Seduced by a Scoundrel (39 page)

Behind her, a door opened.

Whirling around, she saw her husband standing in the shadows across the room, where dark blue draperies half concealed a doorway. His brawny form riveted her attention. Her throat went dry and her pulse quickened. He wore an ancient Roman-style garment, a plain linen tunic that ended at his knees. Beneath it, his legs were bare.

No wonder Fergus had been so amused. She couldn’t help smiling, either, though more with interest than humor.

Drake bowed deeply. “I am here to serve you, my exalted mistress.”

A wild excitement coursed through her as she remembered her fantasy. He would play her slave and do her bidding? Drake, who was too arrogant to obey anyone?

“Come closer,” he said in a voice that was deep and stirring. “I live to satisfy your every whim.” Then he gestured at the doorway.

More than willing, she walked past him and into a cozy blue bedchamber with a fire burning on the hearth and candles glowing on the bedside table. Her gaze riveted to the big, canopied bed. The linens were strewn with rose petals, and their scent perfumed the air. Her heart racing, she turned to find Drake standing directly behind her, his eyes dark and compelling, holding the promise of delights to come.

“I am pleased you would come to me,” he said. “I have missed serving you.”

She couldn’t stop staring at his firm, sensual mouth. And thinking how much she craved his kiss. “As I have missed you.”

She would have moved into his arms then, but he caught her hand and led her to a chair by the fire. Mystified but eager to play along, she sat down while he took something from the mantelpiece.

His manner deferential, he bent low, his tunic gaping open to a view of his muscled chest. He extended his hands, a small jeweler’s box cupped within his palms. “For you, my lady.”

I have something that is yours.

Was this what he’d meant?

Reaching out, she tentatively touched the leather case. “Oh, Drake, you needn’t purchase gifts to win me back. It truly isn’t necessary.”

“I wish only to give you the courtship you never had.”

Her throat went taut with tenderness, and she understood how she’d misjudged him. He hadn’t been trying to buy her affections these past weeks. He had been
wooing
her. To make up for their forced marriage.

He opened the case. Against a backdrop of white velvet lay a diamond-studded band of gold. As if in a dream, she looked at him questioningly, afraid to ask what it meant.

Then he did something astonishing. He lowered himself to his knees, and his gaze beseeched her. “Your wedding ring, my lady. Will it please you to wear it?”

He wasn’t telling her. He was
asking.

Tears misted her eyes. She couldn’t contain her eagerness. “Yes. Oh, yes!”

Taking her hand, he slid the ring onto her finger, and the gemstones sparkled in the firelight. As he brought her hand to his lips, his eyes glowed with mysterious depths. “I have something that is yours,” he said.

So it wasn’t the ring.

“You,” she murmured, leaning forward to twine her arms around his neck, no longer able to contain her unruly desire. “
You
are mine. Oh, do make love to me.”

Closing his fingers about her shoulders, he held her back. “Not yet.”

Confused by his suddenly domineering manner, she wanted to play their fantasy. “But you’re my slave. You’re supposed to do as I say.”

He smiled, a brief quirk of his lips that showed his dimples. “Patience, my lady. All will be as you wish.” Then an unguarded longing shone in his eyes. Drawing a harsh breath, he went on, “It’s been hell living without you these past weeks. I want you with me for always, you and our child.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I want that, too. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn and unforgiving—”

He gently pressed his finger to her lips. “Let me finish. What I have for you, Alicia … is my heart. I love you.”

I have something that is yours.

Joy poured through her in an extravagant rush of emotion. She wanted to weep and exult all at the same time. Burrowing into his arms, she relished the steady beating of his heart against hers. “Oh, darling, I love you, too.
Now
will you seduce me?”

This time, his smile took on that erotic tilt. “I am yours to command, O mistress mine.”

Rising, he drew her to her feet and unbuttoned her spencer. He kept his gaze lowered in deference, though there was nothing servile in the way he stared at her bosom. Her breasts had grown heavier, preparing for the time when she would nurse his child. As if by accident, his fingers brushed the ripe swells. She might have been the mistress of a Roman villa, dallying with a handsome slave. “Touch me,” she decreed.

“Your will is my pleasure.”

His hands moved in lazy strokes, tracing the curves of her body. Stepping behind her, he slowly undressed her. He slid the copper silk gown off her shoulders, letting it slither to the floor, leaving her clad in only a lace-trimmed shift and a single petticoat. With a tug on the ties, he sent the petticoat drifting downward. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear, sending shivers over her skin. “No corset today,” he said in a rough murmur. “Mistress, you make my duties so … enjoyable.”

Oh, she did like this game! She lifted her arms. “Finish, my slave.”

He complied, disposing of her last garment. Then he cupped her bare breasts in his hands. With a sigh, she leaned into him, relishing the abrasion of his coarse tunic on her soft skin, the radiant heat of his body, the urgency of his iron-hard arousal. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Oh, Drake, do kiss me or I’ll go mad.”

He brought his mouth down on hers with gentle pressure as if he controlled his passion. But she didn’t want discipline; she wanted wild, uninhibited seduction. Winding her arms around his neck, she parted her lips and enticed him with her tongue. He responded with a hoarse groan, tasting her, caressing her, his hands sliding downward from her breasts to her hips, stopping just short of the place she wanted to be touched.

“To bed, slave,” she said. “Take me to bed
now.
”

He obeyed, half carrying her across the chamber and pressing her down onto the sea of red petals. The scent of roses wafted around her and mingled with his exciting essence. Stripping off his tunic, he loomed over her, broad and strong, his muscles bronzed by the candlelight. He was all man,
her
man.

Crouching over her on the bed, he took one nipple into his mouth and suckled her, then did the same to the other. Alicia uttered a breathless cry, her fingers sinking into his thick black hair. All the while, he caressed her in a leisurely fashion, teasing her between her legs until she could no longer bear the torment, and she reached for his heavy shaft, guiding him to her.

Then he joined their bodies, no longer the slave but her master. Seizing control, he moved inside her, and she moaned with the pleasure of it. Each thrust heightened the exquisite agony. When she would have closed her eyes, he caught her cheeks in his hands and his gaze locked with hers. “Look at me,” he ordered. “See the man who loves you.”

She did look. His blue eyes held no secrets now; they burned with the beauty of love. He penetrated deeply, filling her, pressing harder and faster. She strained to meet him, matching his passion with a wildness of her own. Gazing into his eyes, she saw his face darken with the approach of climax and felt a surge of emotion so powerful that she convulsed with ecstasy.

For long moments afterward, she lay in his arms, utterly content and sated. The aroma of roses enveloped them along with the musk of their lovemaking. Her wedding ring glinted in the firelight. She stretched and sighed, cuddling against his warm, hard form. How she had missed this—not just the closeness of their bodies, but the sense of completion, the feeling that she belonged with Drake, now and forever.

His hand traveled in lazy strokes over her hip. “I see my lady is pleased with her slave.”

The arrogance was back in his voice, and she thrilled to it. Smiling, she plucked a petal from his shoulder. “I believe I’ll keep you after all.”

“So long as you don’t expect me to dress like a damned fool anymore.”

“What, and deprive Fergus of his amusement?” she teased. “I can see you clad as an Indian in a loincloth, an Arabic prince in gauzy trousers, a—”

“Enough.” His eyes twinkling, he kissed her. Then, with a look of concentration, he tipped up her chin, touching her as if she were beloved to him. His voice gruff, he said, “In all honesty, Alicia, I’d have come crawling on my knees to get you back. I even considered selling the club, since you so despise gambling.”

She quickly shook her head. “Oh, but you mustn’t put Mr. Cheever and Mr. MacAllister and all the others out of work. Where would they go?”

He nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought—and what I’d hoped you would say.”

“But surely you won’t be spending as much time here. You’ll have other duties now.”

“Quite so.” All charming rogue, he let his fingers circle her breast, causing the rise of arousal in her. “I shall be keeping my wife contented.”

“I meant your duties as the Marquess of Hailstock,” she said gently.

Grimacing, he flopped onto his back, sending rose petals fluttering off the bed. “Don’t call me that. I never wanted the damned title.”

Seeing his discomfort, she perversely reveled in it. “Such are the wages of vengeance, my lord.”

“Jade. Don’t forget that vengeance brought me into your life.”

“Jackanapes,” she said tartly, wriggling against him. “Don’t
you
forget that I made you a better man.”

He focused his scoundrel’s smile on her, the smile that always made her heart beat faster. “You’ll have a lifetime to remind me of my sins. But for now, dear wife…”—his hands drifted possessively over her—“for now, I intend to seduce you again.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek at

Olivia Drake’s latest book

Stroke of Midnight

Available June 2013 wherever books are sold

Chapter 1

She had no reason to fear the constable.

Holding fast to that thought, Laura followed the burly officer through the graveyard. The cloudy afternoon cast a gloomy pall over the rows of headstones and wooden crosses. A few of the mounds had been carefully tended, though many others showed signs of neglect. Rough masculine laughter came from one of the gin houses in the surrounding slums. It was the only sound besides the squelching of the constable’s boots on the sodden ground and the patter of her own footsteps.

Though any woman in her circumstances might feel a bit nervous, Laura had more reason than most to be wary. She reminded herself that the constable could have no notion of her true identity. A decade had passed since she and her father had fled London. She had been someone else then, leading another life under a different surname. A lady garbed in silk and jewels rather than the drab commoner she was now.

No one in this vast city knew her anymore. Miss Laura Falkner, toast of society, was as dead as the poor souls in this paupers’ cemetery.

The constable glanced over his shoulder, the dark sockets of his eyes boring into her. “Almost there, Miss Brown.”

Laura kept her face expressionless. Had a stray curl escaped her bonnet? She hoped not, for the police surely had a description of her that included mention of her distinctive tawny-gold hair. “You’ve done more than your duty, sir. If you’ll point me in the right direction, you can be on your way.”

“’Tis no trouble to take ye there. No trouble at all.”

His insistence increased her disquiet. He continued onward, his large head moving back and forth to examine the gravestones. What was his name again? Officer Pangborn. She had not wanted an escort, but he’d insisted that no decent female should venture alone into these crime-ridden stews.

Laura had acquiesced only because a refusal might arouse suspicion. She had taken a risk in going to the police in the first place. But she’d needed to learn more about her father’s recent death and also to discover the site of his final resting place.

Papa!

The wind tossed a spattering of icy raindrops at her face. Shivering, she drew the cloak more securely around herself. After so many years in the sunshine of Portugal, she had forgotten the damp chill of an English springtime. Or perhaps it was just that she’d suppressed the memory of her old life before she and Papa had escaped into exile.

Now he lay dead. Murdered by an unknown assailant in an alley near Covent Garden. The shock of it still numbed her. News of the attack had arrived while she’d been tending the garden outside their little cottage in the mountains of Portugal. How contented she’d been that day, trimming the camellias, weeding the arum lilies, while having no inkling of the disaster that was about to shatter her tranquility. Then a boy from the village had delivered a letter from the London police stating that one Martin Brown lay severely injured, that her address had been found in his pocket. She’d departed in a rush, traveling for many days over land and sea, only to learn that her father had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the letter had been posted.