Wicked (16 page)

She smiled up at him. "I knew you'd like it."

"You'd look good in red," he murmured, his fingers working the loosely tied knot open.

"I was thinking of
you."

His fingers stilled briefly and then shaking his head, he resumed his untying. "I don't think so."

"You said I could later."

"I said
maybe."

"What would it take to make that less equivocal?"

"A gun to my head?" His grin flashed in the darkness.

"You'll have to tell me about Eton sometime."

"You don't want to know. Now hold out your hands." The corded belt from his robe dangled from his tanned fingers and when she didn't respond, he lightly said, "I have the advantage."

"You'll overpower me, you mean?"

"I could if I wished." He didn't move.

"Or if I wished you to."

"That too," he softly said, his rising erection evident with his robe partially opened.

"Coercion arouses you, I see."

"Sometimes."

"Perhaps it does me as well."

"You're not strong enough," he gently said.

"I could use guile."

"You could try."

"You resist so, Rochefort. I'm intrigued that you don't capitulate in even this playful diversion. Am I not allowed a turn?" And she slid her yellow robe tie from around her waist and draped it over the tip of his jutting penis, which was framed between the draped folds of his robe.

It surged larger and higher.

"See . . . he's interested in being tied," Serena whispered, brushing her fingertips over the red pulsing crest, stroking downward over the large conspicuous veins. "You really should let me," she murmured, wrapping the slippery brocade once around the thrusting length.

"I'll think about it," he said on a caught breath.

"That's a start at least." She slid a second silken loop into place, tightening it with exquisite slowness.

He groaned, a small, reluctant sound.

"Now that I have your attention," she whispered, bending to kiss the tumescent crown rearing upward, "let's see if my wonderful toy looks pretty in a yellow bow."

His eyes shut when her lips touched him and as her mouth opened and slowly slid down his length his back arched against the fierce pleasure.

Holding his rigid length in her hands, she drew it into her mouth until it rested against the back of her throat and then pulled away leisurely. The friction of her mouth and tongue lingered sumptuousl
y
—
s
leek, warm, sensational. He felt as though it were his first tim
e
—
a
s if he were young and quivering, defenselessly in rut. And when she slipped two silken loops around his testicles and tugged lightly, he moaned deep in his throat.

"How showy you are, Glory," she said, tying the primrose brocade into a firm bow. "Cock up and rock hard," she breathed, fluffing the bow out, the yellow silk bright against the dark, crisp curls at the base of his stomach. "I may just want to sit and admire you tonight." She measured his glorious erection with her fingers, sliding her hands downward to cup the weight of his testicles. "I may not let you touch me at all."

Such heresy brought his eyes open. "I'll be touching you," he said, his voice a raspy, low exhalation.

"Maybe you won't," she whispered.

He could do anything he wanted to her, was his first unequivocal thought. "I hope this isn't a contest," he said.

"And if it is?"

"You'd lose."

"So you're
allowing
this?"

He didn't answer, his reasons too complex, inchoate, and damning. He'd resisted physical coercio
n
—
h
owever benign this wa
s
—
s
ince Eton. He'd promised himself that long ago.

"Why?" she asked.

"Jesus, Serena, how the hell should I know. You like it, I like i
t
—
i
t's foreplay to my fucking you," he brusquely declared. "And it's over." Jerking the bow apart, he pulled the tie off and tossed it aside.

"You have to be in charge, is that it?" She gazed at him with stormy eyes.

"Something like that."

"Do women always do your bidding?"

"I don't give orders, believe me," he gruffly said, his experience rather that of fending off females, "and I don't feel like fighting over this. Do you want a drink?" And sweeping her up into his arms, he strode through the garden into th
e
bedroom and deposited her on the bed.

"You drink more than you should," Serena told him, sliding into a seated position against the headboard.

"And you sound like a wife I don't need."

"You've drunk steadily since Dover."

"So?" He selected a bottle of old brandy from the array on the table. "I'm not working now."

"You work?"

"Of course," he declared, turning with a rim-f glass of brandy in his hand. "You can't fuck all the time," he said with a tight smile.

"Ah, ye
s
—
y
our primary avocation."

"Hardly," he scathingly retorted.

"The scandal sheets disagree," she contested, watching him walk toward he
r
—
a
ll lithe strength and grac
e
—
r
esentfully aware of his reputation as stud to the female aristocracy.

"They make it up."

"I don't imagine they have to fabricate much. You're an unbearable show-off," she coolly noted, her gaze on his arousal. "Always erect, aren't you?"

"Only with you," he silkily replied, coming to a halt beside the bed.

"Right," she waspishly said. "Like a virgin . . . unprac-ticed and naive."

"While some people apparently don't need any practice at all," he murmured, lifting his glass to her in salute. "Are you finished looking?"

"Is there a time limit?"

"There's always a time limit. But in your case I'm not concerne
d
—
y
ou're more impatient than I."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"Oh no," he replied, his smile smug. "That's definitely an asset."

"Like your hard cock."

"Exactly," he sardonically agreed. "Would you like to try it?"

"No, I've decided to begin a celibate life tonight. You're much too annoying."

He looked at his drink for a moment and then at her. "What if I say I'm sorry?"

"Too late."

"What if I say I'm very, very sorry," he quietly said, sitting down beside her.

"I shan't be moved."

"Not even if I offer to make amends?"

"How? With that?" She gazed blightingly at his erection.

It usually worked, he thought, but said instead, "I'll let you have your way."

"You'd do that?"

He nodded.

"For me?"

"For you."

"That's very sweet."

He smiled. "I know."

"I can do anything?"

"Anything," he unequivocally said.

"And you'll acquiesce?"

He took a small breath. "Yes."

Taking note of his faint hesitation, she realized she'd witnessed a minor watershed. "Thank you," she softly said. "And you really do drink too much," she added with a mischievous grin.

"And I really need to make love to you," he murmured, ignoring her playful gibe, tossing his drink down his throat and dropping the glass on the carpet. Reaching out, he drew her close.

"Is this open to discussion?" she queried.

"No. Do you mind?" He needn't have asked; he could see the answering heat in her eyes as he shrugged out of his robe.

"Damn you," she whispered, beginning to tremble as he moved over her.

"Damn me later," he softly said, lowering himself between her spreading thighs.

"I won't want to later."

"So don't think about it." He guided himself to her pulsing core, sliding inside that first finite distance.

"I should
resist."
Her final syllable ended in a dulcet gasp.

"Too late," he whispered, resting hilt deep inside her, the words echoing in his brain as his hands slid over her slender waist, then lower, his fingers splaying over her hips, securing her firmly beneath him. "Much too late," he breathed so quietly the words were lost in his throat. And shutting his eyes, he drove into her.

Over breakfast the next morning, Beau said, "Ramos tells me your luggage has arrived, but you'll have to identify it."

"Finally and with perfect timing," Serena exclaimed, sightseeing high on her list of priorities. Immediately setting her fork aside, she rose from the table. "Where is it? I'll look right now."

But the scene that greeted her when she opened the suite door onto the atrium briefly confounded her. Instead of two pieces of luggage, two dozen or more bags, portmanteaux, and pouches in every color and description were spread across the terra-cotta tiles.

"Ramos wasn't taking any chances
,
apparently," Beau dryly noted over her shoulder. "I'm sure I told him brown leather." He'd also made it clear the lady was to have her luggage without fail, which no doubt accounted for this vast array.

"I hope the other passengers weren't discommoded."

"We'll have the rest returned," he assured her. "Do you see yours?"

"There and there." She pointed out the familiar pieces and stepping through the doorway set out to retrieve them.

"Allow me," he said, following her.

She glanced over her shoulder when he touched her arm. "I can carry them." And had already transported them across a great portion of London, in fact.

"You don't have to; I'm here."

His hand was warm through the fine silk of her dressing gown, his nearness a trigger to her pleasure senses. "You're going to spoil me," she whispered, wondering if every woman he touched immediately experienced lust as she did.

"How could I not?" he gallantly said, brushing a kiss down her straight nose.

******************

But she was less easy to convince when it came to his request that they seek out a dressmaker. Her gowns, as expected, were not only démodé but shabby and he wished to remedy her lack of wardrobe.

"You know what a modiste will think if I walk in with you," Serena objected, shaking out another gown from her luggage.

"I'll introduce you as my cousin. She won't say a word."

"But she'll think it nonetheless. And I'll have to withstand that cool-eyed censure."

"Obviously you haven't been to a stylish dressmaker lately. They care only for the price they receive. Believe me, she'll treat you with the respect you deserve."

Serena shook her head. "I doubt it. Regardless, I'll be too uncomfortable in the public role of paramour. This brown wool isn't terribly worn." She held it up for his inspection.

"But then no one wears that style waistline anymore. Would you be more comfortable going with Emma?"

"Lord no." Her brows drew together in consternation. "She's a complete stranger."

"We're agreed then. I'll have the carriage fetched around."

"We're not agreed!" She stood at the foot of the bed glaring at him.

"Why don't I order you another of those lemon desserts?" he persuasively murmured.

"Do I look like a child?"

"Not by the furthest stretch of the imagination, darling," he lazily drawled, eyeing her curvaceous form evident beneath her ivory sil
k
robe. "How about a more enticing bribe then," he tranquilly observed, intent on having his way. "Jewelry . . . pearls perhaps or sapphires to match your eyes. Or would you prefer artwork? Portuguese mosaics are quite nice. I know the dealer my uncle patronizes near the embassy. Do you like antique sculpture?"

"Beau!" she wailed, not sure she could withstand such determined attack.

"I don't care to see you at dinner tonight in that hideous brown thing." He was lounging on the bed, his voice as temperate as his languid pose. "Let me buy you something for that occasion at least," he mildly offered.

"So I don't embarrass you."

"No, darling, anyone will tell you I'm impossible to embarrass. Just for the pleasure it will afford me."

"Then you must do something for me," she insisted.

"Anything."

"You say that so lightly."

He was surprised himself; he was notorious for never making promises to a lady. "You must have a way about you, kitten," he said, smiling faintly at recall of the previous night.

"I wish to pay for the gown myself."

"Done," he blandly said, taking note of the singular noun with satisfaction.

"So accommodating, Rochefort? Should I be concerned?"

"Not in the least. I've simply learned that when you're happy, I am as well."

"Like last night."

"Like that," he said with a wicked grin.

******************

The dressmaker turned out to be English, which caused Serena additional anxiety and she wondered for a brief moment during their introduction whether she was capable of launching herself as an independent artist in a man's world after all. But she silently admonished herself against such faint heart and further bolstered her equivocating spirit by reminding herself that this was simply another rite of passage in her new journey to independence.

The dressmaker knew Beau, of course. What a surprise.

She seemed to know him
very
well, which drew an even more jaundiced assessment from Serena. But on second look Mrs. Moore had to be too old even for Beau's catholic tastes, Serena decided. It must be his patronage the modiste so appreciated.

"Coffee with four sugars if I recall," the dressmaker was saying with extreme cordiality, "and a decanter of ginja. Would your cousin like tea?" she pleasantly asked, slightly emphasizing the word "cousin" even as she looked through Serena as though she didn't exist.

"Some cakes with the tea, too." Beau glanced at Serena's testy expression. "We'll wait in the pink room," he hastily added, taking Serena's hand and drawing her away before her tightly set mouth opened.

"You must spend a great deal of money here," Serena hissed as he bundled her into a room decorated in pink damask and gilt. "The woman is near to kissing your boots."

"Which should mitigate any concern with your reception."

"She's dying to call me your paramour."

"But she won't." He gently pushed her into a chair.

"I want this over as rapidly as possible," she said through clenched teeth.

"Then te
l
l her the style of gown you prefer," Beau calmly suggested, seating himself in the chair beside her. "And I'll see that you have it tonight." Crossing his legs at the ankles, he settled back as though he were perfectly at home. "Have some ginja." He touched her hand, curled white-knuckled over the chair arm. "You'll relax."

"I don't want to relax," Serena heatedly retorted. "I want that woman to stop looking at me as though I were the thousandth female you've brought in here."

"Did I remember to tell the driver to wait for us?" Beau abruptly asked, standing so suddenly Serena jumped.

"Of course you did," she said, looking baffled.

"I'd better check." And he quickly strode from the room.

Left alone, Serena gazed about the sumptuous room, taking in the multitude of fashion prints gracing the walls, feeling increasingly threadbare as she surveyed each splendid ensemble. She tucked her feet under the hem of her brown wool skirt, conscious of her worn shoes in this resplendent room. Pulling her pelisse completely shut to cover her gown's antiquated styling, she suddenly felt sartorially deprive
d
—
a
novel feeling when survival had been her only priority for the past few years.

Before her father died, pretty clothes were commonplace for her. She'd never felt deprived, his love and affection the essential substance of her life, their bond absolute, the creature comforts of their existence agreeable. Perhaps she did deserve a new gown; perhaps Beau understood better than she the pleasure beautiful clothes evoked. And with a small smile of discovery she decided it would give her pleasure to buy herself something elegant. Her need to pinch pennies was past now that she'd won five hundred pounds from Beau. She could
afford
a new dress. Reaching over, she picked up a stack of fashionable drawings from a table. Maybe she'd even purchase a new pelisse, she thought, running her finger over the frayed hem of her capele
t
. . . and a petticoat with lace too, she decided, smiling. How good it felt to be in funds again.

When Beau returned she ran to hug him. "Thank you for bringing me here," she buoyantly exclaimed, her arms laced around his waist. "What do you think of a gown in moss green or gold?" she inquired, her voice animated.

"I like either one," he replied, not questioning her sudden change of heart. In his experience, a man was better served not inquiring into a woman's reasons. "You'll look luscious in both."

"And," she gaily went on, gazing up at him with a smile, "I'm also going to buy a petticoat with lace."

"Definitely a worthwhile purchase," he genially agreed, visions of her in her new petticoat enchanting to contemplate.

"I'l
l
need shoes too."

"Slippers are all the rage. We'll have some made to match."

She hugged him more tightly. "I'm
enormously
happy."

"I can tell," he softly said.

"And I wish to apologize for my ta
nt
rumish behavior."

"No need. I didn't notice," he chivalrously lied.

"And I shall be civil to Mrs. Moore even if
she
isn't."

"I'm sure she will be. You may have misinterpreted her attitude."

"Perhaps," Serena thoughtfully murmured, "but she did say 'cousin
'
with a decided snideness."

"If she dares say so again, I'll demand an apology. How would that be?" Beau gently asked, smiling down at her.

"Please, no, don't make a scene. I'd be even more embarrassed."

"I won't make a scene," he said with assurance. "My word on it. Now show me what you've found in those fashion prints."