And realized she was sitting on his lap, his arms around her, and she was no longer a virgin. She knew exactly what was beneath her bum, hard and growing harder, and she told herself it was one more reminder of how little she liked any of this. But his mouth tickled her eyelids, closing them, and she felt an odd little shiver dance down her spine, and she squirmed again. And he grew harder.
He moved his other hand up to the back of her neck, his fingers playing gently with her hair as it was coming loose, barely grazing the skin. His mouth brushed her temple, then moved down the other side of her face. He brought his other hand down to cradle her throat, stroking gently, and he pressed his mouth against her pulse, which for some strange reason was pounding.
“I thought you were just going to kiss me,” she said in a tight voice.
“Hush,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m taking my time. You’re not an easy conquest.”
She was tempted to bite him, but she resisted. “I’m not a conquest at all—” she started to say, but he covered her lips with his long fingers, silencing her.
“If you’re impervious then you can be patient.” He slid his hand down to the high neckline of her dress, and she felt a button pop open. And then another. She preferred dresses she could get herself in and out of—she hated being at the mercy of a lady’s maid, but he was having far too easy a time unfastening the top of her dress.
“I don’t…” He silenced her by covering her mouth again, and his lips were soft, damp, brushing against hers, and if he were any other man she thought she might even enjoy it. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to kiss, a great deal better than Christopher St. John, and she could feel an uncomfortable warmth between her legs. She tried to harden her mouth, but he caught her chin again. “That’s cheating,” he admonished her.
She wondered if he’d use his tongue. That would guarantee her disgust, she told herself. No one had ever kissed her that way. Jane had insisted it was wonderful, but Miranda took leave to doubt it. Nothing this man did to her would bring her pleasure.
Not when his hand pushed open the front of her dress, baring her skin, the tops of her breasts to the warmth of the fire, the warmth of his hand. Not when he slid his fingers inside her chemise, cupping her small, bare breast, but when she felt her nipple harden against them, felt that unfamiliar heat build, she tried to move.
“I really don’t think you should do that, my dove. I failed to bring my valet, and I must confess I’m at about the limit of my self-control. I would certainly hate to embarrass myself before I claimed victory, and I don’t have many changes of clothes.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about, and she froze. “Kiss me and get it over with,” she said, ignoring the fact that she wanted to press down against him, she wanted to slide her fingers through his long, dark hair.
“Then open your mouth for me, darling.”
His tongue was a shock, its intimacy astonishing considering he was pressing her bare breast against his fingers. She held utterly still as he tasted her, with deep, sensuous thrusts that should have reminded her of the unpleasantness of mating but instead only turned the heat to dampness, and her other breast pebbled against the cloth, wanting his hand, wanting his mouth, as he kissed her with such slow, deep deliberation that she closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the support of his long, stroking fingers.
Jane was right. The touch of a man’s tongue was intimate and arousing, and she had never known this. She didn’t want to think anymore—her body was on fire, and she wanted more of this decadent sweetness. She couldn’t have it, she told herself dazedly. If she was to win this battle she needed to stay cold, reserved, but how could she do that when she was burning from the inside out?
She wasn’t even aware of raising her arms to slide them around his neck, to cradle his head as her tongue reached out for his. And she was lost.
He put his hands on her legs, lifted her and swung her around so that she was astride him, her skirts up high around her thighs, and he was pressing her against his erection, pressing that damp, aching part of her against the hardness that she despised, and she made a soft, moaning sound as he rubbed against her. His hand slid down beneath her skirts, touching her, and this time she tried to pull away, but his arm held her fast, and in truth she didn’t want to escape. She wanted his hand on her dampness, his long fingers parting the secret folds of her body, and when his thumb brushed against her she jerked as a rush of pleasure washed through her, and for once in her life she wanted more.
He stopped.
They stared at each other for a long, frozen moment, and then he pulled his hand away, swung her back around and settled her skirts down around her legs, as if nothing had happened. His eyes were narrow slits in the candlelit room, and she could feel his heart pounding against her, his breath slightly labored.
“I won,” he said plainly. “You’re wet. Even in this heated room your nipples are hard. And you kissed me back.”
She pulled out of his arms, stumbling across the room and collapsing in a chair. She was shocked that her shaking legs had carried her that far. “You’re disgusting. And I didn’t kiss you back.”
“Your tongue was in my mouth, precious.” He sounded bored. He reached down and adjusted himself, drawing her eyes to the part she didn’t want to think about. “No one forced you to do that. You were aroused, and in another minute I would have had you in that chair. I do promise to make up for it eventually—we have any number of excellent chairs in my house upon which to experiment.”
She couldn’t find the words. She’d wagered and lost, though she couldn’t quite believe it. In truth, her skin still longed for his touch, her mouth for his kiss. Perhaps he’d drugged her. Perhaps she’d gone mad. It didn’t matter: she had lost.
She realized then that her dress was gaping open, and she swiftly began to button it again. “It is a great deal unfortunate that I didn’t wear something a bit more difficult for you to deal with,” she said in what she hoped was an icy voice. She couldn’t ignore the raw undertone to it.
“My precious, I could get you out of full court dress in seconds flat if I so desired,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine. It was as if those hot, fevered moments in the chair hadn’t existed. If she hadn’t felt the evidence of his arousal she would have thought this was all a game to him. “But I think we’ll wait to consummate our grand passion until we’re legally wed. In the meantime we still have the problem of your friend. And I must confess I’ve never found threesomes to be particularly satisfying. I do a much better job concentrating on one woman at a time.”
How did he still manage to shock her? she wondered. “She’s sick. Send her back home with an escort,” she said, then paused. “Do that much for me.”
“But, darling Miranda, have I ever expressed any desire to do anything for you?” he said mildly.
“It would make life easier for you.”
“And have I ever expressed an interest in doing things the easy way? If I preferred simple efficiency I would have killed your brother Benedick the moment I arrived in England. He was lucky I was in the tropics when my sister died—it gave me time for my initial rage to pass and for me to come up with a plan.”
She stared at him, hating him, hating the fact that her breasts still tingled and she wanted to rub them against him. She kept her hands fisted in her lap. “I made a very great mistake with Christopher St. John,” she said. “I didn’t fight him. I knew he was going to bed me and there was no way I could stop him, so I didn’t struggle. Not until later, when I couldn’t stand it anymore. That’s not going to happen this time. I won’t lie down for you, and I won’t let you rape me.”
“Haven’t I just demonstrated that it won’t be rape?” He almost purred the words. “Don’t worry, your nonvirginal body is safe from me for the time being. When I take you the first time I intend to do a proper job of it. You’ve only had a taste of what I can do.”
She wanted to cry. He’d taken unfair advantage—he knew far more about women’s bodies than she did, even though she lived in one. He knew how to touch and where, how to kiss, how to arouse, when she had been so certain she’d be impervious.
She pulled together what little dignity she had left. “Are we continuing our journey tonight?”
“We are. I will be joining you and Miss Pagett in the carriage. My leg is beginning to pain me, and I prefer to begin my wedded life in good health. Don’t worry, precious. I won’t tell Miss Pagett that I almost made you climax.”
Nearly anything could be used as a weapon. But there was nothing around for her.
He rose, and she realized he’d left his walking stick behind. He favored one leg, but he still managed to move with a sinuous grace that belied his usual appearance.
“Just how bad is your leg? You’re scarcely as crippled as you pretend.”
“You’ll find, my sweet, that little about me is as it appears. I broke my leg when I was younger and it was set badly. I don’t let it trouble me.”
“Then why don’t you continue the journey on horseback?”
“Because I don’t wish to,” he said in the softest, sweetest voice. “Accept it, Miranda. You lost the wager, and you’re wasting time fighting me.”
“It’s not in my nature to give up.”
He had come even with her, and he paused, looking down at her. “And that’s why you’re so irresistible,” he said.
He should have just taken her. She was no shy virgin—he could thank Christopher St. John for his bungled part in that. She had rubbed against him, instinctively, helplessly, as he kissed her, and she was wet with longing. It would have taken a moment to release himself, and he could have plunged up into her, burying himself in her welcoming heat, holding her hips as he bucked and fucked and lost himself.
Bloody hell, he had to stop thinking about it. He couldn’t walk around with a perpetual hard-on. And yet, there was something wickedly enjoyable about being physically aroused and anticipating Miranda’s eventual surrender. Tonight had been a delicious taste of it.
There was an old saying: revenge is a dish that is best served cold. Who would have thought his revenge would be so deliciously hot and yielding?
Jane Pagett was a complication, but one he could deal with. Right now he was bone tired and ready to sleep in his expensive carriage. It was a long way to go, up into the Lake District to his secluded home by Ripton Waters, but once they reached it he could count on time to complete the coup de grace of this particular revenge. For now, he was ready to rest.
The door was closed, plunging them into darkness, and a moment later they were moving once more.
“Miranda, my love,” his voice came through the darkness like a seductive snake. “Come join me and give your dear friend more room.”
“I’m quite fine where I am.”
“But I’m not.” With luck Jane wouldn’t recognize the hint of steel in his voice. She wanted to continue the charade that this was a voluntary elopement for as long as possible, and refusing would be to call his bluff.
With an audible sigh she rose, just as the carriage hit a stone, tossing her against Lucien. He caught her easily, and even in the darkness she could see a glint of his smile. “That’s one of the many things I love about you, my darling. Your reluctance and your enthusiasm.” He settled her onto the seat next to him, his arm around her shoulder, clamping her body against his, his heat pouring through her. “That’s right,” he whispered in her ear. And then, to her shock, he bit it, not hard, catching the lobe between his teeth lightly, and she jerked in reaction.
Thank God Jane couldn’t see what he’d done. “Miss Pagett, are you comfortable?” he asked, all solicitude, as he pulled the capacious fur throw over them.
“Yes, thank you,” Jane said sleepily. Jane was looking decidedly unwell, and Miranda had the uncharitable wish that Jane’s stomach would erupt, as well. Please, Jane, cast up your accounts all over his elegant Hessian boots.
Jane sniffled, coughing a little, but the ride was smooth enough to keep nausea at bay. She would be asleep in moments, Miranda thought, and that was all for the best.
Perhaps she could induce nausea on her own. She could think back to Christopher’s hands on her, the ugliness of his member, the pain of his penetration, the sheer awfulness of lying beneath his naked, hairy, sweating body as he pumped away at her.
But unbidden came the memory of Lucien’s erection, planted at the juncture of her thighs, and even through the layers of clothes he seemed substantially bigger than her erstwhile lover. Christopher had hurt her—Lucien would tear her apart. What in God’s name was she going to do?
“Stop twitching,” he murmured sleepily in the ear he’d just nipped. “We’ve got a long way to go, and I, for one, would like to pass some of it in sleep.”
“What about Jane?” she fretted.
“She’s already asleep, and it’s clearly nothing more than a slight cold. I’ve sent word to her family that she’s accompanying you on a visit to a dear friend and will return in a few days. It should set their minds at ease, at least for a time.”
“They’ll be terrified. Jane and I always had the capacity for getting into trouble.”
“Then when the truth comes out they won’t be that surprised.” He pressed her head against his shoulder, and while she wanted to pull away she knew he’d simply force her, and in truth it settled there quite comfortably. “Go to sleep, my angel. It will give you strength to fight me in the morning.”
And with that sage advice, she did.