If You Give a Rake a Ruby (22 page)

Warrick seemed to sway as she dipped one finger inside. She was wet for him, growing more aroused when she saw his hands grip the bed, his knuckles white. She moaned, imagining her finger was him, imagining herself pinned beneath him as he took her unmercifully. She closed her eyes, allowed her head to fall back, and moved her hand faster. Just as she neared climax, Warrick grabbed her wrist.

She opened heavy lids and smiled at him.

“You're not going over without me.”

“I want you inside me,” she whispered, kissing him. His mouth was eager against hers, and his hands slid up and down her body, making her shiver. He strayed closer and closer to her core as his tongue played with hers, and she knew if he touched her there, she would come apart in seconds. She broke the kiss and moved to his neck, kissing him tenderly and working her way down his chest. She took time to explore that part of him, tracing the hard muscles with her tongue, running her fingers over the smattering of hair. He had scars here and there, and she lovingly kissed each one, imagining some day she would know the story behind each.

She moved her body down his, rubbing her breasts against him as she neared his abdomen. There she took her time exploring. His hands were gripping her shoulders, and she knew he was barely holding on. With a smile, she flicked her tongue out, tasting the head of his erection.

“Fallon!” He tried to sit, but she took him in her mouth before he could pull her away. She looked up at him, her eyes teasing him, and saw he was watching her raptly. She moved up and down the length of him, loving the feel of him, the taste of him. She could have brought this to an end right then, but she wanted him inside her. If she was selfish, then so be it.

“Lie back on the pillows,” she instructed, and they both moved fully onto the bed. Slowly, she straddled him, taking him inside her inch by inch. His hands clenched her hips almost painfully, but when he finally filled her to the hilt, she could think of nothing but the way he felt. She rocked, pleasure swirling and building within her as she moved. She arched her back and took him hard and fast. Her hips pistoned, and she cried out as she shattered. She was sinking against his chest when he flipped her over.

Her eyes snapped open as he pinned her wrists to the bed with one hand. “We're not done.”

She looked down. “
You
are not done.” She licked her lips. “Come here.”

“No. It's my turn.”

She shook her head. Her body was boneless and limp. He couldn't possibly… and then his mouth was on her breasts, sucking and licking, and she found her hips arching and the tension once again building.

“You like that.”

“I like everything you do to me.” She tried to touch him, but he held her wrists to the bed.

“I'm in charge now,” he said, swirling his tongue around her erect nipple. She would have fought any other man who dared to restrain her, who had the audacity to tell her he was taking control. But she found herself surrendering to Warrick, strangely thrilled that she was his captive, in his power. His hand traced her ribs and her belly delicately and then one knee nudged her legs apart. His hand parted her, and he gazed at her for a long time. She tried to close her legs, but his hand wedged them open. She was completely revealed, and the way he was looking at her made her breath come fast and hard.

“Take me,” she pleaded, arching toward him.

“Not yet.” His finger slid over her, and she caught her breath. She all but cried when he slid two fingers into her.

“You are so wet.”

“For you.” Her hips bucked as his thumb circled her, sending bolts of pleasure through her. She rocked her hips against him, her body straining for release, just as he withdrew his hand. “No!”

Now she fought him, her arms straining against his hold. But he was merciless, pinning her to the bed. “Shall I tease you with my tongue or thrust into you, hard and fast?”

“Hard and fast,” she begged. “Make me come.”

“Oh, I will.” He released her hands, and she rejoiced that she could finally wrest control back, but then his head dipped between her legs, and she found all she could do was to fist her hands in his hair as his tongue teased her unmercifully. She was screaming for release when he finally entered her, filling her so completely that she all but wept.

“Hard. Fast,” she begged, and for once he abandoned his tenderness and complied. He drove into her, and with each thrust she screamed his name. Waves of pleasure crashed over her again and again and again, each one slamming into her and rendering her weak and wanting more. Finally,
finally
, he lifted her legs onto his shoulders and drove into her. She watched his face as he came.

“Fallon,” he groaned, and the sound of her name on his lips sent her over. The pleasure seemed to crash through her for hours. Her body took and took until at last they both lay still, legs and arms wrapped around one another, both wet with perspiration, and too sated to even think of moving.

His arm tightened around her, and she turned her head to kiss his temple. His eyes were closed and his breathing heavy.

“You're safe with me,” she whispered. “I won't let you go. Now, sleep.”

And he did.

Warrick woke slowly, listening to the unfamiliar sounds around him. There was the distant chime of church bells, the raised voice of a nanny calling to a small child, and the hushed murmurs of servants somewhere nearby. Even closer was the sound of someone breathing deeply. He opened his eyes and his gaze fell on Fallon. Her hair was spread on the pillow beside him, and she had one arm flung carelessly above her head. Her dark lashes brushed against a cheek still red from his beard, and her swollen mouth was slightly parted.

She looked completely at peace, and Warrick realized, with a shock, that until a moment ago, he had also been at peace. He could not remember the last time he had slept so soundly or so dreamlessly.

He looked at Fallon again. This was her doing. She was good for him. She brought him back from that raging whirlpool of memory that continually reached out greedy hands to suck him in. He'd seen men go mad because they could not put the horrors of war behind them. At times he feared he was destined for that path himself, but Fallon gave him new hope. She was an anchor he could reach for when the whirlpool threatened.

She didn't trust him, of course. She didn't believe him when he said he would marry her. And why should she? He supposed men lied to her all the time, and he had been trained in the art of lying. But he had been nothing if not honest with her.

There was no doubt marrying her would be a sacrifice. His family would never again receive him. He would never mend the split with his father. They would be ostracized from good Society—not that Warrick gave a damn. He couldn't even remember the last time he had stepped foot in his parents' town house, not to mention the country house. They had cut him off long ago when he refused to leave the Foreign Office to take some ridiculous position as a vicar. Warrick couldn't think of any service he was less suited for than the clergy, and when he'd been promoted and become one of the Diamonds in the Rough, he knew he had found his true calling. He and the other three diamonds had been instrumental in stopping Napoleon's relentless siege of the Continent. They, along with others, had been able to provide Wellington the information he needed to win at Waterloo.

Warrick couldn't regret his decision to become a spy, even if it meant his father was ashamed of him. Some things were more important than the Earl of Winthorpe's approval, though his father doubtlessly disagreed. Warrick looked at Fallon again. His family would not welcome her with open arms. Fortunately, he and Fallon had a day to prepare before the ball, and he would prepare by paying his mother a visit and convincing her to allow him a look at the guest list. Perhaps a name or two might stand out.

He glanced at the window and judged it still early. His mother would not even be receiving callers yet. Hell, he didn't even know if it was her day to receive calls, and he didn't really care. He did care that he would have to leave Fallon behind. If he wanted to see that list, it wouldn't serve to annoy his mother. But sooner or later she would have to accept he was in love with Fallon.

As though hearing his thoughts, she stirred beside him. He rolled onto his side and stroked her cheek, trailing down to her shoulder then her arm. Her mouth turned up in a lazy smile, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Did you sleep?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep and perhaps something more.

“I did, thanks in no small part to you.”

“I was happy to oblige.”

His hand moved to her hip, caressing the silky skin there. She stretched and threw one leg over his hip. “I could sleep for another twelve hours.”

His hand trailed to her bottom. “Don't let me stop you.”

“I'm afraid you're rather distracting.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, and beg your forgiveness because I cannot seem to resist you.”

He kissed her lips, pulling her bottom closer so she cupped his hard erection.

“Mmm, I don't want you to resist me.” She kissed him back, a lazy lingering kiss that fired his blood. Her hands wandered over his back, down his sides, and came to rest on his hips. Her teasing fingers left him breathless as she inched closer and closer to his erection. Finally, when he was about to groan, she took him in her warm hand and stroked.

“Fallon.” He buried his face in her neck, letting the sweet scent of jasmine wrap around him. He nibbled her neck, felt her shiver, then she guided him to her core. She was warm and wet, impossibly inviting. He wanted to wake up like this every morning. He rocked inside her gently, allowing their passions to build. There was no hurry, no frenzy. He wanted to savor every second with her—her every sigh, her every response.

Finally, he rolled on top of her, and she smiled up at him, her eyes still cloudy with sleep and also with passion. She wrapped her legs around him, and he moved inside her, so slowly he thought he would go mad. The climax built and built until he could not stop it from crashing over him. He felt her tighten around him, and she sighed a soft, “Yes,” before she crashed too.

He pulled her into his arms, held her until her breathing grew deep, and she slept. And then he left her.

***

The park in the center of Berkeley Square was flooded with sunshine and the twitter of birds. Daffodils swayed in the light breeze that whipped his great coat, and that same breeze brought to his ears the tinkle of voices from the nearby patrons enjoying Gunther's ices.

It was a splendid day. The last remnants of rain sparkled and dried in the warm, spring sunshine, and everywhere around him budding flowers opened one eye and considered showing their colors.

The town house of the Earl of Winthorpe looked every bit as peaceful as its surroundings. Its gray, stately exterior was flanked by large flower boxes, whose blooms dared not wait until the other blossoms of London decided to flower. Color spilled from the boxes just as dignity emanated from the large edifice.

Warrick had many memories here. He could remember standing outside, as he was now, as a boy, eating his ices with nothing more important on his mind than whether he should play with his toy soldiers or his ball that afternoon. He could also remember standing here as a man about to leave for the Peninsular Wars, stealing a last glimpse of home over his shoulder, feeling the bleak coldness of the house and his dismissal as much as he felt it in the chill, damp air around him.

This town house had been home, as much as Embrey Abbey in Cardiff, the ancestral homes of the earls of Winthorpe. He and his brothers and sisters had grown up here, and as he stood outside now, he could not help but feel the tug of nostalgia.

But he was here with a duty in mind, and he must not be swayed from his purpose. It was almost two o'clock, which was perfect, as his mother would be all but done receiving calls for the day. He climbed the steps to the door and knocked on the brass knocker three times. Dalton, the butler who had been in residence for as long as Warrick could remember, opened the door. If he was surprised to see the Winthorpe's prodigal son returned, he did not indicate such. He merely nodded and said, “Mr. Fitzhugh.” He opened the door wide, and Warrick stepped inside. He handed his walking stick, greatcoat, and hat to a waiting footman then said, “I'm here to see my mother, Dalton.”

“Of course, sir.” The butler must have been ancient, but he hadn't aged so much as a day in Warrick's estimation. He still had the same unsmiling countenance, the same drooping jowls, the same steely gray hair and steely gray eyes. “Your calling card, please.” He held out a hand.

Warrick refrained from rolling his eyes. “I haven't one with me.” He couldn't have said if he had one at all. He was not in the habit of making calls. He supposed his own butler could have unearthed them for him, but he hadn't thought to ask when he'd stopped home for a quick change. His valet had fussed when he said he didn't have time for a shave, and Dalton's gaze on him now made Warrick wish he had listened to his valet. His day's growth of beard made his cheeks burn under Dalton's critical eye.

“I see. If you will wait here a moment.” Dalton and the footman disappeared, the footman in one direction and Dalton toward the drawing room. Warrick shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the house. Little had changed since he had last been here. The ceilings were still soaring, the art still classical, the potted plants still green and perfectly tended. The silence of the house was familiar, as well. He had remembered being chastised more than once as a child for stomping up and down the stairs when he should walk like a young gentleman. Suddenly, there was a shriek followed by a laugh. Warrick started then turned as a young boy scampered by, chasing a battered ball. Another boy followed, and in their haste to retrieve the ball, they tangled legs and fell in a heap at Warrick's feet. Giggles erupted as the boys rose to their knees and then abruptly ceased as they glanced up at Warrick.

“Good day,” he said.

Both boys gave him grins so reminiscent of his older brothers, Warrick could not fail to know their identities. One of these boys was Henry and the other must have been Charles. These were his nephews, but how could they be so big? He had last seen them as babies.

“Good day,” the boys said, as they rose.

“And who are you?” the taller one with a mop of thick black hair asked. This one must be his eldest brother Richard's boy. No one but a future heir would presume to speak so to a stranger.

“I'm your uncle, and you must be Charles.” He pointed to the boy with the black hair. “And you,” he nodded at the shorter boy, “must be Henry.”

Henry grinned, but Charles's brow furrowed. Good God, the boy was the spitting image of his father. “Uncle? But Uncle Anthony is here already.”

“I'm your Uncle Warrick.” He leaned down and whispered, “The one they don't talk about.”

Henry giggled, and Charles shot him a warning look.

“It's all right,” Warrick said. “I'm here to see your grandmother.”

“Charles!” Warrick recognized the voice immediately. It was his brother Richard. A moment later Richard strode into the vestibule, stopping short when he spotted Warrick. He recovered himself quickly. “Warrick, this is a surprise.”

“I'm sure,” Warrick said. “I didn't realize I was interrupting a family gathering.”

“You're not.” With a wave, Richard sent Charles and Henry back into the parlor from whence they'd emerged. Charles went readily, but Henry dragged his feet and glanced over his shoulder. The boy reminded Warrick of himself at that age.

“The ladies are going shopping with Mama, and Anthony and I thought the boys could play together in the park.” He gestured to the square.

“I'm certain they will enjoy that. The weather is splendid today.”

“Yes, it is.”

Anthony, in his vicar's garb, emerged from the parlor, a young boy following him closely. “Charles said Uncle Warrick was here, but I didn't believe it until I saw it.” He swept the boy into his arms in one motion then gave Warrick a hard hug in the next. Anthony and Warrick were the closest in age and had always been boon companions. Now, as Anthony hugged him, Warrick caught the scent of the child he held, something sticky and sweet and perfectly innocent. His heart wrenched.

Anthony stood back. “Have you met George?”

“I don't think I have.” Warrick smiled at the child. “I thought you had a daughter.”

Anthony nodded. “Mary couldn't leave her lessons. She has a very strict governess.” He grinned, and Warrick grinned as well.

“It's a surprise seeing you here,” Richard said.

“I came to see Mother.”

“Didn't think you were welcome,” Anthony said. “That's how we treat war heroes, you know.”

Warrick smiled. “I don't have an invitation, but I wanted to speak to Mother about the ball tomorrow night.”

“Are you attending?” Anthony asked. “Mama will be thrilled.”

Richard put his hands on his hips. “She'll be thrilled you are here now. Lady Edith is with Anne and Frances in the drawing room.”

It took Warrick a moment to place Anne and Frances. They were his sisters-in-law, but he could not immediately remember which was married to Anthony and which to Richard.

“Mr. Fitzhugh,” Dalton said, appearing again. “Shall I take you to the countess?”

“By all means.” He nodded to his brothers and started up the steps. How many times had he climbed these steps as a child? How many times had he and Anthony charged down them, playing Henry V and the Battle of Agincourt? Would his own children ever know this place? Would they ever play with their cousins or face the withering glances of Dalton?

Dalton opened the drawing room doors and announced Warrick. He entered, and three ladies turned to study him. One was his mother, and the others must be Anne and Frances. He remembered them now, the blond was Anne, and she was married to Anthony. The brunette was Frances, Richard's wife. She looked as though she wore a rod in her gown.

“Ladies.” He bowed. Warrick heard a commotion behind him and Anthony and Richard, along with the boys entered. The boys immediately ran to their mothers, who smiled at them indulgently. Anne took George upon her lap.

“Warrick,” his mother said, “this is a surprise. You remember Lady Edith, do you not?” She gestured, and he turned to see a woman standing behind him. She was more beautiful than he remembered, and Fallon's opposite in almost every way. She was tall and thin, stately in her demeanor. Her wheat-colored hair fell in charming curls about her face and neck. Her eyes were light, a green or blue, and sparkled with laughter. She looked young and fresh and innocent.

She came forward, holding her hand out to him. “Mr. Fitzhugh, so good to see you again.”

He took her hand and bowed. “Lady Edith, it's been far too long.”

“Indeed, it has.” She gave him a mischievous smile and then retreated to the couch beside Frances. Henry climbed onto her lap, unbidden, and she accepted him happily, apparently unconcerned that he might wrinkle her pale pink gown.