertips into her flesh, weighing, massaging, shaping to fit his palms. He caressed her nipples with his thumbs, strumming them, bringing them to life in aching little bursts of pleasure. At each downwar
d stroke of her hips, his pelvis rose to meet her, pressing himself deeper into her heat, but leaving her to set the pace.

  He lifted his head and suckled, hard. The thrill shot all the way to her centre. Little quivers, deep earthquakes of passion drove her to find completion. Her body hummed with tension. “Garrick.”

  “Let go, darling.”

  He touched where they joined, at the sensitive spot above where he entered her body, pressing and circling with his thumb. A sensation like nothing else, pleasure and sweet, sweet pain, unbearable.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. The tension inside her vibrated, the breaking point just out of reach.

  “Harder?”

  “Faster.”

  By increasing the tempo, he brought her to new heights. The world narrowed to one arching stretch of pleasure.

  She flew apart. Burst in glorious quivers of delicious pleasure. He groaned and withdrew, spilling his seed into the sheets while her own shudders went on and on.

  He rolled on his side and kissed her forehead, the corner of her mouth, her throat, a delicate brush of his lips against her breast.

  “You were glorious,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She lay in his arms with her skin cooling and tears a blink away. Loss of what might have been as real as the death of a loved one.

  “Your hunger was great,” he said into her hair.

  Before, he had always been the driving force in their lovemaking.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It…has been a long time. But not for you, I think.” She couldn’t help the little knife of jealousy.

  “You have an itch. You scratch it.”

  An itch. Well, she should have expected no more. “William always said you were an unprincipled wretch.”

  “William.” He rolled away, flung the sheet back and stood up, his bare flanks lean and muscled. She repressed an urge to lean out and caress the lovely firm rounded flesh.

  “I did offer marriage,” he said. “You chose otherwise.” He shrugged, a lift of broad shoulders. “You would have had my name, my title. What more did you want?”

  A declaration of love? Would it have made any difference? She’d made so many wrong decisions that summer, caused untold harm. Now was not the time to open old wounds. And yet he deserved an answer. She swallowed. “I could not abandon my sister.”

  His back stiffened, then he picked his shirt up from the floor and pulled it over his head. “Admit it. You were afraid.” He continued to dress, his focus entirely on his articles of clothing, as if her answer made no difference.

  She slipped out of her side of the bed. She drew on her chemise and tied the bow at the neck. “Afraid?”

  He turned to look over his shoulder. “Of me. Of what I might do.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” She struggled with the laces of her stays at her back. “I made a promise.”

  “And so you made your choice. And here you are once more, the sacrificial lamb.” He strolled to the mirror over the mantel and in swift, sure movements tied his cravat. “What about you, Ellie? When will you choose you?” He laughed, a short mirthless crack. “Please. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. Just get the letter and you can forget me, and go back to your safe little life.”

  He had changed. She really didn’t know him any longer. But he was right about her life. It was little. And it was all she had left. “Take me home.”

  Garrick glanced at the clock. A flash of concern crossed his face. “Yes, you should leave now. My friend will be home soon.”

  He hurried her into the sitting room, picking up her cloak, shoving her bonnet and veil into her hand, clearly wishing her gone. She’d lost him. So quickly. She could see it in his distant expression. Her heart sank.

  What had she expected? That he would renew his offer of marriage after a brief encounter? He was using her to get what he wanted, the way she had used him. Mayhap, it served her right.

  He opened the door and she followed him out of the chamber.

  In the hallway, a footman was in the process of opening the front door.

  Garrick cursed under his breath as a rather bosky young gentleman and a scantily dressed woman stepped over the threshold. He handed his cane to the waiting lackey.

  Ellie gasped and pulled up her hood.

  “Morning, Beauworth,” he said, grinning beneath his fair moustache. “Finished gambling a bit early. Pleasant night, I assume?” His glance shifted to Ellie and he bowed unsteadily. “Lady Eleanor.”

  Her stomach dropped away in a rush. Once more, impetuosity had led her to ruin and this time she’d well and truly stepped over the brink.

  She lifted her chin. “Lord Goring.”

  Chapter Eleven

  What had she done? Alone in the carriage, Eleanor wanted to bang her head against a wall or throw herself beneath the rumbling wheels. Years she’d spent making sure not a breath of scandal besmirched her name. And now this.

  Impetuosity.

  It had got her into trouble in her youth and here she was again, acting without thinking. Only this time her reputation would never recover. A little hot rush of something naughty sang in her veins. Since she was ruined, why not go the whole hog and finish out her bargain with Garrick? The mere idea of it made her feel hot and breathless.

  Oh, yes, and ruin Sissy’s chances of making a good marriage. She couldn’t do it. She’d have to retire to the country in disgrace. She struck the cushioned seat with her fist. Idiot.

  After swearing she’d never do anything rash again, here she was, a fallen woman. And it was all her own doing.

  When the carriage pulled up to her front door, Garrick helped her down and escorted her up the steps without a word. She scrabbled in her reticule for the key.

  “What the devil!” William’s voice from behind her.

  Heart tripping, Eleanor whirled around. Garrick’s hand gripped her elbow, whether for support or to stop her from fleeing she couldn’t be sure.

  William bounded out of a hackney carriage wearing a scarlet uniform. Open-mouthed, shocked, confused, Eleanor watched him toss a handful of coins at the driver and limp across the footpath to stand at the bottom of the steps.

  He glared up at Garrick. “You bastard.” His voice sounded choked.

  “I believe my lineage is as impeccable as yours.” Garrick moved closer to her as William’s scowl deepened.

  “Len, for God’s sake, get inside before someone sees you.”

  “It’s too late,” she said, surprised how calm she sounded, how matter of fact, in the face of his rage.

  Garrick’s eyebrows shot up. He looked startled, even a little impressed. Had he expected her to lie?

  William turned to Garrick. “You’ll meet me for this. In an hour in Green Park. It’s all the time I have before I leave.”

  Dread curdled her stomach. “William, why are you in uniform?”

  His lip curled. “Because my country needs all the help she can get with traitors like this in our midst.”

  “William, you can’t. You have duties, responsibilities.”

  His cheeks flamed. “So do you, but you don’t let them stop you.” He swung back to Garrick, his hand on his sabre hilt. “Name your seconds, sir, or be named for a coward.”

  Garrick looked down his nose. “You’ve waited a long time for this, haven’t you, Castlefield? It’s true what they say, then—revenge is best served cold.”

  Eleanor grabbed her brother’s arm. “William, no! I went with him willingly.”

  “Damn it, Len. Why?”

  Garrick’s smiled, cruel, taunting. “Because she wanted some fun for a change.”

  William lunged at him, fists flying. Garrick blocked his wild blows, captured his wrist.

  Eleanor wormed her way between them.

  “Stop it! It’s bad enough that you might be killed by the French, but to risk death in a duel is nonsense. I have no virtue to defend.”

  “A man who sends a woman to fight his battles is unlikely to fall victim to a French bullet
,” Garrick said, releasing William’s hand and stepping back.

  William’s face drained of colour. “A traitor like you is more likely to shoot a man in the back.”

  Eleanor had the hysterical urge to laugh. They were like male dogs, stiff-legged, hackles raised, circling each other. The two men that she loved most in the world hated each other.

  William pushed her towards the door. “You and Sissy are going home. Go inside and pack. I’ll decide what to do when I return, but believe me, if this gets out, you will never again be accepted by the ton. Let us hope your behaviour hasn’t ruined Sissy. As for you, you cur, damned well name your seconds.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Garrick said with a feral smile.

  “No!” She clutched at William. “I will not allow you to fight a duel over me.”

  Garrick looked down at her, a glimmer of something strange in his eyes—yearning, or devilment? “If you want to put a stop to this, marry me.”

  She gaped at him.

  “You will never come near this family again if you marry this murdering, traitorous cur,” William said.

  Garrick stood silent, his face a mask.

  William looked equally grim.

  The painful truth kicked her in the stomach like a flying hoof, sending her heart into a runaway gallop. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. This was her last chance.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

  Face blank, Garrick stared at her. She’d called his bluff. He hadn’t meant it. He was posturing, taunting William.

  “Len.” William’s voice was hoarse. “Don’t make it any worse, for God’s sake.”

  “I think it’s best, William.”

  He turned his back. “Go, then, and be damned to the pair of you.”

  “Garrick wants Piggot’s letter,” she said.

  His shoulders shook, but he did not turn around. “He can go to hell.”

  “Let me say goodbye to Sissy, then.”

  “Leave, Eleanor. Now.”

  Eleanor stumbled down the steps, held up by Garrick’s strong arm.