Lady Rosabella's Ruse

Chapter Eleven




Standing in the middle of his study, Garth stared into the brandy he’d poured and tried not to think about the woman upstairs taking her bath. Tried not to think about long slender limbs, a curvaceous body and the delicate arches of her feet.

His body hardened. He brought it back under control. This wasn’t about attraction, or lust. It was about regaining control of the situation.

The fabled control that had eluded him when they’d made love. It had never happened before and would not happen again.

He also wanted the truth, and would have it, if it took him all night. And all of tomorrow.

Pleasure at the thought shuddered deep in his bones.

She’d heard of his reputation; now she would learn what it meant. And he would learn all of her secrets.

A glance at the clock told him an hour had passed since she went upstairs. It was time.

A sense of urgency shortened his breath. His loins quickened in anticipation. He set down his untasted brandy with deliberate care. Strolled out of the room, breathing deeply and clearing his mind.

No need to rush. He had tonight and many nights thereafter. Because no matter what she thought or what she wanted, she was now playing by his rules.

There was no doubt in his mind that Rose was a thief and a liar. Clearly she’d fallen on hard times and had done what she needed to survive. He would get to the bottom of why and exactly what it was she had done.

No matter who or what she was, she would learn he did not litter the English countryside with illegitimate children. Nor did he seduce innocents and leave them to rot on the streets. She’d tricked him, he thought darkly, and for that she would pay, most pleasurably.

He opened the door without knocking. A maid was brushing the long raven hair hanging past Rose’s waist. The maid took one look at his face and scurried into the dressing room where she would leave by way of a hidden door to the narrow stairs at the back of the house.

Gold-flecked brown eyes stared back at him in the mirror. The light from the candelabra on the dressing table gilded her skin, deepening the rose of her generous mouth. His face remained in shadow over her shoulder.

Slowly he prowled towards her. As if she sensed a threat, her chin came up, her nostrils flared and she inhaled a deep breath. Her breasts beneath the fine lawn nightgown with its edges of finest lace rose up as if offering their bounty. Yet beneath the warm lovely skin he saw the throb of her heart, a beat of panic and warning.

A smile touched her lips. A lie, of course. Bravado he could not help but admire.

He picked up the brush and continued where the maid had left off, long slow strokes down the shimmering midnight-black tresses. He raised a hank to his nose and inhaled the subtle scent of soap and woman.

His blood grew thick and heavy, its beat a solid pulse in his shaft. He continued his brushing, long slow strokes, and watched her face in the mirror, the lowering of her lids over eyes gone smoky, the speeding up of her breath, the rapid pulse beat at the base of her throat. Heat wafted up from her body.

‘Enjoy your bath?’ he murmured in her ear.

Goose-flesh rose on her shoulders and her arms. A little shiver vibrated the warm air against his face. The primal urge to toss aside the brush and throw her on the bed, to force her to his will, was close to overpowering.

‘Thank you, I enjoyed it very much,’ she said in her low throaty voice that was like a rough stroke of firm fingers on his shaft.

‘I’m glad.’

She looked up at him in the mirror, the gold burst around her large pupils glittering. ‘I have a proposition.’

He almost laughed. How like this woman to go on the attack when already she’d been defeated.

Not too many men would try to bargain from a position of weakness, something his brother, Kit, had told him over and over again in their business dealings.

Garth liked her spirit. There was a great deal about this woman he liked. A surprising amount. He rarely liked them at all.

He ran the back of his hand down her jaw, watching the skin flicker beneath his touch, feeling the silky texture of her skin and the delicate contours of bone.

He set the brush down, silver side up, and clasped her elbows in his palms, slowly lifting her to stand with her back to him, the stool at his knees the flimsiest of barriers, her nape exposed and vulnerable. Her gaze met his in the glass, and in that brief clash, her eyes looked completely honest, open, trusting.

The notion that she fooled him so easily gripped his gut in an iron fist. The only place a woman was ever honest was in bed, beneath his touch. There his skill was so honed, so refined, he could expose them utterly.

Gentle pressure on her arm turned her to face him. He tipped her face with his thumb and forefinger, brushing her full lying mouth with his thumb.

Her eyes widened, not in fear, but desire.

‘A proposition,’ he purred against the soft flesh of her neck. ‘Do enlighten me.’

A quick deep breath lifted the swell of her breasts within a whisker of his chest. He waited for whatever would come out of her mouth with anticipation. A sense of excitement at the challenges she would present, before she revealed her secrets.

‘If I…if we do this now…’ Her voice was low and breathless and his loins responded to the sound instantly. ‘Will you help me with an audition at the Haymarket?’

He tipped his head.

‘It is all I will ask of you. A chance to be heard. I have debts I must pay. A singing role would help pay them.’

Her gaze met his full on.

Truth. This was the truth.

After so many deceits it was merely the start. And besides, the idea that she thought she could walk away after one night had his blood running hot with anger.

‘A proposition indeed.’ He bent his head and took her lips in a brief brush of a kiss. She tipped her head to grant him better access, slid her arms around his neck the better to woo him to her will. She’d forgotten he was a past master at the game of love and she was still a novitiate.

The image pleased him.

He broke away and cupped her cheek. ‘Let us talk about it later.’

Her shoulders stiffened. ‘No. We will talk about it now. These are my terms—’

‘Your terms?’ He mocked. ‘The terms were set the night you gave up your maidenhead.’

Eyes huge, she shook her head. ‘Why? It is done. What can it matter now?’

The desperate note in her voice gave him pause. She didn’t believe what she was saying, but she believed she had a say in her destiny. She didn’t realise it yet, but she would bend to his will.

‘I won’t offer something not in my power to give. It would be a lie.’

She frowned. ‘But you could try?’

He shrugged. ‘I could.’ But he wouldn’t.

Her smile warmed him, even as he cynically knew she did not see the escape in his words, or didn’t want to. Not as clever as she thought, his little nun.

He walked her around the stool. She came willingly, if hesitantly, and the willingness pleased him. As did the spark of heat dancing between them. Embers that carefully nurtured would leap into flame. The flame had seared him the last time they came together. The flame for which he hungered. The flame he would ignite again and again, for as long as it lasted.

He dropped her hand and placed his hands in the dip of her waist. The nightgown disguised nothing of her shape, the ribcage above, the gentle curve of hip below, the waist he could fully encircle with his hands, should he try.

This time, when he took her lips, he lingered, tasting her, renewing his acquaintance with the feel of her velvety mouth, the taste of her tongue, the way her eyes drifted closed and her dark lashes formed mysterious crescents against the warm tone of her skin. Her body melded to his, not yielding, not bending, but expressing its own hunger.

Delicious. Sweeter than honey, more potent than brandy. Intoxicating. He devoured her mouth, explored every inch of her back with eager hands. The span of her shoulders, while not broad, had unexpected strength, backbone, determination; her back narrowed at her waist, then flared to the softest sweetest buttocks it had ever been his pleasure to stroke and caress. They filled his palms like delectable fruit. She arched her back, pressing into his hips, unconsciously, innocently, arousing him to greater heights of lust.

Only with effort did he break free. She stared up at him, her lips red from his kiss, her cheeks scraped by his scruff of beard. He winced and rubbed his jaw. He should have shaved.

She followed the movement. ‘I like it,’ she whispered. ‘It makes you look like a pirate.’

A thief like her.

But the treasure he planned to steal was not wrought of gold or precious jewels. In a woman it was quicksilver and hard to hold. The truth.

He smiled and held out a hand. Unhesitating, she took it. Bold. Brave. No outward sign of trepidation, but it was there, in the too-fast inhale and exhale of breath, in the tremble of her hand in his. She sensed danger. But she hadn’t yet learned where it lay.

He led her to his bed.

He grinned. ‘Shall I lift you up?’

With one hand, she swept the hair back from her breasts and over her shoulders. ‘I can manage a few steps.’ She hopped up and leaned back against the pile of pillows and gave him a sultry look from beneath half-lowered lids.

More bravado. A strangely soft feeling in his chest caught him off guard. He almost opened his mouth to set her free. What, had he turned into some chivalrous knight? Hardly.

No woman walked away from his web of seduction until he was ready.

‘Comfortable?’ he asked, slipping out of his waistcoat and pulling his shirt free of his pantaloons.

‘Very,’ she said in that low voice that drove him wild. About to pull his shirt over his head, he glanced at her and caught the swipe of her tongue over her lips.

When she saw him looking, she smiled.

He ripped the shirt off and discarded shoes and stockings.

Putting one knee up on the bed, he stole a brief kiss. ‘Wicked minx.’

She laughed. ‘No more wicked than you.’

He grinned ruefully. ‘I know.’ He pulled at the white satin bow nestled in the valley between her breasts. The ribbon slithered undone. Gently he pushed aside the froth of lace on one side, revealing the full rise of an impertinent breast, the furled nipple clearly visible through the lace. The crescent of dark areola peeked at him over the skimming fabric beckoning, his tongue. He obliged with a swift lick.

She gasped and shuddered.

His shaft jerked in reply, demanding its place in the proceedings. Not yet, lad. There was much to accomplish before he took his own pleasure.

Although words were the last thing forming on his tongue when such delights nestled close by.

Her fingers raked through his hair, encouraging him to greater efforts. He pulled the bodice down, exposing one lovely globe of soft tender flesh. He stroked the peak with his tongue, over and around, tasting and savouring the softness and the contrasting hard little nub at the peak.

She squirmed and gave a moan of pleasure.

He smiled at that sound and stretched alongside her on the bed, taking in the softness in her expression, the haze of heat in her gaze, the desire.

He rolled the budding nipple between thumb and forefinger and watched her melt. ‘Where did you go, that night, when you left me sleeping beside the hearth?’

Eyes blank, she stared at him. He swept his tongue across the rise of her breast, then blew gently.

She shivered and moaned.

‘Where, Rose? Where did you go, all wrapped up in your cloak?’

‘To return the cushions and then to the bedroom,’ she said, her breath coming hard when he turned his attention to the other breast. ‘I looked in the desk.’

Truth.

He licked and nipped at each hardened peak in turn, caressing them, worshipping them with hands and mouth until she cried out each time he lifted his head to move from one to the other.

He raised himself up on one elbow, ignoring her cry of protest, and dropped a kiss on the point of her stubborn chin. ‘And did you find anything?’

‘I… No,’ she whispered her voice low and hoarse. ‘I found nothing. Oh, please, don’t stop.’

Her eyes were guileless. The heartbreak buried in her voice beneath the urgency of the desires he’d roused rang true.

A sense of relief flooded through him because she’d been telling the truth all along. About that, he forced himself to remember. Only about that. ‘And your real name?’

‘Rosabella.’

Truth. She spoke it too naturally for it to be anything else. Rosabella. He liked the way it sounded. He rewarded her by returning his mouth to her breasts and pressing one leg between her open thighs. She welcomed his intrusion with a lift of her hips, seeking the pleasure she’d learned at his hands.

He suckled.

She cried out. Her back arched. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging, as she uttered guttural cries of encouragement. In her need, her body sought to join with his, her hips rubbing against his erection inside his falls. If he had been hard before, he was more rigid than iron now.

The desire to be inside her, to fill her, to prove she was his, was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It shredded his reason. He hung on by a thread. In that moment he knew no matter what happened, no matter who she was, or what she wanted, he would want her for a very long time.

And after that, she’d have marriage as her reward.

He lifted his head and gazed into her face, at the almond shape of her eyes, the taut skin over finely cast cheek-bones. ‘You really are beautiful.’

He broke from the mesmerising depths of her lovely eyes and kissed each nipple in turn; a light brush of his lips and each peak instantly puckered. He trailed kisses down between their shallow valley, through the filmy fabric, down her breastbone to the dark shadow of her navel, swirling his tongue while her hands wandered across his back as if they weren’t quite sure what to do. But when he kissed lower down, nuzzling into her curls through the fine lawn of the gown, she gasped and tried to push him away.

‘You can’t,’ she said breathless.

‘Can’t I not?’ he said, trying not to smile at her innocent shock.

He worked his way down the bed until he was sitting on his heels between her feet. He lifted her right leg, bending it at the knee, and wrapped his hand around her heel. She tensed and he smiled at her. She smiled back and relaxed.

Hers were not small feet, but slender and elegant, high arched and beautifully formed. ‘The winged Goddess of Victory never had such beautiful feet,’ he said, raising her foot to his mouth, kissing the arch, massaging the ball. She spread her toes like a cat stretching its claws.

‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘That feels good.’

He leaned forwards and opened the drawer beside the bed. Retrieved the scented oil he kept there for just such occasions. He put a small drop in his hand and rubbed his palms together to warm the oil and release its perfume.

She watched him wide-eyed.

‘I promise you will like it.’

She smiled hesitantly.

First, he worked the pad of his thumb along the arch, in slow firm strokes, and she relaxed into the pillows. The weight of her leg rested in his palm where he cupped her heel. He slid his palm up her smooth rounded calf and raised her leg, the glimpse of shadow between her thighs begging for his attention. He ignored its call and massaged her delicious sole and the plump little heel with both thumbs.

She sighed with pleasure.

Gently he lowered her leg to the sheets, angling it wide, and picked up her other foot. No resistance this time—indeed, she was eager to place her foot in his hands. He poured more scented oil in his palm and massaged it in. He frowned at the red mark on the smallest toe. ‘What happened here?’

‘The shoes. The ones I wear on stage, they pinch.’

He frowned, but said nothing. She would not be wearing those shoes again. He kissed the tiny blemish and she chuckled softly. ‘Kissing it won’t make it go away.’

‘But it can make things feel better,’ he said, flashing her a grin, then returned that foot to the bed, her legs spread wide as he smoothed his hands up her shins, pushing the hem of her nightdress higher to expose her knees.

Lovely long limbs, skin kissed golden by a sun it had never seen, yet somehow remembered. Reverently he kissed the rounded bone and grazed his fingertips along the delicate flesh of the small indent behind. A little gasp rewarded his efforts and encouraged him on. Both hands slid up the inside of her parted thighs, the skin velvety soft beneath his palm, the muscle tender, yet lithe. A feast for the senses. He couldn’t recall another woman whose feet and legs were so utterly beautiful.

He cast her a smile designed to seduce, and she smiled back with all the mystery of a woman whose passion lay just below the surface, waiting for one man to release its power. What he had experienced so far was only a fraction of what burned inside her. He would have the key to the rest.

He explored her thighs, the places that made her legs fall further apart, the spots that tickled and made her flesh jump and brought forth her low throaty chuckle.

Lust rode him hard. The urge to sink into her depths, to drive home to the hilt and make her cry out, had him grinding his teeth as he fought for control.

He eased her nightdress up to her waist and exposed the delights of her feminine flesh nestled within the dark bush of midnight-black curls slick with the evidence of her desire. He parted the folds of tender flesh and found the centre of her pleasure, the secret source of bliss.

She drew in a sharp hiss of breath as he caressed that tender nub. The small sound played havoc with his iron control, sucking the air from his chest and firing his belly as if he was the forge and she the air fanning his flames.

‘And your last name?’ he asked softly.