Shameless

12


Maybe not a good idea after all, Melisande thought, as Rohan’s grip tightened, and she felt her body being drawn closer to his lean, hard chest. “What are you doing?” She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice, but it trembled anyway, and she put her hands between them, trying to push away from him. He was much stronger than she would have guessed, and his arms were around her now, holding her.

“This, my sweet, is one of the rooms the Elsmeres keep for dalliance. Once someone disappears in here they don’t emerge for an hour or more.”

“What in the world do they do for an hour?”

There was silence in the darkness. Then he spoke. “You’re a widow, Lady Carstairs, and you’ve had at least one lover. Surely even you can guess.”

She’d forgotten he somehow knew about Wilfred Hunnicut, damn him. She was the one who’d made the wretched mistake of giving in to Wilfred’s blandishments; she needed to pay the price. “But what do they do for an hour?” she persisted. “What do they do after the first ten minutes?”

There was a soft explosion of laughter from the man in the darkness, an almost enticing sound. She had no reason to feel uneasy, she reminded herself. He wasn’t hurting her, wasn’t coercing her. He was simply holding her, and in the inky black of the room she couldn’t see him. He could be anyone. He could be someone she actually wanted to be with, someone who attracted her, aroused her. If such a man existed.

“Please, my angel,” he said softly, “tell me your lovers lasted longer than ten minutes.”

They shouldn’t be talking about this. But somehow, in the dark, it no longer seemed forbidden. “Do you count the time it takes to rearrange your clothing?”

“No. It takes more than ten minutes to strip a woman completely, though I’m adept enough to do it in a little less.”

“Strip?” She was horrified. “Naked?”

“Precious, don’t you talk to your gaggle at all?”

It was just as well he couldn’t see her. Her face felt hot, and she knew it was flooded with color. “Occasionally… If I’m confused about something. It’s not as if I’m without experience in these matters.”

“It seems to me you’re confused about a great many things. Someone needs to take your education in hand.” His hands were on her arms, and they tightened just slightly as she felt her body being pulled closer to his.

“I don’t see any reason for it.” Her voice had a slight waver in it, and she cleared her throat. “I don’t intend to marry again, and I fail to see any value in having a lover. If one has to put up with being pawed one might as well be married, I suppose, and I can do very well without either.”

“You don’t like being pawed?” His voice was low and sinuous, and she could feel a strange heat curling at the base of her spine.

“Not particularly. In fact, you might release me.”

“I might. But I’m not about to,” he said softly. “What about kisses? Are they equally heinous?”

This was getting to be dangerous, and she had the sudden fear that she wasn’t going to escape this room without being kissed. Though why in the world an accomplished rake like Benedick Rohan would want to kiss her was beyond her imagining.

“Chaste kisses are perfectly all right, if there’s strong affection between partners,” she said with what she considered great fairness.

“And how do you define chaste kisses?” There was still that damned amusement in his voice. She considered trying to pull free, but she knew that loose hold on her arms could tighten instantly.

She refused to let him embarrass her. “A kiss that lasts less than five seconds is usually sufficient to express affection.”

“Five seconds? You timed it? Oh, my darling Charity!” He was laughing at her, and she moved to stomp on his foot again, but clearly he was more comfortable in the dark than she was, because he moved deftly out of her way. “Have you ever had a kiss that lasted more than five seconds?”

“I know what you’re talking about,” she replied. “Emma told me about that kind of kiss, which, I must inform you, sounds utterly disgusting. Why in the world would you kiss someone with your tongue?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” And before she knew what he was going to do his mouth came down on hers, unerringly in the dark, and she froze.

One arm was around her waist, holding her against him. He caught her chin with the other hand, and her arms were free to bat at him, push him away, and she tried, she absolutely tried, but the feel of his mouth against hers was really quite delightful, and it lasted longer than five seconds.

“Open your mouth, vixen,” he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. “You can’t spend your entire life in ignorance.”

“Why not? I think…” Her mistake. Opening her mouth to speak gave him enough opportunity, and his open mouth closed over hers, moving it apart, and oh my God, she could feel his tongue touch her lips.

She struggled, momentarily panicked, and he lifted his head. “Don’t be such a Sabine about it, my precious. It’s only a kiss.” And he slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue pushing inside her mouth and touching her own, and she could hear her own horrified moan.

It was strange, it was vile, it was awful. It was…odd. Unfamiliar feelings were fluttering through her, and the darkness of the room felt like a cocoon wrapped around her, cradling her, and suddenly it was something she wanted. She wanted him to kiss her like that, full and deep, holding nothing back. She wanted to be kissed like she was loved, needed, like she was the most desirable woman in the world. The hands that were pushing against his shoulders stopped, then moved upward to clutch him, and when his tongue curled against hers she found herself kissing him back, moving her own small tongue in response to his.

He lifted his mouth, trailing damp kisses along the side of her jaw, and she drew a deep breath, not realizing she’d been holding it. Her body was softening, flowing against his, and he was moving her, slowly, carefully, until her back came up against a wall and she let her head sink back, closing her eyes.

“You really are indescribably luscious, my sweet Charity,” he said, his voice almost a growl against the side of her neck. His mouth caught her ear, his teeth nipping lightly just above the emerald earbob, and she let out a moan, shocking herself. She could feel his hips pressing against her, holding her against the door, and she could feel the ridge of his erection.

It astonished her. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced—Wilfred’s response to her had been slow to build and…and small compared to what she felt now. He couldn’t be putting that part of his body to the same use that Wilfred or Thomas had—it was too big.

She lifted on her toes, pressing against him experimentally, rubbing against him like a curious cat. She heard a strangled moan from him, and she felt a spark of satisfaction that she could make him feel the same kind of reaction he was busy getting from her.

“Bloody hell, Charity,” he whispered against her skin. And he kissed her again, as she felt his large, deft hands slide down her skirts, tugging them slowly, inexorably upward.

It was the touch of his long fingers on the bare flesh of her knee that froze her, shocked her out of the sensual web he’d managed to spin around her. She moved her hands to his chest and shoved hard. “No!” she cried, and he fell back a step, no longer touching her.

He was only a few inches away, she knew it, even in the inky darkness of the little room. He was breathing heavily, and her own heart was thudding so hard in her chest that it felt as if it might break through. She was trembling, her legs felt weak and she wanted to slap him.

“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?” she managed to say. She would have loved to have sounded unaffected, but right now that was beyond her.

He let out a sigh, and she could almost picture him, those dark green eyes narrowed and assessing, his mouth curved in a slight smile. His mouth, the one that had kissed her more thoroughly than she’d ever been kissed before. His mouth, his kiss, that had felt more intimate than lying with her husband with her chemise pulled chastely up to her waist and her face turned away. She felt despoiled. She felt invaded. She felt…claimed.

He moved closer, and his forehead pressed against hers as he sighed. “That’s the point, my sweet Lady Carstairs. You don’t recognize a full-bore seduction when it’s aimed at you. You simply can’t continue to be such an innocent and live the life you do. It’s too dangerous. Some big bad wolf is going to snatch you up and devour you.”

She caught her breath. “So you being this big bad wolf—this is a charitable act on your part?”

There was a moment’s silence, but he didn’t move away. “What if I told you it was? Are you so innocent that you’d really believe it?”

She curled her hands into fists, trying to will strength back into her limbs. “I have no idea, Lord Rohan. I have no experience being debauched.”

She didn’t know if that muffled sound was laughter or exasperation. “It was your idea to come in here, my love. I thought you were ready to experience the delights of the flesh.”

“I experience any number of physical delights. Such as spring breezes blowing through my hair, or the taste of sugar cakes, or playing with a kitten, or holding a child’s hand.”

“You don’t have to tell me you like sugar cakes,” he said. “You like kisses, too.”

“I do not.”

“Do you want me to prove it again?”

“No!”

He moved away then, backing into the darkness, and she suddenly felt bereft. She could see him now, a shadow in a room of shadows, no longer in danger of touching her, thank God. She released her breath, trying to decipher the sudden pang of…regret? Disappointment? Freedom.

“I want to go back,” she said sternly, ignoring it.

“Well, my darling girl, you can’t,” he said frankly. “I told you, my reputation as a lover is at stake. You’re not leaving until there’s been enough time to shag you properly. Which I’m guessing is another forty-five minutes. So you might as well sit down and tell me whatever it was that made you drag me into here in the first place. Not that I mind. If the Elsmeres and their ilk think I’ve managed to so thoroughly debauch the Saint of King Street that she can’t spend a few hours without having me between her legs, then my credit will only rise. When we leave you’ll need to be languid, mussed and dreamy.”

“Must you be so crass?”

“Oh, my sweet Charity.”

“Stop calling me that!” Her usual good humor seemed to have eroded completely.

“Oh, my sweet Lady Carstairs? It doesn’t have quite the same ring. And Melisande sounds like a medieval martyr doomed to perish. Hasn’t anyone ever called you by a pet name?”

“No. And if they had I’d hardly give you the use of it,” she said and pushed away from the wall. He’d pulled back from that dangerous seduction that had filled the tiny room, and he was simply Lord Rohan, the man who promised to help her. Her legs still felt weak, and she crossed the room to sit on the surface near him, wondering what it was. Wondering why he had held her, kissed her and then just as suddenly stopped.

Not that she wasn’t grateful. She didn’t want his hands on her, his mouth on hers. She still wasn’t sure why he’d done it in the first place. To teach her a lesson? To prove to her just how naive she was. What a child, what an innocent, what a ridiculous creature she was.

It was a good thing they were in the dark. She suddenly felt quite confused and miserable. She had responded to his touch, his mouth, and it shocked her. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed, but Benedick Rohan was a man who noticed everything. Why had she liked it? Something that she had simply borne as the least of unpleasant intimacies was suddenly unbelievably enticing.

It wasn’t as if Sir Thomas hadn’t cared for her. And she had loved him, deeply, and been very happy when she’d been able to provide him with that physical outlet, the few times he’d felt up to it.

She’d been infatuated with Wilfred, as much as the memory now embarrassed her. She’d wanted his kisses. His chaste kisses. That hadn’t moved her nearly as much as Benedick Rohan’s shocking embrace.

“What did you want to tell me?” he said in his deep voice, and she felt it slide down her backbone like a caress.

She had to stop thinking about that. “Lord Elsmere was about to invite us to a party in Kent. At a place called Kersley Hall, I believe. I presume that is one of their estates? Lady Elsmere stopped him, but I thought if you talked with him you might get him to proffer an invitation. It would be a way in to the workings of the Heavenly Host.”

“Kersley Hall?” he echoed, and she heard the surprise in his voice. “That belonged to the Earl of Cranston, but I’m certain it burned down last winter. Why in the world would anyone want to go there?”

“Are there outbuildings? Some place for the Heavenly Host to gather?”

“I have no idea,” he said, and she could tell by the sound of his voice that he’d practically forgotten her existence. “But I intend to find out.”

He leaned back, and she could hear his sudden exhalation. And then his large hand caught hers, though how he could find it in the darkness she couldn’t begin to guess. He held it lightly, his long fingers tracing each of hers, gently caressing her palm. She wanted to yank it away from him, but for some reason she let it rest there, as the strange pleasure of his touch on her skin danced through her body. “It’s only a few hours’ ride—it should be simple enough for me to go out and investigate. If the Host meet there, then there’s bound to be signs. None of the possible members would ever tolerate anything less than comfort on a sybaritic scale. Trust me, shagging someone on hard ground is no fun.”

“And you would know.” Her voice was caustic.

“And I would know,” he agreed pleasantly. “Tomorrow promises to be a pleasant day. I’ll go then and report back to you.”

“No.”

His hand stopped its almost unconscious stroking. “You are calling a halt to our investigation? Very wise.”

“I mean I’m going with you. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, and I have nothing planned for the morrow.” She didn’t stop to think why she was throwing herself in his company again. He was dangerous, and what she needed was distance, not proximity.

But she didn’t trust him. He was necessary—he knew more about the current workings of society than she did, and she couldn’t do it without him. She would survive being around him.

He was stroking her hand again, clearly an absent gesture, and she felt the surface beneath her shift as he leaned back, her hand still clasped in his. “I’ll have my cook prepare a picnic lunch,” he said lazily. “What would you like besides sugar cakes?”

She gave full rein to her annoyance in the darkness, sticking her tongue out at him like a fractious child. She heard a low rumble of laughter, and she had the sudden thought that he’d seen her. Impossible.

“Stick out your tongue at me, my sweet,” he said in a low, charming voice, “and you might find…”

“Stop it!” she said, her temper finally frayed. Anger filled her. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. “I’m tired of your innuendos, Lord Rohan,” she said in a steadier voice.

“And you might find I treat you like the infant you’re emulating,” he continued over her protest. She had no idea whether that was what he’d originally meant to say, and she didn’t care. For the moment, just for the moment, she gave up the fight. He was too good at this. He could dance rings around her, in more ways than one. He had an answer for everything, annoying creature that he was, and she was feeling demoralized. If he hadn’t kissed her, put his hands on her, she wouldn’t be in such a mess.

But he had.

He moved suddenly, and she braced herself, but he had released her hand, and his voice was all efficiency. “Just to further your sexual education, Lady Carstairs, there is such a thing as a quick shag. Usually done up against a wall, it’s more along the lines of your experience, simply adding actual pleasure into the mix. The guests can assume that’s what we’ve done if you wish to return to the party.”

“I do.”

“But I’ll need a piece of your clothing,” he said, his voice languid. “I’m assuming you won’t relinquish your drawers, but I imagine one of your garters might do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Granted. It’s customary in the Elsmeres’ set to provide a trophy. Lord Elsmere probably fondles whatever gets left behind in the privacy of his rooms, where I doubt Lady Elsmere ever ventures. Your garter.”

“You can’t have one of my garters!” she protested, scandalized. “My stocking will fall down.”

“Even better. I’ll take one of your stockings.”

“No!” she said, but he managed to catch her ankle and pull it into his lap. She kicked at him with the other one, but he clamped his own foot down on it, immobilizing her.

“I’m getting quite tired of being kicked, Melisande,” he said in a low voice, pulling off her soft dance slipper, his hands sliding up her silk-covered leg.

But she fought back, shoving at him, and a moment later she found herself lying down, his body covering her completely, holding her there.

They had been sitting on a bed, she realized belatedly. And now she was lying on it, with a very large, very annoyed, very aroused man on top of her. She kept hitting at him, but he simply caught her wrists in one hand and hauled them over her head, while his hips pinned her, the hard ridge of desire full against her as he pushed between her legs.

“Stop fighting me,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “I’m not about to rape you. And you can just ignore my cock. Anytime I wrestle with a beautiful woman I get an erection—it’s simply nature taking its course.”

She froze, his matter-of-fact language shocking her. He was lying with that part of his body, his cock, pressed against her, and she could feel a strange, heated response. Heat, and dampness, and it shocked her. Simply nature taking its course, he said. It had nothing to do with her.

“I can do this by force, or you can behave yourself,” he continued. “Either way, it’s going to happen.” And for a moment she thought he meant sex. Sexual congress between them, his cock pushing inside her. And then she realized he was talking about her stocking.

His hand had slid up, under her skirt. Her garters were beautiful ones, made of pale green ribbon with pastel-colored rosettes, and she felt his hand untie one, his long fingers way too close to parts that needed to be ignored. And then he moved his hand beneath the silk stocking, pulling it down her leg, the removal of it almost a caress, and she held her breath, closing her eyes in the darkness as his hand brushed against her skin.

What was she doing? Was she totally shameless, enjoying the touch of this man, this scion of degenerates, as he stroked her leg, all the way down to her ankle, cradling her foot as he slipped the stocking off?

He was so close. So hot, so hard, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her. Her breasts felt strange, tight, tingling, and she wondered what would happen if she arched against him, as her body was telling her to do, if she raised her hips up and pushed against that hard part of him. What would he do?

He released her wrists, but she didn’t hit him. An odd stillness had crept over her limbs, and it seemed to be affecting him, as well. She could see the glitter of his eyes in the darkness, but she couldn’t see his expression.

“Lady Carstairs,” he said in a soft voice after a long moment, “I’m beginning to believe you might be a very dangerous woman.”

She swallowed, uncertain what to say. She wondered what would happen if she slid her arms around his shoulders. If she pulled him down to kiss her. What would he do?

He rolled off her, standing up in one fluid movement, and for a moment she lay still, trying to sort out her feelings. He’d put her slipper back on her one bare foot, and a moment later he’d pulled her to her feet, holding her arms for a moment until she steadied.

“Remember. Languid. Dazed.” His voice was low in her ear as a sliver of light entered the room.

“I shouldn’t have any trouble with that,” she muttered.