Brazen (Reformed Rakes Novella Book 3)

by Amy Sandas

  He was dressed in a pale grey dressing robe over black, loose-fitting linen trousers and his hair was still damp from his bath. The lights in the room had been turned down and the fire glowed hot and bright behind him, casting his features into shadow.

  Moira continued a few steps into the room, keeping her head high and her gaze direct despite the tumult inside her. As she neared, she slowly managed to detect the details of his face. The strong jaw, sensual mouth, intense gaze...and the surprise and confusion in his expression.

  With a rush of heat, she came to an awkward stop.

  He hadn’t been expecting her.

  Just as she acknowledged that fact, he seemed to realize why she was there. His eyes widened subtly, then swiftly darkened as his lips parted on a slow exhale.

  Forcing aside her body’s reaction to him, she focused on her duty. “The ceremony requires consummation in order to be fully binding,” she noted in as level a tone as she could manage with her insides still fluttering.

  His mouth tilted gently. “You sure don’t like to waste any time, do you?”

  “Nearly six years have already been wasted, Your Grace.”

  He dropped his chin and looked at her from beneath a curled brow. “Good point.” A flicker of something serious passed through his gaze. For a moment, he seemed to peer past her stoic façade. “We can wait if you need time to become more comfortable with the idea.”

  “No,” she asserted quickly, continuing forward a few more steps before an uneasy thought brought her up short. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to her. The thought gripped her stomach in a tight fist, but her pride forced her to say, “From your comments in London, I assumed this wouldna be a problem—”

  “It’s not,” he assured quickly, his gaze flickering once again. “I just didn’t expect you to come to me tonight.”

  Moira frowned. Would he have preferred to pursue her?

  Maybe he was one of those men who enjoyed the chase.

  But they weren’t exactly engaged in a typical courtship. Theirs couldn’t even be considered a lovers’ affair. It was an arrangement of compromise based on a marriage contract neither wanted.

  Hating the uncertainty involved in facing something so unknown, she glanced about the room and noticed a decanter of amber liquid standing beside two crystal glasses on a side table. “Ewan brought you some of our scotch,” she noted.

  He chuckled. “From what he said, I got the impression you have a large stash of the stuff in the cellars?”

  Her lips twitched. “Aye,” she replied, intentionally thickening her burr. “There isna an occasion in existence that canna be made better with whisky.”

  “Then by all means,” he said with a smile of invitation.

  He crossed to the liquor service while Moira came farther into the room. He poured just a splash of the potent liquor into the crystal glasses and handed one to her as she stepped beside him.

  Lifting his drink, he said, “To the next three hundred sixty-six days.”

  “Sláinte,” she replied then tipped the scotch down her throat in one swallow. Setting the glass on the table, she met his gaze with the burn of alcohol still in her throat. “Shall we, then?”

  He set his glass down beside hers without having taken even a sip. That thoughtful flicker crossed his gaze again, though his half smile remained in place. “If that is your wish.”

  She turned away to walk purposefully to the bed, untying the sash of her robe as she went. In a rush, she removed the robe and tossed it to the foot of the bed. She considered whipping her white cotton nightgown off over her head as well, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Pulling back the bedcovers, she climbed atop the giant mattress and slipped between the sheets to lie flat on her back, with her hands crossed over her wildly racing heart and her eyes fixed upon the ceiling above.

  Too late, she realized she should have turned the lights down first. But surely, he’d take care of that on his own.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She stayed as still as possible, listening for his approach. She really wished this whole thing would just get itself over with. Her senses were far too heightened by her nerves, her skin was sensitive and tingly, and her belly flipped and flopped so much she feared she might actually be ill.

  After a few minutes during which nothing at all happened, she lifted her head to see what he was about—or rather, what he wasn’t about.

  He had somehow silently approached the bed and stood looking at her with an expression that was equal parts amused and perplexed. His tone conveyed the same as he asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Chapter Five

  Moira sat up, suddenly feeling foolish and frustrated. “Aren’t you supposed to be one of the most accomplished rakes in London? Nay, in all of England. This isna something I expected I’d have to explain to you.”

  His eyes widened at her testy, challenging words. Then he laughed—a rich, heavy, gravelly sound that seemed to settle deliciously in Moira’s core.

  “I’m getting an awful sense of what you were expecting tonight and I am sorry to disappoint you, love”—he lowered his tone as a bold and sinful light sparked in his gaze—“but that is not how I do things.” Stepping toward her, he pulled back the covers. “Come here.”

  With a flutter in her pulse, Moira slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Taking a much-needed breath deep into her lungs, she tried to figure what came next since her assumption about lying in bed had obviously been incorrect.

  “Relax,” he said in a rough whisper.

  “I’m perfectly relaxed.”

  He made a sound like an abbreviated chuckle. She tipped her head to frown up at him and was immediately distracted by that damned dimple. Then her gaze drifted along the strong line of his jaw, the sinful curve of his lips, up to the smoldering blue of his eyes.

  He was right, she was a bundle of tightly bound nerves.

  “Give me your hands,” he commanded softly as he held his own to her, palms up.

  She rested her hands lightly atop his, hoping he wouldn’t detect her trembling.

  Holding her gaze, he slid the tip of his index finger over the pulses at her wrists, just as she’d felt him do during the ceremony.

  The caress—so slight and subtle—sent tingling chills up her arms and down her spine. When he turned her hands over and swept his thumbs across her palms in lazy circles, her muscles melted like butter in the sun while her heart leapt to a dangerous pace.

  One step brought him close enough she smelled the warmth of the honeysuckle soap Nan made emanating from his skin. He tilted his head as his gaze scanned her face, pausing over the furrow between her brows and the firm press of her lips. “Something is bothering you. What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He gave a slow smile. “The truth, please.”

  It was a knowing smile, arrogant and gently smug. Just the kind of thing to set Moira even more on edge. If there was one thing she hated, it was having her ignorance proven.

  “What on earth could I possibly have to be concerned about?” she asked in agitation. “I’m only standing in nothing but my nightgown before a perfect stranger who I’ve vowed to honor and cherish. But first, to make it all official, I must allow him to claim my body. Ach, there’s nothing at all to be worried about, is there?”

  His eyes darkened and his mouth tensed. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to,” she said quickly as heat infused her cheeks. She really did want to.

  Before she’d gone to London to face Melbourne, she’d known that whether he agreed to the compromise or decided to fulfil the contract in full, the union would be consummated. She’d mostly chosen not to think on that issue overly much.

  But since her first encounter with her betrothed, it had been nearly all she’d thought about. She was clearly not immune to the man’s charm considering how her body seemed to light up in his presence. And she had to
admit...she was curious. About lovemaking. And him.

  What would his lips feel like? Would his hands be firm or gentle? Would the heat she felt from his body overwhelm her?

  Lowering his head, he whispered, “We don’t have to do anything tonight. We can wait.”

  She shook her head, feeling the weight of it on her softening shoulders. “Nay, there has been enough delay.” She cast a quick glance toward the bed. “I’m just nervous. Perhaps we should do it quickly. Get it over with.”

  The shadow of concern slid from his eyes and he once again looked slightly amused. “Not a chance, sweetheart. I’ve an urge to make this last a long, long while,” he murmured before lowering his head to press a brief kiss to her temple. Then he shifted to do the same on the other side.

  Moira didn’t realize her eyes had drifted closed in response to the gentle caress of his lips until he asked, “Have you been with a man before?”

  She jerked back at the question, her eyes flying opening. “Of course not.”

  He shrugged as if her response wouldn’t have mattered either way. “I didn’t think so, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”

  What manner of man was he that he didn’t seem as if he’d be the slightest bit put off if his bride had come to him less than pure?

  A man who had enjoyed his fair share of lovers and, apparently, wasn’t a hypocrite about it.

  Releasing her hands, he trailed his fingers slowly up her arms, inspiring delicate chills along her skin before he gently cupped her jaw in his hands. Tipping her head back, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. His blue-gold eyes probed her gaze as though searching for something.

  Moira held her breath. She hated feeling as if she should know what to do or, at least know what to expect.

  For nine years since her Grandda’s death, she’d successfully managed the estate and addressed the concerns of her tenants with confidence and efficiency. She rarely questioned her own judgement or instinct. She was known for being fair and decisive.

  She was not accustomed to trusting in someone else’s direction. Yet in this...with the duke—her husband—she had no choice. She had put herself in his hands and must surrender to his greater experience. It was terrifying.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth as he spoke in a rough whisper. “I’d like to start with a kiss.”

  Moira managed a brief nod though sparks ignited in her blood at his words.

  His expression was patient as he leaned forward to press his mouth to hers. The pressure of his lips was warm, pleasant, and undemanding, but before she could discern anything else about her first kiss, he lifted his head.

  “Was that all right?” he asked in a hushed murmur.

  She drew a long, steady breath to ease the tightening in her muscles. “It was fine enough, I suppose.”

  He smirked and arched a brow. “Fine enough?” His focus fell to her mouth again. “Hmmm.”

  Then he lowered his head once more. But this time, instead of a simple press of his mouth, he executed a brushing caress across her lower lip. Then a too-quick nip at her upper lip before he parted his lips and tilted his head to take her mouth more thoroughly.

  Moira stood still and receptive through the initial movements of this second kiss, even though her heart raced and her skin tingled with sensations she’d never felt before. She was afraid to do anything that might alter his intentions and cause him to stop the wonderfully tantalizing touch of his mouth.

  But the moment she felt the heady warmth of his breath followed by the wet touch of his tongue at the seam of her lips, she could no longer hold back her response. Her eyes fell closed while her mouth opened on a sigh and her hands grasped his forearms.

  He murmured something rough and rich against her parted lips. She couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the words though she knew by the way it made her body heat that it was something wicked and brazen.

  When he gave a gentle nudge of his thumb against the corner of her mouth, her lips parted farther and his tongue slipped past her teeth in a sultry exploration that had her fingers curling into his taut muscles.

  The sensation was intoxicating. The heat of his mouth. The rich, masculine taste of him. The wet, velvety glide of his tongue as it teased and tangled with hers. And then the shift of his body as he pressed his tall, hard form against her. Curving his arm around her waist, he held her in place to feel every inch of where their bodies came in contact.

  With focused intent, his kiss caressed and coaxed and devoured. He claimed the breath from her lips and replaced it with drugging flicks of his tongue. He curved his shoulders around her and pressed his fingertips to the pulse below her ear. Then he boldly palmed her buttock to draw her hips toward his until she could feel the rock-hard length of his arousal against her belly.

  The evidence of his physical reaction to their kiss made her light-headed and heavy-limbed. Heat and hunger swirled in her core as she shifted her hands to grab his shoulders, in part to keep herself upright, but also in a desperate urge to bring herself closer to him.

  Then he broke away. His eyes burned bright blue, the gold flecks were like tiny flames, and his breath rushed swiftly through his parted lips. Releasing her, he tugged at the sash of his robe. “This has to go,” he said roughly as he shed the garment and tossed it aside, leaving him bare from the waist up.

  Moira stared at him. She could do nothing else.

  Muscle shaped the length of his arms in long, solid curves. His shoulders were broad and strong, his chest was defined by more muscle covered by a patch of hair that swirled around his nipples before fading away to reveal the rippled lines of his abdomen, then starting up again in a narrow line that descended from his navel downward.

  “Is my bride pleased by what she sees?” he asked.

  She looked up from admiring his body to meet the teasing glint in his eyes. “I doubt you need me to tell you what a splendid physique you possess.”

  One side of his lips lifted. “Splendid? And what of my kisses? Improved?”

  Moira withheld her own smile as she gave an assessing look. “I imagine they can get better.”

  A deep chuckle rolled from his chest. “Oh, they get better,” he assured as he rubbed his palm across his lower stomach, drawing her attention downward. “Much better.”

  And then she couldn’t resist glancing a few inches lower to where his erection was visible beneath the casual fall of his trousers.

  Heat blasted through her as she forced her attention back to his face. Though he had to have seen the momentary direction of her gaze, he said nothing. He just lifted his hand to brush the backs of his fingers along her jaw and then the side of her throat as he brought his body back into direct contact with hers.

  Already his heat and his scent were becoming familiar.

  He paused to pluck at the ribbon ties that kept the wide neck of her nightgown cinched. “Shall we loosen these ties?”

  Again, he gave her the option to refuse. It confused her.

  She’d expected him to fall atop her in the bed, shove her gown to her hips, rut between her thighs for a bit, then roll away. At least, that’s what Nan had led her to believe would happen when Moira had mustered the courage to ask about the marital act a few years ago.

  She could see the desire in his eyes and there was no mistaking the arousal in his body, yet he was being unexpectedly patient and considerate of her inexperience. That he would do so affected her more than she would have admitted.

  As soon as she gave a brief nod, he pulled at one of the ribbons, releasing it from its careless knot. The soft cotton neckline immediately began to gape. A gentle tug of his fingers widened it until the cotton drifted down to pool at her feet.

  She hadn’t been fully nude in front of anyone since she’d been a small child in need of assistance at her bath. Though a trickle of anxiety tumbled through her, she was saved from embarrassment by her stubborn pride, which insisted she remain straight-spined and silent beneath his perusal.

  He sighed d
eeply—a rough, masculine sound—before he murmured in a thick voice, “You are a beautiful woman, Moira.”

  She experienced a flood of warmth at his earnest appreciation.

  “I’m going to touch you now,” he continued. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me.”

  Unable to speak past the anticipation rising within her, Moira nodded.

  In a slow, gentle movement, he brushed the heavy fall of her hair over one shoulder. The drift of his fingers continued down the hollow of her spine to the inward curve of her waist...and then lower to the swell of her buttocks.

  Stepping closer, he gently smoothed his palm over the soft flesh of her rear, his fingertips just barely tracing the cleft between. Tingling sparks of fire ignited in the wake of his touch, throwing heat in every direction. And all the while his gaze smoldered.

  Lifting his other hand, he brushed the knuckle of his index finger down the slope of one breast to drift lightly across the sensitive peak.

  Moira drew a swift breath.

  The dimple flashed and he repeated the caress, just a faint teasing stroke.

  Moira’s belly trembled and she curled her hands into fists but she couldn’t look away from his bold and beautiful face. Not when he briefly caught his bottom lip between his teeth. And certainly not when he drew his middle finger between his lips to the knuckle, wetting it before he lowered his hand to her breast once again.

  Moira noted the bunching of muscle in his jaw a split second before she felt the wet touch of his finger followed by the cool bite of air on her moistened flesh when his wet fingertip circled her nipple.

  “Lovely,” he murmured thickly in appreciation.

  Tightness threatened to close Moira’s throat. “You don’t have to do this,” she forced in a whisper.

  “Do what?”

  “Seduce me. I’ve told you I’m willing.”

  He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound. “Willing isn’t nearly good enough, love. I insist my women be eager. Desperate. Melting and mewling for my touch.”

  An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach. “Your women?”