Sinfully Yours (10 page)

His throat went slightly dry.

“It will be our little secret,” she whispered.

Bloody Hell.
Where had she learned to play the sultry siren-seductress? This was a side of Miss Anna Sloane that she had never, ever displayed in London.

“N-no,” he said, not budging an inch. Manly pride demanded that he stand firm.

“Not even if I do this?” Her lips touched his skin as she gave a little nibble to the tip of his chin.

Every particle of his flesh now felt afire. “I—I will consider the request.”

“And what if I do this?”

Ye gods, perhaps Miss Anna Sloane wasn’t quite the innocent virgin that she appeared to be.

The thought ignited another burst of sparks in his belly. His whole body was now vibrating with lust.
With longing.

Angry at himself for the momentary weakness, Devlin snapped out a brusque warning. “You are now not only playing with fire, but thrusting yourself into the roaring flames.”

“Mmmm.” Her tongue flicked over his lower lip as she pressed her body up against him. “You do feel a trifle warm.”

Satan save me.

All he had to do was press his palms to her slender shoulders and put some distance between them.
A simple move.
One he had done often enough, for his cardinal rule was to keep any woman from getting too close. And yet his fingers curled instead around her arms and slid down the soft sleeves of her gown to capture her wrists.

“Miss Sloane…” He hesitated, surprised at how unsteady his voice sounded. Then, reminding himself that he was a ruthless rake, Devlin sucked in a harsh breath. “Warm is rather an understatement. You are dancing dangerously close to the razor-thin line of No Return.” Forcing himself to loosen his grip, he gave her a final warning. “Flee now, else I can’t be responsible for what happens next.”

A lady should be a little dangerous.

That she could arouse such a look of molten desire in a rake’s eyes emboldened Anna to arch into a more intimate embrace. “I spend more time than you might think trying to imagine what it’s like to be daring and dangerous.”

“Your imagination,” rasped Devlin, “is far too active.”

Anna knew that she should pull back. Every shred of sanity was echoing the Devil’s warning.
Flee now—fly away, as fast as you can.

Otherwise there was no going back.

A part of her knew this was madness…

A part of me doesn’t care.

Anna lifted her gaze to lock with his. “I’m not sure whether it’s active enough.” Summoning her courage, she rubbed herself back and forth against the ridge of his arousal.

The reaction was immediate. Devlin’s body tensed, and his breathing turned a little ragged.

A tingling took hold of her palms. There was something elementally exciting about having the power to make a jaded blade like the marquess lose control.

“Ye gods,” he whispered, his voice somewhere between a groan and a growl. Grasping her waist, he drew her into a shadowed alcove. His hands then slipped down to the fastenings of his trousers.

Anna felt the fumbling of fabric—soft wool, smooth cotton—and then Devlin seized her hand and suddenly there was a primal, pulsing heat against her palm. Velvet flesh, hard as steel.

I should scream, I should swoon.
Instead, she curled her fingers around his maleness and squeezed ever so gently.

Devlin made a sound in the back of his throat.

She tightened her hold and drew a gasp.

Thinking back to her father’s books on primitive cultures—and the lengthy late-night chats with her older sister about the mysteries of desire—Anna slowly moved her hand up and down the rigid length of him.

“Am I getting this right?”

“Exquisitely so.” Devlin circled his hand over hers. “It’s for you to set the rhythm, like so,” he added, guiding her stroke. “And adding pressure here…” A sharp exhale. “And here will drive a man mad.”

Slowly, slowly.
Anna closed her eyes, intent on learning every nuance of his shape and his reaction to her caresses. Oh, Society would think her worse than wicked, worse than wanton for breaking every rule of proper behavior. But for now…

His hand fell away.

But for now, to the Devil with all rules.
Acting on instinct, she quickened her strokes while watching Devlin’s face. His jaw muscles tightened and a sheen of sweat began to bead his brow.

“I like the feel of you,” she whispered. “Though no doubt I will be damned to perdition for saying so.”

His hips rocked in rhythm with her touch. “Perdition,” he said through gritted teeth, “suddenly seems a rather attractive place.”

“I imagine it’s very hot.” Anna tentatively ran her touch around the crest of his cock. “On account of all the flames.”

“Flames.” With a raspy groan, Devlin jerked her hand away.

A lick of chill air chased his warmth from her fingertips. “W-was I doing something wrong?”

It took him a moment to steady his ragged breathing. “Alas, you were doing it all too right, sweeting.”

“I—I never imagined that passion was quite so…powerful.” She pressed her palms together as he turned away to refasten his trousers, surprised by the fierce pulse of heat coming from within her own body. “It’s one thing to read about it in books and quite another to experience it in the flesh.”

“You’ve not yet experienced the pleasures of passion?” he asked in a devil-dark voice.

Anna wasn’t sure how to answer.

As Devlin turned and set his hands on her shoulders, the alcove seemed to come alive. The slanting patterns of sunlight began to dip and dance over the woodwork, and the air around them started to crackle with unseen sparks. Whirling, twirling, whirling—everything became a blur, and then suddenly Anna found her body braced against the back wall.

“Have you?” he demanded. Their bodies were locked together in an intimate embrace.

Words tangled together too tightly for speech. All she could do was shake her head.

“I did warn you that playing with fire is dangerous.” His whisper teased against her face. “Now it’s your turn.”

Go. Now.

Anna’s heart began to thud against her ribs. “I don’t think—” she began.

“That’s right,” said Devlin. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

In the next instant, Anna was overwhelmed by a swirl of sensations. His hand was skating down the curve of her thigh…her skirts were skittering against her legs…a cool draft was curling around her ankles.

Up, up the fabric inched, as if impelled by some ancient Highland spell. Lace tickled over her skin, and his hand…

She gasped.
Oh, surely his hand wasn’t going to touch her there.

Her body froze, and Devlin went very still. “If you wish for me to stop, you have only to say so. I may be a rogue, but I am not a cad.”

Yes or no?

Anna hitched in a slow, shuddering breath. Against all rules, against all reason, she felt safe in his arms. “Oh, please. D-don’t stop. I want to know…I want to know…”

Know what?

Anna wasn’t quite certain how to put it into words. Her body speaking a strange language all its own.

And yet, Devlin seemed to have no trouble understanding exactly what it was saying.

“Let the tension melt away, sweeting,” he murmured.

As he traced a light kiss along the line of her jaw, Anna felt a delicious warmth radiate out through her limbs. Her legs turned a trifle unsteady, and if not for Devlin’s hold on her waist, she might well have slumped to the floor.

“Mmmm.” Letting her eyelids fall half-closed, she twined her arms around his neck. “Being ravished is really rather pleasant.”

He let out a low, husky chuckle that made her insides give a lopsided lurch. “Do pay attention. I shall lose all credibility as a rake if the object of my evil intentions should fall asleep during the seduction.”

“
Are
you seducing me?” Anna nuzzled the starched points of his shirtcollar. “By the by, you smell very nice.” Inhaling deeply, she held the tantalizing scent in her lungs for as long as she could. “Like spiced smoke and tawny port.”
And a myriad of other intriguing pleasures that are forbidden to a lady.

“I am not quite sure who is seducing whom,” answered Devlin a little raggedly. His hand feathered higher.

And suddenly the world slipped off its axis.

Clutching at his coat, she held on for dear life as he grazed the top of her stocking, and bare flesh met bare flesh.

And then he delved into her core.

“Oh. Oh.” A fresh wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.

Devlin stilled her trembling lips with a kiss. His taste and his touch sent shiver after shiver thrumming through every fiber of her being.

I am possessed…

An unfamiliar heat, silky and liquid as sun-drizzled honey, welled up within her as he found a hidden pearl within her feminine folds.

Whatever wicked enchantment held her in thrall, Anna found herself wishing it would go on forever.

“Spread your legs, Anna,” coaxed Devlin.

With a wordless gasp, she slid her kidskin shoes over the smooth parquet.

His lips were now pressed to the hollow of her throat. He murmured something—she knew not what. The wild pounding of her pulse drowned out all else as a new surge of heat spiraled through her belly, seeking release.

Tightening her hold on his shoulders, Anna arched against his hand.
Want, need. Want, need.
“I want…I need…”

“Hush, sweeting,” he soothed. “I know what you need.”

His stroke quickened and she thought she might burst into flames.

Devlin shifted slightly, muffling her soft cries in the folds of his coat. And then, just when the molten heat was too much to bear, her body convulsed in a sudden burst of firegold sparks.

When at last the shuddering sensations subsided, Anna slowly opened her eyes, unsure whether she was in Heaven…

Or Hell.

No wonder young ladies were warned to stay far, far away from Temptation. The taste of Sin was far too sweet.

“Mmmm.”
Like cinnamon-spiced sugar, warm and melting on the tongue.

The sound of a door opening and closing jolted her out of the languid reverie. “What was that?”

“A maid—and all too close by the sound of it.” Devlin hurriedly smoothed her skirts back in place. “Can you make it back to your rooms on your own?” he asked. “Ungentlemanly though it is to leave you in the lurch, it would be best if we are not seen together in this isolated part of the castle. I’m sure neither of us wishes to spark a scandal.”

Her body still felt a little boneless, but the word “scandal” shocked Anna back to her senses. She took a tentative step and her legs, though a trifle wobbly, kept her upright. “Yes, yes, you must go,” she hissed. “And quickly!”

The shadows rippled and the alcove was empty.

Anna pressed her forehead to the dark wood, taking just an instant to steady her heartbeat before making haste for the connecting corridor.

A
nna eased her bedchamber’s latch shut and leaned back against the door, still feeling a little dazed by the lingering fire inside her. A glance at her reflection in the cheval glass showed that her face and her figure remained unchanged.

How could that be?
she wondered, when she felt like a completely different person.

Aware that her heart was still thumping erratically, she slowly drew in several deep breaths and tried to calm its beat.

No wonder the poets waxed ecstatic when they composed odes about physical love. The sensations were wildly wonderful—though lightning might strike her down for daring to think such wicked thoughts.

“I don’t regret it,” she whispered defiantly. No matter that Polite Society would brand her a harlot if they knew what she had done.

And perhaps they would be right. The blame did not lie with Davenport, conceded Anna. She had thrown herself at him, thinking it oh-so clever to use a show of sultry flirtation to tease him into revealing his secret.

Instead, the rascally rogue had taken her seductive strategy and turned it to his own advantage. She had all but surrendered her virtue. And had received precious little in return.

Save for a taste of terrible temptation.

Feeling a little foolish, Anna made a place for herself on the cushioned window seat and stared out at the mist-shrouded moors. A myriad of puzzling questions were swirling inside her head. While a myriad of whirling-dervish desires were spinning through the rest of her body.

Research.
Anna grimaced at her reflection in the glass. At least the experience could be counted as research. After all, a writer must be willing to make great sacrifices in order to create a compelling story.

Though if she dared describe the scene in lurid detail, her pen might scorch the paper.

Expelling a sigh, she drew her knees to her chest.
Who am I, really?
Perhaps the question was sparking too many impetuous urges, too many rash explorations. Her father had reveled in journeying into the unknown—apparently she had inherited the same adventurous streak, instead of a proper dowry.

A prickling sensation suddenly danced down her arms and she chafed her palms against the pebbled flesh. In many ways, experimenting with sliding into a different skin was exciting. Exhilarating. And yet it was also terrifying.

Good and bad. Dark and light.

Nothing seemed to be making any sense—least of all her conflicting feelings. Up until now, she had been confident in her ability to plot out her own life, as well as those of her storybook characters.

So why do I feel like a puppet on a set of perversely tangled strings?

The only answer was a light knock on the door.

Her maid entered without waiting for an answer, two freshly pressed evening gowns draped over one arm.

“
Alors
, mademoiselle.” Josette eyed the dust and cobwebs clinging to the hem of Anna’s gown with a pained grimace. “Have my wits gone wandering?” She blew out a mournful sigh. “I am quite sure I would never have laid out your morning gown in such a shameful state.”

“No, no, once again, the fault is all mine,” assured Anna. “I did some exploring in the oldest wing of the castle, and the galleries there are rarely entered.”

“Did you discover anything interesting?”

Anna felt a hot flush rise to her cheeks. “N-not really,” she mumbled. “Just a number of ancient ancestral portraits and some fragments of Roman sculptures. It was all rather ordinary.”

“Only ordinary?” Josette smoothed a tiny wrinkle from one of the gowns and then carefully hung them in the armoire. “Yet the servants here say that Lord Dunbar has acquired a great many valuable collections.”

“Oh, yes, he has. But perhaps His Lordship’s predecessors did not possess his discerning eye.”

The maid accepted the explanation with a shrug. “Or his plump purse. One can have exquisite taste, but without money it hardly matters.”

Anna had lived enough years in genteel poverty to know Josette’s observation was in many ways true. And yet there was something a little sad about hearing someone so young express such a cynical outlook on life.

“Not all things of beauty or value can be measured in terms of money,” she said slowly.

Josette curled a faint smile. “We have an ancient proverb in French that says some people see a glass as half empty, while others see it as half full. I think that you are, at heart, an optimist, Mademoiselle Anna. While I have a more pragmatic view of the world.”

“I, too, consider myself a realist,” she protested. “I am not blinded by schoolgirl fantasies.”

Josette remained tactfully silent. Her expression, however, was eloquent in its skepticism.

“I’m not so naïve as to think that life always ends in a happily ever after,” added Anna.

“You could hardly be blamed if you did. From what I have heard, your older sister’s marriage was a fairytale come true.”

“Trust me, there were quite a few bumps along the road to happiness,” she quipped, thinking of the helter-pelter carriage chase that took Olivia and Wrexham across half of England.

“What about you, mademoiselle?” asked Josette after straightening the brushes and pinbox on the dressing table. “Do you expect to be happy in your choice of a husband?”

“I…I haven’t really given the question much thought,” she answered after a moment of hesitation.

Her maid let out a low snort. “Every woman thinks of that.”

“What I meant was, until recently, I had a duty to my family to make a good match. Happiness was not part of the equation.”

“But now you may choose whom you please?”

Anna forced a light laugh. “Perhaps things are done differently in France, but here in England, it is the gentleman who chooses, not the lady.”

“Ah,
oui
, it is still the same in France, no matter that Napoleon has changed many traditions. But you know what I meant.”

Rather than answer, she made a show of rising and shaking out her skirts. “I had better change out of this dusty gown. The hour is later than I thought, and I ought to begin dressing for supper. Which color would you suggest for tonight—the smoky emerald or the seafoam blue?”

“Hmmm.” Josette regarded her thoughtfully as she tapped a finger to her chin. “Your mood seems pensive, and perhaps a little dark. So I would advise you to wear the emerald.”

“You did not wish to join in the slaughter of birds today, Lord Davenport?”

Devlin turned as the Vicomte de Verdemont, Lady de Blois’s overfed brother-in-law, joined him at the head of the grand staircase. “I was feeling a trifle lazy, so I decided to spend my day doing nothing more strenuous than viewing some of the earl’s magnificent art collections.”

“Ah, yes. You are the one who so nobly offered your services as a guide to Marie-Helene.” Sarcasm further slurred Verdemont’s voice as they started down the stairs. He had already started drinking freely of their host’s vintage French brandy, judging by a whiff of his breath. “I hope the demands of my sister-in-law were not too strenuous. She can be a bit demanding.”

“I always endeavor to rise to the occasion when it presents itself,” answered Devlin with a deliberate grin. “However, la comtesse was still too distraught over the loss of her bauble to stir from her quarters.” A wink. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Verdemont’s nostrils flared in irritation.

“You do not sound overly fond of shooting,” Devlin went on. “Are you not an avid hunter?”

“I can think of more civilized ways to pass the time.”

Like trying to seduce your wife’s sister?
wondered Devlin. Aloud he responded, “So why accept the invitation? The rough-hewn moors of Scotland offer little in the way of civilized pleasures.”

“I might ask the same of you, Lord Davenport.”

“Oh, I’m a keen sportsman,” he replied. “When the moment is right, I am ready to—”

“Excellent! Then I shall expect you to join us on the morrow,” bellowed McClellan as he emerged from one of the side corridors. “We leave at first light, so as to have a full day tramping the moors.”

“There may be more guests dropping dead than game birds,” observed Devlin dryly.

An evil glint momentarily lightened McClellan’s granite-gray eyes. “Nay, nay. I’m a very good shot.”

“As I said, more guests than birds might expire on the morrow.”

The baron didn’t crack a smile. “I shall be counting on your presence, too, Verdemont.”

“I had planned on taking the day to finish some correspondence—” began the vicomte.

“Letters can wait.” McClellan dismissed the excuse with a curt wave. “I need you to make up our line of fire. Several of the older gentlemen have already begged off, and Lady Dunbar would hate to disappoint the prince and his friends by not having enough shooters.”

“If you insist,” said the vicomte ungraciously.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll meet in the Gun Room at five.”

Devlin heaved a martyred sigh. “As you see, there is a reason the Scots have a reputation for being a dour, grim-minded race,” he said to Verdemont. “Rising before dawn just to shed blood is unnatural.”

“Have you never fought a duel, Davenport?” demanded McClellan.

“Good heavens, no!” he drawled. “I have no honor to defend, so why would I bother?”

The exchange of barbs was brought to an end by the appearance of their hostess, who was escorting a half dozen of the ladies to the drawing room.

“Oh, dear, is my cousin offending everyone?” the countess inquired lightly.

Verdemont shrugged in wordless answer and walked away to join his wife by the hearth.

“Oh, please don’t worry, milady,” piped up Caro, who had come down from her rooms ahead of the rest of her family. “We have all learned to ignore his ill-tempered remarks.”

Lady Dunbar laughed, but Devlin noted that McClellan did not appear at all amused.

“If you live by the proverbial sword, you must expect to die by the proverbial sword,” he murmured, as he strolled past the baron to offer his arm to Anna’s sister. “The young lady appears to have an even sharper tongue than you.”

Alec responded with a phrase in Gaelic that needed no translation.

Suppressing a grin, Devlin turned his attention to Caro. “I see that your sister is not with you. I trust she is not feeling ill?”

“No, no, she is simply taking a little longer than usual in dressing for supper,” Caro assured him. “Which is rather odd.”

“Indeed? I was under the impression that most young ladies spend an inordinate amount of time on their toilette.”

“Not Anna,” replied her sister. “Fashion bores her. She’s much more interested in…um, other things.”

What things?

His curiosity piqued, he quickly asked, “Such as?”

A guilty flush flooded her face. “B-books.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Devlin.

“I’m not supposed to mention it,” mumbled Caro. “Mama says gentlemen do not like ladies who are too clever.”

“Your mother’s pronouncements on what men like or don’t like should not be taken as gospel,” he said softly.

Caro expelled a harried sigh. “To be honest, even if she were right, it wouldn’t matter. Neither Anna nor I would ever feel compelled to give up our interests just to please a man.”

“Why should you?” murmured Devlin.

A look of surprise flickered in her eyes, only to be chased away by a flash of mirth. “Your ideas on the subject ought not be taken as gospel either, sir. It’s well known you go out of your way to break every rule of propriety.”

“True. That’s because, like you and your sister, I don’t feel compelled to behave according to the strictures of a gaggle of narrow-minded prigs.”

Caro looked uncertain of how to reply.

“And it appears that neither does Lord McClellan,” he added, as they passed through the entrance of the drawing room. The baron stalked in several moments after them and went to stand by himself in the archway of one of the side alcoves. “Though I daresay he’d bristle at the notion of having anything in common with me.”

“You, at least, are entertaining,” said Caro frankly. “While he is an odious, obnoxious oaf.”

“You forgot ‘opinionated.’ It, too, begins with an ‘O.’”

Her chin took on a slightly defiant tilt. It was, noted Devlin with an inward smile, an unconscious imitation of her older sister’s look when she was annoyed.

“You may go ahead and mock me, sir,” said Caro. “But I enjoy the rhythms and sounds of language.”

“I wasn’t mocking you, Miss Caro, I was merely bantering.” He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to her. “Your sister mentioned you had an interest in poetry.”

Caro choked on a swallow of the wine. “Sh-sh-she did?”

“In the library,” he reminded her. “When the two of you were looking for some books of Robert Burns’s verses, as well as the sonnets of Shakespeare.”

“Oh, er, yes.” A laugh, which for some reason sounded a little forced. “That’s right.”

Oddly enough, her blush was back. Though why the mention of verses and sonnets should be making her jumpy as a cat crossing a hot griddle was puzzling.

“There’s nothing overly shocking about a young lady having an interest in poetry,” he pointed out. “So there must be some other reason your face is now the same shade of crimson as Lady de Blois’s gown.”

“The wine,” she stammered. “It must be the champagne. I am a little unused to strong spirits.”

He refrained from smiling. Barely. “Would you prefer ratafia punch?”

“No, no, I shall just…sip it more slowly.”

“Now that we’ve established your interest in poetry, I can’t help but be curious as to what sort of books your sister prefers,” he said, once she had taken a tiny swallow without further ill-effects. “She doesn’t strike me as a truly serious, scholarly bluestocking. I can’t quite picture her working on translating Homer from the original Greek or studying Newton’s laws of motion.”

“True, she’s not overly interested in ancient classics or arcane science. Her tastes run to more modern works.”

“Such as?”

Caro gave a vague wave. “Oh, you know, all the popular novels—the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith…that sort of thing.”