Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (9 page)

Finally she was standing before him, her small gloved hands folded tightly in front of her. With her this near to him, he could see clearly that her eyes were the most beautiful blue. No, more than blue. Violet. He’d never seen the like. He imagined them smoldering, darkening with desire, gazing at him in wonder as he delivered pleasure such as she’d never experienced. An easy task if she had indeed never known a man’s touch.

But just as he had no use for mistresses, so he had none for virgins. He had not been innocent in a good long while. He had no interest in innocence. It was a weakness, a condition to be exploited, a quick path to ruin. It held no appeal.

She held no appeal.

He rethought the words in an attempt to convince himself of their truth. But as her eyes bore into his, he was left with the realization that she was not only innocent, but very, very dangerous. A silly thought. He could destroy her with a look, a word, a caustic laugh. And in destroying her, the tiny bit of soul that remained in him would wither and die.

It was an unsettling realization, one he didn’t much like.

He watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed, her bosom rise with the intake of a long breath as though she were shoring up her courage.

“I don’t believe we’ve spoken,” she finally said.

“No.”

“May I inquire regarding your name? The other gentlemen were kind enough to introduce themselves.”

“But then I am not kind.”

Two tiny pleats appeared between her brows. “Why would you say something of that nature?”

“Because I
am
honest, at least.”

“But surely you have a name. Is it a secret? You steal children from their beds? Rumpelstiltskin, perhaps? I would be hard-pressed to see you as Prince Charming.”

Fairy tales. She’d been brought up on fairy tales, and she seemed to have no awareness that she was wading through a nest of ogres.

“Come. It can’t be that horrible of a name. I’d like to call you something.”

He considered suggesting Beelzebub, something to unsettle her, send her scurrying away, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom he simply said, “Rafe.”

“Rafe,” she repeated in her smoky voice and a fierce longing fissured through him with an almost painful pricking. “Is that your title?”

“No.”

“Are you titled?”

Perhaps she wasn’t as innocent as he’d surmised. She wanted to ensure that she was well cared for, was going to be particular about whose bed she warmed. He supposed he couldn’t hold that against her. She was on the hunt for a man to please, one who would serve as her protector. She had a right to be particular.

“No,” he finally answered.

“I see you’re a man of few words.” She gnawed on her lower lip, which served to plump it up and darken its red hue. He wondered how often she’d been kissed. Had she ever let a man press his mouth to hers? Had a man ever touched her skin, trailed his fingers along her high cheekbones, folded his rough hand around her neck, and brought her in close? “What are your interests?”

“None that would amuse you.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I doubt it. I’m a rather good judge of character.”

“A quick judge, it would seem. I’m left with the impression that you don’t think very highly of me.”

He slid his gaze over her, admiring the curves, dips, and swells. He couldn’t deny that she was a fine piece, but she would require a certain . . . gentleness and care, neither of which was in his repertoire of behavior. “I haven’t decided.”

“Unfortunately I have, I’m afraid. I don’t believe we’d be well suited. I hope you won’t take offense.”

“I would have to give a care what you thought to be offended. I don’t.”

She opened her mouth—

“Evelyn, you’re done here,” Wortham said, suddenly at her side. He grabbed her arm and began madly ushering her toward the door.

Almost tripping over her small feet encased in satin slippers, she appeared to be attempting to shake off the earl. She was gazing over her bared shoulder at Rafe as though she was determined to have the final word, but she was no match for Wortham’s strength as they both disappeared through the open doorway. It was some minutes before Wortham returned. Rafe was surprised Miss Chambers didn’t barge in behind him. No doubt he’d dissuaded her, so as not to discourage any of the lords from having an interest in her.

“All right, gentlemen,” Wortham said, rubbing his hands together. “Does anyone wish to bid on her?”

So that was how he was going to handle the matter, Rafe mused. He’d wondered. He didn’t know why the manner in which Wortham was proceeding caused a chill in his bones. The girl meant nothing to him. It might prove interesting to see what sort of value the other lords placed on her, especially if he could determine a way to use that knowledge to his advantage.

“I say, Wortham,” Lord Ekroth sneered, “I’ll give you five hundred quid for her, but I’ve a mind to examine her first and ensure she is a virgin as you claim.”

A round of raucous laughter accompanied the ribald suggestion. Rafe suspected those who laughed the loudest were striving to cover the fact that they weren’t quite comfortable with the direction in which the evening was going.

“By all means. Each of you may examine her,” Wortham said callously as though he were offering little more than a mare for purchase. “Then I shall entertain further bids.”

“Excellent. I’ll go first, shall I?” He and Wortham headed for the door.

Rafe envisioned Ekroth’s pudgy, sausage-like fingers traveling over her silky thighs, ripping at her undergarments, shoving into—

“I’m taking her.” Rafe could hardly countenance the words that burst from his own mouth with such authority that Ekroth and Wortham stumbled in their tracks, while the other lords gaped at him. Obviously, he’d imbibed a bit more than he’d thought, but it didn’t matter now. The challenge had been spoken, and he never recanted his statements.

Standing, he tugged on his black brocade waistcoat that suddenly felt far too tight. “If any of you touch her, I shall separate from you the particular part that touched her. Wortham has assured us that she is pure. I don’t want her soiled by your sweaty hands or anything else. Have I made myself clear?”

“But you were only here to watch, to ascertain”—Wortham cut off his sentence and stepped nearer, lowering his voice—“to ascertain my ability to cover my debt.”

“When have I ever confided my plans in you?”

“Then you’ll pay me the five hundred quid that Ekroth was willing to pony up?”

“I’ll allow you to continue to breathe. We’ll call it even, shall we?”

“But the terms of this meeting were that she would go to the highest bidder.”

“What value do you place on your life? Do you think anyone here can match it?” He waited a heartbeat. “I thought not.”

He downed what remained of his Scotch before striding to the desk, lords leaping out of his way. If he were not a stranger to laughter, he might have at least chuckled at their antics. He found a scrap of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and scratched out the address of his residence. Putting a blotter on it to keep it in place, he turned and headed toward the door. “My address. Have her there at four tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen. As always, it’s been a pleasure to be in such esteemed company.”

He was in his carriage, traveling through the London streets, before it resonated within him exactly what he’d done.

“Good God,” he muttered, even though no one was about to hear. What the devil had he been thinking? Obviously, he hadn’t.

He glared out the window at the fog-shrouded night. His taking her had nothing to do with the fact that she was in effect being abandoned, because she wasn’t. She was being given to someone to care for her. She wouldn’t go hungry, she wouldn’t be smacked about, she wouldn’t have to work until her fingers bled and the small of her back ached so hideously that she feared she might never be able to straighten. She would lie in silk on beds and fainting couches and wait for a man to part her thighs. She would eat chocolates and plump her lips. She would run her tongue around those lips and gaze at her benefactor through half-lowered lids.

And he was her benefactor. Damnation.

He should have allowed Ekroth to have her. His fingers weren’t all that pudgy. He could call on him in the morning, barter, let him take her.

But then he’d appear to be a man who didn’t know his own mind.

So he was stuck with her. For a time, anyway.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful. She’d never had a man. He could guide her toward pleasing him in the manner he required. She would have no other experience, so she would know nothing different, and therefore she would not be disappointed.

The possibilities began to have merit. He didn’t have to care about her. He wouldn’t care about her.

But he could damn well make use of her.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

LORRAINE HEATH wrote her first story at seven, and it involved a fisherman who fell in love with a mermaid. She has since moved on to writing about sexy cowboys and dashing English lords (and sometimes, cleverly, in the same book!).
Publishers Weekly
says she is a “master of her craft.” She is indeed, and along with being a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller, she has won the RITA Award, four
Romantic Times
Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and a
Romantic Times
Career Achievement Award.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
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Also by Lorraine Heath

Fiction

Lord of Temptation

She Tempts the Duke

Waking up With the Duke

Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

Passions of a Wicked Earl

Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel

Surrender to the Devil

Between the Devil and Desire

In Bed With the Devil

Just Wicked Enough

A Duke of Her Own

Promise Me Forever

A Matter of Temptation

As an Earl Desires

An Invitation to Seduction

Love With a Scandalous Lord

To Marry an Heiress

The Outlaw and the Lady

Never Marry a Cowboy

Never Love a Cowboy

A Rogue in Texas

An Excerpt from

T
HE
E
THER
C
HRONICLES

by Nico Rosso

Return to The Ether Chronicles, where rival bounty hunters Anna Blue and Jack Hawkins join forces to find a mysterious fugitive, only to get so much more than they bargained for. The skies above the American West are about to get wilder than ever . . .

T
ake his hand? Or walk down the broken stairs to chase a cold trail. Anna’s body was still buffeted by waves of sensation. The meal was an adventure she shared with Jack. Nearly falling from the stairs, only to be brought close to his body, had been a rush. The hissing of the lodge was the last bit of danger, but it had passed.

The wet heat of that simple room was inviting. Her joints and bones ached for comfort. Deeper down, she yearned for Jack. They’d been circling each other for years. The closer she got—hearing his voice, touching his skin, learning his history—the more the hunger increased. She didn’t know where it would lead her, but she had to find out. All she had to do was take his hand.

Anna slid her palm against his. Curled her fingers around him. He held her hand, staring into her eyes. She’d thought she knew the man behind the legend and the metal and the guns, yet now she understood there were miles of territory within him she had yet to discover.

Their grips tightened. They drew closer. He leaned down to her. She pressed against his chest. In the sunlight, they kissed. Neither hid their hunger. She understood his need. His lips on hers were strong, devouring. And she understood her yearning. Probing forward with her tongue, she led him into her.

And it wasn’t enough. Their first kiss could’ve taken them too far and she’d had to stop. Now, with Jack pressed against her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his lips against hers, too far seemed like the perfect place to go.

They pulled apart and, each still gripping the other’s hand, walked back into the lodge room. Sheets of steam curled up the walls and filled the space, bringing out the scent of the redwood paneling. The room seemed alive, breathing with her.

Jack cracked a small smile. “This guy, Song, I like his style. Lot of inventors are drunk on tetrol. Half-baked ideas that don’t work right.” He held up his half-mechanical hand. “People wind up getting hurt.”

“Song knows his business,” she agreed. “So why the bounty?”

He leveled his gaze at her. It seemed the steam came from him, his intensity. “You want a cold trail or a hot bath?”

She took off her hat, holding his look and not backing down. “Hot. Bath.”