If You Give a Rake a Ruby (13 page)

His throat was so dry, he had to swallow before he could speak. “Leave them. I'll be gentle, but I don't want you hurt again.”

“Oh, no.” She leaned nearer to him, brushing her lips against his mouth and the tips of her breasts against his chest. “Don't be gentle.” She pushed him back, kissing him as he fell on the soft carpet. Perhaps Kitty the maid would not have reason to be annoyed after all. It did not appear as though they would make it to the bed.

He allowed her to take control, allowed her to touch him and kiss him as she pleased. She was surprisingly tentative in her touches initially. He soon learned she was testing and teasing, learning what he liked and what drove him to madness. He refused to beg, but when she reached for his trousers, he all but thanked her. She withdrew them slowly, her fingers making lazy trails on flesh kissed by cool air. “There,” she murmured in that low, husky voice he found arousing as hell. “Now I finally get to see you.”

He didn't know why he had the sudden urge to cover himself. He wasn't overly modest or bashful. He had a body like any other man's; perhaps he had more scars than some. He had the sudden urge to cover some of the worst patches of white, knitted flesh, but she stayed his hands and gazed into his eyes. “Every one of these has a story, doesn't it?”

“I suppose.”

“Are they all tragedies?”

He considered. “Not all, but more than I'd like to admit. Someday you'll know all the stories. I'd like to tell you. But not today.”

She gave him a puzzled look, and he knew what she was thinking. There was no
someday
for them. They had this day, this moment. But he wasn't going to be content with that. He was keeping her. Of course, he had to stay alive first, but he'd managed it so far and against far more dangerous adversaries than Joseph Bayley. “Let me touch you,” he said, sitting.

“Oh, no. I'm not quite finished with you yet.”

Warrick didn't know how much more he could take. He had already exercised great restraint in not taking her hard and fast after several of her more inventive perusals of his body. And now she dipped her head, and he knew his task was about to become even more difficult.

“No, Fallon—”

She closed her mouth around him, and he all but bucked from the sheer heat of her. And when she began to tease him with her tongue, to suck him gently and then harder with that mouth, he had to grip the carpet to keep from calling out. The servants were undoubtedly aware of what was going on, but there was no need to make it patently obvious. And still, he could not help but allow a moan to escape.

“You like this?” she asked.

“
Like
is not a strong enough word for how I feel at the moment,” he said between clenched teeth. “But I fear I won't be able to hold on much longer.”

“Then let go,” she said, taking him fully into her mouth.

As much as the idea appealed, he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to watch the pleasure sweep over her face as he found his own release. With regret—more than he could ever express—he nudged her up. “I want you, Fallon.” He kissed her gently and began to lower her to the floor, but she resisted.

“You don't always give all the orders,” she said, pushing him back on his elbows. “You should know by now I'm not very good at following them.” She straddled him, then leaned over and pushed him to the floor. Her hair swept over his chest, teasing him, making him dig his hands into the carpet to hold on to the last vestiges of his self-control. He wanted to grab her, lower her onto his throbbing erection, but he couldn't touch her ribs for fear of hurting her.

And he knew the more he tried to dictate to her, the more she would resist. And he really couldn't take much more of this exquisite torment. Finally, finally, she guided him to her hot inner core. He could feel the heat of her, feel how wet she was for him. He forced his hips to remain still and not to buck into her as his body dictated. Slowly, with what seemed almost calculated cruelty, she took him inside her. She held him like that, clenched hot and hard within her, for a long moment, and then she moved. She rocked back and forth, testing, teasing, tempting. He wanted to cry out, plead with her to end the torment and ride him hard, but he gritted his teeth and fought for control.

And then she sighed. It was a small thing, but her head fell back, and with the sigh came the loss of her control. Her hips bucked, and she began to move quickly, taking him hard and fast. She fell forward, clenching his chest with her hands and meeting his gaze. Her eyes were hazy and cloudy, the brown of her irises seemingly endless.

Now was his moment. Warrick took her hips in his hands and took control, moving deeper, slower, longer. She sputtered a protest that ended on a moan, and then he felt the first waves of her climax.

Her eyes fluttered open to stare at him in wonder as she clenched around him. In that moment, she transcended beauty. She called out his name, again and again, and he felt her let go.

He wanted, more than anything, to come inside her. He knew the pleasure would be all he imagined and more. But he couldn't do that to her, couldn't put her at risk for a child.

Not yet. Not when so much was still uncertain.

As she collapsed with a small cry, he pulled away from her and spent his seed on the floor. When he opened his eyes again, she lay drowsily on the carpet, and her satisfied smile was enough to make him want her all over again.

Fallon never wanted to rise again. Her entire body felt soft and boneless, warm and heavy. She was vaguely aware of Warrick beside her. How could she not be aware of all that hard, bronzed flesh? The man was obviously used to working hard. Even the memory of those muscles bunching and straining all but made her throat go dry.

“I don't suppose Kitty will be all that happy with us after all.” He indicated the carpet and gave her a sheepish smile. She smiled back because he looked so much like a naughty schoolboy, she couldn't resist.

“You didn't have to do that,” she said quietly. “But thank you.” She'd never met a man like Warrick. He was so considerate. He treated her like she was someone special. And the pleasure he gave her… She didn't know what he did, how he managed it, but somehow this time was even better than the last.

And she knew this was just the beginning. She knew he could make her feel more.

But for that she would have to surrender to him, she would have to believe him when he told her he loved her. And she was not that big of a fool. No pleasure was worth the pain she would feel when this—whatever it was—ended.

And it
would
be over. He was going to marry Lady Edith—or one of her kind. He was one of
them
—the nobility. She was, and had always been, one of
us
—a street rat. Who was she to aspire to become the wife of the son of an earl? It would never happen. His mother would make certain it never happened.

And why had her mind jumped to marriage anyway?
She
wasn't in love with him. She'd long ago outgrown childish notions of true love. It might be true for others, like Lady Sinclair or even Juliette, but it would never be true for Fallon. She was too soiled, too undeserving. All her life, she'd done nothing but steal, lie, and cheat. And even if she didn't steal or cheat anymore, she was still lying. She was living a lie.

The Marchioness of Mystery. There was no mystery about her. She was a London gutter rat.

“I'd like to lie about with you like this all day,” he said, reaching over to caress her thigh. For some ridiculous reason, his touch made heat shoot through her again. What was
wrong
with her? She was so sated she could barely move. “But I have other business.”

Fallon rose on one elbow, grimaced at the pain that caused in her ribs, and struggled to a sitting position. “What business?”

He grinned and touched her cheek. “Afraid I'm leaving you out? Don't worry, this is mundane business. I have a meeting with my solicitor. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the Diamonds in the Rough.”

He rose and began to dress. She watched him, enjoying the view of his body. Even with all his scars, he was beautiful. It had been some time since she'd seen a man unclothed.

“Should I pose?” he asked, with a look over his shoulder.

She blinked. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so modest.”

“I'm not usually, but I don't have beautiful women ogling me very often. Especially not women who are not self-conscious themselves.”

Fallon glanced down at her nakedness. She really wasn't self-conscious. Her body wasn't perfect, but what woman's was? Still, she spotted her shift among the discarded clothing and donned it. “I thought it wasn't safe to go out.”

“It's not,” he said, struggling with his boots. “You should stay here. I'll be back in time to fetch you for the rendezvous at The Merry Widow. In fact, I want to arrive early to be certain everything is in place.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this your plan to get rid of me so you can go on your own?”

He took her chin between thumb and forefinger. “No. I will return for you.” His eyes swept down her body. “Somehow this chemise makes you look more erotic than when you wore nothing at all.” He bent and kissed her gently, and Fallon had a momentary flash of what her future might have been. She saw Warrick, her husband, kissing her tenderly before going about his work for the day. She saw herself with a house full of children. She saw mornings of slow, leisurely lovemaking, and nights spent asleep in his arms.

And none of it would ever come to pass because she was not good enough for the son of an earl. Even if she wasn't really a courtesan, she was still no one. She couldn't even claim her father was a respectable shopkeeper.

Warrick broke the kiss and touched his forehead to hers. “I'll see you soon.”

She watched him go, pressing her hand to her belly as he walked out the door. Her heart felt as though it had plummeted a few inches. She couldn't let him do this to her. She couldn't let him give her false hope. She had to remember who she was and all the lessons she'd learned. She would not fall in love. Not with Warrick Fitzhugh, not with anyone.

An hour later, Fallon had just dozed off when a knock sounded on the door. “Kitty,” she moaned pulling the pillow over her head. “Go away.”

“I would, miss, but there's someone here to see you.”

Fallon growled. “Who is it? The Countess of Charm again?”

“No, miss. This time it's the Countess of Sinclair.”

Fallon's eyes flew open. “Devil take it!”

“Miss? What did you say?”

Fallon jumped to her feet and whirled around looking for a robe. But she had not ordered the valise with her things from the town house unpacked yet. And, of course, she couldn't get dressed on her own. “Put her in the drawing room, Kitty,” she said, “and make sure she has tea and cakes. Then come help me dress.”

“That won't be necessary,” a voice Fallon knew well answered.

“My lady, you shouldn't be up here.” Kitty sounded horrified.

“Bosh. You said the master was not at home, so unless that was code, Fallon should be alone. I'm coming in, my dear.”

“Of course you are,” Fallon muttered, sitting back on the bed.

The countess entered, looking every bit as regal as always. The silver handle of her ebony walking stick gleamed, as did the jewels at her neck. She wore an afternoon dress of blue trimmed with lavender that brought out her eyes, and her hat was elaborately plumed with at least a dozen feathers. She raised the netting covering her face and arranged it on the brim of the hat. “Oh my.”

She closed the door on whatever Kitty's last words might have been and shook her head. Fallon rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you look quite debauched, my dear. I might even say
thoroughly
debauched.”

“I was taking a nap.”

“In that case, you are the most restless sleeper I have ever met, and I suspect you were having a rather wonderful dream. Your cheeks are glowing.”

“How did you find me, or am I to assume you are omniscient?”

“Alas, I am not.” She sat on the bed beside Fallon. “I saw Lily's man at your town house when I went to call on you.”

“Of course. The
Morning
Chronicle
.” Fallon was happy to hear Lily's man was at her house. At least another change of clothes would be en route.

“Everyone is talking about it,” the countess said.

“Don't they have anything better to talk about?”

Lady Sinclair raised her brows. “No, no they don't, and besides, I thought you liked when your name was mentioned in the press. I almost thought you staged the whole incident to make the top of the Cytherian Intelligence column.”

“How do you know I didn't?”

“Oh, I know better than that.” She stroked Fallon's hair in a gesture that made Fallon think of mothers and daughters. She had no memory of her mother ever stroking her hair, which was too bad. It was nice. “Fitzhugh isn't the kind of man to go along with a scheme of that sort.”

“Oh, so it's because of Fitzhugh, not because I would never do something like that!”

“Darling,” the countess said, squeezing her about the shoulders. “One never knows what you will do. You have no fear. Now, tell me what is going on. How long have you and Fitzhugh been lovers?”

“We're not lovers.”

The countess looked pointedly at the rumpled bedclothes and Fallon's scattered clothing. “Really?”

“We may have been intimate, but that doesn't make us lovers.”

“True enough, and I would believe you if you were more free with your favors. As it is, you bestow them quite stingily. But Fitzhugh, yes, I can see why he would turn your head.”

“He hasn't turned my head.” Fallon rose and paced. “He's just a man, like any other man.” That was true. She had to believe it was true.

“Oh, no he's not.” The countess shook her head, causing the plumage on her hat to wave gently about. “He's intense and dangerous and not at all handsome. I know how much you detest men who are prettier than you.”

Fallon laughed. “You are impossible.”

“But I'm not incorrect, and Fallon, while I will be the first to admit that what happens in your bedroom is your business, I will caution you against Fitzhugh.”

Fallon bristled. “Why is that?”

“Watch your tone, young lady. I am not implying you are not good enough for the man, though I am certain you have already convinced yourself of that.”

Fallon sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. Sometimes Lady Sinclair made her want to pull her hair out.

“It is only that I know he is the sort of man you could fall in love with, and I do not think that a good idea.”

“I'm not in love with him!” Fallon sputtered.

Lady Sinclair studied her face and then said, “Hmmm. This is a lovely room, though, is it not?”

Fallon sighed. “Don't change the subject. Tell me. Why is it not a good idea for me to fall in love with him—not that I am going to.”

“Because I know his mother, and she is a woman who gets what she wants.”

“That sounds familiar,” Fallon muttered.

“And she wants Lady Edith for her youngest son. Fitzhugh will have nothing to say about it.”

Fallon thought about protesting that Fitzhugh seemed quite able to make his own decisions, but then she decided against it. After all,
she
was a woman who made her own decisions, but she could no longer count the number of times Lady Sinclair somehow convinced Fallon to do something other than what she wanted.

Lady Sinclair rose. “That is my advice. Do not, whatever you do, fall in love with Warrick Fitzhugh.”

“Is that all you came to say?”

“No, but the more I think about the matter, the more I believe that should be sufficient.”

Fallon shook her head. She was certain the countess had some ulterior motive, but she was too tired to try and untangle it. Lady Sinclair rose. “I bid you good day. I won't ask why you are not at home, but I will, of course, keep your secret.”

“It's not much of a secret.”

The countess prodded Fallon's leg with her walking stick. “What Lily and I know is not necessarily common knowledge. Now, whatever you are about, be careful.”

“I will.” Fallon rose and, surprising even herself, gave Lady Sinclair a hug. The woman who had always seemed like a mother to her embraced her back. She smelled like lavender and something else… something indefinable but that reminded Fallon of home. Wherever that was.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Lady Sinclair said, patting Fallon's back. “How I do wish I could bundle all three of you up and tuck you safely away.”

Fallon closed her eyes. “I think that sounds lovely.”

“Ha!” Lady Sinclair shook with laughter. “You would hate me for it inside of a day. And I cannot blame you.” She pulled back. “Who wants to be safe when they are young and invincible?” She put a warm hand on Fallon's cheek. “You do know I love you?”

Fallon lowered her eyes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. She loved the countess too, but she wasn't used to such declarations. And now she'd had two in one day. At least she could believe the countess. “I know,” she said.

“Good. Call on me soon.” And the countess walked to the bedroom door. She had a hand on the handle and the door open before Fallon could summon the words she wanted.

“I love you too.” Her voice was choked, but she'd said it. The countess, who had her back to Fallon, stiffened. And when she turned, Fallon could have sworn she had a tear in her eye. But that was ridiculous. The countess never cried.

“I know you do. But it's nice to hear it.”

When Lady Sinclair was gone, Fallon sank back on the bed and closed her eyes. She hadn't realized how much saying that simple phrase to the countess would mean to the woman. Lily and Juliette said it all the time, but Fallon always assumed the countess knew how she felt—how grateful she was for all the Sinclairs had done for her and how much affection she had for both of them. But she supposed saying the words had its own meaning as well.

She must have drifted off because when she awoke, Kitty was moving about the room, tidying it. “I'm sorry to wake you, miss, but Mr. Fitzhugh is home and he says you're to be ready to depart in an hour.”

Fallon covered her eyes as Kitty lit a lamp. “What time is it?”

“About nine o'clock, miss. Are you hungry? I brought up some bread and cheese.”

“I'm famished, Kitty.” Fallon reached eagerly for the tray and had to stop herself from stuffing bread and cheese into her mouth like some sort of starved street urchin. Sometimes it was the small habits that were the hardest to break. Instead, she sipped the tea and ate dainty bites of the food she, and her stomach, would have preferred to wolf down.

“A trunk with some of your things arrived this afternoon, miss.” Kitty lifted Fallon's stays and petticoat off the floor. “Would you like to dress in one of the gowns it contains?”

Fallon nodded, remembering to swallow before she spoke. “Yes, preferably something dark.”

“I shall look in the trunk, miss.”

While Kitty and another maid moved the trunk into the room, Fallon finished her meal and went to observe Lily's choices. Two day dresses, a riding dress, a burgundy evening gown, and three very flimsy, very lacy nightrails. When Kitty lifted those, the poor girl blushed all the way to her toes. Fallon wanted to say they were not hers. They were Lily's addition and attempt at being
helpful
, but Fallon thought it might be better to simply ignore the garments. Instead, she studied the assortment of stays, shifts, and petticoats. Exactly how long did Lily think she would be here? She'd packed enough for a week.