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Games of Pleasure

Page 4

by Julia Ross


  The black-velvet gaze met and held his. “Yet I’ve never felt safer in my life.”

  “Thank you. You cannot know quite how precious a gift that thought is to me at the moment.”

  “As are your assurances that no one can find me here. So perhaps we may enjoy our mutual comfort and forget all of that mad world out there?”

  “Yes, why not?” He smiled, though his heart pounded as if she had flung open a door leading to an unknown destination. “Are you hungry?”

  “Ravenous!” She glanced up at him beneath her lashes. “Aren’t you?”

  Ryder thought he might simply disintegrate, so he grinned at her. “Quite desperately so!” He poured wine and lifted the covers off the dishes. “Do you see something to your taste?”

  Her pupils opened like the heart of a pansy, offering infinite depths. “There’s very little that I don’t enjoy tasting, my lord.”

  He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid we have only this limited selection, based on what our landlord happened to have on hand: oxtail soup, bread, vegetables, rabbit stew, cold beef pie, roast chicken, a couple of fruit pies—one cherry; one rhubarb and ginger, I think—and a jug of thick cream. Such simple country fare is to your liking?”

  She played idly with the trailing end of the ribbon at her throat. His attention riveted on her white skin, where the black velvet tickled over her cleavage in sensuous invitation.

  “I like everything, my lord, from the simple to the exotic. Perhaps I have a fondness for dishes that you’ve never even had the chance to try?”

  He glanced down to fill her soup plate, then looked up again as if her gaze were a magnet.

  “The duke employs one of the best French chefs in the country. You think food exists anywhere that’s more interesting than what’s served at Wyldshay?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it!”

  She dipped her spoon in her soup and sipped, though she never took her eyes from his. Her mouth was ripe, delectable, and smiling at him. His pulse hammered.

  “I’ve also dined in London. At the King’s table upon occasion.”

  “No doubt. But the King is so very respectable these days.” Her tongue licked over her lips. “Have you never risked truly unusual fare, my lord, indulged every whim of appetite, however wicked?”

  “Can food be wicked?”

  “When it sits impiously in the mouth, certainly.”

  “The very thought makes me giddy.”

  She broke open a roll to split it down its length, her fingers caressing.

  “Because a man needs solid sustenance? Something to sink his teeth into?” Her white teeth tore off a small piece of the bread, then she snarled at him, grinning, like a dog worrying a bone. “Or to wrap his tongue around?”

  He laughed aloud and poured more wine. Yet in spite of his thundering blood and unruly private reactions, the very outrageous-ness of this conversation set its own limits. Why not just relax and enjoy himself?

  Perhaps—after what she had just survived—she simply needed to be reassured that a man could respond to her with kindness rather than with his fists? How could he be cruel enough to turn that down?

  “You’re too solicitous of my comfort, ma’am, though I think I’d better keep my tongue between my teeth.”

  She dabbed a little butter on the bread before biting off another small piece. “But doesn’t that make it rather hard to enjoy such a feast when it’s offered? How do you expect to indulge yourself in its splendors if you never allow your tongue free rein?”

  “But which splendors appeal most, ma’am? Chicken, rabbit, or this noble beef pie?”

  The turn of her wrist was stunningly lovely as she picked up her wineglass. Ardor resounded in dark, hidden depths.

  “You invite me to partake in the king of meats?” she asked. “Alas, the noble beef would appear to be hiding its desires beneath some very respectable trappings of pastry.”

  “Beef has no desires.”

  “Yes, it does,” she replied, mirth lighting her eyes. “But if you’re so determined to deny them, perhaps you should begin with this white meat and the smoothly innocent potato? Pray, take these two, my lord, deliciously round and dripping with butter—and perhaps this carrot? So very upright and solid!”

  He almost choked, then he threw his head back and shouted his laughter. He had not allowed himself such pure joy in as long as he could remember. He felt sharp and hot with desire, but she laughed back, as if she really were carefree, as if all her dark shadows had been forgotten, which only made him fiercely glad.

  “And what will you have?” he asked.

  Still grinning, she topped up his glass, then laid open the savory pie with her knife.

  “I’ll have the most noble food offered, of course,” she said.

  Ryder tossed back more wine, filled with wonder that she seemed to have shed her fears so easily—and that she so obviously felt no apprehension at all at being with him?

  “But you’re not afraid of the fearsome beef pie, ma’am?” he asked, just to make sure. “You don’t think it too formidable?”

  She raised a brow, as if gently mocking him. “Do other ladies find such noble pies so terrifying, my lord?”

  “A great many of them do, ma’am, I regret to say!” He had begun to feel very pleasantly foxed. “Too damn many!”

  “Why? Should beef intimidate simply because it’s a superior member of the aristocracy?” She leaned forward over the table to tap the meat pie with her knife. “Arise, Sir Loin!”

  He was thunderingly aware of the shadowed cleavage between the magical swell of her breasts. He drained his glass again, knowing it was past time to retreat.

  “Yet you can’t deny that such an aristocrat among meats makes for a cold pie, trapped within its grand flutings of pastry.”

  “But it’s not cold,” she said. “Why should you think so? I believe it’s a pie of great depth and generosity, and very hot indeed at the core.”

  He took his own knife and plunged it into the heart of the pie, laying it open. “No,” he said. “As you see, it’s a cold pie.”

  “There’s enough fire in this room, though, to warm it.”

  The wine burned into his overheated blood. “Dare I risk it?”

  “Dare you not? You might otherwise always regret dismissing the poor beef pie as a cold fish, and wonder how succulent things might have tasted with just a little more flame added.”

  “Mustard by itself won’t do?”

  “Oh, I’m very fond of mustard,” she said, “as long as it’s very hot.”

  He lost himself in hilarity. Candlelight danced and spun, sparking infinite promise in the lovely turn of her throat. Her skin rippled as she tipped back her head to drain her wineglass. Every nerve in his body leaped in response. He was hard and hot and feeling far too reckless.

  “Then you don’t think we should reach for a little cool detachment?” he asked when he had caught his breath.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I think we should go directly to the sweets.”

  “You know that I am filled with desire for the fruit, but these sweets aren’t for me, are they?”

  “Why not?” Her fingers, elegant and supple, stroked the fluted stalk of her glass.

  “Because, however strongly tempted, a gentleman learns to restrain his appetites.”

  It sounded pompous even to his own ears, but she laughed and speared a single cherry with her fork. Her lips gleamed moist and ripe, her mouth pursed for a moment as if kissing, while she sucked in the red fruit. Desire ricocheted to his groin.

  “Then you dislike cherries? Most men claim to prefer them to any other fruit. Or do you prefer a spicier, more experienced flavor, like this rhubarb and ginger?”

  Wine buzzed in his head. His body flamed with yearning. His mouth was so dry that he thought he might have to drag his voice over gravel. “I don’t know. Tonight I shall go without either.”

  “You will? Why?” She sliced into the rhubarb pie, then dipped a forefinger int
o the spilled juice. The tip of her tongue curled as she tasted it. “Ah! It’s very sweet. You should try some. It won’t harm you.”

  Ardor flickered about his head in a flaming aura. He could no longer find words. Only this reckless longing as he watched the flick of her tongue over her fingertip. He reached for a last shred of sanity.

  “No,” he said at last, his voice thick. “However delicious it appears, honor demands otherwise.”

  She speared a piece of candied ginger with her fork and held it out to him. “You really don’t need to fear the bite of the ginger, my lord. The balance between the flavors is perfect.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said desperately.

  “Yes, you are. Your diet has been restricted far too long by all that bitter fruit from the thicket. I think it past time that you indulged yourself a little.”

  “No! It’s not that.” He closed his eyes. Otherwise, he thought he might simply lean over the table to kiss her.

  “Then you prefer humble pie?” she asked gently. “There’s no need for that, I assure you.”

  Ryder glanced up. Her smile was open, welcoming. No shadow lurked in her eyes. The temptation was overwhelming: to take her up on her invitation. The less noble parts of his anatomy clamored the argument: Why not? Why not?

  “Though I’ve been accused of many faults,” he said, “humility is not among them.”

  With his last ounce of willpower, he pushed his chair back from the table.

  He meant to make his bow and leave the room. Any debt he owed gallantry was fulfilled. She could be in no doubt now that he found her breathtaking, that he desired her with stunning intensity, and that he intended her no harm. She most certainly would not take her own life: not a life that was so vibrant and witty and alive to sensual pleasure. He could safely leave her in this room and retreat back into his own life.

  “No one will find you here,” he said. “But I believe I should ride back to Wyldshay tonight, after all.”

  “In this storm? To have been raised in that brier patch of scruples must have been damnable. Do those harsh principles never allow you to taste any of life’s riches, my lord?”

  She dipped her spoon into the cream pot and twirled it together with sweet juice from the pie. Taking a little of the mixture on the tip of one finger, she brushed it over his lips: rich cream, with the sticky undercurrent of sugar and ginger and fruit.

  Her supple fingertip caressed his flayed nerves. His blood flamed. His eyes closed. He knew nothing but honeyed sensation. Silk rustled as she moved around the table. Orange and lavender and musk.

  His mouth opened to the soft pressure of her lips. She tasted of cherries and cream, sugared rhubarb and candied ginger, all vivid with the sweet overtones of woman and wine. Drugged by need, he met her delicate tongue with his own. She caught his hands in both of hers to hold him pinned in his chair. Their shared pulse thundered between them, palm to palm.

  It was a heady, willing surrender, though he reached for one last safe limit. Only a kiss! Just that! One kiss! Yet he kissed blindly, passionately, aching with tenderness at the supple generosity of her mouth.

  Still kissing, she released his hands to run her fingers up his arms. She caught the back of his head in both palms. Pulling his mouth down with hers, she knelt in a crumpled spread of skirts between his spread knees. He ran his fingers through her hair, then his palms found her naked shoulders and smoothed up the long column of her throat above the black ribbon.

  When she broke the kiss at last, he was laughing and groaning and desperate. Her fingers strayed over his back, pushed beneath his shirt, just as his palms found the swell of her breasts. He cupped them in both hands, the sweet weight through the silk, her nipples hard, thrusting beneath his thumbs.

  A small moan fluttered from her lips as he pleasured her, then she kissed him again. While their lips sought and found, her fingers opened buttons to fold down the front of his trousers. Desire flamed, concentrated on that one throbbing center as she freed him and took his hard shaft in one hand. With sure strokes she rubbed up and down, tickling below the head with her thumb. His brain pulsed with colored lights. His whole body throbbed with exquisite sensations.

  Ryder threw back his head to break the kiss—the last few brambles of the thicket catching at his conscience—but she seized both of his hands in hers once again and thrust them out to each side, before she lowered her head to take his hot organ into her mouth.

  Intensity enveloped. Silken, exquisite. Her tongue danced. She played wicked games with her teeth. He knew only the sensations, as concentrated as lightning, as rapturous as orgasm—yet prolonged and prolonged as if she knew how to take him to the brink and keep him there, hovering in ecstasy.

  He heard groaning as incoherent sounds of pleasure dragged up from his shaking lungs. His hands gripped hers convulsively. Her mouth plunged him into white oblivion. The ecstasy built, almost to climax. His head fell back, his muscles straining, her palms crushed in his. Yet with a last swirl of her tongue, she abandoned him. Frantic, throbbing, he opened his eyes.

  She stood up and stepped back. He gazed up at her beneath heavy eyelids as she unbuttoned her dress at both shoulders. In a sweet shush of silk, it slid down about her ankles. Her eyes were huge and dark and compelling, her smile an enchantment of seduction. Dressed in nothing but her shift and corset, she leaned down to kiss his mouth once again. His breath burned in his lungs as she lifted her petticoat to straddle his lap. While they kissed and kept kissing, she impaled herself on his erection.

  Ryder almost came back into his mind then, but not to draw back or deny her.

  He was not, after all, such a saint.

  Instead he buried his face in her shoulder and thrust hard, seeking to know her deeper, to explore all of her sweet mysteries. As he plunged and withdrew and thrust again, she caressed him inside with exquisite subtlety. He had never known such a feeling. All sweetness. All heat. All pleasure. When he drove up one last time with mind-shattering intensity, her muscles clenched and rippled until the rush of his seed stunned him into ecstatic oblivion.

  A fine sweat broke all over his body. He dropped his head back, still cradling her in his arms, and fought for a calm breath. She entwined her arms about his neck, dropping small kisses on his face and hair.

  “Ah, my sweet Sir Lancelot,” she whispered in his ear. “Not so humble, after all!”

  “No, my friends call me Ryder—” He struggled for a coherent thought. “But I thought you wished to be rid of me?”

  “Did you?” Her voice purred. “So what did you expect me to do when you insisted on staying?”

  “I planned to go home.”

  “No. You thought you shouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “I didn’t trust you not to do something desperate.”

  She snuggled closer, still balanced across his thighs. “You were right.”

  He raised his head and looked into her eyes, wide and dark, filled with mystery and humor. His heart thundered.

  “Who are you? I don’t even know your real name.”

  “Ah, not now! Morning is soon enough for our reckoning. After all, you’ve bound me by oath—I won’t leave without either telling you the truth about my predicament or giving you a chance to help me. In the meantime, perhaps it just seemed simpler to act on a need we both shared so very plainly?”

  Ryder studied her face. Yes, she had needed it just as much as he had. To reaffirm the desirability of her own existence? To recover her power and identity after her husband had so brutally betrayed her? If so, perhaps there was no sin in it. Nothing but the pure flame of passion, burning away hurt. Burning away doubt. Burning away duty and class expectations.

  “Yes,” he said, a new awareness pulsing in his blood. “But wasn’t it still a sin when Lancelot gave in so easily to Guinevere?”

  “No.” Her eyes were fathomless. “She’d have died if he’d been less than generous. And now your need is for sleep, my lord, not to ride home through the storm like a m
adman.”

  “My need,” he said, “is most certainly not for sleep.”

  “Then you would like some more debauchery? The bed is really quite comfortable. Shall we retreat there?”

  He was Blackdown’s heir, the man responsible for thousands of tenants and dependents, a man of conscience and honor, a man who did not make love to other men’s wives. Yet he felt more alive than Lord Ryderbourne had ever felt, as if Laurence Duvall Devoran St. George had suddenly been reborn. He groaned like a man whipped, picked her up with her legs still wrapped about his waist, and strode across to the bed.

  He set her down on the sheets. As lovely as starlight she shuffled back against the pillows.

  “And your need?” he asked.

  “My need was only for a bright memory of my knight in shining armor.”

  Ryder tugged off his boots, then wrenched his shirt away over his head.

  “Not just one memory,” he said. “A whole night of them.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE HAD REFUSED TO MAKE HER A LOAN. HE WOULD NOT LET her leave. There was only one way to redeem the debt she already owed him and the further one she’d be forced to incur. It was not, of course, any sacrifice. Lord Ryderbourne was beautiful, firm and smooth, muscled like a racehorse. His nails, his hair, his skin, his teeth, all gleamed with vigorous youth and a lifetime of meticulous habits.

  Yet the set of his mouth also betrayed a lifetime of control and responsibility. His eyes haunted her. The intelligence and natural joy burdened with all the trappings of position and conventional morality. Did he never escape? Did he never know indulgence?

  Now he was just a little foxed, but he was far more deeply intoxicated by the pleasure she had given him. It went some way to redress the balance, that she could bring peace to the taut lines of his face. Yet Miracle had no intention of allowing him even a moment for reflection.

  “Then, yes,” she said. “Come to bed, my lord! Our needs are the same.”

  Lean, lash-hard, tall, and powerful, he threw aside his shirt. His dark gaze stunned in its intensity.

 

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