Restless Rake (Heart's Temptation Book 5)

by Scarlett Scott

  So much hung between them.

  “Say something,” she demanded at last. “Have you no response?”

  “You’re so very young,” he said at last as he released her nipple and his hand skated lower, over the curve of her belly to the bud of her sex. His fingers worked over the sensitized nub, playing her as he would an instrument. “So innocent.”

  Damn him. How dare he condescend to her now, after she’d just bared the bewildering contents of her heart to him? But even as she resented him, her body responded. Her legs fell open, her body arching into his knowing touch. A breath hissed from her lungs.

  “Not so innocent,” she reminded him.

  He slicked wetness over her seam, parting her folds to stroke her gently. “Still innocent.” He kissed her then, with slow tenderness before withdrawing, his breath a hot curtain over her lips. “And sweet. So damn sweet. I want you all over again, little dove.”

  The stubble of his whiskers pricked her palms. She still held his face trapped between her hands, almost as if she could not let him go. The fear fueled by her dream licked at her. The chasm she’d felt at losing him was a ghost inside her that refused to leave. Why couldn’t she release him? He was safe, flesh and blood before her, his skin branding hers. She wished she knew the answer.

  “You toy with me,” she accused him without the heat she’d intended.

  “Others perhaps. Not you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t be so serious, Clara mine, or I’ll have to take your frown away the only way I know how.”

  He took her breath. His finger slid inside her slowly, and despite the sore tenderness of her flesh, a flare of desire sparked to life. She wanted him too, but his potent skills of seduction wouldn’t dissuade her from her cause. He seemed as determined to dismiss her admission as he was to lure her back into another round of lovemaking. Why? Surely there was a reason for his calculated avoidance.

  A thought occurred to her then. “Has no woman ever cared for you before?”

  He paused, an indecipherable expression flashing across his face. Beneath her palms, his jaw hardened and clenched before releasing. “Clara.” His tone was a warning. Stern. Fierce.

  Could it be that no one—none of his purported legion of lovers—had ever shown him tenderness? Had they all treated him as a commodity they’d bought to amuse their selfish whims? She had to know. “Julian, tell me. I’m your wife. I deserve an answer.”

  He withdrew from her and returned to the nub hidden within her folds, the one that seemed to jolt live electricity through her body whenever he touched her there. Now was no different. She jerked against him, unable to help herself.

  “Here is your answer.” He increased his pressure and his pace. Pleasure rippled through her entire being along with need. She grew closer to the precipice of her control, her body a tightly coiled spring ready for release. “This is what I’m worth. You bought me with your dowry. Use me however you like. Fuck me, if you like. Let me fuck you.”

  His vulgar words touched some wicked part of her she hadn’t known existed, sending a new rush of moisture between her thighs. Faster and faster his fingers moved over her, knowing somehow precisely where and how she longed to be touched, even before she did. He took her mouth and this time, the kiss was hard and uncompromising. This kiss plundered. It was as if the gentleness he’d shown her had been stripped from him. She had pushed him too far, and now he returned the favor, edging her ever nearer to the shattering bliss she knew he could bring her.

  “Anything you want, little dove. Anything you want. Take it.” He nipped her lip. His mouth moved hungrily over her jaw next, then to her throat. He nibbled there, all the while circling the center of her pleasure, giving her just what she wanted. What she needed. He bit her earlobe, licked the hollow beneath it. Her quim ached. Her body trembled. All the while, she refused to release him, holding him as if she could forever anchor him to her this way.

  She meant to utter a protest. A staying sentence. Something intelligible. But all she managed was a moan. The hazy fog of desire suffused her mind. She could scarcely think. Damn it, he was besting her at her game of wills, and she was helpless to stop him.

  “Take it,” he urged hotly into her ear. “Spend for me, love.”

  She climaxed almost violently, arching into his hand, crying out her pleasure. Her hands fell from his face at last, moving to his bare shoulders, so strong and sleek beneath her touch, clutching him to her. She wished she could absorb him into her, take him so completely inside that he could never leave. A choked groan left her against her will. Clara gave in to the delicious ricochet of gratification, of abandon, and for a moment she forgot what she’d meant to do. What she’d meant to make him admit.

  He rose above her, his glorious body naked and aroused, and held his cock in his closed fist, stroking up and down the hard shaft. She watched, sure her cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment, unable to look away. Surely he didn’t intend to…mercy, he jerked his hand over himself, meeting her gaze without an inkling of shame.

  “You’re sore,” he bit out. “I’ll not take you again this night. Tomorrow, I’ll fuck you, Clara. I’ll fuck you again and again.” His hand moved faster, mimicking the actions of lovemaking.

  Her fascinated gaze traveled over him, taking note of every detail, from the beautiful strain of his muscled body to the strong trunks of his thighs to the very part of him that called her attention the most. A bead of moisture seeped from the head of his cock, and she licked her lips, wondering what it would be like to run her tongue over the small indentation, to taste him as he had her.

  “Fuck. When you look at me like that, I want to stick my cock in your pretty little mouth.” The shocking admission seemed torn from him.

  Shocking but also arousing, for Clara couldn’t help but imagine him doing so. Would she like such a depraved act? Yes, her throbbing body told her, she would. And then, as she watched, his body stiffened and he cried out, his seed spurting from him and landing across her belly.

  “Anything you want, little dove,” he repeated, his voice hoarse and breathless. “But goddamn you, don’t mistake this for caring. This is fucking, and that is all I have to offer you.”

  Before she could answer him, a discreet tap sounded at the door.

  “Damn it to hell,” he cursed, hauling himself away from her and going in search of his dressing gown. “I warned them all that anyone who dares to interrupt me on this day will be sacked.”

  His anger was like a pail of cold water being tossed upon her scorching flesh. Was he angry more at her or at himself? That was the question, though she found precious little comfort in it. A shiver went through her, leaving her covered in gooseflesh. She snatched up the bedclothes as her shield, watching him wordlessly as he donned his robe. His seed remained upon her belly, slick and warm, a reminder that she was his but that he was not yet hers. If ever he would be. No woman before her had ever shown him kindness. Of that she was now certain. And the realization produced a dreadful combination of anger and sickness.

  The Marchioness of Thornton’s words about Ravenscroft on her wedding day returned to her mind. They’d been spoken not so very long ago, but for all that had come to pass they may have been a lifetime ago. He has a good heart. A good heart did indeed beat within him. But she would allow him this retreat, for their lives had been vastly different before they’d met and hers, while far from perfect, had certainly left her with fewer scars.

  “Cover yourself, madam,” he ordered her, his tone cool. He’d gone to the door, his back to her, his form still and stiff as the formality of his words.

  Yes, he had withdrawn from her entirely now. Although perhaps some of his reserve was due to the presence of the servant on the other side of the door. She made certain her modesty was firmly intact. “I have, my lord.”

  He opened the door just a crack. “This had bloody well better be important, Osgood. Something along the lines of the goddamn house about to burn to the ground, or an invading army h
ere to storm the front door.”

  Clara strained to hear the butler’s response.

  “My lord, it grieves me to interrupt you and for that I heartily do apologize. But, we’ve a situation. I’m afraid it’s her ladyship’s father. He has arrived and he refuses to leave until he’s had an audience with you.”

  Her father was here. It had been days since she’d last seen him, and she realized for the first time just how much she’d missed him. Why, she’d even missed Lady Bella and she’d certainly missed her sweet little sister, Virginia. How had she ever thought she could leave any of them? They’d become as much a part of the fabric of her life as anyone she’d ever known. Just as Julian had. The unwanted thought gave her pause.

  “Damn it to hell. Thank you, Osgood. I’ll see him in my study. That will be all.” And with that, her husband slammed the door in his butler’s face.

  He turned back to her, his countenance even stormier than it had been before.

  “Father is here?” she asked, though she hardly needed him to confirm what she’d just heard for herself. “I’ll come with you, Julian.”

  “Not now.” His tone, much like his gaze, had gone frigid. “It appears Mr. Whitney has asked for me. I’ll indulge him by meeting him. Ring for your maid and tend to your toilette. You may see him afterward.”

  And then, without a further word, he disappeared into his dressing room, leaving her to stare after him, wondering if she’d won the battle between them or lost the entire war.

  For precisely the third time in their abbreviated familial acquaintance, Julian found himself squaring off against Jesse Whitney in his study. He felt rather reminiscent of a pugilist at the moment, simultaneously attempting to defend himself and identify his opponent’s weaknesses. The man was a menace who didn’t give a damn for proper etiquette. Not only was it bad form to call on newlyweds until it became known they were receiving, it was bloody well terrible to demand an audience with a man upon being informed his lordship was not at home.

  Particularly when the reason for his lordship not being at home was a naked and beautiful wife in his bed, sweet and warm and wet and willing. Damn everyone and everything but her to perdition. But he could not think about her now—about all they’d done and had yet to do—as he faced her father, for Christ’s sake. For they had just begun, he and his little dove.

  Now, however, there was another matter he needed to face. And that matter was an irate, unreasonable father who should have had the courtesy and the grace to recognize his daughter was now married. They did not require further interference. Julian damn well didn’t require further interference. He vastly disliked being made to feel as though he were a stable boy who’d made off with the daughter of the house. Even if—his noble lineage aside—that was all too close to the mark.

  Julian raised a brow, pinning Whitney with a withering look. “I don’t see a pistol this time, old boy. Could it be you’ve one secreted in your waistcoat?”

  Clara’s father favored him with a scowl that would have scared the devil. “Go to hell, Ravenscroft.”

  The man hated him. Julian couldn’t entirely blame him. If a blackguard with a reputation as bleak as his would have absconded with his own daughter, he’d feel the same. But he didn’t yet have a daughter, and Clara was his in every way now. The mere thought was enough to send a sharp bolt of lust straight through him.

  He tamped it down, forced his ardor to cool. Jesus, could he not regain control over himself? Was he nothing more than a ravening beast? If Whitney could see the wicked thoughts plaguing him, the poor chap would expire of apoplexy. Either that or leap across Julian’s desk with every intention of throttling him.

  The notion wrung a grim smile of amusement from him. For all that Clara distracted him, he still enjoyed goading her father. “One must admit that hell does indeed seem my inevitable destination.”

  Whitney’s hands clenched into fists, the only show of his rage beyond his thunderous expression. “I’d love to send you there. Don’t doubt that for a moment. But it would seem I’m not the only one. Common fame has it that you were attacked several days ago, and that the villain intended to murder you.”

  Blast. He’d been hoping to keep that particular ignominy from wagging tongues. “I was,” he acknowledged. “Tell me, Whitney, did you hire someone to kill me?”

  His wife’s father threw back his head and laughed as though Julian had just delivered the finest sally. It was his turn to clench his fists as he waited for the man’s loud humor to subside. Truly, how had a small and blindingly lovely creature like Clara ever been borne from the big, rough-hewn brute before him? It boggled the mind.

  “I’ve warned you enough that you ought to know, Ravenscroft,” Whitney said at last, having quelled his vociferous glee. “I served four years in the Army of Northern Virginia. If I wanted you dead, I’d do the deed myself and you damn well wouldn’t be here smirking at me, gloating over my failure to bash in your skull, because you’d long be a corpse.”

  A bloodthirsty bastard was Clara’s sire. Julian could have admired him for it, but since the bulk of his murderous intentions seemed to hinge upon Julian himself, he deemed it wise to refrain.

  He kept his tone steeped in sarcasm. “Forgive me if I remain suspicious, Mr. Whitney, particularly in light of such an entertainingly murderous soliloquy. What shall I tell Clara, do you think, when she enquires about our audience? That her papa isn’t responsible for my bludgeoning because he assures me I’d already be floating in the Thames if he but wanted it?”

  Whitney’s face reddened and Julian knew a moment of satisfaction at provoking him. Clara had accused him of fashioning everything into a game for his own personal entertainment, and perhaps she wasn’t so far off the mark.

  “You do amuse yourself don’t you, you son-of-a-bitch? You’ll say nothing of the sort to Clara. As long as my daughter assures me she is happy, I don’t wish you ill. Make no mistake that I do expect an audience with her before I leave today.” His glare gained intensity. “The moment she isn’t happy, you’ll have cause to fear me. But what concerns me now is her safety. If you’ve lunatics attacking you in the street, how can Clara be safe?”

  The question abruptly dashed his diversion. It was, after all, a question that he had refused to allow himself to ponder. For he was selfish. He was greedy. He wanted Clara by his side. In his bed. In his bloody arms. He damn well never wanted her out of reach.

  “Clara is not in danger.” At least, he had no reason to believe she was. For it certainly seemed that the miscreant who’d laid him low had only been interested in his demise and not anyone else’s. Of course, it did stand to reason that if a madman was targeting him, the bastard could lash out at those closest to him as well. The notion sent a chill through him.

  “But you are, Lord Ravenscroft,” Whitney noted, all but saying Julian’s thoughts aloud. “And if you are in danger of further assassination attempts, how can you imagine that she might not be in danger as well? What would happen if the villain who assaulted you returns to finish the deed here in your home? What if Clara is in the way? What if she’s attacked? I know you’re a heartless blackguard but even you must care for her wellbeing, at least in whatever capacity you can manage. She’s your wife now.”

  Whitney said the last as though it still made him faintly ill. Yes, Clara was his wife now. She was his, damn it, in every sense of the word. And he would protect her however he must. “No harm will come to her while she’s in my care,” he promised, relenting and taking pity on Whitney. After all, at heart, the wily bastard was only a father who loved his daughter.

  And Julian could relate in a basic sense.

  For somehow, Clara had made him experience something he’d thought he was no longer capable of feeling: emotion. Jesus. The realization hit him with the force of a blow to the gut, knocking the wind from his lungs, leaving him reeling and confused. He cared, goddamn it.

  He cared for her.

  That was the sensation expanding in his ch
est, the knot in his gut each time he looked upon her, the need to keep her from fleeing to Virginia, to touch her, to take her. All of it. Perhaps she’d hooked him, stupid fish that he was, from the day she’d stepped into this same study, bringing her warmth and her orange-scented loveliness with her.

  No one would hurt her, he vowed inwardly. No one.

  “Naturally, I care for her wellbeing. I’d do anything to protect her,” he elaborated curtly.

  “Forgive me if I cannot merely accept your assurance, Ravenscroft,” Whitney drawled. “How can you keep her safe? You’ve nothing here but an old butler and a handful of servants for fortification. Have you even a weapon?”

  Of course he didn’t have a bloody weapon. He wasn’t an American vagabond who invaded the home of a peer of the realm, waving a pistol and threatening to do him bodily harm.

  “This isn’t war, Whitney,” he said gently. “We live in a civilized world. What would you have me do, hire a phalanx of soldiers to guard the damn door?”

  “You need to be prepared.” Whitney scrutinized him, appearing to take his measure and making him want to squirm in the process. “I’ve lived through war, my lord. Man can be a savage when life requires it. I’ll never forget that. Whoever wants you dead will try again. Don’t make it easy for him. Don’t put Clara in danger.”

  “I would never put Lady Ravenscroft in danger,” he said coldly, for Whitney’s words had affected him more than he cared to admit. Christ, how could he be so selfish? So stupid? He’d hire every brawny, willing man in London to protect Clara if need be. But he couldn’t bear to part with her. Couldn’t countenance the thought of sending her away as Whitney seemed to imply he ought. “Believe of me what you like, Mr. Whitney, but know that I hold your daughter in the highest regard.”