“Of course I am, dear lady. Are you cold? Perhaps I should build up the fire?”
“W-w-why?” she said, stammering only slightly.
“Because you aren’t going to have anything covering you. Except me.”
She gulped. And somehow managed to reach inside herself and pull out that flashing smile of hers. “You’re extremely saucy, my lord. I don’t think so.”
He’d moved away from her. His leg was giving him trouble, but he didn’t bother to disguise it. He was still bothered by her artless statement. She’d meant it. She didn’t see his scars or lameness. In fact, she was embarrassed that she hadn’t been more aware. When she looked at him she saw him, not his scars, and that was rare and oddly disturbing. He felt as if he’d been thrown off balance.
It was a shock, when he was so used to keeping to the shadows. He was acutely aware of his own dragging walk whenever his leg pained him too much. And he’d never been fond of mirrors. He didn’t like to be reminded of the claw marks on his skin, those permanent memories of a barbed whip brandished by a madwoman. His back was worse, a horror. Even Jacob Donnelly had been shocked the first time he’d seen it, and Jacob knew nightmares beyond measure.
Lucien rose from the bed to put wood on the fire, watching her out of the corner of one eye to make certain she didn’t try to run. There were hardly enough servants to keep this place going, and he was more than capable of loading a fire himself. Mrs. Humber had already complained that his future bride was insisting she hire more servants, and she maintained there weren’t any available, but he knew she lied. Most women lied, including the one in bed watching him with warm brown eyes.
“Why don’t you start by taking off that oh so fetching nightgown, my pet?” he murmured, moving back toward her. “After all, why should there be any secrets between us? We’re to be man and wife, after all. You’re getting a title and a considerably advantageous marriage, given that you managed to ruin yourself. I may as well see what I’m getting out of the bargain.”
“Alas, nothing very exciting, my lord, I assure you,” Miranda said in her mock cheerful voice. “I’m nothing above ordinary. Some might even consider me a little plump, but they’d be rude.”
“And I would never be rude,” he murmured, watching her. She was making no move to unfasten her clothing. “Tell me more.”
He took a seat at the foot of her bed and she let out a little squeak of dismay as she pulled her feet out of the way. And then she laughed, with almost all trace of nervousness vanished. “I’m not very tall and not very short. In truth, average. My breasts are too small, my hips a little too generous, I have excellent teeth and skin and while my hair is a boring brown its length and texture are to be admired.”
“I haven’t seen it down yet. Why don’t you unfasten your plaits and show me?”
She shook a playfully admonishing finger. She really had no idea this was a losing battle. “If I did my hair would be a mare’s nest of tangles and I’d spend the better part of the day combing them out. It’s not that interesting—it’s simply long and brown.”
“Is it long enough to cover you like Lady Godiva?”
“I have no idea. The idea of being naked on a horse never appealed to me.”
“That’s a great deal too bad. I find the notion quite entrancing.”
Just a flicker of a glare, and then she gave him her sunny smile once more. “Indeed, I can’t fathom why you’d want to bother with me, my lord. I know perfectly well that you’ve had some of the great beauties of the world as your mistresses.”
“And haven’t you wondered why?”
Her lovely forehead furrowed. “Why?” she echoed, puzzled. And then she remembered. “Oh. Well, I expect you make love in the dark,” she said naively. “Christopher St. John always did.”
He couldn’t stop himself; he laughed. “No, my love, my soon-to-discover wife, I do not make love in the dark. I like to see what I’m enjoying. If women have objections to my appearance I soon make them forget about them.”
“Well, you see!” she said, faintly exasperated. “You sounded as if you didn’t believe me when I said I forgot about your scars. But you wander around like Lord Byron, all broody and interesting and romantical and it’s no wonder women fall at your feet like…like things that fall at your feet. And Byron’s almost as lame as you are.”
He stared at her in real horror. “Romantical?” he echoed in total disgust. “Broody? Like that ass Byron? My dear Miranda, you have a tongue like a barbed whip.” He used the phrase deliberately, like prodding a sore tooth to see if it still hurt.
It did.
This time her smile was genuine, a pleased grin that she’d managed to wound his amour propre. “Well, if you don’t want to be a mysterious, romantic hero you need to gain at least two or three stone, talk about finance and belch. Your clothes are too dramatic, as well. I think colors would suit you rather than the funereal black you mope around in. Perhaps a nice puce, or a pale chartreuse. And you could cut your hair. It’s too long for fashion nowadays. Something à la Brutus would make you very much more ordinary.”
“My hair covers my scarring.”
“But we’ve agreed that no one notices your scarring once they’re around you. You woo them like a big, fat hairy black spider, and no matter how much they struggle they’re helpless.”
“For some reason I can’t quite imagine a spider wooing.” He didn’t even bother trying to hide his amusement. “And I haven’t noticed you being particularly helpless. The top button if you please.”
“I don’t please. The room is cold and we’re not yet married and…”
“The top button, or I’ll do it myself.”
She reached for the top button of her high-necked nightdress. The buttons were small and delicate, mother-of-pearl, and there were far too many of them. He was going to enjoy the slow unveiling, unless she argued too much. In which case he was simply going to rip them open, letting buttons fly everywhere.
The first button came undone, and he could see the hollow at the base of her throat. Such an erotic spot, he thought absently.
“Isn’t it rather late for a social call, my lord?” she said, putting her hands back in her lap and clasping them firmly.
“This isn’t a social call. It’s a conjugal one. Next button.”
“Not likely.”
“The next button.”
There was the briefest hint of a glare, and then that sunny smile. She unfastened it, and he could see the lovely little indent where her collarbones met. “I presume you aren’t a practitioner of rape, my lord,” she said in a tranquil voice.
“You presume correctly.”
“So no matter how many buttons I unfasten you aren’t about to force yourself upon me, are you?”
“No. You may strip down naked and dance around the room like a houri and I won’t take you unless you ask me to.”
She considered him for a moment. “I would feel more secure if not for the occasion of our wager in the coaching inn. You’re uncommonly skillful in the manipulation of women.”
“I’ve studied the art quite thoroughly.” He crossed his knees. “Toss me a pillow, love, before you undo the next button. I want to be comfortable.”
He could read her mind so easily. She wanted to tell him she needed all her pillows, but that would give him the excuse to move up on the bed and she certainly didn’t want that. She pulled a soft pillow from behind her back and tossed it to him, then unfastened the third button.
He pushed back his hair, his long, Byronic hair, damn her, and watched her. He liked this part the best, the slow, steady arousal that would become overwhelming until he spent himself in her soft, sweet body. Only her feet were still under the covers, and he wanted to rip the sheets away and toss them on the floor, then put his hands on her calves, spreading her legs for him. This was going to be a challenge, getting her to let go, but he’d always enjoyed challenges. He stayed very still.
“One more,” he said softly. That button would open the white nightgown to the tops of her breasts, the ones she said were too small. They seemed quite lovely to him, beneath their virginal covering. He was looking forward to seeing them. Tasting them. Sucking on them as he slowly thrust in and out of her body.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, forgetting to hide the nervousness in her voice.
“Like what, my sweet?”
“Like a predator.” And then she pulled herself together, letting out a little trill of laughter that normally would have annoyed him. He knew Miranda too well, knew the nervousness beneath her insouciant behavior, and he recognized it for the paltry defense it was. He was going to be interested to see how long she could keep it up. If she would smile and chatter even as he pushed inside her.
“Listen to me! What a fanciful creature I have become,” she said gaily. “No doubt it is due to our very Gothic mansion, my lord.”
“You’re about to undo another button on your nightgown. You should call me Lucien. You did before.”
Her eyes met his for a moment, devoid of artifice, and then she batted her eyelashes at him. “That was a different man, I’m afraid. You weren’t who I thought you were.”
It shouldn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him. It was too bad she wanted a Caliban to her Miranda. How simplistic. He was a villain, and he would be a fool to pretend otherwise. “I can always unfasten that button for you.”
She undid it. Her nightgown was now open partway down the valley between her breasts. They were small, but as far as he could tell, quite perfect. “Pull your gown apart,” he said lazily.
She looked at him in utter stillness. “You’re going to lie with me tonight, aren’t you?”
“I already told you, yes. And it won’t be rape.”
And to his surprise she let out a huge, long-suffering sigh. “Very well, if you insist,” she said in a bored tone of voice. “I do think we should wait till we’re married but if you’re that eager I can hardly deny you.” She pushed the gown toward her shoulders, exposing the swell of her breasts, the valley between them.
“You aren’t going to fight me?”
“It would be a waste of time. I’ve told you more than once, I’m pragmatic. Why make something even more unpleasant than it already is?”
“I do believe my lovemaking is not generally considered to be unpleasant,” he murmured.
“Well, they’d hardly tell you the truth, would they?”
Such an innocent! Such a delightfully untried innocent, who still blessedly had gotten rid of her infernal hymen so he didn’t have to bother with that part, the blood and the pain and the tears. He’d only taken one virgin in his life, when he himself had been untried, and he swore he would never do it again.
But someone who was almost totally unaware of what actually could lie between a man and a woman was delightful beyond belief.
“I believe there are ways to tell, my darling Miranda.”
She looked doubtful, but she lay back against the pillows, her long brown plaits making her look absurdly young. “If you say so. Are you certain I can’t change your mind about this?”
“Absolutely certain.” And he started toward her, moving up the bed like the stalking beast she’d likened him to.
She had really hoped to get out of this predicament without having to endure lovemaking again, but that had always been an unlikely goal. And in truth, it would be no epic disaster. She had no maidenhead or reputation to lose. He could do whatever he wanted with her and it would make no difference.
The worst thing that could happen is that she’d respond to his touch, his kiss, assuming he was going to kiss her as part of the whole act. Christopher hadn’t, but then, he hadn’t liked kissing.
Miranda had discovered that she did. At least, unfortunately, she liked kissing Lucien, no matter what a snake in the grass he was. Whether she wanted to or not, her body reacted to his mouth and hands on her. Which might make the invasion and pain and humiliation of the sex act all the worse. Not that it would matter to him. He was too intent on getting what he wanted.
He was moving toward her like the predator he was, and she lay very still, watching him approach. She could do this if she had to. And clearly she must.
“Do you mind blowing out the candles?” she asked politely. “I think I’d be more comfortable in the dark.”
“I imagine you would be. Then you could pretend I’m someone else.” He was leaning over her, and she felt very small and helpless. She didn’t like that feeling, not one bit. “Tell me, my precious, is there anyone who’s taken your fancy over the last few years? Some stalwart young man you could have taken to husband if you hadn’t had your fall from grace?”
She wondered what he’d do if he knew the truth. “Only you, my dove,” she said with facetious sweetness to hide her honesty. He would assume she was taunting him, and she was happy with that. Perhaps she could even convince him that her helpless response was all part of the game.
Because, in fact, he was the only man she’d ever thought about willingly bedding, about marrying. About loving.
He had a beautiful mouth. Some of the scarring reached down across the corner of it, and without thinking she reached up and touched it with the tips of her fingers, very softly, a caress that he wouldn’t recognize as such.
“What happened to you?” she asked softly.
His pale eyes turned cold. “Is that supposed to drive me away, my sweet? I’m afraid I’m made of sterner stuff than that. A woman with a whip did that to me.”
She let her fingers touch the shallow furrows across his temple and brow, gentle, soothing. She wanted to keep touching him, to brush away the pain. “But why? Why would anyone want to hurt you like that?”
His mouth curved in a cynical smile. “Wouldn’t you?”
She brought up her other hand to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing against his lips. “No.” She couldn’t help it. “At times I may want to kill you. But I’d never want to hurt you.”
“You realize how ridiculous that sounds?” His voice was low, hypnotic, his mouth very near hers now.
“Yes,” she whispered. And she brought his face to hers, and kissed him.
She felt his body jerk in astonishment, and for a moment she was afraid she’d done it wrong, or that he didn’t like kissing. She tried to pull back, but he pulled her against him and kissed her back, full, hard and deep, kissing her so thoroughly she was breathless, trembling. This was the way he would have kissed her if he cared about her, if he loved her. She could always pretend, couldn’t she?
He rolled her back upon the pillows, his mouth still clinging to hers. She closed her eyes, absorbed in the touch, the flavor of his mouth, letting herself dance into the kiss, reach its center, let the pleasure pour out around her like rays of sunlight, and she wanted to sing with wordless delight.
He lifted his head, and his eyes were glittering in the candlelight as he looked down at her. His long hair fell about his face, hiding the scars, and she wanted to brush it away, but her hands were trapped beneath their bodies as he ran his mouth down the center of her neck, tasting, biting the soft skin, and she felt tiny shivers suffuse her. He kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, and she felt his tongue against her skin. She felt his mouth against the hammering pulse at the side of her neck, as he seemed to inhale the rapid beat, and then he moved to lie down beside her, one hand still capturing her shoulder, turning her to face him.
That was when she realized he’d finished undoing the buttons and the nightgown was halfway down her shoulders. Her breasts were exposed in the cool night air, and she reached up try to cover them, but he took care of that with one strong hand. “No need to be shy, my Miranda,” he whispered. “We always knew it would get to this sooner or later.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She could no more continue with her cheery good-nature than she could give in to the tears that seemed to be forming at the back of her throat for absolutely no reason. She hadn’t cried over Christopher St. John—there was absolutely no reason to cry over Lucien.
He was right. It was always coming to this, from the first moment she saw him. No, from the first moment she heard his voice and felt that incredible pull, she knew this man would be someone different in her life. He would take her, claim her, and then she supposed he’d abandon her as he’d threatened. It didn’t matter. She didn’t even like sex, but she wanted his body on top of hers, pushing inside her. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close while he sweated and strained and found his completion. She wanted to give everything she could to him, when she should have wanted to cut his throat.
It made no sense, but his hand had slid down her body to her small breasts, and he was cupping one gently, learning the textures of it, his fingers playing with the hardened nipple, and she could feel a strangle surge of response lower down, between her legs.
He leaned over and put his mouth on her breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth, and she arched off the bed, only her amazing self-control keeping her from crying out.
It was an astonishing feeling. The slow, steady tug of his mouth at her breast, while his hand toyed with her other nipple. She’d been determined not to say anything, but somehow a tiny squeak of reaction broke through.
He pulled his mouth away, licking her, and she needed him to move to her other breast, but he didn’t, he seemed happy enough, placed closemouthed kisses against her collarbone, and she made a small, whimpering sound, one that couldn’t be of need, could it?
He raised his head, and his expression was cool, controlling, though his pale eyes were filled with heat. “Ask me,” he said.
She closed her mouth tightly, biting down on her lip. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction—he couldn’t just make her give up that easily.
He moved his head down, and his nose brushed against the side of her breast. “Just say please, Miranda. That’s all you have to do.” He used his tongue, gently lapping her skin, the valley between her breasts, moving no closer, and she bit down, hard, to keep from crying out.
His tongue just danced across the top of her nipple, a featherlight touch, and she couldn’t help it, she writhed, wanting more. “Just ask, Miranda,” he whispered in a light, singsong voice.
His hand slid beneath the gown to touch her belly, holding her still as she twisted against him, trying to get more of him. A thousand different curses came to mind, the angry, violent things she wanted to rain down on his head, but his hand splayed out across her belly, long, warm fingers, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Please,” she gasped out, and she heard his damnable chuckle. But then it didn’t matter, for his mouth latched onto her other breast, and her back arched as he drew her into his mouth, his tongue dancing across the pebbled nub, as he sucked at her, hard. His fingers slid lower, and she felt a tiny explosion rocket through her, making her jerk against his restraining hand.
She fell back, panting, confused, dizzy. He was pulling her gown completely off, but she no longer cared. She could barely move, but she could see him quite well. “My, you are responsive, my pet…. Now what do you think you might like next? I have all sorts of interesting ideas.”
She was managing to focus again, and she looked up at him dazedly. He was slowly unfastening his cravat, and he looked at the length of silk for a long, contemplative moment, and that dangerous smile curved his lips.
“We’ll leave this for later, shall we?” he murmured, carefully draping it around the bedpost. He leaned back, that animal smile dancing around his mouth. In the darkness the scarring on his face was invisible, and she found she missed it. It was part of him, nothing she needed to hide from, and she wanted to reach her fingers up to touch the hardened furrows across his cheek. She didn’t. “You really have extraordinary breasts, and I would happily suckle you all night long, but I’m afraid I’m getting too needy for the business at hand. It’s surprising how little self-control I have right now. Perhaps revenge is an aphrodisiac.”
Her eyes flew open. She’d forgotten. Forgotten this was simply an act of revenge, not of choice on his part.
And the damnable thing was, it didn’t matter. His hand was on her stomach, moving lower, stroking lower, and she felt his fingers touch her triangle of hair, and she tried to clamp her legs together, embarrassed.
“It doesn’t work that way, Miranda. Don’t you remember?” he said softly. “Spread your legs for me or I’ll make you.”
She found her voice. “You said you wouldn’t force me.”
“I lied. At this point I’d do anything to take you.”
“Including rape?”
He was unmoved. “Precious, I just made you climax simply by sucking on your breasts. It won’t be rape.” His fingers moved lower, touching her intimately, and she felt another lightning-like shimmer of reaction. “Will it, my love?”
In answer she spread her legs, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t see his triumphant smile.