Lords of Desire

by Virginia Henley, Sally MacKenzie, Victoria Dahl

  It was good. It felt good, the night air cooling her heat.

  Now his fingers were brushing down her front, slipping her gown’s buttons free. That was good, too. She was much, much too hot. She could hardly wait to feel the cool air on her skin there as well.

  She slid her hands up the hard plane of his chest, over his broad shoulders, to his neck. Her fingers burrowed into his hair and she held his head steady.

  Oh. He was pushing back the sides of her gown, exposing her—

  Mmm. His palms slid over her breasts. His hands cradled them, lifting while his thumbs—

  “Ahh.” She broke free of his mouth. “Oh.”

  “Like that, do ye, Nell? Your breasts were always so sensitive. I loved to touch them, loved to hear you squeak.” Ian nuzzled the spot on her neck just under her ear. “Do ye still squeak?”

  “Uh, no, uh—eek!” Ian’s thumb flicked over her nipple, which was budded hard and yearning. He chuckled and kissed her jaw.

  “Aye, ye do.” He rubbed both nipples.

  “Ohh.”

  “And ye moan, too.” He moved his hands to her jaw, holding her face so he could look into her eyes. “God, Nell, how I’ve missed you.”

  His eyes were so…hot.

  They hadn’t changed. Oh, there might be a few wrinkles at the corners, but his gaze was as compelling as ever. He had looked at her this way before, when they were young and in love.

  No, don’t think of love. Don’t think at all.

  She moved her fingers from Ian’s hair to his waistband.

  “Ah, that’s it, lass.” Ian rested his forehead against Nell’s. He should not have had so much whisky. He knew it, in a vague sort of way. He was in a bit of a fog at present. He wished he weren’t. He wanted to remember every single moment of this.

  The lovely girl was unbuttoning his fall. Her fingers were so white against the black cloth of his breeches. So slim. They brushed against his belly. Ah, so soft. He sucked in his stomach to give her more room to work the buttons free. Thank God he dispensed with drawers when he traveled. Once she got the fall open—

  Had she undone Pennington’s breeches for him?

  No, he would not think of that bastard.

  Perhaps it was good he was drunk. The whisky-fog made the waiting less…agonizing. He could tear the thing open himself, couldn’t he? But that wouldn’t be very gent-gentlemanly.

  No, it was good he was a bit fuzzy with drink. He didn’t want to attack Nell like a satyr, did he?

  No. No, he didn’t. No satyrs. Just sex…sexual con…congress.

  They’d been good together all those years ago, hadn’t they? He remembered that they had, but how could he be certain? They’d both been so young. He’d been a virgin….

  Had she found Pennington more satisfying? Bloody hell. Ah, but he’d learned a few tricks over the years. He’d make her forget Pennington.

  If he weren’t so drunk…but he’d still be sure to make it good for her.

  He moistened his lips. Patience. They had the night before them. There was no hurry. The waiting was part of the delight…

  Ah…delight. A dream come true.

  The damn whisky made it seem too much like a dream.

  Nell paused in her button struggles to cup his poor straining cock. Her touch was muffled by the damn cloth of his damn breeches, but he was grateful for it anyway. Once he was naked, once this damn cloud cleared from his head—and the blasted cloth from his cock—ah, that would be delightful.

  Clever girl, she got another button free.

  Zeus, how he’d missed her. He’d done this thing countless times—well, not countless, perhaps, but many times. Been in many different bedchambers over the long, lonely years—London was full of women willing to entertain a lonely lord—but it had never been like this. There had never been delight in it. Release, yes, but no delight and no real satisfaction. It had all been just bodies.

  Well, that had been all he’d been looking for. Just physical release, not lo—not anything else.

  But with Nell…with Nell it had never been just bodies. It had been hearts and souls, too. Not that he’d understood all that then.

  Ah! Lovely Nell had finally got his fall open. She pushed his breeches down to his thighs. Cool air and her lovely, smooth hands touched him.

  He shuddered with desire and delight. This was splendid. Beyond splendid. She cupped his cock and stroked it lightly as if it were a…lapdog.

  Well, he certainly wished to lay it in her lap.

  They’d married so young, been married such a short time. Not even a year before she’d conceived. They’d loved with such intensity, there’d been no need for skill or subtlety.

  Ah—no need tonight either, at least for him. Her fingers traced his length and he’d swear he grew another inch. He hoped she felt the lust as strongly as he because skill and subtlety were beyond him at the moment.

  Oh, Nell’s clever fingers had moved to explore his bal-locks. He bit his lip. Zeus, he’d never felt anything so wonderful.

  He reached up and grabbed the bed curtain rail. She was rubbing her cheek against him now. Bliss. Bloody bliss.

  Would she use her lips next? They had not played that game when they were married; he had learned it from his first lover, the Countess of Wexmore. She’d been lush, alluring, sinful—and very experienced. Well, she’d been ten years older than he and married to a very rich and very old man. She’d sampled most of the male members of the ton—pun intended. He’d learned many interesting bed tricks in her boudoir.

  He frowned. Had Nell learned this trick from Pennington or one of the other men she’d dallied with?

  Ah. He closed his eyes, biting his lip again. She was kissing him now. And now…yes…the tentative, wet sweep of her tongue…

  “Do you like that?”

  Did he like it? Couldn’t she see he was just about bursting with enthusiasm? “Aye. It’s wonderful.” He reached to touch her hair. “Did Pennington teach you it?”

  “What?”

  That had obviously been an extremely stupid thing to say. Extremely stupid. He didn’t need to hear the fury in Nell’s voice—he felt it in her grasp. Her fingers tightened around the sensitive bit of flesh she was holding. Thankfully, she did not have the world’s strongest grip, but it was strong enough. He gasped, pain surging up his body to lodge in his muddled brain.

  At least she hadn’t had him in her mouth. If she’d bitten down…

  Perhaps she still would bite. She looked angry enough. He stepped back out of range. Unfortunately, his breeches were still at half mast. Fortunately he didn’t hit anything too hard on his way down to the floor.

  Unfortunately, the change in altitude didn’t completely clear his drunken brain. “So you didn’t do that with Pennington?”

  A pillow hit him squarely in the face.

  How could Ian have said such a thing? How could he have thought such a thing? He might have taken mistresses by the cartload, but she had kept her marriage vows.

  Nell glared down at the man sprawled on the bedchamber floor. He was snoring, the coxcomb, had been snoring all night. She’d barely got a moment’s sleep.

  She’d taken pity on him during one of her many waking periods—why, she couldn’t say—and had kicked one of her blankets down to him. Perhaps she’d hoped he’d sleep more soundly and stop his racket. He hadn’t snored like this when he was younger—of course, he hadn’t got so drunk when he was younger. And he’d used to sleep on his stomach. The floor did not make a very soft bed; perhaps that’s why he was sprawled on his back.

  The blanket had slipped to his waist, revealing his muscled arms and broad, naked chest. It was no wonder women lined up to climb into his bed. The man was a classical statue, a god come to life. Every inch of him—every inch—was impressive.

  And she should not have been touching those inches last night. What had come over her? She’d never been that bold before.

  “Snorkz.”

  Good heavens, he wasn’t goi
ng to wake up now, was he? He couldn’t find her staring at him like this…. No, he was just turning over—

  Oh, my.

  The blanket slipped off. Sometime during the night, Ian had divested himself of his breeches. His lovely muscled arse was displayed for her inspection, and if she peered over his hip, she could almost see—

  She was not doing any peering. No, indeed.

  She scrambled out of bed—on the side opposite from the sleeping devil—and splashed water on her face. The cool liquid felt very good on her heated skin. She took care of a few private tasks and then pulled on an old frock and cloak to slip outside for a brisk walk. She was used to exercise at Pentforth, and she most definitely needed to put some space between her and Lord Kilgorn.

  She glanced at him—carefully keeping her eyes on his face…well, after a very small peek at—ahem. She glanced at his face, her hand on the doorknob. He looked so young, so innocent. Ha! He should be made to wear a placard proclaiming “womanizer.” Well, and “drunkard.” And “seducer.”

  That was redundant. He’d spent time in London, hadn’t he? And been corrupted there. All the British ton were rakes and ravishers and harlots and whores. Mutton dressed as lamb, every last one of them.

  She slipped out the door—and almost collided with Miss Smyth.

  “Good morning, Lady Kilgorn.” Miss Smyth gave her a sly look. “I trust you slept well?”

  Slept well? Why did her face bloom with sudden heat? She must look so guilty—but she was innocent. Completely innocent.

  Well, perhaps not completely innocent. There had been those few brazen moments when she had actually touched Ian’s…

  Miss Smyth was smirking at her!

  This would never do. She closed the door firmly behind her and straightened her spine. “Actually, Miss Smyth, I did not sleep well at all. It is most awkward having to share such a confined space with Lord Kilgorn. Have you made any progress in locating an empty room for one of us?”

  Miss Smyth considered the bedroom door. “I am so sorry. It really is very difficult.” She shrugged. “Awkward, don’t you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Miss Smyth frowned. “You’re certain you didn’t have a, er, pleasant night?” Was the woman waggling her eyebrows? What in the world was she implying?

  Nothing, of course. “I am completely certain. In fact I slept hardly one wink.” Did Miss Smyth’s expression brighten? “I tossed and turned all night.”

  “That must have kept Lord Kilgorn awake.”

  There was no point in hiding the facts. Perhaps if the woman was aware of the extent of the problem, she would be more diligent in finding a solution.

  “I couldn’t say. Lord Kilgorn was a gentleman”—perhaps not the entire truth—“and slept on the floor.”

  “The floor!” Miss Smyth looked quite shocked and rather, well, crestfallen. Good. Perhaps she would be jolted into action. “That will never do.”

  “Exactly. So you see it is quite important that you locate a spare room for one of us. Perhaps another guest would not mind doubling up? Mr. Wilton, for example. Could he not share with his nephew, Lord Dawson?”

  Miss Smyth shook her head so sharply her neat gray bun looked in danger of tumbling free of its pins. “No, indeed. I’m afraid that would not work at all.”

  Nell pressed her lips together. A more forceful person would grab the woman by the shoulders and shake her, but she would not so far forget her breeding. She was sorely tempted to shout, but she swallowed that impulse, too. She might wake Ian, and she did not want to do that. And what would shouting accomplish, really? But why two related gentlemen could not share the same bedchamber—

  She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find a solution before tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me? I was just going out for a walk.”

  “It’s damp out, you know. Misty. Rainy even.”

  “Splendid. I shall feel quite at home. If you’ll excuse me?” She stepped past Miss Smyth and proceeded down the corridor. She would not hurry. She was not running from Motton’s aunt or, worse, Ian. She was just going out for some exercise, to clear her head.

  She glanced back as she turned to go down the stairs. Miss Smyth was still standing where she’d left her, staring at the bedroom door, nodding her head and tapping her chin. Surely she wasn’t going to enter the room to ascertain exactly where Ian was sleeping?

  Nell paused. Should she say something? If the woman did venture inside, she was going to be exceedingly shocked. And Ian would be, if not embarrassed, then certainly startled. It would not be a pleasant scene….

  But it would also not be a scene that was any concern of hers. If Miss Smyth was going to barge into bedchambers, she needed to be prepared to face whatever she discovered there. And if Ian was going to be a cabbage-headed clod pole—a naked cabbage-headed clod pole—well, she didn’t have any sympathy for him.

  She grasped the banister firmly and proceeded down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 6

  He was an idiot, a beef-witted, cabbage-headed clod pole, a great lobcock, a—

  “Good morning, Kilgorn.” Motton glanced up from his newspaper and the remnants of his breakfast. His eyes paused and then traveled the length of Ian’s admittedly disheveled form. “Too much whisky last night?”

  Ian grunted and turned to the sideboard. He captured a kidney and dumped it on his plate. Aye, he’d had too much whisky last night and it had led him to act the colossal ass. The truth was he’d been thinking with his cock, not his cockloft.

  “And how is Lady Kilgorn this morning? Better than you, I do hope.”

  Ian ground his teeth together and added a few kippers to his plate. He would like to upend the whole thing on Motton’s head, but the man was his host. Still, the fellow was normally awake on every suit. He must know this teasing did not sit well.

  “Feeling a bit peevish, are you?” Motton’s right eyebrow rose.

  Ian counted to ten. He would not dump his kippers and kidneys on the viscount, no matter how tempted he was.

  “The sleeping”—damn, was he flushing?—“accommodations are not at all agreeable, as you know. Has Miss Smyth made any progress in finding me a separate room?”

  “After you and I spoke last night, I got the distinct impression a change would not be required.”

  “Well, it is required. Lady Kilgorn does not find the current situation at all comfortable.” Nor did he, of course. He did not care for sleeping on the floor.

  Motton returned his attention to the paper. “I will speak to Aunt Winifred when I see her. I don’t believe she has risen yet.”

  “There must be an empty bed somewhere in this vast pile.” Ian snapped his teeth shut. Yelling at the viscount was not an inspired notion, but his temper was not at its best.

  Motton shrugged and stood up. “One would think there would be, but Aunt Winifred was quite definite on the issue.”

  Ian kept his teeth clenched.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Motton was saying. “I have estate business to attend to.” He held out the paper. “Care to peruse the Post?”

  “Thank you.” He’d rather roll the blasted paper up and hit someone with it—Miss Smyth came immediately to mind.

  He sat down in blessed solitude and stared at his plate. His stomach had finally alerted him to the fact that a few corners of toast might have been a better selection. He poured himself some coffee.

  Dawson arrived but had the good sense to remain mute, as did Wilton, who appeared not long afterward.

  But then Miss Smyth entered and peace exited. She was so bloody cheerful. And talking to her—trying to get a sensible answer from her about a new bedchamber—was impossible. Like trying to converse with her demented parrot or silly wee monkey. He left as soon as he could, stepping out into the fresh, raw air. It was chill and damp and reminded him of home.

  He headed off across the lawn, quickly lengthening his stride. He’d heard Motton had a lake somewhere on his estate.
A plunge into clear, cold water would be just the thing to clear his head.

  Nell walked and walked, but found no peace.

  How could Ian think she’d done…that with Mr. Pennington? How could he think she’d done that with anyone? Surely he’d never credited Mr. MacNeill’s daft tales that she was dallying with all the males around Pentforth Hall, had he?

  No, Ian believed she’d been unfaithful because he’d been unfaithful. Many, many times, starting with the Countess of Wexmore. And while his current mistress was a widow, many of the women he’d gone to bed with had been married when he’d climbed between their sheets. Did he think she was like them? That she was as…soulless as those Sassenach whores? Did he know her so little?

  Ian was welcome to the London women. She’d been beyond stupid to consider letting the man give her a child. Divorce was a very welcome solution to their problem. She could hardly wait to be free of him.

  She followed a path through some trees and emerged by an ornamental lake. A swan glided along the water’s surface. Beautiful—but swans could be quite nasty. Like many London ladies. She gave the creature a wide berth.

  Had she been just a little nasty herself?

  No, of course not. She’d had good reason to leave Ian. She’d—

  She’d refused to see him when he’d come to Pentforth Hall—but the wound had still been too raw then. He hadn’t come again. But had she given him any encouragement to come? She’d burned all his letters unread. She’d never written to him—the post did travel from Scotland to London. She could have written.

  No, if she were honest—completely, painfully honest—she had to admit she was at least a little to blame. She’d been almost happy when she’d heard about the countess. Well, not happy, really. She’d felt betrayed, but she’d also felt just a little bit relieved. She’d not been willing to have Ian in her bed. She’d not been ready to be a wife to him again.

  Had he really betrayed her, or had she abandoned him?

  Did she hear splashing up ahead? What…oh. She ducked behind a large willow and peered out from behind its trunk. Someone—some man—was swimming. Ian. His arms flashed out of the water as he stroked across the lake. Then he dove beneath the surface, his back, buttocks, and legs flashing white before disappearing.