by Lauren Smith
Anne was only too aware that she was imprisoned by the strength of his arms. She was no tiny, delicate creature. Anne had a full figure with muscles and curves she’d often despised, but she’d never before taken for granted her natural strength. Being unable to escape Cedric was both infuriating and strangely arousing. He would never force her to his bed, he’d said, but it was obvious he wasn’t about to sit idly by and wait for her to come to him. He took her by surprise and established his dominance over her like a stud stallion with a broodmare. She knew he would not stop until he’d mated his body to hers. The dark turn of her thoughts was obliterated by the meeting of their mouths.
Cedric tasted her gently for the first few seconds, as though learning the shape of her mouth, before he let loose his rough passion. He dug a hand into her hair, fisting his fingers in her coiffure, and tugged, forcing her head to fall back and leave her mouth and neck at his mercy.
Anne’s hands were trapped at her sides, clenched into fists, then unclenched as Cedric’s mouth sucked on her earlobe, then moved to the sensitive skin just beneath it. She fought off a shiver as tingles shot down the length of her spine as his lips moved in slow, hot kisses.
“Melt for me, love,” he encouraged between breaths. Anne felt the instinctive need to obey, but her mind threw up a red flag in warning.
“Can’t.” Her voice was breathless as she fought the pleasure she could feel rising deep inside her.
“Yes, you can…be wicked with me, Anne.”
Cedric’s hands in her hair loosened and cupped her neck, holding her still so his mouth could wander back to hers.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded before slanting his mouth over hers again. She refused to open, and he slid his fingers around her left breast and pinched her nipple sharply. The sensation shot a fierce desire straight to her womb. She gasped. Cedric swallowed the sound of her shock with a deep growl of satisfaction as his tongue invaded her newly opened lips.
Anne jerked in his grasp, but he refused to surrender his control of her. He kneaded her breast, cupping it, shaping it with his strong hand. Anne’s knees buckled rebelliously.
Cedric released her as abruptly as he’d captured her. “I will tame you yet.”
Anne pulled away, putting several feet of distance between them. Once they were married she would have to be careful; she couldn’t allow him to paw at her and control her with her own passions. She’d vowed to come to his bed willingly, but now she feared she’d been too brave to assume she could manage it without losing herself. When Cedric kissed her it seemed to undo her from the inside out. When his lips meshed with hers she felt time rewind itself to that first night she’d seen him.
She’d been so young and foolish then, ready for love and marriage and a sweet life. Anne shook her head to clear it of sad memories and noticed Cedric flash her a mocking smile full of satisfaction.
“No doubt when we marry you think to take up the habit of hiding from me, Anne, but know this—I may be blind, but my other senses leave me quite capable of finding you. Each move you make I’ll hear the rustle of your skirt, or catch the lingering scent of your perfume. I will make you mine all the more fiercely. Now go and change for dinner before I decide to scandalize you and follow you to your chambers.”
Anne needed no second warning. She was out of the parlor and rushing up to her room in seconds, but she couldn’t escape the echo of his laughter. They’d fought a battle of wills, and she only realized now that she had lost. Cedric was far more cunning than she’d assumed. He was not outwardly a scholarly type or a businessman, but he had a wealth of carnal knowledge that had put her at a disadvantage today.
I must always be on guard, she told herself.
As Anne dressed in the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she selected a gown of russet brown that had golden embroidery on the puffed sleeves and hem. It was a gown more suited to autumn with its hues more pumpkin than like flowers, which fashion dictated during the spring. She knew she should have stayed in her mourning blacks, but the thought of a lovely evening wasted in that awful black crepe was an unpleasant one.
Her father wouldn’t have wanted her to wear black for long; he’d never approved of the conventions of mourning.
Grief attends to itself in its own time, in its own way, her father had often said. It neither expects nor desires formality. The dinner at the St. Laurent townhouse was private in nature, and Anne felt confident that Emily would not demand she wear black.
After Anne dressed she called in her lady’s maid, Imogene, who looked briefly startled at Anne’s choice of gown, but knew better than to comment on it.
“What would you like for me to do with your hair?” Imogene asked as she eyed the tangled mess of Anne’s coiffure. Anne blushed.
“Something loose perhaps?”
“That would be wise. Since I foresee much mussing in your future.” Imogene winked. The pair, close in age, had been as close as servant and mistress could be for the last four years. Imogene teased her mercilessly whenever she thought she could get away with it.
“Is it that obvious?” Anne asked sullenly.
“That your fiancé sees through that wall of manners you put up? Yes. The staff are most excited about your upcoming nuptials, if I may be so bold to say.” Imogene smoothed a hand over her dark hair that was pulled back in a subdued but still fashionable knot before she set to work on Anne’s hair.
“Bold, yes, but please continue. What do they say? About my decision.” Anne was very close to her staff here; she’d known all of them since she was a child. And she was concerned that her haste in marriage might damage their opinion of her.
Imogene began pulling pins out of Anne’s hair and started brushing it with a silver-backed comb. “Well, we know you’re supposed to wait and all, but most of us have seen those vultures circling around the house, and none of us blame you one bit for speeding things up. You couldn’t have chosen a better man. We ladies like the viscount. He’s most appealing to the eye, with a fine pair of legs on him and a smile to melt butter…”
Imogene sighed dreamily, clearly performing for her benefit. Anne bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“And the young lads admire him for reasons I’d not like to say in front of your ladyship. The older men here recognize his influence and wealth. Your father could not have hoped for a better match, God rest his soul. The viscount will do well by you, treat you like the lady you are.”
Imogene’s hands worked their magic, twisting and twining until Anne’s hair was gathered at the back to keep it out of her face, but the light brown waves still made a lovely fall of bright rich color loose enough that Cedric could still thread his fingers through it without ruining the pins holding her hair up.
“Thank you, Imogene, it’s lovely as always.” Anne patted Imogene’s hand, which rested lightly on her right shoulder.
Imogene giggled. “Are you ready? I’m sure your young buck is eager to make off with you.”
Anne laughed, despite the furious blush Imogene’s words brought forth. “Imogene, I swear!”
Cedric cocked his head while he waited in the parlor, listening to the sound of Anne’s laughter. It was light yet slightly husky, a laugh better heard in bed after her lover had pleasured her until she was limp and sated.
Cedric smiled. Soon I will be that man. The kiss he’d given her today had been unplanned, but no less satisfying. She shouldn’t have bitten him. For some reason that had made him as hard as a marble statue, and it had taken all his strength to keep from throwing her onto the settee and showing her how much he liked to bite back. She wouldn’t have fought him for very long, but she was still too resistant to him. She would have used his actions to paint him the villain.
It was better to wait, to seduce slowly. Being both parent and brother to his two sisters, he’d been exposed to the secrets of the feminine mind enough to know how Anne would react. Women were intelligent creatures, and they had to be courted and seduced properly to be won over and not merely
subjugated.
Cedric ran a hand through his hair, enveloping himself in the brief memory of that last kiss. Her skin felt as smooth as satin, her hair soft as silk and her mouth—God the taste!—sweet, wet and unbelievably hot. He hoped that she would eventually put that mouth on other places, preferably below his waist. Sensation during lovemaking had intensified after losing his sight, and the thought of Anne’s hot mouth around him there… An irrepressible grin twisted his lips at the thought.
Each kiss he took from her was rich in the promise of passion yet to come. He would woo her with whispered words, sensual caresses and drugging kisses until she was no longer able to resist him. He wanted her to beg for him, to need him as desperately as he needed her.
He had once thrived on his sexual conquests, and he’d had his share of mistresses over the years, but Anne was different. Winning her seemed a different level of achievement altogether. But it was going to be so much harder to win her over when he couldn’t even see her. It was a challenge, but one he was willing to rise to.
He could track her without his sight. The scent of wild orchids left an impression in the air like the invisible essence of a fairy queen. And the sounds… His imagination dined on the whisper of her skirts on the carpets until it was as sweet to hear as a lover’s gasp of pleasure, creating a vision in his mind of her raising those skirts just for him and baring milky smooth thighs virgin to his touch.
God, I’ve been too long without a woman, he thought glumly and shifted on the settee as his groin tightened and his trousers stretched.
Instead he focused on how he was going to murder Ashton for leaving him here. He’d make that blond-haired fiend pay. Ashton was supposed to protect him and guide him, not abandon him in a house with unfamiliar terrain. It had taken him weeks to learn the lay of his own house, count all the steps and memorize the floor plans and furniture arrangements.
Being at Anne’s without his friend’s guidance was frightening. He would never forgive the man for the terror he felt when the footman had announced Ashton’s departure. The fear had practically immobilized him until Anne had spoken. Had it not been for her, he might have collapsed or lunged for the door and hurt himself again.
But Anne had assessed his panic and calmed him, distracted him. They were not even married, yet she already seemed to know how to cope with his condition. He sensed no pity, nor contempt or disgust in her tone when she spoke to him. Her reluctance to touch him or welcome his embrace had nothing at all to do with his blindness.
The same could not be said for his former mistress Portia. Just three weeks after his accident he had returned to London and summoned her, hoping to banish his sorrows in the comfort of her body. Portia had come, eager for his company as well, but when he could not praise her beauty she’d grown bored. She seemed irritated at his clumsy touch. When he’d once been powerful and mastering over her body, he now touched tenderly, hesitantly, unsure of himself. The worst part of the evening had been when he’d tripped over the edge of an upturned carpet and fallen flat on his face. Pain had exploded in his body, and she had dared to laugh. Still, he had gotten up and tried to erase the moment with a wry joke at his own expense.
When he offered her a glass of wine he’d missed her outstretched hand and spilled it on her gown. She’d shrieked like the devil’s own and slapped him. Unable to see her blow coming, he’d been unprepared for the sharpness of her hit and he’d stumbled back in surprise. This had only worsened his already teetering balance and sent him sprawling on the floor. He’d cracked his head on the baseboard of his bed and lay half-conscious at her feet, broken in every way that mattered.
And to add to his misery, she’d stood there and shouted at him. “Who could ever sleep with a broken excuse of a man like you? You can’t even see your boots to put them on! I wouldn’t let you bed me if you were the last man in all of England!” And then she’d gone. His valet had heard the commotion and rushed to his aid.
What sort of man am I? Portia had been right. He was as helpless as a babe. A man no longer. The truth of that was just as emotionally crippling as his blindness was physically. He’d wanted to die.
It was a thought he’d never spoken aloud to anyone and hadn’t acted upon because too many people he loved would be hurt by such a coward’s way out. Yet it didn’t change his feelings, or the sense of desperation and helplessness that made him wish to end everything, the pain, the shame, all of it.
Until Anne. She had come to him, hiding her plea for marriage to him behind that cool bravado she’d always had. Her bravery had been the deciding factor for him. If she was willing to give married life a try, then so was he.
Besides, how hard could marriage be?
About the Author
Lauren Smith is an Oklahoma attorney by day, author by night who pens adventurous and edgy romance stories by the light of her smart phone flashlight app. She knew she was destined to be a romance writer when she attempted to re-write the entire Titanic movie just to save Jack from drowning. Connecting with readers by writing emotionally moving, realistic and sexy romances no matter what time period is her passion. She’s won multiple awards in several romance subgenres including: New England Reader’s Choice Awards, Greater Detroit BookSeller’s Best Awards, and a Semi-Finalist award for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award.
To connect with Lauren, visit her at:
www.laurensmithbooks.com
[email protected]
About the Artist
Over the last twenty plus years Teresa Sprekelmeyer been designing everything from web sites to marketing graphics for clients who range from Hair stylists to Hollywood studios, with a great deal in between.
Needing a change, Teresa decided to shift her focus to something that she has a private passion for...romance novels.
With each cover she create, she hopes that her passion comes through to the author who decides to use is and to the readers that love these stories as much as she does!
*Teresa’s art is featured throughout the book during scenes of passion.
To learn about Teresa’s art visit:
http://midnightmusedesigns.com/website/
About the Illustrator
Joanne Renaud, who earned a BFA in illustration from Art Center College of Design, has been writing, drawing and painting as long as she can remember. She went to college in a variety of places, including Northern Ireland and Southern California, and enjoys history, comics, children’s books, and cheesy fantasy movies from the ’80s. She currently works as both an author and a freelance illustrator in the Los Angeles area. Her novel "Doors" was released from Champagne Books in 2016, and her illustration clients include Simon & Schuster, Random House, Houghton Mifflin, Macmillan-McGraw Hill, Harcourt Inc., Scholastic, and Compass Media.
Website: http://www.joannerenaud.com/
DeviantArt: http://suburbanbeatnik.deviantart.com/
Tumblr: http://suburbanbeatnik.tumblr.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/joanne.renaud.7
Twitter: http://twitter.com/suburbanbeatnik
