And he could not bloody wait for the doors to open, the tables filling with arrogant, soft-palmed lords ready to lose their papa’s coin. Grinning at the thought, Rafe descended the stairs and stalked down the hall. He supposed he would leave through the mews. He did not think he would ever grow accustomed to Jasper having a butler and footmen and all manner of fart catchers, and he could do for himself as well as any coachman or groom.
He was almost at the end of the hall when he noted light flickering from beneath a door. Curiosity and suspicion mingling, he decided to investigate. This was Mayfair, yes, but that fact had not deterred trouble from finding its way here.
He extracted the blade he always kept secreted in his boot, thinking he may have inadvertently stumbled upon a thief, attempting to filch something of value. Slowly, he opened the door to the library, peering through the crack to determine his next course of action.
What he found within, however, was not a thief.
Rather, it was the woman he had not been able to stop thinking about. His troublesome cock was already rising to attention at the sight of her, curled in a chair by the fireplace, a brace of candles on the table at her side, a book in her lap. He tucked his knife inside the sheath in his boot.
Christ, she was asleep, her head tilted back.
She was going to get a cramp in her neck.
Rafe told himself that was the reason he was crossing the threshold and carpets to where she sat instead of leaving through the mews as he had intended. He most definitely was not rushing to her side because the scent of her had been taunting him all night long and he was desperate for one more sniff. Or because he was desperate for any excuse to be in her presence.
He placed his taper on the table beside her, then plucked the open tome from her lap. Curious, he glanced down to find it was written in a language he didn’t recognize. Latin? French? He could not be certain. All he did know was that his Persephone was a damned intelligent wench.
His Persephone?
He needed to pull his head out of his arse. What was the matter with him? No woman had ever affected him thus before, and he didn’t like it. Not at all.
He snapped the book closed and placed it on the table as well, taking a moment to drink in the sight of her, face relaxed in slumber. All the starch was gone from her shoulders, and she hardly looked prim with her legs curled beneath her bottom, her curves accentuated by a dressing gown that did nothing to hide the ample blessings of her breasts and hips.
What he wouldn’t give to worship every inch of her body with his tongue.
You’re dicked in the nob, Rafe Sutton.
“Persephone,” he said softly, not wanting to give her a start but also knowing he needed to wake her before he spent the next hour watching her sleep like a lovesick pup who had never seen a quim before.
She shifted and made a sleepy sound of contentment that made his prick twitch.
“Persephone,” he tried again, this time touching her shoulder.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Rafe?”
Her frown of puzzlement was adorable, damn it. He would give his left arm to kiss her.
Stop touching her, you horse’s arse.
But she was so warm, searing his palm and fingers and he could not seem to stop now that he had begun. “You were sleeping.”
“Oh dear. What a waste of Mr. Sutton’s candles.” She jolted upright in her seat, the tension which had become a familiar sight returning to her shoulders. “I should never have come here.”
Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from her shoulder, offering it instead for her to pull herself up. “The hour is quite early. You ought to return to your bed for some sleep.”
“Thank you for waking me. I never intended to fall asleep here.”
Her hand settled in his, and from the moment their bare flesh connected, he recognized the mistake he had made. But it was too late now. She may as well have touched him with flame. Her dainty fingers wrapped around his callused digits. He never wanted to let her go.
By all the saints, he wanted to pull her into his arms and keep her there.
He drew her to her feet instead, the scent of her Winter’s soap tantalizing him. The hem of her dressing gown brushed his trousers.
“What bloody language is that book?” he asked to distract himself from her intoxicating proximity.
“Latin,” she said, a soft smile curving her lips. “I taught it to myself, for my governesses never taught me because… Oh, it scarcely matters now.”
“Governesses?” He searched her countenance, wondering, not for the first time, about her background.
Surely most women in her circumstance had landed there out of necessity, and likely were not the sorts of ladies who would have once had governesses of their own. And he did not think he was mistaken in that she had been about to say something she had thought better of.
Miss Persephone Wren had secrets. He was willing to wager everything he owned on it. And he wanted to know them all.
“Yes,” she said simply, instead of offering the detailed explanation he would have preferred. “Governesses.”
“I thought governesses were for fancy ladies. Daughters of earls and rich coves and such.” Their hands were still linked. He was reluctant to release her, though he knew she must be tired.
“Ordinarily.” Her pink tongue stole from beneath the seam of her lips, sweeping over her Cupid’s bow.
She had done nothing to sate his curiosity. It would seem she wanted to keep her secrets. And his lust would not be sated either. It was time to go. He had done his duty and awakened her that she might garner a bit more sleep before her day began.
Rafe forced himself to drop her hand, but the loss of her touch was a physical ache.
He tamped down the longing and offered her a bow. “Good morrow, Miss Wren.”
Frustrated with himself, he reached for his taper.
“What were you doing in the library at this hour of the morning?” she asked him primly.
Providing him a reason to linger for another moment.
He gave her his best smile, the one that never failed to charm the ladies. “I spied a glow beneath the door when I was on my way to the mews.”
Her gaze searched his. “Where are you going?”
“Across the sea,” he quipped lightly. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“Yes,” she surprised him by saying. “I very much would. I think it unlikely any of my woes would follow me that far.”
“And what woes does a beautiful governess have?” He thought of what Gregson had done to her and could have kicked himself. “Aside from the one I whipped bloody on your behalf, that is.”
Her countenance turned sad. “More than I wish to have. That is certain.”
He did not begin to understand the protective surge he had for her. He wanted to carry her away and make sure she never knew a moment of harm again. And yet, how foolish that was. He scarcely even knew her.
Still, why did he feel as if he did, as if he always had, in the deepest sense?
“Any others in need of a whipping?” he asked, striving to keep his voice light, though he sensed a heaviness within her. A sadness. “I am more than happy to oblige.”
“You never did say how you managed to be in a position to administer Lord Gregson’s…reckoning,” she said carefully.
What a polite phrasing she had. Still the dignified governess, though it was the early hours of the morning, her feet were bare, she was clad in nothing more substantial than a layer or two of fabric, and they were alone. Her hair was unbound, by God.
He had been too entranced by the rest of her to notice until now. How? He could not fathom it as he watched the candlelight glistening in her long locks.
He needed to end this dangerous turn of thought.
“My thrashing of him, you mean.”
She nibbled at her lip, and he had to stifle a groan. “Yes. How did you do it?”
Well, hell. How to explain?
He raked
his fingers through his hair, struggling for a proper answer. “It happened at an…er…a School of Venus.”
One of the most sought-after, he might have added, for it would have been true. Where the depravities were a little more depraved than the rest of London. But such a revelation would scarcely earn the lady’s admiration, would it?
Hell. Did he want her admiration?
Yes.
“A School of Venus?” Her brow furrowed.
“A nunnery,” he clarified.
“You went to a nunnery for me?”
“It ain’t that generous, lovely.” He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, feeling deuced uncomfortable. “I’m familiar with the abbess.”
Why in the devil’s arsehole did you say that?
“But what was Lord Gregson doing with an abbess at a nunnery?”
Now he had done it. Miss Wren—Persephone—was such an innocent, she had no notion of what a nunnery was. Or why a man such as the despicable Gregson—or himself, for that matter—would seek out such a place.
“A bawdy house,” he explained, feeling like an utter cad. The lowest of the low. Lower than the lowest of the low. “A nunnery is a bawdy house. The abbess is the bawd who oversees the whores.”
There. He had told her all. Well, not the bit about Lord Gregson liking to be whipped by whores. No need to tell her everything he knew.
Her lips parted. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of shock and something else.
Curiosity?
Surely not.
This was the prim Miss Wren before him.
“You are familiar with the abbess,” she said, repeating what he had just told her, only with a new tone of comprehension in her voice. “Does that mean you…oh. Is she your paramour?”
Ah, hell. “No. She is a friend.”
He had never bedded Sophie. But this was hardly the sort of conversation he wished to have with Persephone.
“I see.” She nodded, and that tongue of hers once more slid over her lower lip.
He swallowed. “Yes. Enough patter. I’ve a full day’s work ahead of me.”
The need to flee this conversation was strong. Being alone with her was a temptation he could not afford to indulge in for another moment. She had been through far too much with Gregson. She deserved to be wooed and courted and treated with the utmost of care, as if she were fashioned of finest silk. She was too good for a man of his sort, that was for damn sure. And explaining any more of his past to her would be bloody unpleasant.
He turned to go for the second time.
But her hand caught his coat sleeve, staying him yet again.
“Mr. Sutton,” she said. “Rafe.”
He turned back to her. “Yes, Miss Wren?”
He had to think of her as Miss Wren, the governess. Not Persephone, the sunset-haired siren. Then perhaps he could keep himself under control. Tamp down the relentless urge to kiss her senseless. To learn what those lips would feel like.
She closed the distance between them in a flurry of movement, her hands settling on his shoulders. And then, her mouth collided with his.
He had his answer.
Hot and soft as silk and heavenly.
* * *
His mouth was warm and plumper than she had expected, those supple lips matching to hers in a way that felt somehow as if it had been preordained. She had taken him by surprise with her ardor. But then, she had taken herself by surprise, too.
But his hesitation did not last long.
In an instant, his mouth was moving over hers, slowly, tenderly, as if he were savoring her. Persephone became aware of everything in a new way. His breath, hot and mingling with hers, the glide of his tongue in her mouth. His scent, fresh soap and musky man invading her senses. The settle of his hands on her waist. The brush of his too-long hair against her cheek. And his kisses.
God, his kisses. They were kisses of seduction rather than an exercise in power, masterful and smooth. He kissed her in a way she had never been kissed before, urging her to respond in turn with his lips and tongue.
Her entire body suffused with heat.
She had not intended to kiss him. It was rash and foolish and reckless to do so. But now that her mouth had met his, she could not stop. She was voracious with the need to consume and be consumed. His hands moved from her waist, sliding to the small of her back, pulling her nearer.
Into his tall, lean hardness.
For the first time since she had awoken to his form towering over her, she was reminded of how few layers of fabric separated her from him. No petticoats, no stays. She wore nothing but her night rail and a simple dressing gown, primly buttoned but not a sufficient barrier. However, unlike the other occasions in which she had found herself alone with a man, she did not feel even a hint of fear. Instead of the layers of fabric proving a protection, in Rafe Sutton’s arms, they felt like an unwanted hindrance.
She had not known kissing could be so transformative.
It was as if, before her lips had touched his, she had been a different person. Someone timid and afraid. And now, in his arms, she had come to life. There had never been a reason to fear this man. He had defended her when no one else ever had.
He was a rake and a charmer, but one with a good heart.
She had been faced with a choice: allow him to walk away, or seize the moment. Kiss the handsome East End rogue, knowing she may never have another chance. Her body had made the decision for her, moving into his, against his, seeking more.
He made a low sound, part growl, part groan. How liberating to think this clever seducer affected by her untutored kiss. A sudden desperation seized her. He had been about to leave, but the world was still dark beyond the windows, bathed in shadows and secrets. The house was quiet and enrobed in the tranquility of the night, and no one would need to know…
Rafe gentled the kiss, brushing his lips over hers once, twice, then rubbing his lower lip over the upper bow of hers. For a brief, worried moment, she thought he would stop, take his mouth from hers. But then he found the corner of her lips, dragging his kiss over her cheek. One of his hands abandoned her back, his fingers instead sinking into her unbound hair, cupping the base of her skull and urging her head to fall back. Tenderly pulling her in the direction he wished.
She trusted him, she realized. Implicitly. In a way she had not trusted another. Was it his ruthless securing of vengeance on her behalf? Or was it something else? Persephone could not say.
All she could do was allow him to move her as he wanted, exposing her throat to him.
He nuzzled her ear, then pressed a kiss to the whorl. Her breaths were ragged, coming faster. Her lips tingled with the memory of his. She rubbed her cheek against his and closed her eyes, savoring this stolen embrace, perhaps the only she would ever have.
Rafe kissed down her neck, his mouth setting her skin alight. It was too much and not enough all at once. His arm wrapped more firmly around her waist when her knees trembled, anchoring her to him and keeping her from sliding to a heap upon the carpets. That was when she felt the evidence of his body’s reaction, the thick hardness prodding her.
She opened her eyes, taking in the sight of him, wrapped in her embrace.
She knew what it was, that prominent ridge, but the revelation did not send an icy rush of foreboding through her as it had before, that terrible night when Lord Gregson had almost taken her against her will. Instead, it sent an answering pulse of need between her thighs.
This was different.
Rafe was different.
In his arms, she was safe.
Relief mingled with desire. She was not broken. Lord Gregson could not hurt her. Her hands took on a life of their own, learning Rafe’s body. The broad shoulders, the muscled arms, the strength of his back. He opened his mouth and suckled her flesh in a place she had never known was so sensitive—the hollow at the base of her throat.
An embarrassing sound emerged, part squeak, part mewl.
Her fingers clutched at his co
at, kneading the muscle and sinew beneath, begging him to never stop what he was doing. She wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him here, with his mesmerizing mouth and his deliciously wicked seduction.
Her life thus far had been a misery. Why not find the happiness where she could, when she could?
She was lost, awash in sensation and longing, her need for this man primitive.
“Persephone.” He said her name as if it were the highest praise. As if she were a deity and he was worshipping at her altar.
His mouth moved, bestowing kisses wherever it went. Over her breasts. He kissed her there, too, where the peaks were stiff and hungry, rising beneath the layers of fabric separating her bare skin from his lips. She ought to have been ashamed of her response, the obviousness of her desire, but she forgot to care entirely when his lips opened over the tip of her breast, and he sucked her nipple.
“Oh.” The lone word left her, all she could manage. Scarcely coherent.
With each draw, an answering desire tugged between her legs. She pressed herself against him, needing to be closer. No amount of proximity seemed as if it could ever be enough. His eyes were closed, the fan of his golden lashes falling over his cheeks in perfect symmetry. The hand that had been on the small of her back slid to her waist, then glided upward. He cupped her other breast, his thumb swirling over the nipple as he continued to tease her with suction and then light, little licks.
Softer than gossamer, the play of his tongue over her. His tender care, like his championing of her, turned Persephone’s insides molten. No one had ever touched her with such reverence, and she knew instinctively that no one else ever would.
Nor would she desire them to.
What was it about this man, Rafe Sutton?
It hardly matters, does it? He is not for you. This stolen, forbidden moment in the pre-dawn library is all you shall ever have.
She was taunting herself. Her mind knew this was wrong, but her heart wanted it to go on forever. Her heart longed for when she was five-and-twenty and Cousin Bartholomew did not loom over her, a menace from which she could not escape.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 7
