Rules of Attraction

by Christina Dodd

  Climbing to his knees, he wrestled her skirt and petticoats to her waist, and like a magistrate proving guilt, he pointed at her ankles. “Look at this. Lace on your pantalettes!”

  “I never showed you.” She kicked her leather slippers off.

  “I knew about the lace. I sensed it was there.” He untied the string at her waist.

  “I cannot help if you have developed clairvoyant abilities.”

  “Only where you’re concerned.” He rolled her pantalettes down. “Only about you.”

  He was exposing her in a way she hadn’t been exposed in nine years. Nine long years. Deep in her womb, she experienced that slow, warm, deep slide of desire. Nine years. Too long. She’d been ignoring her body, telling herself she didn’t want, didn’t need, didn’t care. Now, at the first taste and touch of Dougald, she was ready. Embarrassingly ready, completely ready, and not willing to slow or stop and certainly not to think.

  His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. “I’ve dreamed of you.” His fingers opened her.

  Her eyes shut in an excess of sweet, warm longing.

  “I’ve dreamed of touching you here”—the slightest of caresses brought her up off the bed—“and here”—he stroked with impertinence—“and I have wanted to fill you with my fingers.”

  As he thrust a finger inside her, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her groan of delight.

  “You never wanted me to hear you.” His thumb massaged her while his finger slid in and out, in and out. “Always you tried to deny your pleasure.”

  “Only”—she caught a breath—“only after you made it clear this was not love. It was only duty and—”

  The compression of his palm against her pubic bone stopped her resentful speech. When he held her like this, with one finger inside her and his hand rubbing her, and rubbing her, she no longer remembered old rancors. All she could think of was…grabbing his lapels, she pulled him forward and glared into his eyes. “Do it now.”

  He chuckled. Chuckled like the high-hat, self-important ass that he was. Until she loosened her grip on one lapel and slid her hand down his chest, across his belly, and down to the satisfying obvious bulge in his groin. Then, as she shaped his length, caressed his testicles, his laughter stopped. His eyes half closed, and as he lifted his head she saw the strain of the tendons in his neck and the bright flush of desire that lit his cheeks.

  “Do it now,” she repeated.

  This time he didn’t laugh. Stepping back, he pulled her pantalettes all the way off, then opened his trousers and shoved them down past his knees.

  His hurry satisfied her pride, at the least, and her desire…my God, he was big and bold, wanting her in the most explicit way, and if he didn’t put himself into her soon…

  “Dougald, please.” She held out her arms to him.

  He fell on her like a ravaging beast, bothering with none of the niceties, responding to her demand for union with a satisfying instinct that had him impetuously pushing into her.

  She sucked in her breath. She had been without satisfaction for too long…she was too tight. Pain threatened, then became a reality. Digging her nails into his arms, she said, “No.”

  He glared at her, glared like a drowning man deprived of rescue. Then he took in her expression: fierce, tortured, unsatisfied. Swallowing, he slowed, and in the warm, hushed voice of her lover, commanded, “Let me fill you, darling. Just relax and let me in.”

  When he talked to her like that, she responded like any female creature to the claim of her mate. She relaxed, adjusting her body around him, and he slipped right in to the hilt.

  She whimpered. It felt so good. This was so bad. He had her. Again. But…

  He hadn’t wanted to do this, either. Only tonight, when his unimpeded frustration and anger had broken through, had his restraint been vanquished.

  So it was all right. This was not manipulation. This was truth.

  She lifted her hips. She flexed her inner muscles. And in a voice as warm and caressing as his, she said, “Please, lover. I want you.”

  17

  Dougald knew he shouldn’t be doing this. This was not at all what he planned. He had planned to drive Hannah mad with desire while he held tight rein on his passions. Then he would dictate the conditions of their reconciliation, and she would recognize her master.

  But the heat of her…the scent of her…her voice saying, “Please, lover. I want you.” He was weak, but he had to take her. Every primitive instinct within demanded he fill her with his seed. She was his possession, his fief, his wife.

  Without elegance, without restraint, he gave himself over to his passion. Every important drop of his blood, every important part of his body, fought to get inside her. He entered her and withdrew, entered her and withdrew. Beneath him, he could hear the mewling noises she made. Her hips rose and fell with the rhythm he set. Her arms gripped him as if she feared he would disappear. He feared it, too. Feared good sense would prevail before he had his fill of her. He was going too fast, he knew it. She wouldn’t be able to come, not with him pounding at her like this, but he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t wait…

  “Hurry,” she urged him. Doubling up a fist, she struck him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”

  He redoubled his efforts. She scratched at his back in a catlike frenzy, fighting to reach her peak, taking her frustration out on him in the most primitive way possible. Later he’d be glad he still wore his clothing. Right now it was nothing but a bloody damned nuisance. Hell, he still wore his cravat tied like a noose around his neck.

  Hannah was so beautiful with her hair coming undone. It spread across the dark coverlet like a river of scented gold. Those startling brown eyes opened and shut, alternately languid and desperate, as if desire and need fought a battle for her soul. Her gown, her idiotic satin gown, was buttoned all the way to her neck.

  “Dougald, Dougald, Dougald.”

  He heard that note in her voice. The note he hadn’t heard for nine long years, yet he recognized it.

  Deep in his groin, pressure grew. Instinct demanded that he thrust as hard as he could. He wanted to finish inside her. He needed to drench her with his seed. But first…he had to watch her. He had to.

  Her eyes closed. A flush started at her collar and rose up her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. Her nose scrunched up, her lips opened in a long series of gasps. Her hips lunged at him, demanding satisfaction. Her legs clutched at him, bringing him close. Deep inside her, the spasms took her, rocking her, bringing her gratification of the most primitive type.

  He exulted in this primitive outbreak, this unstoppable passion. She hadn’t been able to resist him. Her body had hungered, just as his did. She was his.

  Then he couldn’t wait.

  He pressed her down on the bed with his hips. He held her with his hands. He forced her to take him. She writhed against him, waves of ecstasy rocking her, moans of pleasure breaking from her. He invaded her, going as deep as he could. His balls tightened. Then, irrevocably, he came, filling her with himself. He plunged, wildly, blindly, branding himself on her, demanding that she acknowledge she was his, coercing her physically to overwhelm her mentally.

  He succeeded. Every sound she uttered sounded capitulation, every movement she performed signaled acceptance.

  He had won. She had surrendered to him.

  For now.

  Hannah relaxed under Dougald’s weight, loving the exhaustion, the repletion…the lack of conscience. It wouldn’t last long, she knew. In a moment she would have to open her eyes. She would be aware and ashamed, fighting to save her pride, denying that she had surrendered. But right now—

  He lifted himself off of her, separating their two bodies carefully.

  Shame hit her at once. She dragged her legs together, drew her mind together, prepared for battle…and he flipped her onto her stomach. She tried to sit up, but he held her down with one hand. She heard the rustle of clothing; she craned around, trying to see, and observed as he flung
his cravat, waistcoat and jacket across the room.

  “Dougald, what…?”

  “Do you want to talk now?” He sounded brusque.

  She didn’t care how he sounded. “No.”

  “Then silence.”

  She smiled into the counterpane.

  The mattress sagged as he sat. His boots thumped to the floor one by one.

  She didn’t have to look to know which of his garments he removed next. His trousers were already half-off anyway. They dropped to the floor with little effort, then he sprang onto the bed. With a knee on either side of her hips, he fumbled with the buttons at the top of her gown, pulling them roughly apart. She wanted to protest, fearing damage to her dress, but she lacked the breath, the vigor, and the stylishness.

  He leaned close to her neck, and his breath brushed her ear as he whispered, “You and your stupid damned clothing. You wear so much of it just to keep me from you, but that’s not going to work anymore, Hannah. I want this off of you.”

  She found the breath to defy him. “I don’t wear anything to keep you away or draw you near. I never think of you at all when I dress.”

  “That is your mistake.” He pushed the material off her shoulders, lifted her and slid it down the front of her, jerked the sleeves off her wrists. He let her settle on the mattress again, and with lightning swift determination, he stripped her out of the garment completely. Her petticoats followed, leaving her clad in her chemise, her corset, and her best silk stockings.

  He laughed, a rough and rocky chuckle, and plucked the flowered garter with his finger. “Exquisite,” he said. “An indication of what resides above.” One of his hands glided up her thigh to the globe of her buttocks. There he rubbed like a collector uncovering a fine diamond, and then, lightly, he slid a finger down from the base of her spine, down her cleft to that place of utter, complete sensitivity.

  She rose half-off the bed, ready to turn and take him.

  But with his hand on her back, he propelled her back down. Climbing atop of her again, he slipped his hands under her and, gently, tenderly cupped her breasts.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the coverlet. She didn’t have to think. Not yet.

  His hands worked magic, holding her with just the right pressure, circling her nipples with his thumbs, then gently squeezing them between his fingers. Her mind drew pictures; he would draw her to her knees and mount her from behind. She would mew and claw like a cat. She shuddered, ready to have him inside her, wanting to demand he do as she wished. But she didn’t have any power here; he was too strong, too experienced. A woman was never a match for a man in these circumstances.

  When Hannah woke in dawn’s first light, Dougald stood over her, dressed in his trousers, holding his boots, and glowering. Glowering at the room, at the narrow bed…at her. “This bedchamber is shoddy.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Lifting herself on her elbow, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “I’ll have Mrs. Trenchard move you to a better room.”

  Hannah almost leaped out of the bed in protest. Almost, but she wore not a stitch and that put her at a distinct disadvantage in any confrontation with Dougald. “You will not! We’ll be fortunate if we remain unobserved anyway.” Then she realized what he had said. How she had answered. In both of their minds, they had copulated. They had not reconciled. “Anyway,” she said, choosing her words, knowing she would falter, “it doesn’t matter whether you approve of my bedchamber. You…won’t be in it again.”

  He seemed to grow taller, broader, darker. “If I choose—”

  “No. You know we can’t do this again. Someone will see us. We’ll be the center of gossip and speculation, and I…you…we don’t want that right now. Do we?”

  During her fumbling speech, he became the stern, impassive gentleman she had come to know in her time at Raeburn Castle. “No.”

  She couldn’t read anything from his posture or his expression. It was as if the night had never been. Intimacy might have been a figment of her imagination, and passion…she moved her legs and experienced the muscle-deep ache.

  The passion between them had been real. She couldn’t deny that.

  But the passion between them always had been real, and it had been for naught in the face of their marital problems. So—

  “We must not do this again,” she said firmly.

  “I do agree.”

  “In a fortnight?” Miss Minnie groped for a chair and sat down hard. “The Queen will be here in a fortnight?”

  A merry buzz broke out among the servants.

  “Isn’t it marvelous?” Aunt Spring stood, hands clasped together, eyes shining. “Queen Victoria herself is coming to see us!”

  “I don’t bloody believe it,” Seaton said for the fourth time. “It’s bloody impossible.”

  Dougald stood in the great hall, his back to the gaping fireplace, in front of an incredulous assemblage made up of the aunts, his treacherous heir, Charles, Mrs. Trenchard, the castle servants—and Hannah.

  Hannah, his wife. He had had such torturous plans for her. And at first he’d been a complete success. He had trapped her. He had put her in a place of his keeping, made her do what he wished, and believed he would soon bring her to heel.

  Then she had proceeded to turn everything on its head.

  He should have anticipated that. He should have recalled her predilection for doing the unexpected.

  Aunt Isabel and Aunt Ethel held hands and danced a jig while the younger servants watched and laughed.

  Mrs. Trenchard clapped her hands and the footmen and serving maids quieted, but nothing could hinder their glee at knowing their sovereign would soon arrive.

  Very well. Dougald had been alerted to the danger Hannah posed, and he would respond accordingly. She would no longer send letters willy-nilly around the country. She would by God never go anywhere un-escorted. And he would no longer yield to her sexual blandishments. He was a man with ice in his veins. Through solitude, hard work and desolation, he had made himself into the image of his father, dedicated to the family name and unswayed by affection of any kind. He would not let Hannah resurrect any softness in himself.

  Dougald raised his voice to reach to the fringes of his audience. “This is wonderful news. We are privileged to have Her Majesty as our guest, but I don’t need to tell you what we must do to prepare for a royal visit.”

  Charles looked Dougald up and down as if measuring him for a suit. “You need new clothing. I told you you needed new clothing.”

  “We shall host a grand reception.” Aunt Spring’s eyes narrowed. “We shall invite everyone in the district to honor Her Majesty.”

  “Everyone in the district?” Hannah swiveled to face Aunt Spring. “Here? At Raeburn Castle?”

  The Burroughses would be here for her to meet. Dougald considered the ramifications. She was settled here at Raeburn Castle, fond of the aunts…involved with him. Very well. She would be allowed to meet her grandparents.

  “The paneling. The entry.” Mrs. Trenchard put her veined hand to her chest and looked around in dazed dismay. “The great hall. All must be cleaned.”

  “All must be restored,” Dougald corrected.

  “Extra care must be taken by the workmen, my lord,” Charles said, “to prevent a disaster.”

  Aunt Isabel put her hand to her head. “I’m going to have to dye my hair.”

  Dougald noted his suspicion was verified.

  “Try not to splash shoe polish all over the basin.” Aunt Ethel measured her waist in her hands. “I wonder if I can get into my best silk.”

  “You look good in anything,” Aunt Spring said comfortingly.

  Seaton changed his chant. “This is a bloody disaster. A bloody disaster.”

  “Stop swearing, Seaton,” Miss Minnie chided him. Extending a hand to Hannah, she said, “Is it really true, Miss Setterington? I never thought she would actually come.”

  “I knew Hannah would come th
rough.” Aunt Isabel tossed her dark head. “She’s efficient. She’s a modern woman.”

  Hannah took Miss Minnie’s fingers in hers. “It is hard to believe, but it’s true.”

  Aunt Spring took Hannah’s other hand. “Dear, dear girl, this is our dream come true, and all because of you.”

  Hannah’s smile blossomed like the brightest flower. “Not because of me, Aunt Spring, but because of your wonderful work. You”—she gestured to include all the aunts—“all of you have done this, and now all our dreams are coming true.”

  Hannah was good with people, Dougald had to admit. His grandmother had loved her, and Grandmama was not always an easy woman to please. Her last illness had hurried their nuptials, for she had wished to see Dougald safely wed. In the months that followed she had been satisfied only when Hannah was with her. Funny. It had taken seeing his wife handling these old women to remind him how much he appreciated Hannah’s care of his grandmother. Remind him and think that maybe…that maybe matrimony hadn’t all been so bad.

  There had been moments when he and Hannah were alone, and he forgot his duties and she forgot her resentments, and they had talked. Just talked. He’d been amazed by her maturity, by the experiences that had shaped her. She had never been the typical carefree maiden, just as he was not the normal rich man’s son. He had lost his mother, been isolated by a father who knew nothing of affection. Love brought only hurt.

  Hannah had been showered with motherly affection, but all of her mother’s love couldn’t protect her from the taunts of the cruel, the proper and the bigoted.

  Years separated them in age. Time separated them from their closeness. But perhaps they could capture that affinity again.

  “I didn’t know you knew Her Majesty, Miss Setterington.” Seaton had made his way over to Hannah, and his voice had become obsequious. “You must tell me all about your acquaintance.”

  Dougald could almost hear his father speaking. That’s what comes of daydreaming, boy. You lose authority. You fail to keep your woman. Someone thinks they can kill you. Stop being so soft. Pay attention to business.