Restless Rake (Heart's Temptation Book 5)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Enter,” called his familiar, rich voice at her knock.

  A shiver of awareness danced through her as she opened the door and stepped back into his territory. He wasn’t on the bed where she’d expected to find him. Instead, he sat on a chair by the hearth, clad in nothing but a dressing gown. She felt the force of his gaze like a caress. The door clicked closed at her back. Too late to flee now.

  She clutched the characters to her breast as though their mere paper and ink could form a protective shield. He was eying her as though he wanted to consume her. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Far easier, she found, to remain formal and impersonal when he was at his most tempting.

  He stood and offered her a flawless bow, which should have been rendered ridiculous by his lack of dress but somehow made an unwanted warmth steal into her belly. He seemed as if he were truly on the mend, thank the Lord. But his recuperation also held untold ramifications for her. Ramifications that were simultaneously frightening, wicked, and altogether tempting.

  “Julian,” he reminded her.

  How was it that each day she saw him he seemed to somehow be more handsome than the last? Looking upon him stole her breath and did strange things to her pulse. His bare calves and feet peeked from beneath the hem of his robe as he strode to her. Nary a hint of weakness today. Not a pause. Not a sway. No indeed. This morning, he was pure, seductive intention. How was it possible for a man to move with such elegance, such easy, carnal grace? She couldn’t stop staring at him.

  Clara took a breath, marshaled her thoughts into a semblance of order. “Osgood said that you sent for me.”

  “Yes I did.” He didn’t stop until he was near enough to touch her. And touch her he did. Nothing overtly seductive. Just a mere glance of his index finger over the characters she still held clutched to her bodice. “What’s this, little dove?”

  His vivid gaze held fast to her mouth. “Characters,” she blurted.

  “Ah, the search for domestics continues.” He cocked his head, considering her. “Have you ever hired servants before?”

  Of course she hadn’t. She had gone from her mother’s home straight to her father’s. Someone else had always taken charge of the household. But she’d never backed down from a challenge and she didn’t intend to do so now. “Do you not think me capable of hiring proper staff?”

  He considered her, his regard slow and thorough and so intense that she couldn’t help but feel it as intimately as any caress. “I think you more than capable. You continue to surprise me, Clara.”

  She wondered if he meant that as a compliment and decided to accept it as such. “Thank you.”

  He gave her a rare smile, and she felt it all the way to her toes. His smile transformed his already gorgeous features, somehow rendering him even more irresistible. It stole some of the lines of worry from his face, abated the darkness in his eyes. Of course, he had cause for the worry and darkness. Someone had tried to kill him. No matter how devilishly handsome he was, no matter how tempting his presence and sensual gazes, she couldn’t forget that disquieting fact.

  “You’re most welcome.” He reached for the characters then, catching the sheaf of papers in his long fingers. His other hand circled her wrist in a firm but demanding clasp. “Let’s leave off the characters for today, though, shall we?”

  “But my lord, you haven’t a housekeeper.” She felt obliged—as a woman of reason and the new lady of the household both—to point out the failings of his staff. “I’ve had it from the Cook that his kitchen is woefully inadequate. You’re in need of at least half a dozen maids and just as many footmen.”

  He shrugged with studied indifference. “I don’t give a damn about the servants at the moment.”

  Some stubborn part of her refused to relinquish the characters to him. Her fingers clenched on them with determination. “But you ought to, Julian. Your household is in dire need of proper, well-trained servants. You must realize your sisters should not be subjected to the presence of servants who are so depraved that they engage in relations in your library.”

  His smile deepened. “And you must realize my sisters are not like most well-bred young ladies? You’ve spoken with them, yes? Their parents were sinners. Their brother is the worst sinner of them all.”

  Yes, Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra were undeniably different from every other aristocratic young lady she’d ever met, with the possible exception of her best friend Bo. But the reminder of Ravenscroft’s past sins didn’t sit well with her. It made all the muscles in her body tighten, as if in anticipation of a blow. What was that other, foreign sensation swirling within her? Certainly not jealousy? Definitely not possessiveness.

  For he was not truly hers.

  Nor was she his.

  They were two people bound by an odd concoction of duplicity and necessity, of needs and wants, danger and longing. There was no love between them. Nothing but desire.

  But she didn’t like the derision that always colored his tone when he spoke of his past. He was so much more than the sum total of the things he’d done. “You mustn’t speak ill of yourself. I won’t allow it.”

  His thumb rubbed a slow, delicious circle on her inner wrist. Sparks of heat shot up her arm and radiated throughout her body. “What will you allow, little dove?”

  Everything, some wanton part of her wanted to say. Her breath froze for a beat, a scorching wash of heat flooding her. The sensitive flesh between her thighs where he’d once stroked her ached. And she knew instantly what he was about. He finally meant to claim her.

  Belatedly, she realized she’d released the characters to him. That was how much power he could wield over her. He made her give in, and she didn’t even notice until he was carefully placing his spoils upon a nearby table. “Why did you call for me, Julian?”

  The flippancy leached from his expression, replaced by concentrated solemnity. “You don’t think I called you here to read over the references for chamber maids, do you, love?”

  No. Of course she didn’t. But that didn’t mean she was prepared for the consummation of their marriage. When she’d told him she would be his wife in truth, she’d been weak, her heart and mind a confused jumble. He’d been wounded. He hadn’t been strong and leonine and half-dressed, gazing at her as if he could already see her naked before him.

  She needed time. She needed space. She needed to leave the chamber and put the safety of a locked door between them. Her heart pounded against her breast. He hadn’t even touched her beyond the maddening circling of his thumb, and already she was about to fly out of her skin.

  “It’s too soon,” she protested.

  His lips quirked. His other hand came to rest on her waist. “You needn’t be nervous with me, little dove.”

  Was he mad? Of course she needed to be nervous. No man in her acquaintance had ever been able to wear down her defenses—to storm her battlements and overtake her castle—the way he did. And with an effortless ennui that suggested everything was a game to him.

  She had to dissuade him. Surely this sort of thing was commonly done in the dark. “It’s the morning.”

  He hauled her up against him in one quick tug, crushing her breasts to his hard chest. “So it is.”

  Her hands flitted to his shoulders, disarmingly broad and strong. “Your sisters.”

  His lips were so near that they almost brushed hers. “The bloody minxes are amply entertained for the day. I’ve arranged for them to go shopping with my elderly dragon of a great aunt. She disapproves of me most wholeheartedly but she approves of your fortune a great deal, as it turns out.”

  His dry pronouncement wrung a reluctant laugh from her. She didn’t want to find humor in anything he said. Didn’t want to soften toward him. Didn’t want to allow him to make her any weaker than he already had. But wasn’t that the way things had been between them from the start? He’d been able to undo her from the moment she’d stepped foot in his study. Nothing had changed except that she was now his wife. Not just in
name only, for she’d agreed to more. She’d agreed to everything.

  And she wanted everything. But she was also terrified of it.

  “It’s not my fortune any longer,” she forced herself to say. There was comfort and familiarity in dialogue. Perhaps she could distract him. Perhaps she could distract herself. “It’s yours now.”

  “It’s ours.” His tone was as gentle as his touch as he swept a stray wisp of hair from her cheek. “We’ll build a life together, Clara. Starting today.”

  A life together.

  How odd to hear those words coming from a hardened rake such as he. At times tender, at times scorching in his sensuality, he never failed to surprise her. But while his pronouncement may have otherwise met with cautious pleasure, they also served as a reminder that his life had recently nearly been taken. The thought chilled her as nothing else could.

  She searched his fathomless gaze. “Have you forgotten that someone tried to kill you, my lord?”

  He cupped her cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb slowly over her lower lip’s fullness. “Julian. There’s no need for formality between us any longer.”

  His touch stirred a hunger within her, a blossoming ache between her thighs. She steeled herself against both. “Do you seek to distract me? You cannot believe your attentions will make me forget the grim realities we face.”

  “I find distraction is what I need the most just now.” He traced the seam of her lips, his eyes dropping to her mouth as though it contained a secret he dearly longed to decipher. Once, twice, three times. He pressed the tip of his thumb inside her mouth, and she tasted him, salty and warm and inviting. “Can it be so grim if I’m still here, little dove?”

  She nipped him, not enough to do injury, but enough to demonstrate that she wouldn’t be so easily swayed. He withdrew, bringing his thumb to his own mouth. She watched its progress, her gaze lingering on his sensual lips. So finely formed, so beautiful in their masculine perfection. He sucked his thumb for just an instant, as though tasting her, before releasing it. His eyes never left hers.

  Good Lord. She wanted that mouth on her. Once, he’d told her to think of where she’d like his tongue. And she knew it now with alarming clarity. Desire unfurled within her, warm and slow and delicious.

  Everywhere. She wanted his tongue to travel over every part of her body. Anywhere he chose.

  But she wasn’t about to tell him any of that. Good heavens, she was a lady, after all. Or at the least, her father had attempted to fashion her into one. Best to think of safer subjects. What had Ravenscroft said? Ah, yes. Their reality couldn’t be so grim since he’d survived the attempt on his life.

  “I’m grateful you’re still here,” she admitted. Knowing how close he’d come to death still shook her. He was such a big man, tall and strong, alive with energy and wit and wickedness. How could anyone dare to attempt to take him away? She needed him, and the realization simultaneously appalled and thrilled her. “But we must find out who orchestrated the attack on you. If you’ll take nothing else seriously, I hope you’ll at least consider your own life with the gravity it deserves.”

  He cocked his head, considering her. One of his hands remained on her waist, hot and possessive. The other settled on her shoulder, splaying over her collarbone, his touch as light as a butterfly. “I assure you that I have no intention of an imminent demise.”

  How exasperating. He could not think himself omnipotent and immortal both? “Am I meant to take heart in that? Because if I am, you’re destined for disappointment. I don’t think your intentions have any bearing on the matter. Someone wishes you ill, and from the severity of the attack, I’ve no doubt he will try it again. You must be prepared.”

  He trailed a path of fire to the hollow at the base of her throat. His middle finger stroked her there with effortless seduction. Fire shot through her entire, traitorous body. “Ah, my fierce, sweet wife. I’ve no need for your pistol. We’ve already been down this road.”

  Yes, they had. And she’d had plenty of time to consider a course of action over the last few days. She was no society miss, no bland and sheltered English lady who’d never known a day of true suffering in her life. She’d been raised in the barren landscape of a homeland ravaged by civil war. She knew how to protect herself. Indeed, she knew how to protect him, and she would if need be. His pride be damned.

  Clara shook her head, trying to ignore the way his roving hand made her feel—weak and jittery and longing for something she couldn’t yet define. “You need your own pistol. I’m a crack shot. I could take a man down before he even knew what happened. I’ll not part with my weapon. But you need to be armed at all times. You also need to travel with a trusted coterie of armed servants.”

  “All excellent suggestions, love.” He found the first button on her bodice, the tiny shell disc hidden in the high collar of her smart aubergine morning gown, and effortlessly plucked it from its moorings. His index finger traced a path down the flowered brocade trim that artfully hid the remainder of her buttons from view. “But at the moment, I must confess, I’m far more interested in taking my wife to bed.”

  His pronouncement sucked all the air from the chamber. She was suddenly hyperaware of her surroundings, her every sense alert. Her mind whirled, grasping at any excuse to ward him off. She wasn’t ready. Not for him. Not for this. Not yet. “Your injury, my lord.”

  “Healing.” He made short work of the next few buttons. “I find myself with more than enough strength for the task. And it’s Julian, little dove. No more formality if you please. After today, there will be no other man you know better.”

  The notion thrilled her. A fresh wave of heat bloomed from the very core of her, stretching out across her body like the ripples from a pebble in a still body of water. All he required was words and a molten stare to transform her. She wanted to become familiar with every inch of his hard, masculine form. The urge to see him stripped of his dressing robe seized her.

  Something inside her broke. Her hands rose to frame his face, and she watched as if they belonged to another. Only the tantalizing abrasion of the whiskers shading his jaw told her the hands were hers. She touched him freely, as she’d wanted to do even before she’d ever spoken a word to him.

  Her fingers traveled everywhere, all over his handsome face, from his high cheekbones to his angular jaw, lingering over his sculpted mouth and perfectly defined philtrum. Such raw magnetism, such undeniable beauty confined in one man. She touched him as though she could absorb him, understand him somehow with this tactile familiarity.

  Her inner resolve bordered perilously on the razor’s edge of surrender. One smoldering look from him, one more undone button, a ghost of a kiss, and she’d shatter. But the devil of it was that she wanted to. He made her want to experience the impossible, the forbidden. Yes, all of it. All of him.

  Her index finger lingered over that faultless indentation on his upper lip, almost as though she sought to quiet him. “Julian.”

  His mouth quirked into a knowing, wicked grin that she felt first with her finger before it echoed through the rest of her. That dark, intense gaze of his was upon her, refusing to allow her to look anywhere else. Not that she would. There was no other sight in the world that she currently wanted to see.

  He licked her. Slowly and deliberately. Up and down, firm and wanton, his tongue teased the pad of her finger. Strange how her entire body could center on the smallest point of contact. Just a finger. Barely a connection. And yet, she felt his tongue as though he plied it upon the most intimate of all her flesh.

  That tongue told her what he could do to the rest of her. What he would do, as long as she remained precisely where she was, trapped in the web of desire and his penetrating stare.

  Merciful heavens.

  What had she done, agreeing to this? He wasn’t a mere man. He was a force. A wicked seducer. A man who had dedicated his life to giving pleasure. A sybarite. A rake. A rattler. The man who had betrayed her trust.

  And yet he was als
o himself. The man who made her feel what she’d never imagined existed. A man who listened when she spoke. A man who respected her and wanted her. He was not Ravenscroft in this moment. No, he was her own. Purely, completely, hers.

  “Julian,” she said again, and she wasn’t certain if she uttered his name as a protest or as an encouragement. For she was equally torn between wanting him and fearing the power he had over her.

  “Clara. I want you more than I ever imagined possible. Today, I’m your servant. Anything you wish, I’ll do it.” He kissed her fingertip with a reverence that hit her square in the chest. The last of her defenses against him crumbled. Nothing remained but her deep, abiding need for him.

  Of course, she should have told him all she wanted was to leave his chamber. To flee him and the unwanted complications wrought by the things he did to her. But the truth of it was that she didn’t want to leave him. Didn’t want to leave his chamber. If he was well enough—and he certainly seemed so as she eyed him now—then she wanted him to take her. Though the prospect simultaneously thrilled and terrified her, it was what she longed for most.

  Perhaps the time had come to be brutally honest with herself. She’d found her weakness at long last, and it was a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed, silver-tongued English rake who viewed the world as his private amusement and could make her body weak with a mere look.

  He caught her right hand and lowered it to his hard chest, slipping it beneath his dressing gown so that her bare flesh connected with his. He didn’t stop until her palm flattened over his thumping heart.

  Beat. Beat. Beat.

  So steady, so reassuring. The skin beneath hers, however, was anything but reassuring. His crisp chest hairs teased her senses. His scent, masculine and spiced with his fine French cologne—a blend that was innately his—enveloped her. The slab of muscle beneath her touch flexed. His heat seared her. She never wanted to let go.