It was easy enough to be sensible about it when she was dressed and walking around. But lying naked in a hot tub of rose-scented water aroused too many of her senses, and a host of memories returned. His mouth on her breast, sucking. His thick, hard invasion that had been uncomfortable at first, and then quickly became quite…wonderful.
She shouldn’t want it again. Most of the time she didn’t. She simply pushed it out of her mind. But he’d returned, and it was no longer so easy. Suddenly she was wanting it, wanting him, again.
She heard his bellow from a distance, and she smiled to herself. He must have discovered his rooms. She’d been waiting for this moment all day, been loath to leave the house for fear she’d miss it. Every spare inch of his bedroom, dressing room and adjoining sitting room had been painted the loveliest shade of powder pink. She hadn’t had enough time to find a matching shade of fabric for the curtains, but the white cotton lace had a nice, cheery touch, as did the coverlet and pillows. She’d even managed to paint several old chairs to go with the overall effect.
If he were a seventeen-year-old girl he would love it.
She chuckled. She ought to see about painting her own rooms. They were currently a faded green, and her dressing room, without windows, was very dark unless the adjoining door was open.
She knew exactly what he would do. He would storm around, have his valet find him another set of rooms in this huge old place and not say a word to her. It was part of the battle plan, her stealth attack, and he would never let her know she’d scored a hit.
She was wrong. Her door was slammed open, and he stood there, a furious expression on his face. Bridget, who’d been laying out her clothes for the evening, looked up, frankly terrified.
“Get out,” he said.
Bridget fled.
He advanced on Miranda. The water was cloudy from the soap, and she slid down farther, watching him warily, half expecting him to spring on her. And then she gave him a wide smile. “Do you like your rooms? I wanted to redecorate them first—a good wife always sees to her husband before she attends to her own needs, and I fancy I did quite an excellent job. There were a few things I wasn’t able to get done, but I think it very peaceful, don’t you? I’ve always found pink to be such a calming color.”
Apparently not. “Get out of the tub.”
“I’m not finished my bath yet, my dearest. Come back in half an hour if you want to talk. I can tell you’re ever so slightly cross with me, and I vow I can’t imagine why, unless you tell me that by some strange circumstance you don’t like pink.”
“I don’t like pink.”
“Well, how was I to know that?” she demanded, all fluttery exasperation. “Perhaps you would prefer a pale lavender?”
“Get. Out. Of. The. Tub.”
He was very angry indeed, and she wanted to chortle with glee. Lucien de Malheur, Earl of Rochdale, the Scorpion, the untouchable, who never showed any emotion, was furious.
“Would you perhaps prefer a baby blue?”
She knew the moment she said it that she’d gone too far. He came up to the tub, reached down into the water, up to his elbows in his elegant coat of superfine and hauled her out of the tub with such force that water sloshed everywhere.
Instinctively she fought him, but he was very strong. He simply picked her up, carried her into her dressing room and dropped her on the floor. A moment later the door slammed, plunging her into darkness.
She’d ended up on the rug, and she quickly pulled herself into a sitting position, huddling on the floor in the darkness, hugging herself in the rapidly chilling air as she waited for the sound of the lock.
It didn’t come, and she started to get to her feet. Why did he toss her into her dressing room if she could simply walk out?
And then she heard the sound of a coat being tugged off and tossed on the floor, and she knew she wasn’t alone in the darkness.
“Lucien,” she said in a conciliatory tone from the ink-dark shadows. “I’m sorry I annoyed you. Really, my darling, you have no sense of humor…” She ended with a little shriek, as he hauled her up, pushing her wet body against the wall, his own pressing her there.
He said nothing, and she could feel his heart beating through the thin cloth of the shirt he wore. His long legs were against hers in the darkness, breeches against bare legs, and she squirmed, accidentally allowing him to move one leg between hers, pinning her there.
He slid his hands behind her head, moving her face forward to his. “Vixen,” he said pleasantly. “You’re lucky I don’t beat you.”
She held herself very still. She was awash in the feel of him up against her body, between her legs, his mouth so close. She was frightened of feeling that depth of reaction again. She wanted him. She was terrified of the way he made her feel.
“You wouldn’t beat me,” she said in a hushed voice, trying to keep it light. “You know you adore me.”
“Vixen,” he said again. And kissed her.
She knew he would. Knew this was going to happen, no matter what she said or did. If she pretended she wanted it he would do it anyway. If she pretended she hated it he could still continue. Because he told her he knew her body better than she did, and her body couldn’t lie.
His mouth was hard, angry, and for a moment it hurt. She put her hands on the wall behind her, bracing herself as he kissed her, wanting his hard mouth on hers despite the pain. And then it softened, opened, and his tongue touched hers, and it felt as if all the anger had drained away, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders, clinging to him.
He kissed like an angel; he kissed like the very devil. His mouth was dark and sweet, a memory that roused her in ways that should have shamed her. She didn’t care. His long sleeves were wet against her body, and she reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from his breeches.
He pulled it over his head, and then it was his bare chest against hers, for the first time, her breasts pressed against hard muscle and wiry hair. In the darkness he was all around her, and he kissed her again, pushing her back against the wall, and she slid her arms around him.
She could feel the ridges on his back, the cording of scar tissue, and for a moment he froze, his mouth just above hers, and she was afraid, so afraid that he would pull away, that he would leave her.
And then he moved. “I’m a scarred monster,” he whispered in her ear. “And you’re trapped.”
She pulled her arms from around him, and he stayed very still, waiting, she knew not for what. For her to push him away in horror?
She found his face in the darkness, cradling it with her hands. “You aren’t a monster,” she whispered against his lips. “And you’re trapped, as well.” She kissed him, on his mouth, his jaw, his neck.
He claimed the kiss then, holding her still for it, pushing her mouth open once more, and she kissed him back, inexpertly, to be sure, but with her whole heart.
He moved his hand down, between her legs, and she could feel the dampness there that hadn’t come from the bath, a dampness he spread around, sliding his fingers inside her, moving up to circle her with the moisture, rubbing, sliding. She wanted him to keep on touching her, and she spread her legs, giving him better access, her hands on his shoulders now, clinging to him.
He made a low, growling sound in the back of his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He reached up and took one of her hands, sliding it down his chest to the front of his breeches.
She hadn’t touched him the other night, had only felt his invasion. He placed her hand on his erection, and she let her fingers move along its length, astonished by how hard, how thick, how big he was.
“Release me,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Unfasten my breeches.”
She wanted to. The more his hand slid and touched and danced between her legs the more she wanted him there, the hardness that was maddeningly out of reach, and she slid her hands around the waist of the breeches, looking for some kind of fastening, buttons, whatever, but her hands were shaking, and she felt like a clumsy idiot.
“I don’t know how,” she finally confessed, trying to drop her hand.
He caught it, moved it to the side where she felt hidden buttons, and with his hand guiding her she unfastened the buttons, four of them. “Now push my breeches down.”
She took her other hand from his bare shoulder, placing them both on his hips, and shoved the breeches down his thighs, and she felt him spring up against her, thick and hard.
He kicked his clothes away, and then he was just as naked as she was, in the dark, his body pressed up against her.
She reached down and touched him, gasping at the silken smoothness, letting her fingertips learn him. “This is ridiculous,” she said in a choked whisper. “This can’t possibly fit.”
She felt his laugh more than heard it. “Trust me.” And he put his arm under one of her legs, lifting her, bracing her against the wall. With his other hand he took the head of his sex and slid it against her, against that place that seemed so powerful to her overwrought nerves, and he was wet as well, smearing the dampness all around her, sliding down her cleft, and then up again. Her quiet moan of disappointment was unstoppable, and he laughed again.
“Hold on to me, Miranda,” he said, and she did, putting her arms around his neck as he lifted her, and she could feel him at the entrance of her sex. He thrust inside her, a thick, wet slide, and she cried out, not in pain but in sheer, guttural pleasure. He hoisted her higher, using both arms to support her under her thighs, bracing her against the wood paneling behind her bare back, and he began to move.
She let out a strangled cry, dropping her face onto his shoulder, letting her hands slide down his heavily scarred back, clinging tightly. He no longer seemed to mind, he was too intent on the sinuous movement of his hips, thrusting in, withdrawing as her body clung to him, then moving in deeper still, and each time she cried out, in blind, helpless pleasure.
She felt the first convulsion begin to sweep over her, and she clutched him more tightly, trying to speed him, needing more, needing harder, faster, but he must have felt the fluttering contractions, and instead he shoved all the way in, holding her completely still as wave after wave washed over her. She fought him then, fought his iron control. She needed more, but he was adamant, refusing to move, in so deep she could feel his leathery sac against her, and all she could do was dig her fingernails in as her body trembled.
As the first wave passed he started to move again, and she murmured a strangled protest, one he refused to listen to, and this time when her climax came it was even stronger, and she cried out, begging him in strangled tones, but once more he held himself in deep, impaling her.
She was sobbing by then, unable to control herself, and when he began to move again she begged him. “No more,” she gasped, her body shaking apart. “I can’t take any more.”
“Yes,” He thrust deeper still. “You can.” He was moving faster now, and her body was accepting his rhythm, his dominance, in this at least, and she knew she was past fighting. She surrendered, letting her fingertips caress the corded scars on his back, her legs tight around his hips, and she told herself this was for him, now. The last of her had burned up in a storm of desire and there was nothing left.
Nothing left but his thick, heavy thrusts as she clung to him, nothing left but his final, powerful slam into her, and she could feel him, feel his climax, feel him fill her with his seed, and out of the darkness something took over, some dark, terrible, wonderful place, and she buried her face against his neck to muffle her scream as she was lost once more.
He wanted to stay buried deep inside her. His cock was still twitching, still semierect, and he knew if he stayed that way he’d get hard again. Because no matter how thoroughly he’d fucked her, he still seemed to want more of her. He couldn’t imagine ever having enough.
But he pulled free, because he didn’t want her to know how much he needed her. Not that she would guess—for a ruined woman she seemed to have the sophistication of a nun. But he liked that. He liked that she seemed to know almost nothing about the intricacies of pleasure. He could thank St. John for his ineptitude after all.
He let her legs down onto the floor, carefully, then caught her as her knees gave way. He took her down onto the padded floor with him, letting her fall against his body, and he found he was cradling her in his arms as she wept silently. Her tears were hot against his already heated flesh, and he found he was stroking her back in wordless comfort, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Why she needed comfort after what had had to be as soul-shattering for her as it had been…almost had been for him.
No, he could understand. The power of it, the vulnerability. She was trembling slightly, just an errant shiver that ran over her body and had nothing to do with cold.
He was sorry there wasn’t some kind of shawl in here to pull over them. He hadn’t been thinking, at least, not much. He’d been so angry with her. He’d spent the entire day trying not to think about her body pressed up against his, about the smell of her in the fresh spring air, and then the sight of his appalling rooms had simply set something off. He’d come storming in, to find her soft and sweet and rosy in her hot bath, and all he knew was he needed to be naked with her. Immediately.
He’d had enough presence of mind to know that it was still light outside. And he didn’t let anyone see his back, the damage that had been done.
It was bad enough that she could feel it, and he’d wanted to pull away from her then, when he’d felt her hands on him. Almost. But her touch had been so gentle, her mouth so sweet, that instead he’d let her stroke him, hold him as he pumped into her body, let her dig her fingernails into him as she reached her final climax.
He could barely feel it—the scar tissue so thick that the top layers of his skin were numb. Though oddly enough, her gentle caresses had been unmistakable.
He tucked her head against his shoulder, wrapping his arms and his body around hers. He didn’t tend to fall asleep after sex; he was always too intent on escaping. But right now he felt he could close his eyes and drift off quite easily.
That wasn’t going to happen. He could feel her tears slow, feel her body relax into sleep, and he carefully pulled away from her, stifling his groan. He didn’t want to. Her dressing room was big enough, perhaps he’d have the servants tuck a small bed in here. Most dressing rooms had a place for a lady’s maid to sleep. Though he didn’t necessarily want to disport on a servant’s bed.
It took him a while to find his abandoned clothes in the dark, even though his eyes had become accustomed to it. He dressed quickly and quietly, then opened the door to her bedroom, letting in a shaft of twilight.
She was pretending to be asleep, but the tears on her face were fresh. He didn’t stop to consider the ramifications, he simply went and scooped her up in his arms, thanking God she wasn’t that big and his leg wasn’t that weak. He carried her over to her bed, setting her down as he pulled away the covers, then placing her under them, tucking her in. She was still crying. Pretending to be asleep, but he’d felt the heat and wetness on his skin.
He stared down at her, not certain what he should do. He could mock her—she would rise up and fight back, the tears forgotten. Perhaps.
But what if she simply cried more? He was usually impervious to crying women. Any women who spent time with him usually ended with tears, because he simply wasn’t interested in the little games they tended to play.
Miranda’s game was anything but little. And for some odd reason her tears bothered him, perhaps because the rest of the time she was so fearless. He opened his mouth to chide her, then closed it again, and for some damnable reason he stretched out his hand and pushed the damp strands of her hair away from her tears.
Christ, if he stayed any longer he’d probably climb into bed and start comforting her!
He turned, quickly, wondering where the hell he’d left his cane. He couldn’t see it in the twilight, and it was too dangerous to wait. Limping, he made his way out of her rooms as fast as his aching leg would let him, closing the door silently behind him.