Chapter 7
Despite her best efforts, Mercy found herself lingering in the library long after she should have been in bed.
It was perfectly absurd.
Ian Breckford might have made an appearance at dinner and even have stayed long enough to play a game of chess with his aunt before bolting for the village pub, but as far as Mercy was concerned he might as well have been half a world away.
Never in her life had she ever been quite so thoroughly ignored. There had not been a word, or a touch, or even a glance the entire night. Which meant that it had to be intentional. No one could so assiduously avoid another without a great deal of effort.
Still, she found herself ridiculously hurt when she at last conceded defeat and climbed the stairs to her chambers.
Did the aggravating man fear she might force herself upon him at the dinner table? For heaven’s sake, he had already made it obvious he did not consider her worthy to capture his jaded attentions. Did he have to rub her nose in his indifference?
Once in her rooms, she changed into the sensible night rail that was beginning to fray about the hem and brushed her hair into a tidy braid. Then, rather than climbing into her bed, she studied her reflection in the mirror.
In the flickering candlelight she could make out the pale oval of her face and the dark slant of her eyes. Nothing remarkable, of course. But surely not hideous, either.
So why was she continually overlooked, disregarded, or outright rejected by gentlemen?
What the devil was the matter with her?
Ignoring the knowledge that her father would be deeply disapproving of her display of vanity, Mercy continued to search her reflection for her fatal flaw, nearly missing the soft tap on her door as she remained lost in her broodings.
There was no mistaking, however, when the door was abruptly pushed open to reveal the gentleman currently plaguing her thoughts.
“Ian.” She awkwardly surged to her feet, her gaze widening at the sight of his disheveled appearance.
Sometime during the evening he had lost his cravat as well as his elegant jacket and waistcoat. Now he was attired in nothing more than a thin linen shirt that revealed a disturbing amount of his wide, smooth chest and a pair of breeches that clung to the hard muscles of his thighs with an unnerving precision.
Her stomach clenched with a giddy awareness as she lifted her gaze to take in the tousled raven curls and the shadowed line of his jaw.
He looked raw and dangerous and utterly delectable.
“I saw the light beneath your door. . . .”
“For heaven’s sake come in or out before anyone notices you,” she interrupted, annoyed by her ready reaction to his arrival. It seemed gruesomely unfair that she should burn with need when he was near, and yet he could remain indifferent.
Seemingly oblivious to the sharp edge in her voice, Ian entered the room and shut the door firmly behind him. Then, leaning against the wooden panes, he regarded her with an oddly muddled gaze.
“Sweet, sweet Mercy.”
With a frown, Mercy moved forward, able to catch the scent of whiskey on his breath as she halted directly before him.
“You are foxed.”
“No, I am not.” He swayed, his hand grasping the doorknob to keep from pitching forward onto his nose. “I am three sheets to the wind, my dear. Quite different from being foxed.”
“I suppose I must take your word for it. You are the expert, after all,” she muttered, grasping his arm as he once again swayed. “Have a seat before you knock us both to the ground.”
Without warning, he gave a sharp tug with his arm, knocking her off balance so she stumbled against him. Before she could recover, he had her pinned to his body, his arms wrapped about her waist in a ruthless grip.
“I do not want a seat. I want you beneath me on that bed as I part your legs and . . .” His eyes screwed shut, as if he were in actual pain. “Christ, you are driving me mad. I should have stayed at the pub. There were any number of women who were eager enough to ease my ache.”
The momentary delight at being held so tightly in his arms was swiftly doused at his less-than-flattering words. Lifting her hands, she placed them flat against his chest and arched back to glare into his aggravatingly handsome face.
“No doubt,” she hissed. “Why didn’t you stay if they were so eager?”
“Because they were not you.” His eyes snapped open, the whiskey gold gaze sliding over her flushed face before lowering to take in the thin night rail that did little to cover her slender curves. A sinful heat followed in the path of his gaze, searing over her skin and making her shudder with need. “It did not matter how beautiful or willing or skilled they might be, I remained as limp as an overcooked noodle.” His expression was hard with self-derision. “It has to be you. Only you.”
With a violence that shocked her to the very core, Mercy curled her hands into fists and smacked them against his chest. It was not that she could actually hurt the man. She did not doubt that her blows caused more pain to her hands than to his rock-hard chest. Still, it was utterly uncharacteristic of her to lash out like a common fishwife.
“You do not want me,” she hissed. “You have made that clear enough for even a simpleton to comprehend.”
“Not want you?” With a sharp laugh, he grasped her wrists, easily halting her foolish attack. Then, with a low groan, he bent his head to brush his lips over the pulse pounding at her temple. “There are moments when I fear that if I do not have you soon I will shatter into a thousand pieces.”
She stilled, her body humming with excitement at his light caress. “Then why . . . ?”
His lips moved to explore the curve of her cheek, his hot breath sending a rash of prickles over her sensitive skin.
“I am not completely depraved, Miss Simpson, or at least I was not until stumbling over a delightful wood sprite who will not leave me in peace.”
She wanted to be offended by his accusation. He made it seem as if he had no choice in forcing his way into her room and wrapping her in his arms as if he would never release her.
Unfortunately she could barely think beyond the sensation of his knowing lips as they nibbled a path to the corner of her mouth.
“You were the one to seek me out on this occasion,” she rasped.
His hands splayed against the low curve of her back, squeezing her between his parted legs until she could feel the hard length of his erection pressed against her hip.
“Because it does not matter if I am in a pub a mile away or in London, I cannot get you out of my mind.” With a groan, he plundered her mouth with a savage kiss, his tongue thrusting between her parted lips as if he were desperate for the taste of her. At last he eased the hard pressure to mutter his words of frustration. “Your scent . . . the feel of that satin skin . . . the taste of your lips . . .”
Mercy was forced to clutch at his shoulders as her knees went weak. She felt as if she had been tossed in the midst of a maelstrom that threatened to drown her in sensation.
“Ian,” she breathed. “Wait.”
“Wait?” He gave the lobe of her ear a sharp nip. “I have bloody well waited for hours. Hell, I am beginning to suspect that I have waited my entire life.”
She struggled to think as his tongue traced the line of her throat. This was precisely what she had desired . . . what she still desired . . . but it was all happening so swiftly she could barely keep up with the emotions battering through her.
“What do you want from me?”
He deliberately rocked his arousal against her, his mouth skimming down to the line of her bodice.
“You are not that naïve.”
A soft groan was wrenched from her throat as his lips found the upper curve of her breast, seeming to savor the feel of her skin. Already her nipples were hard and aching for his touch. She had never dreamed that a man’s lips on the sensitive buds could cause such exquisite pleasure.
“I do not consider it naïve to presume a gentleman who cannot so much as glance in my direction is indifferent to me.”
He muttered a curse as he raised his hands to tug the narrow bands of her night rail off her shoulders, his eyes glowing with a ravaging heat as the material drifted down to pool at her feet.
“Only a gentleman desperate to be buried deep inside you would ever go to such an effort to avoid you, sweet Mercy,” he rasped, his hands busily tugging her hair free of its braid. “If you knew how hard it has been to keep from ripping the clothes from your delectable body and having my way with you, you would be quaking in terror.”
Mercy was quaking. But terror had nothing to do with her trembling.
No, it was the hand that he tangled in her tumbled curls as he sharply angled her head back to meet his demanding kiss, and the pained rasp of his breath.
Even in her innocence she realized that this was not the smooth seduction of a practiced rake. There was nothing polished in his desperate touch or the shudders that wracked his body.
The knowledge was far more erotic than any amount of skill, and, tossing aside her lingering hurt at his earlier rejection, Mercy wrapped her arms around his neck.
She was drowning in a delicious heat despite the chill that brushed over her bare skin. A heat and excitement that she could feel to the tips of her toes.
Ian growled deep in his throat, his tongue thrusting with a slow rhythm that mimicked the same thrust of his hips. Mercy felt an ache bloom deep in the pit of her stomach.
Instinctively she arched closer, the rasp of his clothing an unwelcome barrier to the hardness of his body. She needed . . . dear heavens, she needed something. Something only Ian Breckford could offer.
“Oh,” she gasped as his lips wrenched from her mouth to dip downward and close about a throbbing nipple. “Oh . . . God.”
“Not God, sweet Mercy,” he muttered, abruptly whirling until she was pressed against the wall. “Not even close.”
Mercy gazed down at the dark head, her breath lodged in her throat as he continued to suckle her with exquisite care. There was a restless urgency clenching her body that made her long to scream in frustration.
His warm lips felt so wondrous against her breasts, his tongue making her whimper in delight. This was the reason women tossed aside all sense and gentlemen sacrificed thrones.
“Ian.”
“What, my sweet?” Lifting his head, he regarded her with a hungry gaze. “What would you have of me?”
She shook her head in a helpless motion. “I do not know.”
For a long moment he studied her upturned face, as if he were memorizing each sweep and curve of her features.
“Will you trust me, Mercy?”
“I . . .” She licked her lips that were swollen and tender from his kisses. “Yes. Yes, I trust you.”
His eyes flashed gold in the candlelight. “Then allow me to teach you of pleasure.”
Without warning he was slowly lowering to his knees directly before her. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized his head was even with her most private parts. Even more shocking was the realization that his avid gaze was causing an embarrassing dampness between her legs.
“What are you doing?”
With a hint of reverence, Ian lifted his hands to slide them up her bare legs, his light touch sending jolts of electric excitement through her.
“You said you trusted me,” he chided, his voice oddly raw.
Mercy’s breath was trapped in her lungs as she struggled not to swoon.
“I do, but surely we should be on the bed—” Her words came to a startled squeak as his hands determinedly parted her legs at the same moment he leaned forward.
Her fingers clutched at his hair as she felt the stroke of his tongue and the rasp of his whiskers against the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.
“No bed,” he muttered as his tongue traced a pale blue vein.
Her heart came to a sharp halt as he neared her tender slit. The last thing she desired was to distract him at such a critical moment, but then again, she was not entirely certain her shaky knees would hold her up much longer.
“Why?”
His grip tightened on her thighs, his head grudgingly tilting back to meet her bemused gaze.
“I have spent the night at the local pub trying to forget you, sweet Mercy,” he rasped, a dark flush staining the narrow line of his cheekbones. “When I take your virginity it will not be when my mind is clouded with whiskey and my body so hard with need that I risk hurting you.”
“Then what are you doing?” she whispered, her stomach clenching with dread. Oh Lordy, he could not be thinking of ending things at this late point. Could he? She would beat him with her slipper if he tried to bolt.
“I am attempting to please you,” he said, his eyes dark with longing. “If only you would allow me.”
“But—”
“Shh, Mercy, enough speaking.” His mouth returned to tease at the inner skin of her thighs. “I will go mad if I do not taste of you.”
He shifted higher, his hands steadily urging her legs to part. Mercy hissed, grasping his shoulders as her knees threatened to collapse. He was close to that aching void. So very, very close.
Mercy moaned as he teased and taunted, his breath brushing the vulnerable region and making her squirm with fiery excitement. Restlessly she explored the line of his shoulders with her hands, amazed by the hard muscles. He was so wonderfully, unmistakably, utterly male.
“Mercy,” he rasped, his hot breath searing over her skin. “May I please you?”
Please her?
If he pleased her any more, she would surely expire upon the spot.
“Yes . . . yes.”
The agreement had barely tumbled from her lips when his fingers at last parted her intimate folds, giving his tongue unfettered access to her tiny nub of pleasure. She nearly screamed in bliss as raw heat exploded in the pit of her stomach.
God almighty.
Her head banged into the wall as she was suddenly consumed with a tension that shimmered through her. Oh, he was wicked. This was wicked. Nothing could feel so damnably good and not be a sin.
As if sensing she was willing, even eager, to know more of the paradise he offered, Ian slid a slender finger into her damp heat.
She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut at the gentle invasion. With a slow thrust he pressed his finger deeper, using his tongue to suckle that pleasure point over and over.
Tension spiraled within her, clenching her stomach and halting her heart as his tongue stroked her with the same relentless pace that his finger slid in and out of her.
There was something approaching. A crucial, elusive goal that trembled just out of reach.
“Ian,” she moaned, her body bowed and her teeth clenched.
“Shh, my sweet,” he murmured, seeming to comprehend what she was pleading for as the swirl of his tongue quickened with a gentle insistence.
Lost in sensation, Mercy shoved her fingers in Ian’s hair, riding on the crest between pleasure and pain. Oh . . . yes. This was what she was striving for. This breathless moment out of time.
The very world halted. Then, with a last, lingering stroke of his tongue, she was catapulted through a shower of brilliant stars, a soft cry of pure bliss wrenched from her throat.
Glorious heaven above.
That was . . . brilliant.
Ian possessed enough scruples to realize that he should feel guilty as he scooped the trembling Mercy in his arms and carried her to the bed. Not only had he intruded into her room while his mind was clouded with whiskey, but it had been with the clear intention of easing at least a portion of his smoldering frustration.
His evening at the pub had not gone at all like he had hoped. Not only had the whiskey done nothing more than fog his wits, but the women had left him as cold as an Artic winter.
He had returned to Rosehill with one thought.
To hold Mercy in his arms as she experienced her first orgasm.
Oh yes, he should be wracked with guilt.
Unfortunately his scruples were no match for his smug satisfaction as he tucked her beneath the covers and studied her dazed expression.
She looked precisely as a woman well-satisfied should look, and he took full pride in knowing that he had been the one to provide that satisfaction.
It was almost worth the raging pain in his cock.
Settling on the mattress, Ian reached out to gently push a stray curl from her cheek.
“Are you well?”
“Better than well.” She heaved a dreamy sigh. “I feel as if I am floating.”
His erection gave a sharp jerk. In this moment he would give his entire legacy of twenty thousand pounds to crawl beneath that cover and join her. Not a small sacrifice considering he was a gentleman who had always been forced to count his shillings.
“You are so exquisite,” he said, his voice husky as an unfamiliar tightness squeezed the air from his lungs.
With a content smile, Mercy pushed herself higher on the pillows, the blanket lowering to reveal the upper curves of her breasts. Ian gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to howl in frustrated need.
“I did not realize that . . .”
With an effort, Ian forced himself to concentrate on her soft, hesitant words.
“What?”
“That a gentleman could do such things to a woman.”
He wanted to tell her that there were a dozen—no, a hundred—different things he could do to her. Instead, he gave a faint shrug.
“Yes, well, I doubt a vicar would share such knowledge with his daughter.”
She snorted in disgust. “My father refuses to share any knowledge with his daughter. It is very frustrating.”
He moaned in genuine pain. “Please, Mercy, if you have any pity at all, you will not mention the word frustrating.”
“Why . . . ?” Her cheeks reddened with comprehension. “Oh. You did not . . .”
“No, I did not,” he wryly agreed.
She worried her bottom lip as she regarded him with her dark, unnervingly steady gaze. Then, as if coming to a decision, she took a deep breath.
“Is there something that I can do to help?”
Ian flinched, his entire body clenching with a flare of raw, savage heat.
The thought of her delicate hands on his cock, gently squeezing and pumping him to release . . . Christ, it was enough to make him come without a single touch.
“You really are going to be the death of me,” he groaned.
“Ian, I want to help.” Her brow pleated, her tone earnest. “I want to learn how to please you as you pleased me. Surely there is nothing wrong in that?”
Ian abruptly realized that the fires of hell were not solely the domain of Beelzebub. They could also be conjured by a dewy-eyed wood sprite with the smile of an angel.
He trembled as he battled back the tidal wave of sheer, undiluted lust.
“There is everything wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because young ladies do not—”
Without warning, Mercy was on her knees before him, astonishingly indifferent to the fact that the blanket had dropped down to reveal her bare body.
“Stop that,” she commanded, her fingers pressing to his lips. “You sound like my parents, and I will not tolerate it from you.”
Ian was caught between amusement at being chided as if he were a schoolboy and the searing desire that was threatening to consume him.
“No?”
“No.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, Mercy slowly leaned forward to place her lips against his. “Tell me what to do.”
“Mercy—”
“Tell me.”
Later he would blame his lack of willpower on the whiskey he had consumed and the lateness of the hour. After all, a renowned rake could not admit to being completely undone by a fragile virgin with no more than an awkward kiss.
“God . . .” Shaking with the anguished need to have her closer, Ian wrenched his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Then, grasping her hands, he pressed them to his chest. “Touch me. Just touch me.”
With tentative strokes she explored the taut muscles of his chest, her expression oddly enthralled, as if she were fascinated by the feel of his skin.
“Like this?” she demanded, taking a moment to toy with the hard pebbles of his nipples.
“Oh . . . yes,” he groaned, knowing that he had never experienced anything quite so amazing as her hands on his body. “Perfect. So perfect.”
He forgot to breathe as her exploration headed ever lower, the muscles of his stomach contracting with anticipation. The devil save him. Just a few more inches.
As if deliberately hoping to put him in an early grave, Mercy paused a wrenching moment at the waistband of his pants. Ian groaned, far past the point of being capable of denying the frantic desire clawing through him.
With a swift motion he was on the bed, matching her kneeling stance to be poised directly in front of her. Then, fumbling with the buttons, he managed to release the aching length of his erection.
There was another hesitation, and Ian braced himself for Mercy’s shock. Why hadn’t he considered her sensibilities? It had to be disturbing to be suddenly confronted by a fully aroused male.
For the first time in his life, Ian found himself uncertain in bed with a woman. Even as an untried youth he seemed to possess an instinctive knowledge of how best to please a woman. Now he hesitated, not knowing whether to cover himself or . . .
The choice was taken out of his hands. Or rather, the choice was taken into her hands.
Reaching out with a mysterious smile, Mercy allowed her fingers to skim down the length of his throbbing cock. Her touch was a mere whisper, but Ian had to swallow a shout of pleasure.
How perfectly ironic.
He had bedded some of the most skilled courtesans in all of London, but he threatened to be unmanned by the untutored touch of a wood sprite.
Her smile widened with a wicked knowledge of her own power, and, curling her fingers around his length, she set about discovering the best means of making him groan in blissful agony.
With a Herculean effort he allowed her the opportunity to explore to her heart’s content, his manful pride refusing to acknowledge that he was incapable of controlling his own body.
The effort, however, was no match for the building pressure.
His entire body was stiff with a sharp, ruthless pleasure that was like fire in his loins. The beckoning climax was close. Too close.
Tossing pride by the wayside, he muttered a curse and grasped her hand, curling her fingers tightly around his shaft. He leaned forward to capture her lips as he pumped himself to a frenzied climax.
The world exploded, and for a breathless second Ian simply savored the taste of her satin lips and the heart-stopping sensation of her fingers stroking him to paradise.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ian knew with a chilling certainty that he would never, ever forget this exquisite moment in time. That the taste and scent and feel of this woman would be forever branded in his mind.
But for now he merely allowed himself to enjoy the shudders of delight that quaked through his body.
Barely aware of his actions, Ian stretched out on the mattress and urged Mercy down beside him. Then, with a tug of the blanket, he had them cocooned in welcome warmth.
No doubt he should have gathered a wet towel and washed the evidence of his climax from her tender skin, but he found himself unable to resist the need to hold her tightly in his arms as his lips brushed over her soft curls. Soon enough he would be forced to return to his cold bed. For now he merely desired to relish the strange peace that flooded through him.
A peace that was as unfamiliar as it was unexpected.
Snuggled against his side with her head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder, Mercy at last tilted her face upward to meet his slumberous gaze.
“Ian?”
“Yes, sweet Mercy?” he murmured, breathing deeply of her vanilla scent.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He jerked in genuine surprise. “God almighty, you could not have done it more right. Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?”
“You are very quiet.”
“Ah.” A slow smile curved his lips. “I was pondering a most astonishing discovery that I have made.”
Her fingers absently trailed over his chest, her touch stirring the usual sparks as well as a most unusual contentment. As a rule he did not like having women stroke and cling to him after sex. It made him feel . . . trapped.
Mercy’s touch, however, made him tug her even closer.
“And what discovery is that?” she demanded.
“I have always wondered if wood sprites possessed magic, and now I know. They are quite capable of bewitchment.”
She gave a disbelieving click of her tongue. “Obviously you are still bosky.”
“No.” His finger slipped beneath her chin, his gaze holding hers captive. “I do not claim to comprehend what spell you have cast over me, but it is most certainly a potent one.” He grimaced at the memory of his hand holding her fingers as she stroked him to orgasm. “So potent I cannot even regret that I have tutored a young, innocent virgin in pleasuring a man. No doubt the fact has lowered me yet another rung on my ladder to hell.”
Her eyes darkened as she lifted her head to glare at him in annoyance. “And what is to be my punishment?”
“What do you mean?” Ian cautiously demanded. He knew he had blundered; he just didn’t know how the blazes it had happened.
“If you are to burn in hell for conceding to my demands, then I can only wonder what purgatory is awaiting me.”
He gave a shake of his head. Her father had done enough to manipulate this poor woman with a sense of guilt. He would not add to her burden.
“You are an innocent. There can be no blame for your—”
“I think I can decide where to place the blame, Mr. Breckford,” she interrupted.
He lifted his brow. “Can you, Miss Simpson?”
“Yes, I can, and I choose to accept full responsibility for what has occurred.”
His lips twitched. Good God, she was magnificent. A true original.
“I . . . see.”
“Do not be patronizing,” she snapped. “There has never been anything in my life that is entirely mine. I have been told what to think, how to behave, how to employ my every waking moment. I have even been told what my future will hold.” She deliberately paused. “At least give me this.”
Ian was momentarily caught off guard by her vehemence. It seemed ridiculous that she would be so determined to take blame for being seduced by a practiced rake. She was, after all, a complete innocent. Or rather she had been a complete innocent.
Then, as he gazed deep into those dark, severe eyes, he realized that she was quite sincere.
She needed to feel as if she were in command.
That he could understand. Having been born a bastard meant that his life had too often been filled with uncertainty and fear for his future. From his earliest days he had struggled to find the means to bring a measure of security to his world.
He had found that in Dunnington.
This woman was still searching for a means to overcome the constant dread of being bullied or manipulated or browbeaten into submission.
Dropping a tender kiss on her lips, Ian pulled back to regard her with a wry amusement.
“In that case I give you full responsibility, my sweet. Indeed, I am beginning to suspect that I have been shamelessly coerced. You are fortunate that I am far too weary to be properly outraged.”
She rolled her eyes at his teasing. “I doubt that there is a person born who could ever coerce you.” She held up her hand as he gave a wicked lift of his brows, his fingers deliberately brushing over her naked back. “At least not against your will.”
“You would be wrong, my sweet.”
Her disbelief was tangible in the air. “Really?”
“Really.” A pang of loss tugged at his heart. “I assure you that my old tutor Dunnington managed to lure me into hours of study with no more than a cut of the cards.”
“Cut of the cards?”
“When I awoke in the morning, he would bet me that he could draw the higher card from the deck. If he won, I had to spend the day at my books. If I won, I could spend the day at the racetrack.” His lips twisted in a reminiscent smile. “Do you know, now that I think back, I am quite certain the old fox cheated me. There is no reasonable way he could have drawn the highest card nearly every day.”
“He sounds like a very dedicated tutor,” she said softly.
“He was much more than a tutor. He was a father to me and the other young boys who attended his school.”
She studied his expression as if searching for some elusive understanding of his complex personality.
“Your aunt mentioned that you were close with two of the other students.”
“Oh yes. Raoul and Fredrick are my brothers.” His sardonic expression returned. “The only family I have left now that Dunnington has passed.”
“That is not true, Ian,” she protested, her slender hand returning to his chest to press directly over his heart. “You have a father, and an aunt who loves you very much.”
With a growl, Ian cupped the back of her head to return it to the hollow of his shoulder.
“No, I will not have this moment spoiled with thoughts of my father.”
“But—
“Shh, Mercy.” He kissed away her looming lecture.
“Let me hold you in my arms as you fall asleep. I promise to be gone by morn.”