Danger Wears White (31 page)

“Why would my mother—the dowager—do such a thing?” She was still finding acceptance difficult, that the woman she’d called “Mother” all her life was in reality no such thing.

“She was working under orders from the Pretender’s court. The Old Pretender.” He grimaced. “Factions on all sides. The younger brother, Cardinal Henry, wants nothing to do with the throne. You and your unknown siblings are threats to the Young Pretender, for obvious reasons, but matters between him and his father are strained. The Old Pretender is a wily old fox who knows his claims to the throne are weakening, but he has one last throw, while Prince George is still a minor and his father ageing.”

The way he put it seemed so straightforward, but she knew there were as many factions as there were people. And she wanted nothing to do with it. Her appetite gone, she put her napkin next to her plate. Its crumpled folds taunted her, reminding her of innocence destroyed. She had been an innocent when she lived quietly in the country, and more than anything else she wanted that back. Even though she couldn’t have it, couldn’t un-know what she had learned.

Now she wasn’t eating, he took her other hand. “Let me hold you, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” With a sigh, she rose when he did and went into his arms.

“My love, you are mine, and as long as I live, you’ll have a place in my heart.”

More than anything else she needed to assure herself that was true. “My home is here, with you.” Before her courage could fail her, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

He curved a hand around her neck and held her close, responding with all the fervor she could ever wish for. He thrust his tongue into her mouth with blatant hunger, and she responded in kind.

Already his hand was at the silk bows holding her gown together, and the soft tugs punctuated their need for each other. They broke apart, panting, for him to strip off his coat and unfasten his waistcoat, by the simple expedient of grasping one side and pulling. The horn buttons slipped through the silk buttonholes for the most part, although a few clattered to the floor. Neither of them looked to find out.

He let his clothes drop. By now familiar with male clothing, she set to work on the fall of his breeches, unfastening them in feverish haste, wanting nothing between them.

He had her robe off her, and the stays that fastened down the front, blessedly easy to get rid of. Shift and slippers disposed of, she was naked, and he didn’t take long joining her. Leaving their clothes scattered over the floor, they made their way to the bed in stages, pausing to kiss and caress. He cupped her breasts; she slid her hands down his chest, her palms skimming over the slabs of muscle and then the strong, long muscles of his thighs.

With a half-chuckle, half-groan, he lifted her and tossed her on to the bed. She landed on her back, the metal embroidery of the elaborate coverlet scratching her back like tiny pins set in cloth. Before he could join her, she wriggled and tugged it away, careless of the delicate fabric, her only aim a need to have him inside her.

He gazed down at her, eyes glittering with intent. “A banquet, just for me.” His wry smile showed what he thought of his own whimsy, but she liked it, and her mouth curved in a smile. “It’s difficult to know where to start.”

But start he did, kissing and nibbling the side of her neck until she decided it was her turn to explore. Catching him off-balance, she swung her body over his, pinning him to the soft blanket. He looked glorious, lying there for her perusal.

“Do as you wish,” he said. “I’m all yours. The only subject you’re ever likely to have, so go to it, my lady.” He lifted his hand, cupped her chin. “Your highness.”

When he said it, the word became a caress, a declaration of intent rather than a meaningless title. From him she could accept it, and the acceptance became sweeter when she tasted his skin, licked along the line of the upper muscle of his chest, and touched the tip of her tongue to his nipple, which, intriguingly, hardened, as hers did when he touched and squeezed.

Just—like—that.

Nearly overwhelmed by his caresses, she continued, kissing around his navel and following the line of dark hair down toward forbidden territory—forbidden to everyone but her. His cock stood proud, flushed with arousal, the tip damp. She claimed the bead of clear liquid, sweeping her tongue over it, making him groan her name in what sounded like surrender. The smooth, shiny skin felt heavenly under her tongue, and she lingered to taste and savor. That salty muskiness of him surrounded her, seduced her as she immersed herself in him.

“No,” he said in what sounded suspiciously like a choke. “Come here. I want us to make love, and I want to see you as we’re doing it.”

Reluctantly, because she’d planned to do a lot more down there, she came back to him, and he lifted her over him, before swinging around so she was underneath. His smile was tender but desirous. “That’s where I want you. Where I can care for you and protect you. Forgive me, my darling, but I’m feeling particularly possessive today.”

She could understand that. After their ordeal, it was time to claim their mutual reward.

He eased her legs apart with his knees, his hairier skin abrading her softer, more tender places, stimulating her. Slipping a hand between their bodies and down, he took the time to open her folds and slide his finger briefly inside her. “You’re ready for me.”

As she wrapped her arms around him and lifted her knees to hug his waist, she gave him the smile that generations of women had bestowed on their men. “I could have told you that, but I liked what you did.”

“You’ll like this better.” He guided his shaft to her opening and breached her, pushing inside with an insistent urgency that found its echo deep in her soul.

She closed her eyes, the better to enjoy the sensation, then opened them again, and smiled up at him. His broad shoulders blocked out most of the light from the spring sun. If they went home soon, they’d catch the end of lambing and the beginning of the planting season. Maybe they’d find a quiet hedgerow somewhere and emulate the local rustics, making love in the open air. She laughed from pure joy.

Tony didn’t ask her why she laughed, but joined in, the vibrations jostling where they joined, making the sensation even more exquisite. Laughter gone, she arched her back, pressing her lower body against his, urging him without words to harder, more definite thrusts. Still smiling, he obliged. A low grunt of exertion and pleasure came from low in his throat, and she responded, her body at one with his, attuned to their mutual arousal.

The waves of pleasure came closer together, heightened. Imogen knew what to do now, and she had the utmost faith in him. She had no compunction in letting go, releasing her safety to him, opening herself up to anything he wanted to do.

He wanted to thrust, and once he’d found the right spot, which she informed him was, “Yes, there!” he set up an insistent rhythm, pounding into her sure and hard, making her cry his name and cling while she rode out her orgasm. Still shuddering, her channel rippling around his cock, she felt his balls throb as he jetted his essence into her.

He caught his breath, the gasp loud in her ear, and then held on as if for his very life. He slumped over her, surrounding her entirely with his heat, skin to skin from head to toe, and she loved it.

Would have wanted him there forever, except that after a few minutes she had difficulty drawing breath. Even then she didn’t complain, because the sensation of him lying over her so helplessly was too delicious to give up.

Laughing weakly, he heaved himself up, gazed down at her, and then took her in a luscious kiss. They explored each other as if they were starting all over again, but he drew out of her gently as they embraced and rolled to one side, holding her close, their heated bodies fitting together perfectly.

“I love you.” He touched her chin, smiling, his face relaxed, his eyes full of adoration.

“I love you too.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her again, gently brushing his lips against hers. “That’s what counts. We’ll go from here. What would you like to do, my love? Name it and I’ll make it so.”

“I want to go home.” She spoke simply, directly from the heart. Once she said it, it sounded so easy.

“That’s what we’ll do. Tomorrow, if you like, because I have plans for today. They don’t involve clothes.”

She snuggled against him, easing the tenderness in her breasts. “That sounds good to me.”

Lynne Connolly lives in England with her family and her mews, Jack the cat. She comes to the USA every year to visit her publishers and readers. She was born in Leicester, England and was brought up in a haunted house. She is part Romany, and in her spare time she loves reading the Tarot as her grandmother taught her, and making and filling dollhouses.

Turn the page for a special excerpt of Lynne Connolly

Rogue In Red Velvet

If Connie loses her standing in society, she risks losing everything…except Alex.

When country widow Constance Rattigan finds herself in a notorious London brothel instead of at the altar, only one person can save her from the auction block. Alex Vernon walked away from Connie once before, when he discovered her engagement. Now that her fiancé has betrayed her, Lord Ripley doesn’t intend to leave her again. But Connie has other ideas… She won’t marry him until her name is cleared.

Alex decides to make Connie’s wishes come true, but it’s not that easy, even with the help of his powerful relatives known as the Emperors of London.

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March, 1754

The library door crashed open, shattering Connie’s peace and admitting the last man she wanted to be alone with. Pretending unperturbed tranquility, Connie put her pen in the standish. She clasped her hands on top of the book she’d been working on to still the trembling his presence caused.

Wide-eyed, chest heaving, the normally elegant, cool Lord Ripley, slammed the door and put his back to it.

She met his blank, dark stare and cursed her fluttering pulse. Whatever had put him in this state, it couldn’t be trivial.

He blinked, straightened and assumed the town bronze most of his sort used like a cloak, covering whatever he felt beneath. He gave the perfectly tied strip of linen at his neck a twitch, arranged his sleeve ruffles, then straightened his wig. As poise and elegance returned, he transformed from a hunted fugitive to a gentleman and pushed away from the door. He strolled to the old, scarred table at which she sat. “Here you are.”

What a ridiculous statement. “I believe I am.” She read a line in the journal before her, more to look away than because she needed to, and took a steadying breath before she met his eyes once more. “May I help you, Lord Ripley?”

“I merely wondered why you lock yourself away here every day, Mrs. Rattigan. And I came to see if I may assist you in any way.”

“I’m perfectly fine, sir. I doubt you could help me, or have any interest in doing so.” She’d avoided him for three days and wanted none of his games. She didn’t care why he’d shot in here, only she wished he’d shoot out again, just as fast.

“Is it something too difficult for my paltry brain? Are you a bluestocking, ma’am, that you labor here day after day without joining the revelry?” In full control, his society manners polished as ever, he walked to her side of the table and loomed over her.

Her heart beat faster and her breath quickened. She worked to hide his effect on her and castigated herself for a fool. He wasn’t interested in her in that way, much less when she had her hair scraped back in a knot, wore no cosmetics at all and had donned her old clothes in preparation for the dusty work. She was just an excuse, an escape from something. Or someone. She was no empty-headed miss. She was a respectable widow, but it didn’t stop her becoming tongue-tied. “I—I—”

“You find yourself bored by our antics. You’d rather study Plautus, or is it Marcus Aurelius?” Chuckling, he leaned over her shoulder, flipped the book closed. With one long finger, he traced the name on the cover. “Saucy stories perhaps?”

The door opened and admitted Miss Louisa Stobart, one of the young ladies invited here to meet Lord Ripley. Connie’s godfather had confided to her that he might choose a bride from among them.

Now she understood why he’d shot into this room like a pursued fox. Miss Stobart had been the most assiduous of Lord Ripley’s pursuers, indefatigable in her chase. He’d been escaping her.

For a change, Connie was in charge. How delicious.

Lord Ripley straightened and gave Connie such a look of pleading that she almost laughed. “Help me,” he mouthed, before assuming his easy smile and facing his tormentor.

She would have preferred that he said that in different circumstances, but what she dreamed at night remained between her and her pillow. This would do. A little gentle revenge was called for. She slid the book over to his lordship and pointed at random. “Here is a word I cannot read, sir. Do you see?”

“No, ma’am.” Bending over her shoulder, he peered then looked at her.

Far too close, his breath heated her cheek and her heart quickened. This close, he’d see her reaction for sure. Inwardly, she groaned. She hadn’t bargained on him doing that. She should have shoved the book away from her.

His eyes widened slightly. He turned his attention to the book. “I think it says wormwood. An old spell book?”

She laughed. “An inventory, sir. As you well know.”

His shoulders relaxed under his country-coat. In an ordinary man that slight movement might remain unnoticed, but Connie had spent the last few days watching him surreptitiously. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and while she could tell herself that she was merely observing, it did no good. For the first time in her life, she longed to be younger, wealthier and socially higher ranking. Then she could compete. Instead, she’d dressed in a practical country gown that would survive hedgerows and house dust, and hidden away here. “Yes, of course. Wormwood.”