Kathryn Smith (25 page)

“I told you to keep an eye on that one,” he remarked, lifting a glass of champagne to his lips. “He’s not to be trusted.”

Devlin opened his mouth to reply, but another voice beat him to it. “Don’t tell him that!”

Brahm.

Wynthrope shot a sharp glance at their oldest brother. “You lost the right to tell me what to do years ago, Brahm.”

Wonderful. The two of them were going to use him as an excuse to fight—not that they hadn’t done so before. Any excuse to exchange heated insults seemed to suit his eldest brothers.

Brahm’s gaze was just as cool as Wyn’s. “No one could ever tell you anything. Perhaps if you pulled your head out of your ass and stopped blaming everyone else for your life you wouldn’t judge people so harshly.”

Wyn drained his glass. “I do not blame ‘everyone’ for my life. I blame you.”

The oldest Ryland stiffened, and Devlin held up a hand to both of them. “Not here. If the two of you ruin this party with a fight I swear I’ll personally pound you both into the ground.” He might very well be the youngest, but he was the biggest, and they both knew he’d do it.

“Sorry,” Brahm mumbled.

“Beg pardon,” Wyn added, likewise. But neither looked at the other.

Devlin shook his head. “You should be apologizing to each other, not to me.”

Silence as the two stared in opposite directions.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Looking from one to the other, Devlin couldn’t decide which backside to kick first. Why were they like this with each other? Ever since they were children it seemed they had been at each other’s throat.

“I will decide who I can and cannot trust,” he told Wynthrope.

“I do not need you to defend me,” he said to Brahm. “The only person I am concerned with is my wife and I trust her completely. Carny is not my concern.”

Wyn shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I still wouldn’t turn
my back on him if I were you.” With that parting remark, he turned his own back on his brothers and strode away, depositing his empty glass on a footman’s tray as he passed.

“I hate to say it,” Brahm said softly, “but I agree with him. You are right to trust Blythe, but there is history between the two of them, and there is nothing more appealing to some men than the woman they can no longer have.”

Devlin raised a brow. Hadn’t Wyn said something similar not long ago? He refused to be baited. He already doubted Carny enough. “Speaking from experience?”

Brahm smiled ruefully and nodded across the room. “Remember her?”

Devlin followed his gaze to an elegant blond woman. He didn’t remember her name, but he recognized the face. “Didn’t her father and ours try to arrange a marriage between the two of you?”

Brahm nodded. “Lady Eleanor refused to marry the drunkard son of an even worse drunkard.”

It was said in such a rueful tone that Devlin frowned. “But you didn’t want her anyway. You said she was colorless and cold.”

Brahm’s whiskey eyes were bright with irony. “That’s right. And ever since she refused me I find colorless and cold becoming more and more my taste.”

Devlin stared at his brother. It had been years since she had refused Brahm, and
now
his brother decided she was attractive? Because she was out of his reach?

“That is precisely what I mean.” Brahm tapped his cane on the floor and took his gaze off the graceful blond. “You do not have to distrust your friend, Dev. Just be careful you do not give him more trust than he deserves.”

And then Brahm left him as well, so that Devlin was once again alone, watching his wife dance with another man.

A man he had killed for, and now one he did not know if he could trust.

“D
o you trust Carny?”

It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation Blythe would have planned for her wedding night, but since it was her husband asking, she decided the question deserved an answer.

“I would certainly trust him to tell me whether a gown became me or not, but I suspect that’s not what you are asking.”

They were in the master suite—the one they planned to share while at Varya’s town house. Blythe sat at the vanity in her nightgown while Devlin, clad in shirt-sleeves and trousers, stood behind her, brushing her hair with an ivory-handled brush. He seemed to have a fascination with her hair—not that she minded, of course.

His high, ebony brows knitted. “My brother thinks I shouldn’t trust Carny with you.”

Blythe was tempted to ask which brother, but a little voice in her head told her it was Wynthrope, the cool one who seemed to find the whole world one big cynical joke.

“I have a feeling your brother does not trust anyone but himself.”

He ran the brush through her hair, following it with his fingers. It felt nice. “He trusts me. And North.”

“Not Brahm?”

Another stroke. “Not that he would ever admit.”

Her gaze met his in the mirror. “Whatever happened between the two of them?”

Devlin shrugged. “If I had to blame it on one thing, I’d say my father.”

Blythe stared at him. What kind of life had these boys had? “I am afraid that right now I am very glad that your father is dead.”

He stopped brushing, his gaze falling to the top of her head. She could see his solemn expression in the mirror. “Don’t be happy that he’s dead. Be happy that he’s not in our lives.”

What was the difference? Before she could ask, he spoke again, “You never answered my question. Do you trust Carny?”

“With me?” That was what he was asking, was it not? At his nod, she thought about it. “I have no reason not to. What do you think?”

Another gentle pull of the brush. “I think I would prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

She smiled at his reflection. “You do not want to think ill of him, do you?”

He set the brush down. “I know he’s not perfect, but he is my friend.”

Rising, Blythe turned to face him, her arms twining around his neck. “He is my friend as well, and I do not believe he would do anything to injure either of us.”

Devlin smiled. “Good.”

She realized that was what he had wanted—to hear her absolve Carny so he wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.

“Now no more talk of Carny,” she murmured, pressing herself against him. The thin silk gown she wore shifted coolly against her skin. “It is our wedding night. Remember?”

Devlin’s arms closed around her, his fingers sliding down to cup her buttocks. “How could I forget?”

His lips came down on hers and Blythe shivered, as much from the cool night breeze drifting from the open window as from his touch.

“Are you cold?” his asked against her lips, his right hand sliding up to capture her breast. His thumb rubbed the tightening peak, drawing a gasp of pleasure from her lips.

“No,” she answered, leaning into his touch. “I think it is about to get very warm in here.”

He toyed with her breast some more, pinching the nipple and lowering his head so that his mouth closed around it. He suckled through the silk until her knees were weak with desire and her body throbbed with need.

His hands slid up her legs, taking the gown with them, until she could feel the night air swirl around her thighs and higher. Then he lifted her, setting her on the vanity.

The flimsy nightgown was rucked high above her hips, baring her from the waist down. Her legs were golden in the warm candlelight, the hair at the juncture of her thighs far too visible. Flushing with embarrassment, Blythe pressed her knees together. She could smell herself, smell her desire for him.

Devlin stood before her. He pulled his shirt over his head and faced her, clad in nothing but his trousers, the front bulging with his arousal. His fingers wrapped around her knees, his thumbs pressing between.

“Spread your legs for me.” The sensuous timbre of his command turned the muscles of her thighs to jelly. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—resist as his hands slid her legs apart, the backs of them pulling on the vanity’s polished surface.

He stepped between her splayed knees, hooking his hands beneath them. He lifted, pulling her hips closer to the edge. Blythe reached behind for balance, shifting her weight so she wouldn’t fall off onto the carpet.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

He dropped to the floor, kneeling between her anxious thighs. There was no doubt in her mind that he could smell her now as well. But he didn’t seem the least bit repulsed by her body’s reaction to him. In fact, he seemed only further inflamed by it.

“Your skin is the color of cream,” he murmured, sliding a finger down the quivering expanse of her belly. “And this”—his fingers delved into the damp curls at the base of her abdomen—“this is exactly the same color as cinnamon. I want to taste.”

Taste?
He had mentioned putting his mouth there before, and she’d tingled at the thought. What would it feel like to have his tongue torment her as his fingers had?

As though answering her unspoken question, Devlin parted the slick folds of her sex with his thumbs. Sitting as she was, Blythe caught a glimpse of glistening pink flesh as he moved purposefully toward it. She watched as his tongue slid from between his lips—

“Oh!” Her hips jerked, her muscles tightened. He had licked her—right in her most sensitive spot. And she liked it!

Breathless, she sat, muscles straining, unable to tear her gaze away as he flicked his tongue against her yet again, sending a shudder of pure sexual delight coursing through her. Wantonly, she spread her legs wider, angling her hips upward to give him better access to the private recesses of her body—recesses that were swollen with heat and need.

His tongue entered her, hot, firm, and insistent. Moaning, she writhed against it, digging her heel into the vanity chair to the right of her for purchase. Softer and smaller than his erection, his tongue was ten times as insistent and infinitely more agile, stroking her with a velvety texture that had her entire body quivering.

Then he withdrew from inside her, leaving her breathless and wanting for more. His tongue slid upward, until the tip once again toyed with that aching crest he called her “sweet
spot.” It felt sweet indeed, but it was because of his exquisite mouth, not because of her!

Gently he licked, rubbing her with the slick roughness of his tongue, stroking her until she was almost mad with desire. It coiled deep within her, tight and insistent, desperate to release its tempest throughout her. She wanted that storm as well. Wanted it so badly that she lost all concept of proper behavior. All that existed was Devlin and the pleasure he gave her. Blythe gripped his head with one hand, her fingers pulling at his hair as she held him between her legs. She lifted herself with the heel on the chair and the arm still on the vanity. Her hips moved with his stroking, her need driving her rhythm until even the vanity itself swayed with her motions.

Brushes tumbled to the floor. Bottles rattled against one another, all punctuated by Blythe’s moans of sensual delight.

“
Ohh
…I’m…oh, Devlin!” The tempest whipped through her, barraging every nerve and fiber with a torrent of pleasure that had her crying out in wordless wonder, her body arching like a fork of lightning in the summer sky.

She slumped on the vanity, numb and boneless in the calm following the storm. But Devlin wasn’t done with her yet. She should have known there would be more.

He lifted her off the vanity, turning her so that her back was to him. God, he didn’t expect her to stand, did he? Her legs couldn’t support her weight.

He pushed against her shoulders, easing her torso over the vanity so that she rested on her wide-spread forearms. He nudged her thighs apart with his own legs, the blunt head of his sex pressing against her swollen, sensitive flesh.

Surely he didn’t mean to take her like this, did he? Was it even possible?

Looking up, Blythe caught their reflection in the vanity mirror. The height of the vanity was such that she was bent at an angle that put her hips level with his groin. Once again she was unable to look away. The expression on his face held her
captive. His fingers closed over her hip as he stroked himself. At first she thought he meant to find his own pleasure that way, but then he moved and she felt him nudge the opening of her body with the hard length of him.

Slowly, he slid inside, parting her tender flesh with gentle insistence. She shuddered, sparks of intense sensation flooding her groin. She was still feeling the effects of her climax. Deeper and deeper he forged, until his pelvic bones pressed against her buttocks and her breasts flattened against the vanity top.

Their gazes met in the mirror and the familiar tightening started anew in the core of Blythe’s being. Every languid thrust, every heavy-lidded look sent it spiraling lower and lower.

“You’re mine,” he told her, his voice husky and strained, his body deep within hers. “Mine alone.”

She didn’t respond. She only closed her eyes in pleasure as his hips ground against her buttocks. She was his. She would always be his.

And he was hers.

He withdrew only to thrust again. Her body was so tight around his she could feel the head of his organ stretching her, filling her. It was almost too much to bear and yet she would rather die than have him withdraw.

Fingers drifted across the front of her thigh, to the spot where his mouth had been not long before. The sensitivity had ebbed somewhat and he easily stroked her into preparation for another star-seeing release.

Blythe spread her feet, angling her hips upward to better receive him. Devlin bent over her, one hand gripping her hip, the other rubbing her ruthlessly. Her neck bowed. Her breath came in short, harsh gasps, fanning against the vanity’s polished surface. She was up on her toes as he shoved himself within her, so insistent that sometimes her feet left the carpet altogether. In and out, oh and God.

And then she came again, with no warning, only the onslaught of mind-numbing pleasure that had her gripping the vanity with all her strength and stars dancing before her tightly squeezed eyes.

Devlin quickened his thrusts. The only thing that saved her from being slammed against the vanity mirror was his hold on her. Holding her by both hips now, he plunged in and out of her without mercy as her flesh became increasingly sensitive, until she felt him stiffen, heard him groan something that sounded very much like an obscenity. Then he slumped against her, and somehow she managed to keep from falling to the floor.

A few moments later, as their breathing began to return to normal, he withdrew from her, taking her arm to help her stand upright again.

They cleaned up at the basin before snuffing the candles and crawling into bed. Blythe snuggled contentedly against him, sated in both body and spirit.

“Did you like that?” Devlin asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

She slid her arm across his chest. “You have to ask? I thought it was fairly obvious.”

“I just want to know that I please you.”

It was such a simple admission, certainly nothing like pledging undying love, but it hit Blythe square in the chest all the same. “Of course you please me.” Then a shard of panic struck. “Do I not please you?”

Devlin chuckled, squeezing her with the arm around her shoulders. “If you please me any more you’re going to kill me.”

A smug smile curved her lips in the darkness. “So you won’t be looking to take a mistress anytime soon?”

It was meant as a joke, but she realized how poor a one it was when he stiffened beside her. “I will never take a mistress.”

Blast, she forgot all about his father’s infidelity to his mother. It was something Devlin obviously felt very strongly about, having discussed it in the past. Even though it didn’t sound as if his mother made it easy for the late viscount to be faithful to her, she could understand why Devlin wouldn’t want to repeat history in his own marriage—which suited Blythe just fine. The idea of his bedding another woman filled her with an inexplicable rage. He was hers, and no other woman would ever find joy in his arms again—not while she lived.

“I am sorry.” She rubbed his chest. “I forgot.”

“I know.” She couldn’t see his face, but she could tell by his voice that he was himself again.

A comfortable silence stretched between them.

“Devlin, do you trust me?” she asked when the question refused to stop swirling about her mind.

“With my life,” came the sleepy response.

“Good.” Smiling, she snuggled against him again.

He didn’t ask her if she trusted him. No doubt he took for granted that she did, given his thoughts on infidelity. Oddly enough, she did trust him. With Carny she had always been waiting for him to find someone he liked better than her. It hurt like hell when he did, but it hadn’t surprised her—not really. But with Devlin she didn’t have that feeling. It wasn’t that she thought no other woman would want him; she knew for a fact that others did—Lady Ashby, for instance. And it wasn’t that she had come to think of herself as such a prime catch either.

No, it was something she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t quite put her finger on how it had happened, or when, but she knew deep down inside that he would never stray—not just because he said he wouldn’t, but because she didn’t believe he would ever want to. She was the only woman for him, and if that wasn’t love, it was something very close to it.

She couldn’t deny that she very desperately wanted to hear
him say the words despite not knowing what her own reply might be. Oh, she had an idea of what she would say, but she didn’t want to think about it too much just in case the idea took hold in her mind and blossomed out of control. She didn’t want to fall in love with him before he fell in love with her. She didn’t want to be the one to give her heart without knowing if there was one waiting for her in return—not again.