by Brooklyn Ann
He worked his way down to the middle of her back, biting his lip as she let out a small cry and wriggled her hips in silent invitation. It was torture to remain true to his task, but since the sexual torment seemed to be double edged, it was all the more sweet.
The scent of her arousal perfumed the air, driving him mad with desire, but still he restrained himself from delving his fingers lower into the succulent heat between her thighs.
Suddenly, she struggled beneath him, as if wanting to get away. Rafe froze. What had he done wrong? Had he hurt her?
Cassandra twisted around to face him. The hunger in her eyes made his mouth go dry. “I want you, Rafe.”
She rose up and seized his shoulders as her long legs encircled his hips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down to meet her kiss. As her mouth devoured his, she ground herself against the hardness in his trousers.
“Querida,” he gasped when she broke the kiss.
He didn’t know what he was going to say next, for his thoughts dissolved into pleasure as her lips trailed over the scars on his cheek, lavishing the rough flesh with tender little kisses.
Then she gently brushed his hair to the side and took his earlobe in her mouth. Electric sensations riveted him at the feel of her teeth scraping the skin as she licked and sucked the sensitive area.
Rafe sucked in a breath and thrust against her, cursing the barrier between them. Cassandra’s hands caressed his chest, kisses gliding down his neck in a torrent of moist heat. She moved lower and he nearly came out of his skin as her tongue flicked across his nipple and her fingers stroked his hard length, straining through the fabric of his trousers.
With a small, unladylike growl, Cassandra fumbled with the fastenings, panting in desire and frustration. Rafe chuckled and removed the offending article, enjoying the way she licked her lips at the sight of his naked body. It seemed his countess had a naughty side. Rafe found he quite liked that.
As she straddled him and the tip of his cock slid into her tight, wet heat, he closed his eyes in bliss. She sank down, drawing him in with tantalizing slowness. Rafe felt like he’d gone to heaven. Cupping her breasts, he worshipped them with his mouth, his tongue circling her nipples and teasing the tiny firm peaks.
Cassandra gasped, clinging to him as she gyrated upon his stiff length. His mouth met hers, hands sliding down to grasp her hips, urging her to continue riding him with that delirious rhythm.
When he felt the tight spasms signaling the beginning of her climax, Rafe gripped her, thrusting even deeper. She cried out and rode him harder. Her tight sheath clenched tighter and faster as her pleasure peaked even higher.
His own climax began, roaring over him with such intensity that spots of light danced before his eyes. Unable to stop himself, Rafe pulled her down atop his chest and plunged his fangs into her neck, her essence filling his mouth as he came inside her.
Cassandra screamed his name. Her nails raked across his back. He could feel her orgasm crest a higher wave, feeding his own like potent fuel to form a resplendent conflagration. For a while, time ceased to exist. Only this moment mattered, this transcendental fusing of their bodies and souls.
Cassandra’s cries died down to low whimpers and she collapsed in his arms, quivering as the aftershocks continued to rack her body. Rafe withdrew his fangs and held her until her tremors subsided, and still he did not want to let her go.
“Te amo, Querida,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Tu eres mi luz en la oscuridad.” I love you. You are my light in the darkness.
“Hmmm?” she murmured sleepily.
He didn’t dare repeat himself in English. With her brilliant, scholarly mind, she might laugh at such fanciful words. “Never mind, Querida. Go to sleep. We both need rest for that blasted dinner with the Wentworths tomorrow.”
With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, Rafe carefully shifted her and pulled the bedclothes over them, still unwilling to relinquish the joy of holding her.
Dark forebodings fluttered through his mind on sinister wings, threatening to engulf him. Between reentering Society and having half of London’s vampires standing against him, so much could go wrong.
Twenty-six
1 November 1823
Rafe paced the length and breadth of the drawing room, casting frequent glances at the grandfather clock. Wakley was due to arrive in less than five minutes.
Cassandra leaned in the doorway, a playful smile playing across her lips. “Don’t be so nervous.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I am not nervous. I am impatient to try my skills against such a renowned pugilist.”
“I cannot imagine why. I’ve seen you box. Even with one arm, no human is a match for your speed and strength. Now with two…”
“When and where did you see me box?” Rafe interrupted, already suspecting the dreaded answer.
“I snuck into Scallywag John’s last year. You were magnificent.”
He growled at the thought of her in the presence of the ruffians who frequented that squalid place. “Do you have any notion how dangerous that was? You could have been—”
Before he could continue his tirade, Anthony announced Wakley’s arrival.
Cassandra greeted the surgeon warmly and began asking questions about an article in the latest issue of The Lancet. Rafe cleared his throat when it became apparent that they’d prattle all night if he didn’t intervene.
“Are you ready, Mr. Wakley?”
The surgeon nodded, though he frowned doubtfully. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Don Villar? I do not want you to damage your newly healed ligaments.”
Rafe smirked. “I wager I could defeat you with one arm.”
Wakley cracked his knuckles and grinned. “We shall see about that.”
“I have gloves in the ballroom. I lack a ring, unfortunately, but I’m sure we can manage.”
They went into the vacant ballroom, their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty chamber. Rafe lit the gas lanterns and unbuttoned his shirt.
As the surgeon stripped to the waist, Rafe regarded him with a touch of envy at his athletic, unblemished physique. The man looked like an Adonis, the sort of man Cassandra should be with.
His thoughts broke as Lydia entered the ballroom. “I see we’re on time—” She froze in the doorway, eyes wide and openly assessing the shirtless men. “Oh my.”
Vincent came in behind her and frowned. “I think we should leave them to it.”
“No, we won’t. You and Ian thwarted my last attempt to see Rafe box.” Lydia crossed her arms stubbornly. “I will not be denied this time.”
As the Lord of Cornwall continued to look disapproving, his bride laughed and locked her arms about his waist. “Perhaps you should remove your shirt as well, my lord?”
His countenance softened. “Later.”
Rafe couldn’t resist teasing him. “Thank you for sparing me the sight of your pallid, gangly form.”
“Oh hush, you brute.” Lydia nuzzled her cheek against her husband’s chest. “I like my gentlemen long and lean.”
“Gentlemen?” Vincent growled.
“Only you. Forever.”
Cassandra cleared her throat and held up the boxing gloves. “Shall the match begin?”
Wakley nodded and took one of the proffered pairs. Rafe took the other pair and donned the gloves easily, no longer having to struggle with his left hand. But could he box with it? He gritted his teeth. Soon he would find out.
They circled each other, taking measure. Raising their gloves, they counted to three. Wakley threw the first punch, which Rafe deflected with his right glove. He attempted to counter with an uppercut with his left, but it was clumsy and Wakley easily dodged out of the way.
The entire match continued that way. Rafe landed several good blows with his right fist, but his left refused to obey his intent and always
flew too slowly and at the wrong angle.
Wakley was a formidable opponent, landing plenty of blows to Rafe’s face and head, blows that stung despite the cushion of the gloves. The man was impressively quick for a mortal, making it difficult for Rafe to balance his own pace and not reveal his inhuman speed. Wakley dodged every blow from Rafe’s left and even a few from his right.
After they had sparred for a while, Wakley dropped to one knee, bowing out. “I cede the match to you. I confess that I do not feel inclined to take a tumble without ropes to catch me, which is inevitable with your prowess. And we must not overtax your healed limb.”
Rafe inclined his head. “It was a very good match. You are a worthy opponent.”
“I was the bare-knuckle champion during my school days at St. Thomas and Guy’s.” Wakley declared proudly. “How is your left arm feeling?”
“Quite well, actually.” Rafe was surprised to notice that there was no pain or tingling. “I think the exercise was beneficial. However, it still remains inept.”
“Yes, I’d noticed. You do have a remarkable style. And I wondered at your blocking with the shoulder rather than the glove.”
“Habit. It was the only way I could block until recently.”
“Remarkable,” the surgeon replied. “I would enjoy another match. I believe with practice we can get your left hand trained as well as your right.”
“I would like that as well.” Though between the upcoming battle and his inevitable confrontation with the Elders, he doubted he’d have another opportunity. Still, it had felt so good to box again—and to use both fists, even if one remained clumsy. He removed his gloves and extended his hand. “I will call on you at the earliest opportunity.”
Wakley removed his own gloves and shook Rafe’s hand before donning his shirt. “And now I must be going. I promised my wife I would not tarry too long.”
He bowed to Cassandra and Lydia and shook Vincent’s hand on his way out.
“That was incredible!” Lydia exclaimed. “Like a primal dance!”
“Yes, he is indeed magnificent,” Cassandra said, eyes raking over Rafe’s bare chest in a way that made him straighten his shoulders with pride.
“Speaking of dancing,” Vincent said, “the Siddons sisters have arrived to prepare us for the ball.”
“Cristo,” Rafe grumbled. Immediately his good mood dissipated.
* * *
2 November 1823
Rafe felt like a game bird being prepared for a banquet. For two nights straight he’d been measured, poked, and dressed. Trifling details about dancing, title addresses, and seating arrangements had been drilled into his head ad nauseam.
Preparing for war suddenly held far more appeal than readying for this goddamned ball.
At least he’d received a note from the Lord of Blackpool that he would also be in attendance. The vampire was a bit of a knave, but at least his alliance was firm and his oath to ally with Rafe in London was solemn and fervent.
The Lord of Rochester still had yet to arrive in London. Who knew if he even would? Perhaps his offer of aid had been a jest.
Rafe glared as Vincent shook his head, reached forward, and removed Rafe’s poorly tied neckcloth. “No, that will not do. Try it again.” The Lord of Cornwall tossed him another length of snowy linen.
“What sort of madman devised this ridiculous contraption?” Rafe growled. “I have half a mind to take all these cravats, fashion a noose, and string up the hijo de puta.”
Vincent laughed. “I completely share your sentiment. Alas, that does not change the fact that you shall require a cravat. After all, you do not want to shame your countess.”
“No, I suppose not.” Reluctantly Rafe took the fabric and once more attempted the intricate knot that Deveril had demonstrated. “What?” he demanded as Vincent stared oddly.
Vincent blinked and shook his head as if waking from a dream. “I apologize. I am still unaccustomed to the sight of you using both hands. I’ve never seen such a miracle.”
Again that new, poignant warmth curled through Rafe’s heart at the thought of all Cassandra had done for him. “She has my undying gratitude,” he said awkwardly.
“I should assume so,” Vincent agreed fervently. As if sensing Rafe’s embarrassment, he changed the subject. “Shall we move on to selecting your waistcoat?” He held out a collection of garments with a sardonic grin.
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“After all the curmudgeonly treatment you favored me with during Lydia’s debut? Yes, I suppose I am,” Vincent replied proudly as he clapped Rafe on the shoulder. “Buck up, man. You only have to contend with this silliness for a short time, while I had to suffer through it most of the official Season.”
“I suppose I deserve that.”
Vincent nodded. “Indeed.”
“And I am certain Cassandra is suffering worse than I am.” The women were downstairs with the Siddons sisters, being fitted for ball gowns. “The mad sisters have more pins and needles in their hands than she has in her laboratory. I hope she isn’t being pricked to death.”
“Lydia is enduring the same fate, I may remind you,” Vincent remarked. “And she is doubtless freezing, being forced to stand there in only her chemise.” A rakish smile spread across his features. “Perhaps we could go down and have a peek.”
Rafe scowled. “I don’t want you looking at my woman.”
Vincent folded his arms and glared. “Well, I don’t want you looking at my woman!”
For a moment, they stared in mute challenge before both burst out laughing.
“Good God, what has become of us?” Vincent shook his head.
Rafe shrugged. “I do not know, but I hope they are worth the trouble.”
Deveril spread his hands in surrender. “Very well, we shall leave them be for now.”
“What is your next scheme?” Rafe asked, lighting a cigar. “As much as I’ve enjoyed playing the dandy, we do have a war to prepare for.”
Vincent nodded. “Yes, and I have plans for that as well. Tonight we are going to Hyde Park. Lydia will teach Cassandra how to shoot.”
Rafe stiffened. “I was under the impression that she was to remain under guard and as far away from the fighting as possible.”
He and Cassandra had had a terrible row about it last night. She’d insisted on coming with him to the battle to treat the wounded. He’d refused, and she’d pointed out that she would follow him anyway, and besides, he could not spare a single vampire to leave behind to guard her.
He’d then said he’d lock her in the room. Then Anthony, Elizabeth, and Vincent had joined the argument, agreeing with Cassandra’s logic that they needed a healer on the field.
And then they’d all, including the Siddons sisters and their guards, donated vials of blood for her to use. And now they wanted her to have a pistol.
Rafe remained reluctant. “Are you certain that is wise? What if a constable comes to investigate the noise? What if she is hurt?”
“Don’t be a ninnyhammer. She needs to have some way to defend herself.” Vincent leaned back and steepled his long fingers. “And as for her safety, for one thing, we will be there and if any mortals intrude, we shall have ourselves a meal. For another, Lady Rosslyn is a competent woman and strong. If she can wield the monstrous instruments in her laboratory without nicking herself, a simple firearm should prove to be no difficulty for her.”
Incredulous, Rafe leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Did you just call me a ninnyhammer?”
“I did,” Vincent replied cheerfully. “Or would you prefer goosecap, chicken heart, or perhaps lily-livered?”
“All right, you have made your point,” Rafe snarled, rising from his seat. “You should be grateful I do not call you out.”
“You wouldn’t. You need me too much.”
Rafe stalked out of the room, grumbling curses in his own language.
Vincent’s laughter echoed behind him.
* * *
Cassandra’s arms ached as she lifted the heavy flintlock pistol. Her eyes strained to see the target: a rusty pail hung on a tree limb about ten yards away. Taking a deep breath, she aimed and fired.
The sharp report made her ears ring. The dratted bucket did not move.
“Are you certain we cannot bring it closer?” she pleaded.
Lydia shook her head. “Though the fighting will likely be at close range, Rafe will want to keep you as far away as possible.”
“Why did he agree to bring me with him?”
The countess smiled and lifted her finger. “Well, first, you determinedly refused to remain behind and your inarguable logic about the need for a healer was difficult to deny. Second, he doesn’t trust anyone but himself to protect you. Third, if things do not go well, he wants to be sure he can get you out of the city as quickly as possible.”
“I do not want to leave him.”
“You may not have a choice,” Lydia said firmly and handed her the leather pouch containing the powder horn, lead balls, and wadding. “Reload and try again. You almost nicked it that time.”
Cassandra gripped the ramrod with a frown. She knew Rafe was nearby, patrolling the park with Vincent to make certain no one disturbed her lessons. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him watching her from somewhere in the shadows.
Apparently, Lydia could as well, for she called out, “Get on with you! She can’t concentrate with you hanging about and making her nervous!”
“You seemed to handle my supervision well enough.” Rafe’s voice whispered through the trees like warm wind. “Very well, I shall grant you ladies your privacy.”
Cassandra rounded on Lydia. “What did he mean by that?”
“Oh, he supervised Angelica while she mentored me when I was first Changed.” The countess shrugged. “Be careful with that powder, remember?”
Curiosity burned hotter than the gun’s barrel. “What was that like?”
