London's Wicked Affair

by Anabelle Bryant

  And yet he was wrong. As long as he kept his end of the bargain and taught her to ride, shoot, and swim, she’d have a measure of freedom to escape an unhappy marriage and find a man who’d capture her heart. Love was the guarantee, the one thing that ensured a blissful future. Pity the emotion was elusive as stars at daybreak.

  “We had a deal.” A knot of emotion clogged her throat and would not clear.

  “That point is moot considering your brother’s actions. No matter I’ve produced no candidate worthy of your attention. I’m the wrong one to fix your problems when I’ve made a mess of my own life.” The sober press of his lips emphasized the statements and he stared at her for several breaths, his expression as grave as his words until his eyes altered the slightest.

  “I’m doomed to an equally bleak future.” Tears threatened and she bit back the quiver in her voice and struggled to maintain her composure.

  “Because of an abbreviated swim lesson? I doubt it will make the difference, but I’ll make it up to you. I have something specific in mind and well-suited for your list of corruption. You have my word. Tomorrow evening. Is that acceptable?” A reluctant grin pulled at the side of his mouth.

  A shiver of anticipation skittered down her spine to chase away uncertainty, never mind she vowed to stop her wishful thinking. Still, the fact remained he wished to please her. “Yes, very much so.”

  “What is it about marriage that frightens you?”

  His voice had gone soft and the question knocked on her heart with conviction, pleading for confession of her deepest fears.

  “Choosing a husband is not something to be taken lightly, entered into as a business agreement or a debt to be repaid. A wife is little more than a possession of a husband, expected to bow and concede to his every whim, while he has access to her mind and body at every advantage. A husband can assert his rights and demand relations whenever or wherever he prefers, and ignore those same relations, or worse take his affections elsewhere without nigh recrimination. If angry, he may beat his wife, treat her poorly, deny her funds, for no other reason than a whim or surly disposition or perhaps, the sun did not shine when he wanted it fair. He needn’t practice the same moral code, yet expects the highest degree of loyalty and virtue from his bride, else she suffers the stricture of not just his displeasure, but all society. Should I continue?”

  She took a breath and dared a glance to gauge his expression, but the same stony grimace lined his lips as if he heard her words but thought little of her complaint. She forged ahead against his silence. “But a well-chosen mate, one who understands, respects, and cherishes his bride, as I’ve seen with my parents and other love matches within the ton, why that type of marriage is heaven on earth and all I seek for my future. It’s not an irrational request, no matter how well my brother asserts it is.”

  Somehow through the course of her confession, they’d moved closer. She’d wandered about the room as she’d spoken and he’d apparently followed her on stealthy steps because only inches separated them now, her bottom pressed against the puzzle table in negligent retreat.

  “The very same conditions may occur with a man of your choosing.”

  He appeared pleased with the suggestion.

  “True enough, although I believe I’m an impeccable judge of character. It’s the reason I remain unattached at this late date. Although how a man presents himself through a courtship is not always indicative of his behavior once the marriage vows are spoken, nor when age robs his bride of beauty.”

  “And what do you see in my character?” His eyes closed briefly and opened again with a hard blink as if he waged some internal struggle of which she’d never know.

  His question surprised her. Did her opinion matter? She stared into the liquid intensity of his gaze, realizing he waited for her answer. Her heart kicked against her ribs. “I know little of the situation that pains you, yet I suspect you suffer regret and loss so greatly felt, you’ve banished all happiness from your world and withdrawn into obscurity, moving through the days as if a monotonous march leading to your final demise. As self-imposed punishment, you allow yourself no pleasure—”

  “I take exception to the latter.” His eyes seared into her.

  “I don’t believe you. Since your arrival, I’ve never seen you smile. Not during a casual meal or a joke shared between friends. I’ve no evidence you permit any jovial emotion, nothing to dissipate the shadow that clouds your brow.” With fingers that trembled she wiped a fallen lock from his forehead, the intimate gesture causing her breath to catch even though she’d initiated the contact. “What brings you pleasure, Lunden?”

  His heated gaze raked over her, rife with potent undercurrents. She ebbed closer, the smallest degree, as if pulled by intangible instinct, powerless to deny its beckon.

  “Pleasure? You pose an interesting question.”

  The sensuous devil inched nearer. Breathing became a conscious effort.

  “You won’t light me afire, will you? Knock me unconscious? You wish to know what brings me pleasure?” He paused, all amusement gone from his voice. “Should I answer or demonstrate?”

  The question scorched her to ashes, yet the words lingered, no completion necessary, his eyes aglitter with improper thoughts. Her lips trembled, unwilling to form a coherent response while her body surged with awareness. Her fingers fluttered at her sides, fumbling behind for the edge of the desk. For long, fraught moments they stood there, silence and tremulous emotion stretched between them.

  His chest pressed against her, crowding her into the corner so close they breathed the same air, his exhale hot against her cheek. His mouth was set in a determined line, his eyes alight with an amused gleam. The intoxicating proximity of his nearness flung her off balance. Lord, he was handsome. The devastating combination of rampant virility and tantalizing male scent was enough to scramble her thoughts permanently. But she would think later. There was no room for reason between them.

  He towed her forward, lifting her at the waist and sitting her atop the desk, and she allowed it, lost in the physicality of the moment. The inkwell overturned, bleeding onto her skirts and seeping through the layers, likely staining a black tattoo on her outer thigh. Still she did not move away, mesmerized by his sudden actions.

  His fingertip traced the outline of her mouth, pausing at one corner before sweeping gently across her lower lip, tugging it the slightest degree. “You bring me pleasure, Troublemaker.”

  His sensual admission caressed her ear. Any objection she might have reserved scattered in haphazard disarray akin to the puzzle pieces flung to the floor when she braced her position. A faraway voice chanted it was time to stop. She shut it out, refusing to listen.

  He leaned closer and she reacted in counterpoint, though as she withdrew from his sensual mouth, somehow he gained ground. His lips hovered just above hers where she reclined on the mahogany desk.

  Her breath strangled in her throat as she opened her mouth to object or invite. She wasn’t sure which. Then his mouth found hers and all conscious thought obliterated. There was no gentleness in his kiss. He took her as if he wished to consume her, hard, as if to sink his teeth into her, devour her, tongue-deep and desperate for the taste of her and her return echoed his potent bid, equally anxious to explore the wonders of his mouth. His fingers laced through her hair, scraped her scalp, and sent pleasure skittering down her spine. In response, she arched against him. He murmured his approval as he tore his mouth from hers, listing kisses along her cheekbone until his lips pressed against her ear, the vibration of his words igniting pleasure through every pore of her being.

  “You’re exquisite, Amelia. If only I could lose myself in you.” He scraped his teeth along the rim of her ear before moving to her neck, the heat of his attention causing a riot of delicious sensation.

  “Please.” She panted the word in a rough whisper unable to say more in response to his wicked caresses. His kisses liquefied her, shimmering along her nerve endings like electric current, ali
ve and vibrant.

  “So beautiful and so stubborn. Every word a contradiction from that deliriously luscious mouth.”

  He nuzzled her neck beneath her ear and the silky brush of his hair against her earlobe caused another wave of sensation. Her eyes were closed, yet she experienced every caress with acute awareness. She didn’t wish him to stop.

  He moved with unexpected grace from her neck to her shoulders, licking across her clavicle as if following a path. His fingers trailed behind to tug at fabric, untie ribbons, and bare her breasts to his hot kiss. She bucked with surprise when his hands palmed her breasts, his fingers tight on her nipples, the blissful pleasure-pain almost too intense to bear.

  Still, she never felt so free. So wanton, so wonderful, her thoughts a wild tumble—until he took her breast in his mouth and she threatened to shatter at the touch of his hot lips wrapped around her sensitive flesh. Her nipple hardened under the slow stroke of his tongue. She clung to his head, her fingers tight in his hair, as a strange sound erupted from her throat, a whimper no less. He grinned against her skin.

  “Beautiful. A beautiful, wild, delicious woman.”

  She smiled too, heedless of anything besides the wickedness of his kiss. His hands held her firm despite she moved with restlessness atop the narrow desk. Occasionally, something dropped to the floor, shoved over the edge, but she paid no heed lost in the ecstasy of his hands, his mouth, the strong caress of his chin as he trailed kisses lower. Impeded by fabric, he returned to her mouth, nipping at her lips and sucking on her tongue.

  He broke away and her eyes fluttered open. He studied her face, his hot breath a whisper against her chin. His arms caged her body on either side, then he slowly moved downward, his palms skimming over her bare flesh, trailing his fingertips down the length of her arms, to where he gathered her skirts, easing them up and pushing them to the side. She stopped thinking, lost in desire, unable to question his actions. If he meant to make her his own, she was ready to surrender. Somehow the fear that gripped her whenever considering her wedding night seemed distant, nonexistent.

  His fingertips coasted over her calves, gliding along her silk stockings in the barest of touches until they journeyed above her knees where he laid his palms flat. The hot press of his hands against the intimate flesh of her inner thighs caused her heart to stutter. She quivered with the exalting emotion and wriggled atop the desk, her hips lifting in an unexpected bid for attention. She heard him chuckle softly before his mouth met her skin, the stocking the only barrier between his kiss yet all the more erotic for the sensations he wrought. He trailed sensual caresses down the length of both legs and up again, pausing to nip the skin at the back of each knee before he stopped altogether, his breath hot against her thighs.

  Amelia stared at the ceiling, lost in a sea of sensation and excitement, on the verge of some magnificent discovery she could not label, while urgency built with each stroke of Lunden’s sensual explorations. He eased his hand between her thighs and she parted her trembling legs, closed her eyes, and shut out the world. Her breath caught in her lungs as he traced one fingertip along her flesh, caressing the most private part of her. She shuddered with sensitivity. Surely she’d shatter if he touched her again, yet she yearned for it. “Yes, please.” She shifted on the desk, as if to persuade him to repeat the caress.

  “There?”

  He stroked the slightest touch against her core and she whimpered her assent.

  “Like this?”

  He rubbed a little deeper, his finger delving into her heat, and her bones melted, her body weightless, and at the same time dissolved against the hard wood desk. “Yes.” Her answer was no more than a weak rasp.

  “And here?”

  He sunk his finger into her depth and she moaned with pleasure. Surely she would die, perish in this same spot for the wicked, wonderful things he did to her, which she allowed him to do. He rubbed his thumb against her sensitive folds as his finger retreated and advanced with delicious grace, her hips adopting the entrancing rhythm until she couldn’t keep still, the pleasure too great.

  Deep inside her, something tightened and built with ferocious need. She struggled to contain the sensation, yet it overcame her as she gripped the edge of the desk and rocked helplessly in an effort to release the intensity. Something, whatever it was, lingered on the cusp of her periphery, out of grasp yet taunting with promises of delight and rapture, and she reached for it, yearned for it with every aspect of her viscera. What was this sensation, so new, so powerful? An adventure, an inner rebellion that obliterated every demure etiquette lesson and social scripture learned.

  Freedom.

  Her body begged for it, throbbing with want, and she couldn’t wait a minute longer. “Please, Lunden. Please.” She forced her eyes open as her hips arched upward, desperate to stop the clamoring demand inside her soul. “Please!”

  He stroked her flesh again and the world shattered. There on the desk amid spilled ink and puzzle pieces, she met her demise. She embraced the pleasure as it shimmered through her with unmitigated force and allowed herself to become lost, without control, utterly free. She drifted on a cloud of sensitivity, over the edge of a waterfall, down, falling into oblivion, somewhere with no end, drawn to an emotion she could not name but necessary, as vital as her heartbeat, never wishing to return. She lay spent until the undulations of sensation subsided and reality intruded.

  * * *

  What had he done? In an act of self-indulgence and wildly driven passion he’d broken every vow, dishonest to the depths of his soul, all resistance frayed by her begging whisper. Only a selfish bastard would behave this way, callously grasping at pleasure when he surely deserved none. How could he be so disloyal to Matthew? So disrespectful of his sister? Here in the study on the desk, no less.

  In silence he watched Amelia’s eyes flutter open, a mixture of hazy contentment and mild confusion evident. She sat up and attended her clothing. All the while he stood immobile, locked in condemnation of his horrible behavior.

  At the deciding moment, his conscience and good intentions never stood a chance. All he wanted was to lose himself in Amelia, her sweet velvety skin, her full sensual kiss. To offer her pleasure. But at what cost?

  “Are you all right?” Her voice was hardly a whisper as she laid her hand against his sleeve.

  “Yes.” How was it she inquired of his welfare? Did he appear distraught?

  “Amelia, I—” His voice shook, the reasons too difficult to explain.

  “Don’t say anything.” She moved off the desk and smoothed her skirts into place. “Please. There’s nothing you should say.”

  He watched her speak, her eyes nearly meeting his. Did she despise him? Well, she should. It would be no different than his selfsame reaction. But he hadn’t long to consider her expression as she rushed past him and out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lunden kicked Hades into a steady gallop and maneuvered the traffic-clogged streets of Rotten Row. Skill as a horseman proved second nature, his mind far removed from the bulky conveyances and bothersome curricles crowding the thoroughfare.

  Last night he could have devoured Amelia, anxious to fill the emptiness of his soul with all the spirited goodness she represented. The peace and pleasure found within her arms lived in him and now he’d only find respite in the memory.

  A litany of curses rode on the wind. He’d prepared himself in every way possible to resist the temptation she offered, but to no avail he’d succumbed to desire. The words to refuse her had remained as elusive as the remnants of her jasmine scent this morning.

  Guilt swamped him, heavy and overwhelming. Yet, burying emotion, locking it away where it could fester and spread like a disease of the worst kind, didn’t cure his misery. The past decade proved that theory.

  His heart struggled to ignore Amelia’s unspoken plea. Perhaps he should confront his feelings, expose them to light so they held no power over his future. The devil knew she needed someone to rescue her fro
m impulsivity. If only he were a better man.

  Lost in recrimination and contradiction, he maneuvered Hades down an alley adjacent to Lamb Street. Damn, she was as reckless as she was beautiful. Her headstrong temper and acute determination breeched every level of resistance he presented last evening. Still the fault lay in his hands.

  Tentacles of regret clutched at his heart and he straightened his shoulders as if to shake from their reach. Much to his shame, he’d rejoiced in the act, unwilling to imagine Collins or any man enjoying Amelia’s sweet curves and creamy skin, singeing the sheets in the same manner. A pain gripped his chest, so sharp he nearly reined his horse to stop.

  Damn fool. When she asked for his assistance, the blood thrummed in his ears with such force, he’d hardly heard her question. Twice he’d jumped to the same insane conclusion, her words resurrecting hope in his long-dead heart.

  Jealousy.

  Another inconvenient complication. One that would kill a man easier than the most accurate bullet, and the best reason to pack his bag and leave London forever.

  He reined Hades in before the town house. A host of conflicted emotions shoved personal matters aside and he glanced to the sky where clouds obscured the afternoon sun. The air held the promise of rain. He hoped it wouldn’t prove true. He meant to escort Amelia this evening and end their confused relationship with reparation of sorts. It posed the best solution and a means of survival, if not a dismal, lonely conclusion.

  The town house stood cloaked in shade, modest and solemn in this fashionable neighborhood. Inside, Russell Scotts held the key to his brother’s distress and could provide the information needed to settle his affairs once and for all.

  He tied off his horse, climbed the stairs, and made quick work of the knocker, but Scotts didn’t answer. In frustration, he dropped the brass harder and accompanied his entreaty with a demanding pound of his fist. At last the door opened, a stranger on the other side.

  Lunden gave no opportunity for dismissal and pushed past the man through the entryway and farther into the foyer. “I expected Mr. Scotts. I’m Scarsdale. We have an appointment this afternoon.”