Oh, eventually he would tire of her. He tired of everything, truly cared about nothing. But before that happened he would be driven by a need for her, and he hated that.
And indeed, walking away would be perfect. He would leave her trembling on the brink of total sexual surrender, and her physical frustration would shake her badly. She would have offered herself, and he could reject her, mirroring the pain that had driven his half sister to kill herself. He could walk away…
She’d opened her eyes again, looking at him through the dim shadows, almost as if she’d read his mind. She knew him too well, which was part of what drew him to her. She could anticipate his moves, and counter them.
A faint smile curved her mouth, the mouth he needed to feel on his body. Her pale body lay spread out in front of him, and this time she made no maidenly move to cover herself. “Have you changed your mind, my lord? What a shame. Could you retrieve my covers on your way out—I’m a bit chilled.” Her voice was calm, cheerful, unmoved, and mentally he saluted her. She’d recovered from what was undoubtedly the first climax of her life with resolute aplomb and was ready to battle again.
And he could no more walk away than he could stop breathing.
He slid his hand over the sweet mound, letting his fingers dance against her clitoris, and she arched in reaction. She was hot and damp and ready for him, and he slid one long finger inside her, testing her.
She was tight, very tight. Why wouldn’t she be—it had been two years since she’d made love. He pulled out the one finger and pushed two inside, and she made a faint sound of discomfort, quickly swallowed. She didn’t want him to know anything about her reactions, and he knew she would say nothing more. It was up to him to read her body. Fortunately he was an expert at just that.
He moved over her, and for a moment she tried to sit up, to push him away, and then she remembered and laid back, the perfect nonvirgin sacrifice to the monster.
He released himself, simply because it was getting too painful. He could smell the faint scent of her arousal, and he wanted to bury himself inside her, thrust until he reached his own satisfaction. He needn’t bother with withdrawal, or French letters, or any form of protection. He could spend himself inside her, endlessly.
But if he took her now he would most likely tear her, or at the very least bring her discomfort. He had to put off his own release for just a few minutes longer.
He withdrew his fingers, putting his hands on her waist, pulling her down on the bed as he knelt between her legs, and he could see by her shallow breathing that she was frightened, no matter how much she wanted to hide it. St. John had really botched things to an extraordinary extent, but Lucien found he could be glad of it. There was something aphrodisiacal about making a frightened woman climax, and he slid his hands over her lovely hips, down her thighs, pulling them further apart. And then he put his mouth on her.
She made noise then, a horrified, muffled protest that was then silenced as he cradled her hips and brought her closer to his hungry mouth. He let his tongue dart, learning her, teasing her clitoris, opening her with his mouth to taste her fully, his tongue thrusting inside her, and the dampness followed, lovely waves of creamy desire, and he almost climaxed against the bedsheets as she writhed beneath him. He slid his fingers inside her again, more easily this time, as he tongued her, and he thrust with his fingers, opening her for him, stretching her when she was too aroused to notice, too caught up in the sensations he was coaxing from her.
Her climax surprised him, as she arched off the bed with a helpless cry, and he lifted up, seeing that she had her hand on her mouth to silence her sounds of pleasure, and he could wait no more. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve, placed his cock where his fingers had been and pushed.
She was wet enough, aroused enough that he slid in fairly easily, but not as deep as he needed to go. He moved over her, and her eyes were filled with fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He wondered why he was bothering to reassure her. “Your body will adjust itself to mine.”
She shook her head in distress, soundless, not believing him, and he could feel her tightening around him, trying to keep him out.
But he’d reached his tipping point, and he could play no more erotic games with her. If he touched her again she’d come once more, closing up against him.
He kissed her. Long and hard and deep, but her fear was too great, and he couldn’t reach her that way. So he simply did the next best thing.
He bit her. Hard, on the soft flesh between her neck and her shoulder, and the pain shocked her so much she forgot to keep her body stiff, and he slid in, sheathing himself fully in her clinging body, and she arched off the bed, making a muffled sound of distress and pleasure.
He could have spilled at that very moment, but he fought back, holding himself very still, resting his forehead against hers as he tried to master his breathing. “Don’t move,” he whispered, afraid she was going to try to buck him off. Any movement, any ripple on her part would start his climax, and he needed to hold off.
He needed to bring her to completion. At that point he wasn’t thinking too clearly, drugged by the scent and the taste and the feel of her, but leaving her without her experiencing the ultimate of pleasure would somehow compromise his revenge. He lay motionless on top of her, fully clothed, waiting for her panicked tightness to relax.
It seemed to take an eternity, but slowly, slowly her short, frightened gasps slowed. She took a deep breath, and he drew her legs up around his hips. “It will hurt less like this,” he murmured in her ear, and she obeyed silently, letting his hands touch and place her, doing what he could to relieve the pressure of his heavy invasion.
And then he could wait no more. He pulled her hands away from her mouth, holding them over her head, twining his fingers with hers, and began to move.
Her first whimper of discomfort almost made him stop. Almost. He pulled partway out and thrust again, slowly, and her dampness covered them both, easing the way.
So tight. So sweet. Had he said those words out loud, or simply thought them? It didn’t matter. He was caught up in her skin, the perfume of her body, the soft dampness of her breath against the side of his face. He could feel every hitch in her breathing, the slight changes when he moved just right, his cock hitting the spot that seemed to make women mad, and she let out a satisfying cry when he did so. He would have loved to concentrate on it, but his own climax was fast approaching, and he was determined not to leave her behind.
He whispered in her ear, unguarded sex words, and her warmed breasts pebbled against his chest, as she caught his rhythm, moving with him, oh, so sweetly. The sturdy old bed shook beneath them, and he released her hands, bracing himself against the mattress as he thrust into her, feeling her tightness, the waves of response, the sudden shock of her physical climax, and he let himself go, emptying himself into her, a rush of completion like nothing he’d ever felt before.
His body went rigid in the shadows, his skin alive with a thousand pinpricks, and he threw back his head and cried out.
He kept his weight on his elbows, just barely, trying to catch his breath, as shudder after shudder danced through her body. It took him a moment before he could focus, and when he looked down into her face he almost wished he hadn’t.
Her eyes were closed, and tears were pouring down her face. Great, silent tears, and he knew not if they were from the force of her release or something less flattering. Had he hurt her after all? He could barely catch his breath, and her own was fast and shallow, and he could see the pounding of her heart beneath her pale skin.
He started to pull out of her, but her arms came up suddenly, twining around his neck and pulling him down against her. He quickly rolled onto his side with her, so as not to crush her beneath him, and his semierect cock was still inside her. As if they were unwilling to let go of each other.
She buried her face against his shoulder, and he could feel the silent sobs rack her body. He pulled her closer still, wishing he’d had time to remove his clothes, instead of taking her like one takes a doxy. His hand went up to her disordered plaits. One had come loose with a curtain of hair partly around them. He stroked her head gently as she hid her face against his shoulder. She was trying to hide from him, hide her tear-damp face, and he let her. He wanted to hide, as well.
He must have drifted off to sleep. When he awoke it was light, and he was alone in her bed, still fully dressed, and there was no sign of her.
He lay there and cursed beneath his breath. “Bloody hell!” he said out loud, sitting up amidst the welter of covers, his disordered clothes around him. Had she tried to run? None of the servants should be under any misapprehension that this was a love match, or that their master was in any way a good man. But he couldn’t very well have her floating facedown in the lake. He cursed under his breath again, trying to shake off the damnable sense of languor.
He wanted more. He’d slept, deeply, wrapped around her, and he could still smell her on his skin, the sweet, erotic scent of her. She was probably somewhere in the house, crying.
He fastened his breeches and made his way to his rooms, not particularly caring who saw him. He’d bedded his affianced wife. Out in the countryside they were more liberal about such things, believing in hand-fasting and all sorts of ridiculousness. She was going to get a wedding all right, though not the one she dreamed of. Unless it was in her nightmares.
For some reason he found he was in an utterly foul mood. He shouldn’t be. While the sex had been straightforward and far more work than he was used to, it had been worth it in the end. It had been quite…stimulating.
Until he’d seen she was crying, and he’d ended up holding her until he’d fallen asleep. He wasn’t quite sure what was fueling his nasty temper, so nasty that even his valet, who was quite used to him, retreated in offended silence. It was a shame he’d left Leopold back in London. Or perhaps not—his old servant had been deeply disapproving of the way he’d treated her, even though he’d said nothing. And Lucien wasn’t interested in the opinions of servants, even those who knew him better than he knew himself.
Indeed, things were moving along quite well. His plan had been relatively simple, and each step, though not without its problems, had been completed. He’d managed to win her trust, to abscond with her, and seduce her. All he had left to do was marry her and leave her prisoner in this drafty old place, and there was nothing her family could do about it.
He strode down the dark, drafty halls in a rare temper. He’d been meaning to start back for London, but now he was going to have to waste time looking for Miranda, who was doubtless sobbing her heart out…
Music came from the end of the hallway. Someone was playing the piano, rather badly, and he winced at a wrong note. Whoever was torturing the instrument continued unabated, and he changed direction, moving toward the music room and thrusting the doors open.
His fiancée was sitting at the piano, dressed in a frock of rose-pink. Her brown hair had been simply arranged around her face, and he could see the bite mark on her shoulder and was instantly aroused.
She looked up at him, and there wasn’t a tear, not a shadow in her eye. She beamed at him. “That was absolutely lovely, darling,” she said brightly. “When can we do it again?”
He stood motionless, looking at her. Her color was high, making her look even prettier, and her mouth was slightly swollen from the pressure of his. But it was the bite mark on her neck that was most arousing, most disturbing. He couldn’t believe he’d been so out of control that he’d done that. It was primal, animalistic, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Except when he looked at her.
He was half tempted to cross the room, lift her up onto the piano, shove up her skirts and take her there. But he didn’t move, giving her a faint, cool smile that belied that turmoil inside him. The sheer, barely controlled lust that would doubtless terrify her. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, my precious. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for an encore until I return from London.”
Her mouth pouted in disappointment, the look in her eyes less easy to read. “Must you go?”
“I’m afraid so. I have a very special house party planned, and I must see to the arrangements.”
Her eyebrows rose. “A house party? Here?”
“Not this time. My friends don’t mind the dust and decay—in fact, I rather think they enjoy it. But it’s not my turn to play host. I simply promised to see that our main event takes place as ordered. Our wedding, my dear.”
She blinked. “We’re getting married at a house party? That’s scarcely legal, is it? And who might the guests be, dearest? Jewel thieves?”
“Among others. You’ll find all sorts of guests at these house parties. From royal dukes to anarchists, in fact. I think you’ll be quite entertained. As for legalities, we can always deal with that later.”
“How entertaining,” she said in an unaltered voice. “And do we have a date on this momentous gathering?”
“Friday next, my love. I’ll be gone until then—I find you much too distracting, but in my absence you may do anything you please. This house is yours, and my finances are at your disposal. You’ll have to entertain yourself as best you can without me.”
She rose, and he saw another mark at the side of her neck, from his mouth, not his teeth, and he wondered if he dared wait a few hours just so that he might have her again. He wanted to see what other marks he had left on her pale, beautiful flesh.
“I will be devastated without you, my darling, but I expect I’ll manage to contrive.”
There was his sweet Miranda, hiding the barb of sarcasm beneath her limpid smile. That was almost more arousing than the love marks, he thought absently. “I’m sure you will. My factor is Robert Johnson. He’ll see to whatever expenses you incur.”
“I can be very expensive, my love,” she purred.
“I imagine you can. I have a very great deal of money.” He cocked his head, surveying her. “Come and kiss your lover goodbye.”
It wasn’t a suggestion and she knew it. She moved across the floor with the perfect simulation of eagerness, standing before him with an overbright smile on her face. “Do you want me to kiss you, my darling?” she inquired limpidly. “Or will you kiss me?”
But he was no longer interested in games. He simply pulled her against him, kissing her, putting his mouth on hers in raw, elemental demand. Then realized with surprise that her arms had slid around his waist, holding on, as she kissed him back.
She probably hadn’t meant to. There was a distressed expression in her eyes before she quickly shuttered it, and she took a step back the moment he released her. “Goodbye, Lucien.”
Lucien. She was calling him by his name again, or perhaps it had only been a slip. But how could you stay formal with a man when you’d had him pumping away between your legs?
He could give her that same courtesy, that same trace of vulnerability. “Goodbye, Miranda. I’m happy that you were pleased with my poor efforts last night.” And he brushed a last kiss across her forehead, his lips feathering her pale, composed face.
He hadn’t hurt her, at least not much, and she’d been braced for it. He was much bigger than Christopher had been, so big that she wondered if he was misshapen. She only had the two men to judge by, and she’d assumed that Christopher had been the norm.
She went back to the piano and sat, gingerly. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Why had she kissed him back? Did she really not want him to go? Her breasts tingled, and when she tightened her legs together odd tremors rippled through her. What in God’s name had he done to her?
No, it wasn’t in God’s name. More like the devil’s. He touched her in ways she hadn’t imagined, put his mouth between her legs, and when he’d pushed inside her she’d felt…she’d felt…complete. As if she’d found her other half. She’d been naked, he’d still been fully clothed except for his open breeches, and she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t been able to touch his skin. She was already suffused with a dangerous arousal—what would it be like when he did it again? When his clothes were off, and the candles were lit, and it wasn’t such a new and shocking pleasure.
She should be happy he was going away. It would give her time to regain her self-control, to understand what he’d done to her body. It gave him complete power over her, and she couldn’t let that happen.
Oh, bloody hell, of course she could, she thought, impatient with herself. If she ended up married to the man she was duty bound to be in his bed, and she’d be an idiot not to take any pleasure she could. Even if it left her weak, helpless, vulnerable, it was really too wonderful to deny. What had been foul with Christopher St. John was glorious with Lucien de Malheur.
And she wanted more.