Reckless

by Anne Stuart

Page 12

  Author: Anne Stuart

  The others wouldn't like it. They'd want to share. Innocence was a highly prized commodity—there was nothing the Mad Monks liked better than to open the eyes of some starry-eyed virgin. They would expect him to pass her along, to be sampled in turn by lechers and degenerates and sodomites. . .

  No, he wasn't going to let that happen. She would be his, and his alone, and once he tired of her he'd make certain she was out of reach of his more twisted compatriots.

  He thought all this as he kissed her, as his erection pulsed at the front of his breeches, as her hands, trapped between their bodies, slowly began to move, sliding up his chest to finally clutch his shoulders. He thought all this, and then he stopped thinking at all, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds of her breath catching in her throat.

  And he wanted, needed to hear the sound she made when she climaxed.

  He moved her, slowly, carefully, against the door to his hidden room. He turned, leaning against it so that it opened, and he pulled her inside with him as the heavy door swung to a close with a satisfying thud.

  Charlotte's senses were flooding her, a delicious cascade of taste and touch, of sounds and scent in the shadowy darkness. She knew she shouldn't let him, but for just this brief moment she couldn't bring herself to resist. This was Rohan, the man in her shameless dreams, the unconscionable rake who'd haunted her waking hours as well. She'd heard the salacious stories—she knew just how depraved he was. She'd read the carefully shielded reports in the newspapers about the Villainous Viscount. His father had been just as bad—it was no wonder he was totally without conscience of decency.

  He was also a master at kissing. Even with her total lack of experience she could tell that much. Adrian, Viscount Rohan, was kissing her, tall, gawky Charlotte Spenser, when there were easily a dozen beautiful women who'd doubtless warm his bed quite happily. But he had followed her, somehow divining who she was. Knowing she was plain, spinsterish Charlotte, and he'd come after her, and now he was kissing her with such single-minded attention that he must like it, at least a little bit.

  As far as she knew. Viscount Rohan never did anything he didn't find enjoyable.

  His arms were around her, holding her against him, and her knees felt weak. She wanted to sink against him, just let go and have him gather her body against his. What harm could it do?

  Very real harm, she thought dazedly as he kissed the side of her mouth, slow, lingering kisses. In another moment she'd shove him away, in another moment she'd run away, she'd find Lina, she'd. . . oh, God, if he'd only stop she could be strong. But as long as he held her like this she couldn't resist. She'd had so little, and her future was so bleat. Couldn't she have this much?

  She felt him shift, turning her around, felt them both move away from the moonlit sky and the cool night air. She felt dizzy, and she tentatively lifted her hands to hold on to him, afraid she might fall, as darkness closed about them and she could hear the sound of a heavy door closing, and then an odd, clicking sound penetrating the haze of longing that suffused her. Almost like the sound of a lock being

  Alarm spread through her, and she tore her mouth away, shoving him. He released her this time, moving away in the pitch darkness, and she knew a sudden panic. She hated dark, enclosed spaces, and for the moment she felt trapped, smothered.

  And then a light flared in the darkness as he lit one taper, another and another, a candelabrum bringing blessed, welcome light to the darkness, slowly illuminating every corner. Until he started in on the next branch of candles, and she could see all too clearly, and her panic was back, this time rooted in real, not imagined, danger.

  It is a small room, cut in to a wall of white rock that was so prevalent in the area. A fireplace at one end, with what looked like a fire laid, ready to be ht. Logs to one side, enough for a day or two, but someone like Adrian Rohan would never load his own fire.

  There was a sturdy table which held the candelabrum, a bottle of wine and two glasses. A thick rug covered the floors, newer tapestries hung on the wall. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her glasses, probably when she'd fallen, but she could tell, even in the shadowy lights that they portrayed no innocent wolf hunt or Norman Conquest.

  They were sexual scenes, woven into the fine threads. Someone had spent years on this blatantly erotic tapestry that now adorned the walls of Rohan's cavelike retreat.

  And there was a bed. How could she have doubted otherwise? It was set up against the wall, covered with velvet bedding and a rich fur throw. A bed for indecent activities, not a bed for sleep.

  He was watching her from across the small room, still and silent, yet she couldn't rid herself of the sense that he was a predator, waiting.

  She turned around, looking for the door. Why hadn't she run when she had the opportunity? She'd stood a good chance of taking him by surprise when he was kissing her, and instead she'd melted like the love-addled idiot that she was, and now it was too late.

  Or maybe it wasn't. She was much closer to the carved wooden door than he was, and she leaped for it, afraid he might reach it first and stop her.

  He didn't move, and she told herself it was relief that flooded her when her hand found the doorknob.

  He was letting her go. Until she tried to turn the knob, and it held fast. She yanked, but it was immovable.

  She was locked in. With the man of her dreams, the worst libertine in all of England.

  "Bloody hell," she said weakly. And she slid to the floor, her back up against the wall, feeling like cornered prey.

  When Lina awoke, the early-morning sun was peeping in the window. She sat up quickly, her thin silk nightgown, made for lovers rather than for a comfortable night's sleep, falling down around her shoulders. For a moment her mind was a blank, yet she was conscious of a sense of happy anticipation. It came back to her in pieces—the aborted evening at the Revels, Monty's collapse. And yet her anticipation held. She yawned, then cursed. She'd only meant to rest for an hour or so, but she must have fallen into a deep sleep, leaving Monty in the hands of his unsympathetic vicar. It was the challenge, she realized. Monty's odious friend, the vicar, had arrived and laid down the gauntlet.

  And she had snatched it up quite eagerly. Monty needed coddling, not scolding. He needed love and entertainment and distraction from his ills, not some prosy minister reading the riot act over him. She couldn't imagine why in the world Montague would invite him to stay at Hensley Court in the first place.

  If he'd provided his old friend with a Jiving, why hadn't he simply gone to the manse?

  "You're awake, then," Charlotte's maid said in a caustic tone, setting down the tea tray. "What are you doing up so early, and you not in bed till half past three?" Meggie was not looking pleased at starting her duties so early.

  Lina pushed the pillows up behind her in preparation for her breakfast. "Did anyone mention that a proper lady's maid does not chastise her mistress for her sleeping habits? You're just lucky I'm alone. My bed in Grosvenor Square might be sacrosanct, but I've come to Hensley Court with the express intention of sin, and it wouldn't do for a gentleman to hear you being so pert. "

  "I doubt I'd consider your sort of friends to be gentlemen," Meggie said, unchastened. "And there's no one around here to romp with—you know you're safe as houses with Lord M. And your parson isn't going to give you a tumble. Mark my words, he's got a wife and seven children coming after him on the stage. "

  "If he does it's no wonder he looks so grim," Lina said, breaking apart a light croissant and slathering it with totally unnecessary butter. She was hungry, actually ravenous, yet she'd done nothing to work up an appetite. She finished the croissant in three greedy bites and went to work on the fresh strawberries. She would have happily done with a full breakfast, with eggs and fat sausages and fried toast and mushrooms, when usually such heavy stuff made her faintly nause
ous.

  -You've never been one for a roll in the mud," Meggie continued critically, "so it's not likely you'll find one of Lord M. 's very handsome footmen in your bed, either. Lord, that man!" She seemed suddenly forgetful of her lecturing mood. "Every single man in this place is bloody gorgeous. From the gardener's boy and the underchef up through the majordomo himself. He certainly liked to surround himself with pretty men. It quite gives a girl pause. "

  “Likes,” Lina corrected quickly. "Likes. Present tense. At least I assume…”

  "I'm not up with your fancy literary terms, my lady, but if you mean is he still alive, then yes. Mr. Pagett is with him now. "

  "Oh, Lord," Lina said. 'That's all he needs when he's feeling wretched. Get my clothes. Quickly. "

  "And what clothes might those be?" Meggie said. "The nun's habit again? Or something more transparent?"

  "It's never good to educate the lower classes" Lina grumbled. "You shouldn't even know that word. "

  Meggie grinned, unrepentant. "I listen well, my lady. You were the one to use that word in the first place. I asked Miss Charlotte what that meant, and I was some disappointed to find that it didn't mean something obscene. Just see-through. "

  "Well, see-through can be quite obscene, depending on what is on the other side. " She slid out of bed. spilling her tea on the tray. "The green dress will do. "

  Meggie's shock was overplayed but nonetheless genuine. "The green dress that you were going to give to Miss Charlotte?"

  "Well, I can't very well give it to her now, can I? She's half a foot taller than I am—the hem would be above her ankles. "

  "It's no dress for an orgy," Meggie pointed out sagely. "The neckline's too high, the cut too refined. What about your red dress?"

  "Do you see any orgies around me, Meggie?" she inquired. “I’ll be spending the next few days, perhaps longer, looking after Lord Montague. As you sagely pointed out, seductive clothes would be wasted on him, and that prude of a vicar as well. The green dress proves even I can be demure. "