Tempted By the Night (14 page)

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Rockhurst said as he came walking down the gravel path, stalking toward her with a grin on his face.

Dear heavens, if he didn’t mean to kill her, whatever could he mean to do to her?

Oh, why hadn’t she just stayed home and played cards with Quince? Where it was safe…and dull.

She took a tiny whisper of a breath as he came to a stop right beside Rowan. Glancing up into his sharp blue eyes, she spied a devilish light there that sent a shiver down her spine.

Oh, she was in trouble.

Slowly, Hermione reached for her dress and tried to get it free.

That was her first mistake.

For the rose canes rattled loudly, and it made him grin all that much more.

She closed her eyes. Oh, heavens he was going to kill her.

Instead, she felt the heat of his breath on her neck.

“Caught?”

Cautiously she opened her lashes and found him but a whisper away.

He spoke again, his words brushing up against her so intimately, she couldn’t help but shiver, rattling the rose-bush yet again. “Why is it that I must constantly come to your rescue?” And to prove his point, his hand found her shoulder, his fingers caressing her arm, exploring her.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. No man had ever touched her thusly. His fingers curled around the edge of her bodice, over her shoulder, and along the front of her gown, leaving her a wavering bundle of nerves.

Either her knees where about to give way, or she was about to throw up. She only hoped he’d forgive her for the latter.

“Why haven’t you?” she managed to whisper.

“So you do speak,” he said, as he finally freed her dress from the bush.

But he didn’t release her.

“Of course I speak, I’m not—”

His hand traced a lazy path along her arm, sending tendrils of awakening desire in its wake. His fingers twined with hers, stroking her palm, pulling at each finger playfully, as if he were counting them.

“Why haven’t I what?” he asked.

“Par-don,” she stammered.

“You asked why I hadn’t done something? Am I missing anything?” Just then his hand trailed over her hip and curled around her backside.

Her insides trembled and quaked. “Why haven’t you killed me?” she managed, for his touch was a different sort of torture.

“Who says I won’t?” he teased back, his hand pulling her closer.

“Please—”

“Please you?” He hauled her right up against him.

“Oh, no!” she managed, trying to wiggle free, but he’d effortlessly trapped her in his arms. “Please let me go.”

“Now why would I want to do that? I may not be able to find you again.”

He came to find me.

Just as you came here to let him,
a warning voice echoed.

“I did not,” she muttered aloud.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” she shot back. “Please let me go.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, as if it were his right just to haul any miss he chose into his arms and…and…wreak havoc on her senses. All of them. For with him holding her thusly, she could feel
him.
The man was lean and hard, all angles and masculine lines. And his hands weren’t just tracing her outline, they were exploring her, stroking her, pulling from her desires she’d never known she possessed.

In places she’d never imagined.

Now she understood only too well why most of the mothers in the
ton
steered their daughters well out of the earl’s path.

“Who are you?” he asked softly, teasing her ear with his breath and, for the briefest second, his lips.

She shivered again. “The better question, my lord, is who are you?”

“Ah, a barrister’s daughter.”

“Hardly,” she told him, trying to sound bored. “Just immune to your charms.”

“Really?” His lips found her earlobe and nibbled at the space right behind her ear.

Hermione clapped her mouth shut to keep a very improper moan from escaping her lips.

Oh, Jiminy! The man wasn’t just the Protector of London, but the despoiler as well, for not even being invisible was enough to stop the man.

“You have an unfair advantage,” Hermione sputtered.

“One might say the same of you,” he said. “Your little trick on Miss Burke could hardly be called sporting.”

Hermione bit back the grin that rose on her lips. “I thought only of her character.”

“Her character?”

“Yes. It was about time it had a fair and open airing.”

Then he surprised her. He laughed. “Now I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Yes, you’re an unrepentant minx.”

A minx?
“Hardly so—”

“Exactly so.” His hand reached up and cupped her chin. “So who are you, minx?”

“Don’t call me that!” She tried to squirm out of his grasp but to no avail. “I’m no one.”

“I doubt Miss Burke would have inspired such a nasty turn if you were no one. So tell me who you are, or I will have to resort to guessing again.”

Harrumph.
He could spend all night guessing, and he’d never manage it. Why, they’d been introduced half a dozen times, and he never remembered her.

“Silence, eh minx? Or better still, Shadow,” he christened her. “Is your invisibility to hide a terrible case of spots?”

“I haven’t spots!” she sputtered.

“The last lady I knew who was thusly concealed was covered in them.”

This took Hermione aback. “There are others like me?”

“Well—” he hedged.

“Oh, you’re teasing me. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I wish I could see yours,” he whispered back. His hand curved around her cheek. “No, you haven’t any blemishes. In fact, your skin feels like rose petals.” He paused for a second, his thumb tracing a sensual path along the edge of her mouth. “And I have to imagine your lips would taste the same.”

And before she could even wonder what he was about to do—so utterly mesmerized was she by his touch—that she never thought he’d do the unthinkable.

His head dipped down and his lips expertly claimed hers.

Not even a “mew” of surprise could escape his trap.

Hermione had never been kissed, and she’d imagined her first kiss exactly like this—alone in a garden with a man of some experience.

But innocently, the rest of the matter had been nothing but dreamy speculation and left her unprepared for the very real sensation of having a man haul her up
against him, into his arms, his lips covering hers and demanding…yes, demanding she submit to his will.

She didn’t know whether to be furious or thrilled.

And while the first few stormy moments of his assault had taken her unaware, she felt the shift in his tactics almost immediately. Far from insisting upon her submission, his lips, his tongue now urged her to open up to him, tempting her with languid caresses and the promise of passions to come.

Passion his hands were awakening as they roamed shamelessly over her body.

He had no concerns about modesty, exploring the curve of her hips, up over her stomach, and curling around her breast.

She sucked in a deep breath at the sensation, for he was unfurling ribbons of pure pleasure through her. She felt wanton and reckless, and quite ruined all at the same time. And thankfully he couldn’t see the blush that rose from her toes all the way to the tip of her nose.

He was ruining her, here in the Thurlows’ garden. Why if anyone came out and saw them, she’d be…

She’d be…she’d be…

Well, she’d be nothing, she realized. For no one could see her.

And therefore no one would spend the next day reporting to one and all that Hermione Marlowe had been ravished by Lord Rockhurst.

A thrill ran down her spine, or it could have been the earl’s hand at the small of her back pulling her closer still.

No one could see her. She was utterly and completely free to…

Indulge herself. For this bliss…this passion was hers. Hers to have without any recrimination, and she had no doubts she’d never taste such freedom again.

So when his kiss deepened, and Hermione tentatively opened up to him, let his tongue sweep over hers, answered him with her own explorations, minor and inexperienced as they were, they seemed to work, for Rockhurst groaned, and his hold on her tightened.

In that moment, Hermione came alive, lost some part of her innocence, forgot every warning that mothers drilled into their daughters from the time they showed the first whispers of womanhood.

She gasped for air as he wrenched his mouth from hers, his lips seeking a new torture, kissing her neck, her ears.

“Temptress,” he whispered in a voice so masculine, so guttural. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know,” she said back. For honestly she had no idea.

His mouth sought hers once again, and this time the kiss was deep and searching, as demanding as he’d been when he’d ensnared her in this prison.

All this time she’d stood still and powerless beneath him, but now she reached out and touched him, one hand clinging to the lapel of his coat, the other tracing the lines of his jaw, then reaching up to rake through his tawny mane.

The earl groaned. No, he growled. Something so raw and untamed, her breath caught in her throat. Then the
entire moment ended, for he tore himself away from her.

Hermione staggered on her own two feet, surprised to find how much she’d been clinging to him for support.

“Now we shall see who you are,” he told her.

With her blood racing through her limbs, her body trembling with passion and her head spinning, she was feeling far too saucy, far too sure of herself, and so she said, “And how do you propose to do that?”

“Like this,” he whispered into her ear.

Then his hands caught her by her hips and he slung her, like a sack of oats, over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” she protested, hammering his back with her fists. “If you think you can haul me through that ballroom, and I’ll cooperate, you are mad.”

He laughed. “Hardly mad, my little Shadow. Just resourceful.”

And with that, he strode to the back of the garden and kicked open the door to the mews and hauled her, kicking and protesting, down the alley.

“I won’t tell anyone,” the woman on his shoulder said, as Rockhurst hauled her up the stairs of his town house and carried her into his bedroom, where he dumped her rather unceremoniously on his bed.

“Excuse me?” he asked, having not really heard what she’d said. He’d all but plugged his ears to her cater-wauling about halfway down the alley.

Too bad he couldn’t as easily stop the arousal she’d sparked inside him.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she repeated. “I mean to say, I won’t tell them who you are if you’ll just let me go.”

He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

The bed shifted. “You mean I can leave?”

“No.” He turned around, went back to the door, and locked them both inside. “But go ahead and tell whomever you see fit.”

While his original intent had been to kidnap her and keep her until she appeared, which Cricks had suggested might be at dawn, he hadn’t given a bit of thought to the long hours ahead…not before this impertinent bit of muslin had nearly unmanned him with her kiss in the garden.

Perhaps she wasn’t all that innocent after all.

He took a furtive glance at the bed, and in his imagination he saw a lush, full beauty sprawled out on his bed, furious and impassioned.

His blood rang with a heady rush in his ears. And other places. Rockhurst glanced back at the door. Perhaps, he shouldn’t have brought her
here
.

“Here” being his bedchamber.

You should have locked her in the wine cellar and been done with the matter until first light.

No, he knew exactly what he was doing. He would stick with his original plan. A little seduction until he discovered her wish, or keep her until first light or however long it took to gain the ring or discover her identity.

He did his best, however, to forget the moment when she’d finally surrendered to him in the garden, her mouth opening to him, her body arching up against his. It had been all he could do not to toss her down on the small patch of grass and take her right there.

Oh, that would have been a sight. Him with his breeches down, fucking the bare grass for all anyone else could see.

No, much better to bring her to your bedroom.
Rockhurst raked his hand through his hair while his reason waged a war with his rampant passions.

And how do you even know the ring on her hand is
the
ring?

Because she has a ring on her hand and she’s invisible,
he argued with himself.

Like a ring on a lady’s hand was an improbable occurrence. Many young ladies wore simple rings—gifts from godmothers, family relics handed down from mother to daughter, or even a token from an admirer. Well, whatever it was, it was impossible to discover as long as she remained invisible.

Of course there were two possibilities he hadn’t considered.

What if it is an engagement ring?
Or a wedding ring?

He stopped himself and glanced again at the bed. He wasn’t used to meddling with married women.

Oh, what sort of tangle have you gotten yourself into now, Rockhurst?

He winced. Perhaps he needed some reinforcements. Or brandy.

Brandy sounded good.

He strode over to the cabinet in the corner and pulled out the bottle and glass he kept tucked away there. For emergencies. He glanced back at his empty bed and saw in his mind’s eye her lush body naked and writhing beneath him.

Yes, this qualified as an emergency. He poured himself a healthy measure.

She’d been silent and still all this time, so when she spoke, it startled him slightly. “You don’t care if people know you are the Paratus?”

“That’s not the point,” he replied, before taking a hasty gulp. “Tell whomever you like. No one will believe you. They’ll think you’re mad.” He tipped the glass toward her. “Care for some?”

“No, thank you,” she said primly. “
Maman
says spirits make a lady vulgar.”

“Wise woman, your
maman
,” he agreed. “Do I know her?”

She blithely ignored his prying attempt. “I wouldn’t have told anyone, but not because it would make me appear nicked in the nob—” she paused for a moment, “—rather, what I was saying is that I’m not prone to prattle on.”

“Harrumph,
” he snorted, before he took another drink.

The bed shifted again. “I’ll have you know that I’m no widgeon.”

He had yet to meet a Mayfair debutante who wasn’t. Then again, his Shadow was hardly some Bath miss—for he doubted those illustrious schools of ladylike virtues taught young debutantes to kiss as she’d done.

That, or she was a very quick study—a notion that lent him all kinds of erotic visions, of a night spent tutoring her on the subject. All too quickly, the room grew stifling. He shoved his glass aside and yanked at his cravat.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, panic in her words as she mistook his actions. “Because if you think to seduce me again—”

He continued to tug at his cravat, now sending a leering wink toward the bed. “If you wish—”

There was a hasty scramble atop the coverlet. “I do not!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He stalked toward the bed, her innocent perfume tickling his senses. “Liar.”

She had no answer for him, remaining stubbornly silent.

And that was more answer for him than if she’d continued her protests. For a moment they stayed there, just a few feet apart, and he felt the tension between them as if
it
were visible. A cord binding them together that acted like an odd game of tug-o-war, his desire prodding him toward the bed, and if he wasn’t mistaken, hers pulling him closer.

He wasn’t mistaken.

Hermione couldn’t breathe with him this close. This was the kiss in the garden all over…but more dangerous. For here she was perched on his bed, and her body, oh, her rebellious body, wanted him to kiss her again.

To pull her gown off and cover her with his magnificent body. To touch her…all over. To kiss her…everywhere. And she’d open her legs and wrap them around his hips as he…

She shuttered her lashes, closed her eyes. What was she thinking? She’d never had such erotic thoughts before. Wherever were these images coming from?

The ring trembled, sending ripples of anticipation down her limbs.

Wretched bit,
she chided silently, but she didn’t mean
it. For hadn’t she, even in her innocence, wished for this?

“Shadow?” he whispered, his hand reaching out for her.

She leaned into it like a cat, letting him stroke her hair. It was all she could do not to purr as his fingers plied the strands and expertly plucked out her pins. “Yes, my lord?” she managed to reply, as her chignon tumbled down around her shoulders.

“What are you thinking?” His fingers followed the line of her jaw and traced an almost kiss over her lips.

She pressed them together, her cheeks flaming with a blush she swore went all the way down past her garters.

Tell him. Tell him of your wish…

“I was…that is, I was thinking of…back in the garden when you…” The words stalled in her throat, for it had suddenly gone dry.

Jiminy! She couldn’t do it.

“Strange coincidence that,” he murmured, as he climbed onto the bed beside her, his fingers now trailing over her shoulder and down her hand. She hadn’t bothered tonight to wear gloves, so her hands were bare, and she shivered as his fingers twined with hers, as he pulled her hand to his lips and began to kiss them.

“How so?” she gasped, as he took one of her fingers in his mouth and suckled it.

Rockhurst glanced up at her, as if he could see her eyes. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

He was?
She looked again into his eyes and saw there a man’s desires and needs and drew in an unsteady breath. He wanted her?

He couldn’t. It was impossible. This man, who’d never even glanced at her in passing, wanted her?

This is what you wanted. What you wished for…

But I don’t know what to do,
she wanted to rail back.

Luckily for Hermione, the earl did. He pulled her up against him, and kissed her anew, as he had in the garden, plying her lips apart with his strong pair. His breath, warm and vibrant, washed over her, and she felt drawn toward him, to him.

His tongue brushed over hers, so intimately, coaxing her to try this playful diversion.

She couldn’t resist. The temptation of being his swept aside any bit of caution she still claimed. She tasted him, letting her tongue tangle with his, then discovered the first thrill of passion as he groaned and pulled her ever closer.

Nor did the fact that he couldn’t see her clothes stop him from opening her gown, plucking her laces open, and easing it off her shoulders. Then the laces of her corset met the same fate, opening up beneath his expert and nimble fingers.

Before she knew it, her gown and corset were nearly off, and she clung to Rockhurst, wondering how she would ever hazard such a feat if he could see her? Why she’d die of mortification to be so exposed.

He leaned her back atop the coverlet, but not before he shrugged off his jacket, his cravat, and his waistcoat in such a haphazard fashion, she had to imagine his valet would be in high dudgeon for a sennight.

For a moment, they stilled, half-dressed, both trem
bling, and Hermione realized being like this, unseen, gave her a courage, a bravado that made her feel like the most experienced courtesan.

That is, until his fingers curled around her breast, his thumb rubbing over her nipple until it tightened and swelled into a ripe bud.

“Oooh, Rockhurst,” she gasped in surprise as desire, hot and thrilling, coursed through her veins. She’d never felt anything so wonderful. She sighed anew, and to her delight, he did it again.

If that was all the encouragement he needed, she’d cry his name all night long.

When he had both nipples taut and thick, he leaned down and took one in his mouth and sucked on it until she thought she’d die from the pleasure of it.

His hand reached down and plucked off her boot. As it came free of her foot, it became visible and he eyed the sensible bit of footwear with a wry expression. “Hardly what I expected,” he said as he tossed it aside. “But then so are you.” The second boot quickly followed the first. Her stockings were tugged off, and from there he traced lazy, haphazard kisses up her bare legs.

As he climbed higher and higher, his lips hot and eager, his tongue laving over her skin with teasing swipes, Hermione’s gut tightened, even as that place between her thighs started to throb.

He wasn’t going to…he wouldn’t think to…

Rockhurst rose from his ministrations for a moment, then tugged her gown completely off, as well as her corset. She was bare beneath him, except for her gar
ters, which he was now playfully tugging with his teeth.

“Do you know what you are doing?” she gasped, as his lips went higher, to her thighs, his hands catching hold of her hips.

“I damn well hope so,” he said rakishly. “But do tell me if I’m getting it wrong.”

Wrong? Was he mad? Hermione groaned again, this time as his fingers brushed over the curls of hair, stroking her thighs as if he knew the secret to open them.

Oh, he knew it.
His breath blew hot upon her core, and her legs parted before his impatient course.

Then it wasn’t just his breath upon her, but his lips, his tongue, and Hermione’s hips rose and bucked as he kissed her there.

Her fingers twisted into the coverlet, while her heels dug in as well. She’d never been touched, let alone kissed thusly, and his tongue teased her softly and gently, just as it had when he’d first kissed her. Yet as her body began to rock, he seemed to sense the growing urgency inside her and pressed further, suckling her, exploring her.

Hermione moaned loudly, and the earl chuckled. “Not yet,” he told her. “There’s still more to come.”

More?

Then gently he slid a finger inside her. It was tight at first, but when he went to withdraw it, she felt the first inklings of what “more” meant. She rocked back against his hand, and this time he eased two fingers inside.

It was like something she’d seen in those illicit
French prints of her mother’s. And while the title had baffled her,
Un goût de ciel
, she knew now she wouldn’t so much call it a
Taste of Heaven
, but the kiss
from
heaven, for she felt herself being pulled upward, drawn ever quicker toward an end that promised nothing but bliss.

Her hips rocked, his lips continued their sweet torment, and all of a sudden, she was crying out his name as she discovered exactly what heaven was…better than a volley of colorful Chinese rockets or a sale on silks. Oh, she tried to breathe, tried to make sense of what was happening.

His rumbling chuckle told her he knew. Of course he did! He’d done this magic thing to her. Hermione sighed and looked up at him and saw in his eyes a glint that told her this was just the beginning.

Oh, was it possible? She hazarded a glance at him again. Specifically at his breeches, which bulged from the hardness there.

A longing like one she’d never felt before filled her with curiosity…and desire.

And being the curious minx that she was, she reached for him and pulled him closer.

Rockhurst felt her hands tug beneath his arms, drawing him up toward her. He climbed up, kissing her belly, kissing her breasts, and finally, capturing her lips in a deep kiss that brought more moans from her and the tease of her hips as they rocked up to meet his.

He found he didn’t need to “see” her. He closed his eyes and let his imagination take over, for she was a
sensuous little puss, his hands exploring her body, his blood running hot with desire as he memorized every curve, every ripe contour.

Here he’d thought to seduce her, and now she was tempting him. This Mayfair miss. This mysterious little hoyden.

She kissed him thoroughly, her tongue swiping over his. Gone was the reluctant lady in the garden, and in her place, a flirtatious bit of muslin.