"I assure you that it was a moment of temporary insanity."
"Wash?"
"Absolutely."
"And now, when I've come to you, begging for help, you can't be bothered."
"I'm not the person to assist you, Caro."
"You're wrong. Just about now, you're precisely who and what I need."
"I'm not!" he insisted. "I have no idea why you'd presume to impose on me."
"Don't you? I'm not cold, Ian. I'm very, very hot. Once upon a time, you understood that fact, and I've decided you should be reminded of it."
While she'd always considered herself to be tall, he was so much taller, and she had to rise up on tiptoe. She seized his shirt and pressed her
lips
to his.
He was the only man she'd ever kissed, so she hadn't had much practice and wasn't very adept, but he was. In his long and iniquitous life, he'd had plenty of experience in the art of wooing, yet he was still as a statue and refusing to participate. She felt as if she were clutching a piece of wood.
Not even her shocking attire could move him. Perhaps he was the one made of stone—and not her.
"Kiss me back, Ian."
"No."
"I know you want to."
"I don't. I really, really don't."
He stared at her, aloof and firm in his resolve to resist, and the more adamant he appeared, the more determined she became. If it killed her, she would drag a reaction out of him!
She took his hand and placed it on her breast, and the stimulation was so intense that she was surprised her knees didn't buckle. The effect was potent for him, as well.
Whatever restrictions had held him in check, whatever wall he'd erected to keep her at bay, it came tumbling down.
He picked her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress. Then he tumbled down atop her, his body stretched out the length of hers.
She'd never lain with a lover, so she hadn't known how it would be, and she was ecstatic to discover that she enjoyed it very much. He was crushing her in a way that should have been suffocating, but he didn't seem heavy. He felt extremely welcome, and suddenly she was contemplating all sorts of conduct that she had no business contemplating.
"You are playing with fire, Caro," he claimed.
"Fire, hah!" she taunted. "I exposed myself to you unclad, yet you're completely indifferent. You're naught but a hearth of burnt ashes." "Am I?"
"Yes, and after my ordeal with John, I'm tired of throwing myself at men who don't want me. Perhaps I should seek my ruination elsewhere. There must be a male somewhere in this accursed city who'd be glad to have me."
"You'd seek another man's bed? You are out of your bloody mind."
He dipped down and kissed her, finally giving her the attention she'd yearned to receive. With a groan of pleasure, he molded his lips to her own, and she shut her eyes and reveled.
This ... this ... was what she'd been seeking, what she'd craved. This frantic rush of need and hunger was a balm to her weary soul. She didn't want to think or fret. For a short while, she simply wanted to be.
He was touching her everywhere, riffling through her hair, down her shoulders and arms. She joined in the fray, exploring as she'd always longed to do. She hadn't realized that a man's anatomy could be so perfect, and merely from caressing him she was growing agitated. There was tension building inside her, tension she didn't comprehend and didn't know how to assuage.
His crafty fingers went to her breasts, and he massaged them, the sensation so delightful that she squirmed and writhed in agony. He clasped the nipples, applying pressure so that her skirmishing increased.
His torso was wedged between her thighs, and instinctively, she flexed against him, her hips working in a rhythm that he instantly matched. His loins were connected to hers, only the fabric of her drawers and his trousers separating them, and she could feel the hard ridge at his center, about which her married acquaintances occasionally whispered.
She hadn't unraveled its purpose, but she was dying to learn more about the naughty rod. How was it used? Why was it necessary?
She hadn't a clue, but she recognized it to be an indication of heightened ardor, so despite how he might snap and bark, he still fancied her.
"You've missed me," she charged.
"I haven't."
"You desire me; I can feel that you do." "You're mad." "Quit pretending." "I'm not."
She tried to reach down and touch what she was so curious to investigate, but he grasped her hand, preventing any examination.
"Let me!" she protested.
"No."
He captured her wrists and trapped them over her head. The restrictive position was thrilling, and it placed numerous sensitive spots into closer contact with his masculine parts.
He slid to the side, his thigh draped across her crotch and holding her down. Without her being aware, he'd loosed her corset, and he slipped under the edge, his palm covering her bosom, bare skin to bare skin.
She gasped and arched up, wrestling to get away, but to move nearer, too.
He shoved at the frilly lace, and her breast popped free of constraint. Grinning, he was insolent and smug, as if this was what he'd planned all along.
"My, my, Caro," he murmured, "how pretty you are."
His thumb was twirling her nipple, making it ache, making it throb.
"Ian!" She was begging for something, but not for him to desist!
"Is this what you wanted? Is this what you came for? I'm about to give you what you've obviously been needing."
He bent down and took her nipple in his mouth, and he sucked on it as a babe would its mother, though with none of the tender ministration. He was rough and demanding, his teeth nipping at it till she was a thrashing ball of misery.
He rooted to the other, and soon he was shifting back and forth between the two. As he kept on, his hand slithered down her stomach, her abdomen. He fiddled with the string on her drawers, then crept inside, continuing on to her womanly hair and lower.
He spread her nether lips, his fingers gliding into her privates. They seemed to fit just right, to scratch an itch she hadn't known she was suffering. He stroked in and out, the tempo so mesmerizing that her sheath wept with joy at the fondling.
She was embarrassed and tried to press her legs together, tried to dislodge him, but he wouldn't budge.
"You are so ready," he muttered.
"For what?"
"For me, darling. For me." "What are you doing? I feel as if I might explode." "You just might," he said, worrying her as to what was approaching.
"Oh ... oh..." she panted. "Stop! Please!"
"No."
"I can't... I can't..." "Almost there."
"Where?" she anxiously questioned. "Where are we?"
His thumb flicked out, jabbing at a spot she'd never noted before. He poked at it again and again, as he suckled her nipple with all his might.
She splintered, her anatomy seeming to careen off in all directions. She was flying through the universe, blinded by ecstasy, as if pitched toward a precipice she couldn't locate.
Ultimately, she reached it, and she cried out, then began the journey down, floating forever in a sea of bliss and lassitude that totally engulfed her. She'd been paralyzed, her limbs were rubbery, and she was relieved to be lying down. If she'd been standing, she'd have collapsed in a stunned heap.
She landed, safe and secure in his arms. While she'd had her world shattered, her entire being ripped asunder and rearranged, he appeared relaxed and even a tad bored. How could she have been utterly undone, and he not fazed?
At having reduced her to such a pathetic state, he oozed with male arrogance.
"Are you feeling better?" he queried.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
She was far beyond the day when she'd grovel or shy away.
"What were you hoping to accomplish by coming here?"
"Precisely this, I suppose."
"You suppose? Didn't you know?"
"I'm a spinster, for pity's sake. How could I guess what would transpire?"
He flopped onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. With their ardor cooling, she was chilled, and she scooted nearer, seeking his body's warmth.
Her life was so sterile, her encounters with men so stilted and formal that she'd never imagined the sort of intimacy they'd just shared. She wanted more of it; she wanted all he had to give. She was tired of being unloved and unwanted, and she was certain that if she wed grumpy, elderly Edward, she'd be more isolated than ever.
"What should I do with you, Caro?" he inquired.
"Am I still a virgin?"
He sighed. "Yes, you are."
"How would I know if you ..."
"There's a bit more to it."
"What occurs?"
He sighed again. "May I take you home now? Or is your carriage parked out behind the house?"
He would send her home? Now? After what they'd done? How could he?
Her spirits flagged.
She felt as if he'd opened a door to a secret room she hadn't known to exist. She wished there were a mirror next to the bed. She was positive—that if she stared into one—she'd look different, yet he was exactly the same. How could he be so impervious?
"Do you really want me to go?" she shamed herself by asking.
"No, but what good would it do to have you remain?"
"We could spend a few hours together."
"We don't even like each other. What would be the point?"
He turned onto his side and scrutinized her. His face was an expressionless mask, and she peered into his blue, blue eyes, trying to read his mind.
"We could grow to like each other."
He scoffed. "I doubt it. We've had twelve years. It hasn't happened yet."
"I was engaged to your brother the whole time!"
"Yes, you were." He toyed with a lock of her hair. "Why are you really here, Caro? Tell me."
"I don't know."
'Then lie to me. Make something up."
She struggled with what to say, how to explain, but the words wouldn't come. For a fleeting instant, many months prior, he'd seemed to understand her, had been the only person who ever had.
"I'm so lonely," she eventually replied, humiliated by a flood of tears. "I'm so lonely, and I'm so alone, and I—"
As if he couldn't bear to hear the rest, he kissed her.
His mouth bit into hers, as his fingers wound through her hair. He fought with the strands as if he might yank them from her head. He was angry—either with himself or with her, she couldn't decide.
Finally, as if he'd figured out what he needed, or had reached the end of the road, he gentled and drew away.
"I don't want you to leave," he admitted. "I want you to stay. I want you to stay for as long as you can." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm very sure." "I can tarry till dawn." "I'd like that."
"So would I."
He rolled over and pulled her with him so that she was draped across his torso. He grabbed for the laces on her corset, and they began again.
Chapter
Four
Do you ever think about our brother?"
"Which one?"
"Which one do you think?" Jack said. "The
exalted Viscount Wakefield."
"Sometimes," Ian admitted.
"Will I ever get to meet him?"
"Why would you want to?"
"Just curious. I'm told I resemble him."
"You're an exact copy—though you've managed to control your baser impulses as Wakefield never could."
Jack smiled, glad his history was obscure. Ian had minimal clues about how Jack had survived his youth, but only those tidbits Jack had felt like sharing.
"Wakefield was a scapegrace?"
"And a cad. And a sluggard, but he thrived on his low reputation. He enjoyed aggravating people, and he misbehaved on purpose. It drove our father to distraction."
"Would Wakefield like me?"
Jack hated the plaintive tone underlying his question. He'd never had a family, so he was desperately pleased that he was with Ian. Ian had offered him shelter from the rough streets of London, but Jack couldn't move beyond his wish to become acquainted with his other brother.
The notion of having another sibling, of his being nearby and easily encountered, disturbed Jack's usually placid demeanor. He wanted to look Wakefield in the eye, to take his measure. He wanted Wakefield to know he existed.
"Why would Wakefield like you?" Ian asked, trying to appear stern but failing. "You're a pain in the ass."
"You're too kind."
"Aren't I, though?"
Ian was over by the fire, brooding and staring into the flames, and Jack watched him, wondering what had happened. The past few days, he'd seemed bothered, quieter and more pensive, as if he was weighed down by a heavy burden.