Do you think Lord Langley is as legendary—in certain matters—as they say?
A confidence overheard at Lady Ratcliffe’s afternoon tea
Minerva could not believe her bold desire. Instead of ordering him out, as she should have, she was now standing half dressed in front of Langley, and practically begging him to take her to her bed.
Langley, surely you’ve come here for more than that?
However had she come up with such a brazen line?
His stubbled jaw teased her hand, still cupped around his poor, battered face. A handsome man in his finery, there was something all too enticing about Langley once he was stripped of his polished veneer and all that was left was the virile man beneath.
“I’ve come . . . that is to say, I came down here to . . .” he stammered, sounding like a befuddled bridegroom rather than an accomplished rake.
His reluctance, his disquiet, only emblazoned her desires. He wanted her, she knew that, but something was very different about this night. This moment.
For both of them.
His open shirt revealed a smooth, hard chest, and to her bemusement, his feet were bare.
Why that was amusing, she didn’t know, but then again, it wasn’t every night she had a handsome, barefoot man come padding into her bedchamber . . . She smiled up at him. He had come to her. Just as she’d wished when she put on the Sterling diamonds.
“I don’t know what I am doing here,” he confessed.
“It couldn’t wait until the morning?” she asked coyly. Lady Standon no more, Minerva cast away everything that had held her life in bindings.
“No, it couldn’t,” he murmured.
“I should throw you out,” she whispered back. “But I won’t let you go without one thing.” She slid closer to him, one hand pulling his face down a bit while the other curled around his waist so she could hitch herself even closer to him.
Langley, the man with the easy quip, the man used to inviting a lady for a tumble with merely a flick of his mischievous, devil-may-care glances, opened his mouth to say something, to ask that one obvious question, but nothing came out.
Like a siren of old, she smiled at him, inviting him to do that thing she’d vowed she would never allow him.
To kiss her.
Parting her lips, she rose up on her tiptoes and said, “Are you going to make me beg?”
“No,” he said, pulling her closer still. “That will come later.”
And then he kissed her.
His kiss the other night, while tantalizing, had been hastily given and abruptly ended, so it made this one all the more mesmerizing. Slowly, his lips covered hers, claimed hers. Somewhere, he’d found Mrs. Hutchinson’s stash of brandy, and the hints and rumors of that rich brew whispered over her senses. As his tongue tangled with hers, her body swirled with passions, as if his kiss filled her with its own intoxicant.
Oh, and it was a heady brew. His hands roaming over her back, her bottom, drawing her ever closer to him, up against him, while his lips, his tongue, teased her to drink even deeper. To fall headlong with abandon into his seduction.
Though wasn’t she the one doing the seducing?
It was ever so hard to determine who was seducing whom. Having tackled her fears earlier with naught but bravado, now Minerva found her heart, her own power.
The command every woman yields when she finds her heart’s desire. Her soul. Langley’s kiss, instead of leaving her wavering and shocked, now awakened a potency she’d never known she possessed.
It filled her heart with a vitality, a knowledge, that she’d never dared claim, for fear that someone might realize she was no proper lady. But it seemed Langley didn’t need a proper lady.
He wanted her. And only her.
Her hands ran up and under the front of his shirt, starting at the top of his breeches, where a hint of crisp hair ran down to where his manhood even now strained against his plain breeches.
He stilled, as if waiting to see which she would choose—north or south—and for the life of her, she paused, spellbound by the heat of his body, the notion that her touch drove him to this drawn-out pause, awaiting her next step with the same trembling desire that was racing through her fingers, up her arms.
And then he did the impossible. He covered her hands and brought them up, inviting them to explore his chest, to give in to the slow, tantalizing explorations he was enjoying.
No. No. No. That wasn’t what she wanted.
She wanted to erupt, ignite, burn. She wanted to touch him, hold him. Now. And if she did, she knew they would tumble headlong onto the floor and give in utterly. Completely.
“Oh God, Minerva,” he whispered as he freed one of her breasts from her chemise and took the nipple in his mouth, teasing the tip with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, while his hand slowly moved between her legs and found her hot, wet core, where he began to touch her, slide over her taut nub, leaving her panting, breathless.
It was the carriage ride all over, but this time . . .
There was no theatre at the end of the block, only the two of them and her bed, waiting for them to fall into it. To give in to this desire he’d awakened with a stolen kiss and left to smolder between them ever since.
Her hips began to move, rising in crescendo, her knees buckling as she began to lose control.
And all she wanted was to touch him. Hold him.
“Langley,” she gasped. She gazed into his eyes, pleading where words failed her.
She saw herself beneath him, as in the carriage. She could nearly feel what it would mean to have him inside her, filling her, stroking this growing need of hers.
Of theirs.
Oooh, what would it be like to have him inside her?
Even now Langley was intoxicating her, like aged brandy, deceptive with its dusty bottle, potent when it unfurled inside you and all that tempering ignited in a burst of passionate fire.
What had he said? That he was going to make her beg.
Having merely tasted the elixir he was offering, she would do anything to have him continue. Breathless, she pulled back from him for a second and looked into those startling blue eyes. There was no grin on his lips, no flights of teasing, just the same dark, dangerous urgency that now claimed her heart.
“Please,” she managed.
“Are you begging?” he asked, his lips nuzzling over her earlobe, down the nape of her neck.
Really? Did he have to do that? It sent shivers down her spine, and if she couldn’t stand before, now she clung to him.
Begging.
“Yes, ever so much.” There, she’d said it.
And in reply he caught her up in his arms. He shouldn’t have the strength, the wherewithal, considering all he’d been through this night, but here he was, catching her up.
Now all he had to do was cross the room and . . . and . . . Yet, to her utter vexation—really, who knew that such a thing was possible when one was in the throes of passion—he stood there in the middle of the room, holding her in his arms and not moving.
Wasn’t this the part where he tossed her on the bed and tumbled her? Dishonored her? Thoroughly, completely, utterly?
At least that was how it always worked in French novels.
Yet here he was, as immobile as the Colossus of Rhodes.
She nodded toward her bed, worried that perhaps he’d been hit harder in the head earlier than she’d suspected. Could a man forget how to—
“I fear, Minerva . . .” he began, nuzzling her again.
Did he have to do that? It really made it impossible to think.
“ . . . there is one other matter to contend with,” he finished.
Oh, there were several matters to contend with, she would argue, but instead asked, “What now, Langley? I’ve begged. I’ll beg again, if that is what you want.”
He glanced over at her bed. “I promised I wouldn’t share your bed without your invitation.”
“Oh, good God, man, I thought that was implied when I didn’t toss you out earlier.”
Langley didn’t know what he found more fascinating about Minerva—her prickly nature or the deep passions that rose with the same mercurial fire.
And right now she was burning with both.
“Are you taking me to my bed or not, sir?”
Cheeky minx. What he should be doing was dropping her on her backside and running for the Dials, where she would never find him.
Though even if he did run, he wouldn’t put it past her to follow and demand her due.
So he tossed her atop her bed and grinned down at her.
Minerva’s mouth opened in a wide moue, but he knew it wasn’t one of outraged protest. No, quite the contrary, for then she beckoned him to join her.
And he did, yanking off his shirt and following her with equal abandon.
“Thought you’d never get here,” she whispered as she caught hold of his face and drew it close to kiss.
His heart did that odd tumble again. The same thud it did whenever she touched him.
Long ago, on a trip between Paris and St. Petersburg, there had been an old Gypsy woman who had stopped him and caught his hand, peering into the lines there.
She’d smiled at him and said very cryptically, as her type were wont to do, that he could love as many women as he dared, but one day a woman’s touch would lay claim to his heart and he would be hers forever.
He’d thought then that her words were nonsense—the promise of eternal love—if only to gain a few more coins. Yet, from time to time, when a woman would come to his bed, lay her hand atop his sleeve at a ball, or he’d clasp her fingers to bring them to his lips, he couldn’t help but think of the old crone’s words.
She’ll hold you like no other.
And now, as Minerva cradled his face with her hands, stroked his stubbled chin, curled the curves of her body into the angles of his, he found himself lost.
Falling.
Claimed.
And instead of sending him hying off to another posting, another engagement, stealing into the night never to return, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life in her bed.
Listening to her beg for his kiss, his touch.
But if he was honest here, he was the beggar.
Minerva offered him something that he’d never thought possible.
His heart.
Her arms wound around him and drew him close. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, her long legs winding around his.
He resisted grinning, thinking of the Minerva in the ugly flannel gown he’d met the other night.
Who would have ever suspected a supple, gorgeous women resided beneath that wretched flannel tent? But even her lacy chemise was too much for his desires, and skillfully he plied it from her body, leaving her adorned only in the Sterling diamonds, the stones glittering against her pale silken skin.
He began to kiss her anew, exploring her body, kissing her, running his tongue over her erect nipples, suckling her. His fingers slipped inside her, and Minerva was hot and wet, her hips moving seductively, setting the rhythm as he slid over her nub.
She was panting again, writhing and moving beneath him. Her bare foot wound around his leg, running up and down it, stroking him, and he imagined her hands doing the same thing to his manhood. Stroking him, pulling him closer, drawing him toward his completion . . .
So when her hands went once again to his waistband, this time he didn’t stop her, he let her open his breeches, let her slide her hand inside and free him. Where before he’d wanted to wait, he didn’t think he could last much longer.
Nor did it seem could she.
“Oh God, Minerva,” he gasped as her fingers curled around him, running down his length until they wrapped around his balls and gave them a tentative, gentle squeeze.
“Does it feel good?” she asked.
“Better than good,” he rasped out. So she stroked him again, exploring him from the base to the head, her thumb rolling over the wet bead that rose up and using its slickness to add to her teasing.
Langley sucked in a deep breath, thankful he wasn’t some callow youth, for he’d have spilled his seed for certain when her fingers wound all the way around him and held him tight as she ran her hand up and down.
“This will never do,” she complained as she continued to stroke him, her lips nibbling at his shoulder and then up along his jawline, her tongue raking over the stubble there.
Oh, God, it was bewitching the way she was exploring his body, giving over to her to desires. “No, this will never do,” she was muttering.
Langley didn’t think he’d heard her correctly. “Excuse me?” he managed. He’d never heard any complaints before.
“Your breeches,” she said, her fingers tugging at the waistband. “I won’t be tupped like some dairy maid.”
“Tupped?” Langley laughed. “I certainly hope I do better than that.”
“Oh, I have no doubts,” she told him, her hand winding around his length, “but the breeches must go.”
Who was he to argue with the lady?
Minerva could have clamped her hand over her mouth. Ever since Langley had come into her life, it was as if he was giving her long stilled tongue and unconventional upbringing license to be set free.
Tupped, indeed! Whatever had she been thinking to say such a thing?
And whatever was she doing? She was holding him, stroking him like a courtesan might. But he was so long and thick and solid. Hard. Never had she been with a man like this, with one so virile and capable.
Her aunt had been right a few nights ago. Sterling had never been able to consummate their marriage and his fumbling attempts had been a horror.
So here she was, a widow and a virgin. She should be as innocent as a bride, but Minerva had always been so very curious. And she hadn’t been raised in the closeted world of a debutante like her sister, but spent her early years in her mother’s cottage and then in the kitchens of her father’s house, where she’d seen enough coupling to know that it offered its own piece of heaven.
And with Langley, she felt a freedom to be as licentious as she’d ever dreamt of being. As brazen as the books of French prints Jamilla had casually left in the parlor one evening. Minerva Sterling certainly wouldn’t have looked at such a book, but Maggie Owens?
And it was hardly brazen to ask him to take off his breeches. For she’d wanted him naked. Completely so.
Then again, he didn’t seem to mind, for a wicked grin pulled at his lips, and he helped her slide his breeches off.
“Oh, yes,” she sighed happily now that he didn’t have a stitch on. “This is more how I imagined it.”
Langley stilled, one brow rising sardonically in an arch. “You thought of me doing this?” he teased. And before she could answer, he kissed her neck, her earlobe, while he nudged her knees apart and set his manhood so it was nestled almost inside her cleft.
The most delicious ache of anticipation ran down her spine even as her hips rose up to meet him. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even beg.
But oh, thank heavens Langley was a disreputable rake, for he knew exactly what she wanted, and without a word he slid inside her, his manhood opening her, easing into her, and then even though she still couldn’t breathe, she moaned, softly, then louder still.
“Oooh,” she breathed out. “Langley—”
He kissed her, moving slowly, in and out, easing deeper and deeper into her. With each stroke she moaned, her fingers running over his back in a desperate search to find something, anything, to hang onto, for her world was suddenly opening up beneath her.
He’d rocked his way into her, his movements starting to come quicker and harder, and then with a sudden thrust he buried himself inside her, sweeping past her barrier with unwitting speed.
Minerva gasped, both at the moment of pain and then the utter joy of having him there, filling her. It was hard and tight and delicious all at once.
But for Langley it was another matter. He stilled, for apparently—as suddenly as he broke through her veil—he realized what he’d done. “Good God!”
Her lashes flew open, and he was looking down at her with an expression of utter shock. Never had a man looked more confounded.
“You’ve never—” he began, about to pull out of her.
But she caught hold of his buttocks and held him fast. “Please, Langley, don’t stop. Not now.”
“But I can’t—”
She rocked her hips so her body slid over him. “I think you already have,” she told him, with a bit of a smile on her lips. She rocked against him, feeling the slick friction that rode over her nub all the way through her. “Please, Langley, don’t make me wait any longer.” Before he could say another word, she rose up and covered his lips with hers, kissing him, her hands now running up and down his back with the same slow steady movements with which he’d entered her.
“Please, Langley,” she whispered.
“Oh God, woman, how can I say no to you?” he groaned, pinning her to the mattress, his body moving with long, slow strokes, filling her completely with each one.
Minerva, one hand wound into the sheets, the other wound around Langley, hung on for dear life as her body began to move and ache, to tremble and take on a life of its own.
The world began to spin around her, and she couldn’t see much beyond the look of pure desire in Langley’s eyes. He groaned deeply as his movements became more hurried, more frantic. He was going faster and faster, and she met each thrust with her own clamoring passion.
And then the world gave way, and she reached her crisis, her body dancing amongst the heights, freed from every constraint, a celebration of desires finding their place in the very heavens.
She knew in that moment there was nothing else but this night, this man, this very dangerous passion.
For here was Langley, having found the same dizzying bliss—wildly thrusting into her, over and over again, as if he never wanted to stop chasing the passion between them, and with each movement filling her with his seed, claiming her as his own.
His only. For this night and forever.
“Where are you, Langley?” Minerva whispered sometime later.
After they’d both found their completion, they’d fallen into each other’s arms, exhausted and languid.
“Lost,” he told her.
“Found, I would hope.”
“Aye, that too.”
“But it frightens you,” she guessed all-too-wisely. Minerva rose up on one elbow and looked over at him.
He paused, for this was venturing into an honesty that he’d never crossed into. Had avoided with a rake’s practiced expertise. “It should.”
“Should it?”
He laughed. “That is the odd part. It doesn’t. You leave me breathless. Taken unawares. And odd as it sounds, I feel as if I have come home.”
“Home? Here?” She laughed. “Your standards are sadly lacking, sir, if you find this ramshackle house comforting.” Minerva waved her hand at the painting hanging over the bed. “With its fine artwork and tumbledown drainpipes.”
He tipped his head back and glanced up. “Certainly such a painting wouldn’t have been found in Versailles, not with that folly. I daresay, is it lopsided?”
She nudged him with her elbow. “You are looking at it upside down.” Minerva glanced up at it as well. “And yes, it is crooked.”
He laughed and rolled atop her, then looked back up at it again. “Decidedly crooked. Perhaps we knocked it loose from its nail when we were—”
“Langley!”
“I know how we could straighten it out,” he teased, and began to kiss her anew, his hands seeking out the spots he was coming to love—her lush breasts, the curve of her hips. Immediately, his body came to life, and happily so did hers, rising up to meet his, and her lips eagerly seeking his own.
“If you think this will help,” she said in that arched way of hers. “I’ve never liked a lopsided folly.”
“Most decidedly this will straighten out everything,” he promised as he filled her again and they rocked together, her every touch a reminder of what he’d found . . . and what he was risking.