Never Lie to a Lady

by Liz Carlyle

  “Oh, no,” he murmured, slithering them down her hips.

  Dear God, he thought. Her thighs really did go on forever. Her hips curved gently, her belly was a soft, beautiful swell, and her navel turned inward in a way which made a man want rather desperately to tease it with his tongue. But the thatch of dark hair at the joining of her thighs—oh, it was almost enough to drive a man mad. He inhaled her scent, then, on a wild, irrepressible impulse, slid his hands around to cradle her derrière. She gasped faintly. But he drew her body to his mouth without preamble, thrusting his tongue deep.

  Xanthia cried out, a faint, quavering sound. A jolt of pleasure. Her hands settled lightly on his shoulders, as if for balance. Nash drove his tongue in again, stroking it as deep as the position permitted. The scent of her was maddening. Over and over he flicked his tongue through the warmth, feeling her buttocks tremble in his hand and her fingernails dig into his shoulders.

  It was not enough. He set his lips to her belly, and closed his eyes. Dear God, when would he have enough? He could make love to her like this all night, he feared—and never ease this aching hunger.

  “Lie down,” he said, a little roughly.

  Xanthia did as she was told. He dragged his body over her nakedness and pushed her legs wide with one knee. For long moments he kissed her, his fingers buried in her hair, his cock throbbing hot and urgent against the warm velvet of her thigh. Kissing her so deeply, so intimately, Nash began to lose touch with the present, began to lose himself in the raw need as he slid, hopelessly and inexorably, into that blinding sensual abyss he knew so well.

  Xanthia’s breathing was ragged when his lips left hers. He sat back and let his eyes sweep over her—feast on her, just as she had said. Her breasts rose rapidly, their large areolas dark pink against the ivory of her skin, skin so pale he could trace the blue veins just beneath the creamy surface. Her nipples were hard nubs now, and her skin prickled with sensual awareness.

  Nash set his mouth to her breast and drew her nipple between his teeth, biting just enough to make her gasp. Her hips bucked beneath him instinctively, a clear signal of what her body wanted. For long minutes, Nash suckled her, tasting and nipping, until her trembling and her breathing had risen to a fevered pitch.

  When he sat up, her mouth was slightly parted, her face turned half-away. Her breasts were still rising and falling as she gasped. He gently turned her face back to his, and held her wide-eyed gaze.

  “Do I frighten you?” His voice was abrupt and husky.

  “Yes,” came her whispered response. “We both frighten me.”

  And she frightened him just a little. Though he would never have admitted it, Nash was on unsteady ground, and he knew it. But best not to think of that too deeply. Instead, he pushed her thighs wider with the flats of his hands, then trailed one thumb through her glistening wetness. She gasped twice, like a woman on the verge of release—and yes, just a little afraid of herself.

  On impulse, Nash picked up the pink hibiscus blossom and stroked it down her breastbone. The stiff green leaves were almost black against her fairness, and he found the contrast deeply erotic. Slowly, he brushed the flower over her left nipple, hardening it even further, as if such a thing were possible. Over and over, he stroked her with the heavy pink flower, fixated on the way her flesh shivered as the rough leaves lightly prickled at her skin. Then the wide, milk-soft petals would follow, almost soothing it. He stroked her throat, her breasts, the crooks of her arms, slowly working his way toward the sweet swell of her belly.

  He toyed with that perfect little navel. With the slight curve of her pelvic bones. Then down the quivering flesh that guarded her womb. Her breath was rough now, almost as if she were crying. She was looking not at him, and not at the flower, but at his hand. With the opposite fingers, he gently parted her, then drew the blossom through her slick, creamy flesh. She cried out, a tremulous, uncertain sound.

  Again, he stroked. And again, until she was shivering. Until the shivering became something more. “Come for me, Xanthia,” he crooned after a time. “Let yourself go.”

  “I—I—can’t,” she gasped. “I want—I want—you inside.”

  He wasn’t sure why he urged her on. “Just feel it, Zee,” he whispered. “Feel the soft touch of the flower on your sweet, hard—there, do you feel it?”

  “Yes—” she gasped. “Oh! But I want…oh, Nash!”

  “You want this, Zee,” he whispered, lightly tormenting her with the hibiscus. “Come for me, my tropical flower. Let it go. Tremble, and let me watch. Here—take your own hand and—”

  She jerked her hand away. “I need…more,” she said. “I want you.”

  “This is me,” he rasped. “And you don’t need more, Zee. You are such a wild, sensual creature at heart. Think of the silk drawers you wear—so slick, so erotic. You wear them, Zee, because you like that silky softness against your skin.”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I…like it.”

  He drew the hibiscus just a fraction deeper. “The next time you draw them over your thighs, Zee,” he whispered, “I want you to think of this flower. To think of me—making love to you with this flower. Making you cry out like the beautiful, sensual woman you—”

  And then she was crying—and trembling to her very core, her hands curling deep into the loose petals and the softness of the coverlet. When her cries subsided, he dropped the hibiscus and crawled up the length of the bed to cover her shuddering body with his own. He felt…deeply gratified. Amazed. Inspired. Xanthia was beautiful—beautiful in her passion—both in bed and out. He held her close, planting light, reassuring kisses down the swanlike length of her neck.

  When Xanthia came back to the present, she found herself inextricably entwined with Nash—literally and figuratively, she feared. Her arms were around his waist, and one of his rock-hard thighs was between her legs. But her heart—oh, that he held in the palm of his hand. In that perfect moment, however, time held suspended, and her life beyond this—this room, this night, this man—seemed fleetingly to hold no meaning.

  Making love with Nash, she feared, would ever be like that. It would shut out the world, leaving only the two of them.

  She felt Nash’s weight shift smoothly upward, the rough, dark hair of his chest prickling at her breasts as he moved. Xanthia, still trembling, reached instinctively down to grasp his swollen manhood. Nash made a sound, an almost raw, urgent groan, then he mounted her. In the candlelight, his hard thighs bulged, and his shoulders seemed impossibly wide. Still fascinated, she slipping one palm down to cradle his heavy sac, then slowly she guided the firm, hot length of him between her legs.

  “Now, Nash,” she whispered. “Make me…make me yours again.”

  He entered her almost reverently, inching slowly deeper as the sound of his breath roughened. At the last, Xanthia lifted her hips to take him. Nash slid inside on a triumphant grunt. He set his hands to either side of her head, closed his eyes, drew out, and thrust again. “Good God, Zee,” he rasped. “You…you madden me. Bewitch me.”

  She lifted her hips again, and slid her hands down the hard muscles which layered his ribs, then his thighs. “Make love to me, Nash,” she pleaded.

  Apparently, he did not need a second invitation. Soon his thrusts were deep and strong. His powerful hands were everywhere—on her shoulders, clutching her hips, stilling her buttocks as he thrust in a wild, carnal rhythm. His hands caught hers, pushing her arms high above her head. Xanthia rose to meet him, curling one leg about his waist. His too-long hair had long since fallen forward to shadow his face, and the glistening sheen of exertion lit his skin. Their bodies slid over one another, his dark, glittering gaze like that of something wild and untamable.

  For long moments, they thrust and exhaled and melted to one another, the rhythm rising to an almost dizzying pitch until Xanthia’s heart was like a drumbeat in her ears. She felt her whole body begin to throb with it; felt her passion draw tight as a bowstring—and then his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of h
er hips, and he cried out, a guttural, almost agonizing sound. Xanthia went over the black precipice with him, her hands entangled with is, her leg still wrapped around his lean, taut waist.

  She came back to the sounds of their roughened breath. After long, wordless moments had passed, Nash lifted his body from hers and shifted his weight to one side. She rolled over, and he curled himself almost protectively about her. Xanthia’s last thought, before she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep, was of Nash’s hand, curling possessively beneath her right breast.

  Chapter Ten

  A Long Way from Yorkshire

  T o sleep. Oh, to sleep the sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care! Nash had not had such a night of rest in a score of years or better. And now, he was vaguely aware that someone—something—was set upon dragging him from it. He buried his face in Xanthia’s neck, forced the racket away, and drifted off again. But the clamor began anew.

  It was Gibbons, devil take him. No one else could knock so hard. Or so relentlessly. Nash tried to bestir himself from Morpheus’s depths. In his arms, Xanthia murmured something inaudible and rolled over. He felt her warm fingers touch his face and slide round the turn of his jaw.

  “Nash?

  His eyes fluttered open

  “Nash, is there…someone downstairs?”

  The relentless pounding came again, echoing through the empty house like a drum tattoo.

  Alarm shot through him. It was not Gibbons. “Bloody hell!” He jerked upright, and scrubbed his hands down his face. Someone at the front door. And not a servant in the house.

  “They…they will go away, won’t they?” said Xanthia hopefully.

  But Nash was already drawing on his trousers. “It would appear not,” he said grimly. “It could be Rothewell, my dear. He may have discovered you are here. And if he has, ignoring him will not help matters.”

  Xanthia sat up, her eyes wide. “Oh!” she said, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Oh, no, Nash, I think it cannot be. He would be gone from home at this hour. What is the time?”

  The knocking came again, more rapid. More urgent.

  “Almost eleven.” Nash was stabbing his shirttails in. He was sorely tempted to ignore the din, but a thousand troubling thoughts were running through his mind. An accident. An illness. Tony. Edwina. The girls.

  “Good God, the girls,” he said aloud.

  “What girls?” she echoed from the bed.

  “My sisters.” Nash was throwing on his waistcoat. “Something might have happened.”

  Xanthia looked worried. “Perhaps it is just a late caller? A—A friend? Or your brother?”

  “I think not,” said Nash. “Someone has been pounding on the door a while now. Tony wouldn’t dare—not unless someone was bleeding to death.” He leaned over the bed and swiftly kissed her. “But if it is Rothewell, love, and he shoots me dead on my doorstep—you were absolutely worth it.”

  Xanthia could do nothing but stare after him. He had been perfectly serious.

  Feeling more than a little anxious, she leapt from the bed the moment the door shut. Absent the warmth of Nash’s body, she felt cold to her bones. She looked down at the bed, and at the fringe of hibiscus blossoms which now lay haphazardly around it. How romantic and unreal it all seemed now. And how dreadfully cold it had suddenly become.

  For a moment, she debated throwing back the bedcovers, but that seemed…oddly presumptuous. She gave a sharp, slightly hysterical laugh, then went into his dressing room. There was a cream silk dressing gown hanging from a brass hook. She put it on and wrapped it around her in voluminous, awkward folds. She crept to the door and heard nothing. She was sorely tempted to tiptoe partway down the stairs. But no, that would not do. Her eyes flew across the room to the mahogany escritoire.

  Well. There could scarcely be a better opportunity to do what she had vowed to do. Feeling dreadfully guilty, Xanthia turned up the wick of Nash’s lamp and carried it across the room. One by one, she began to pull out the little drawers.

  Nash approached the front hall uneasily, dragging his hands through his hair as he went, in some vague hope of neatening it. Now fully awake, his ire was quickly rising. By God, there had better be blood in the streets to justify this sort of intrusion. And damn it, if this was Tony—

  He jerked open the door. It was not Tony.

  It was a small, frail creature, damp from walking in the fog. She wore a limp gray cloak and carried a huge umbrella which had clearly seen better years—probably better decades. But when she lifted her gaze to the lamplight, he could not miss the righteous indignation which burned there.

  Bloody hell. Another moralizer of some ilk? And a damned determined one, it would seem.

  “No reformers,” he said, pushing shut the door.

  The frail creature rammed her umbrella into the crack, splintering its delicate stretchers. “My name is Mrs. Wescot,” she said over the awful crunching sound. “I’ve come to see the Marquess of Nash.”

  Wescot? Did he know any Wescots?

  Mrs. Wescot shoved her umbrella in another inch. “Please, sir,” she begged. “If you’ve an ounce of Christian charity in your heart, let me in.”

  Christian charity? Foolish girl. The Marquess of Nash had none. And yet, as he looked down at the ten inches of black oilcloth and shattered bamboo which now protruded into the sanctity of his home, he knew he was going to regret what he was about to do. Why tonight, of all nights, must he actually feel that one ounce—for surely there was no more than that in his heart?

  But she was damp, and the night was chill. He threw open the door and stepped back.

  The girl dipped her head shyly, and set her dripping umbrella carefully to one side. She was terribly young, perhaps eighteen, and seemed to take no notice that she had been greeted by a man in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. “I must see the Marquess of Nash,” she said again. “I’m afraid I haven’t a card. Will you be so good as let him know I am here?”

  “It is a dashed odd hour to pay a social call,” said Nash, gently lifting the sodden cloak from her shoulders. “What is the nature of your business?”

  “It is a most personal matter,” she said, turning slightly. “He will doubtless recognize the name.”

  Nash froze, holding the cloak aloft like something contaminated. He stared down at the young woman’s belly, and for an instant, the earth seemed to drop from beneath his feet. Good God, surely not?

  But absent the heavy garment, there was no mistaking the high, round swell for what it was. And yet, he did not recognize her. He would…wouldn’t he? Or had it come to this? Had he begun to forget the faces as well as the names?

  No. It was not possible. He was almost absurdly careful of such things. And she was no more a whore than she was a lady. She was…something in between. Something which looked delicate and ephemeral and almost frighteningly alone. Then it struck Nash that she did not recognize him. Relief swept over him, washing away some of his ire with it.

  Gently, he laid her cloak across his arm, and took up the lamp by the door. “Come into the parlor, child,” he said. “I am the Marquess of Nash.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, but he did not look back.

  Nash had no idea what one did with a guest’s damp cloak, so he laid it across a chair. “Do sit down,” he said. Then he turned up the lamp’s wick and lit a branch of candles. He could see her better now, and there was no mistaking the lines of worry etched on what might otherwise have been a remarkably pretty face.

  “Now,” he said, standing before her, “how may I be of service, Mrs…. Wescot, was it? Your business mustindeed be urgent if it calls me from my bed so late at night.”

  “Your b-bed?” The girl had lost what little remained of her color. “I do beg your pardon. I-I was told…”

  “What?”

  She looked embarrassed. “Th-that you did not sleep, really,” she confessed. “That you kept late hours and—and b-bad habits.”

  Nash looked at her very pointedly.
“Perhaps I was not sleeping, Mrs. Wescot,” he suggested. “Perhaps I was indulging in one of my bad habits. Did you ever think of that?

  She blushed profusely, making Nash feel instantly like the cad he was.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and studied her. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “That was tactless. Why do you not state your business, ma’am? It really is quite late for a lady to be out alone—which, now that I think on it, begs the question: where is Mr. Wescot?”

  At that, she burst into tears. No, not tears—torrents. Great, heaving sobs which made him wish to spring into some sort of heroic action—but what? Nash dug rather desperately through his pockets until he found a handkerchief.

  “You…you are a widow?” he tentatively suggested.

  “N-n-no,” she snuffled into the fine white lawn. “M-Matthew is in—is in—oh, God!—a sponging house!”

  “Good heavens.” Hands still clasped, Nash began to pace before the settee. “Ma’am, I must ask you—do I know Mr. Wescot?”

  At that, the girl’s eyes widened incredulously. “Do you know him?” she cried. “Yes, of course you know him, Lord Nash. You have driven him into near bankruptcy. How can you stand there, sir, and ask me such a thing?”

  How could he indeed? Wescot. Wescot.

  Something began to stir in the dark depths of his mind. A few days past, there had been a game of pharaoh at a very low hell in Fetter Lane—quite near most of the sponging houses, much to the convenience of many. Nash had been in a foul mood, angry with himself for lusting after Xanthia and none too eager to play. But Mr. Mainsell had brought an acquaintance—a chap of some five-and-twenty years, with a bold tongue and a cocksure manner. His arrogance had struck Nash very ill, and braggadocio had proven an expensive vice. The fellow had lost something rather large—Nash searched his mind—yes, a mill.

  “Some sort of mill?” he said, scarcely aware he spoke aloud. “In—good God, Yorkshire? Is that it?”

  The girl gave a sharp cry. “A finishing mill!” she said. “It was his grandfather’s.”