Chapter Eight
Payton Peppiwell was delightful. Raw pleasure blasted through Mikhail at the realization she would welcome him getting to know her, despite the fact he presented himself to her as common. She desired him…simply for him. The knowledge was perplexingly wonderful.
Unable to stop touching her, he explored her mouth thoroughly, and the onslaughts of sensations were overwhelming. The rasping glide of her tongue against his nearly drove him to his knees. She was both sweetness and fire. She released a throaty sensual sigh, and her soft voluptuous curves melted into his hardness. He pulled from her, littering small kisses across her cheek. He bit the curve of her throat, fighting the raging need to devour her.
He thrived on control, and she tested every tether he’d placed on his passions.
“Please, Mikhail, I ache.”
Need flashed through him. He allowed himself to drown in the scent and taste of her, devouring her lips with a hunger he had never felt in his existence. She purred in his mouth, responding to his embrace with ravenous fervor.
He could kiss her forever and not need anything more to sustain him. The sweet and spicy flavor of her kisses enslaved him, for he never wanted to relinquish the pleasure of her lips.
Mikhail pulled from her, breathing raggedly. The pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, her skin flushed, and her eyes had deepened to dark gold.
Lust curled through Mikhail. He wanted her underneath him. Now. It was much too soon, so he ruthlessly buried the need to whisk her to the stone bench and have his way with her. She was not a conquest for mere pleasure or to satiate his lust; he wanted to learn her desires and see if he could bear her touch.
Slow down.
Her face was suffused with pure gratification, and the beauty of it beguiled him. His hunger increased to a painful craving.
Touch me…please.
The visceral need to feel her hands on him increased, jerking him out of the haze of lust trying to cloud his mind. Too soon. “Step away,” he urged. It was not in his willpower to do it himself.
She stepped back, her eyes wide with apprehension. “You must think me wanton,” she said, color dusking her face.
“Honesty is rare, even in passion.”
His words were a jarring punch to his system. His intention today had been to learn more about her, and though he barely scratched her surfaced, he saw much to be admired. He could not keep pretending he was a man without connections when he wanted to explore knowing her, but a vise of caution gripped his heart at the thought of revealing his titles. The peace he so desperately needed would vanish into thin air, and the hounds of society would start nipping at his heels.
Unless he asked her to keep his confidence. Would she?
He shook his head in disbelief. He’d made her acquaintance only two days past and here he was thinking to go against every experience he’d endured and take her into his confidence.
Hell.
How was it possible for her to drive him to such distraction in this short span of time? He tried to draw upon the emotionless state that had saved him countless times and was infuriatingly unable to. He wanted to confide in her. Utter madness. How would he even explain his secrecy without opening himself to deep questions of his past? Any revelation in that direction was not something he would allow, not now, mayhap never, and he did not want to hurt her with evasiveness.
This is why I’ve avoided such intimacies. Blasted hell.
One more day, he swore inwardly. One day. He would give himself today to see if what was burgeoning between them was worth fighting for. Then, when he was certain of something, he would reveal his secrets and inform her of his relation to Calydon and the realm…and his scandals.
With a sigh he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she flowed into his embrace. It was then Mikhail realized how much he was touching her. Never had he allowed himself to be so free with a lady. He’d had an understanding with Lady Olga, and the most he’d bestowed on her were chaste kisses. She’d not tempted him to do more. Everything about Payton was smashing all of his walls to cinders.
Touch me, he urged silently, desperate to see if a prolonged touch would cause nausea to churn in his gut, or would he want to feel her fingertips gliding over his skin, rousing sensations he had not felt in ten long, cold years? Ice formed beneath his skin. Memories of dozens of unwanted hands, both man and woman, coasting over his flesh, kissing and biting, punishing and pleasuring in equal measure, had him gritting his teeth against the lurid images.
“Do you have a large family?”
Payton’s question helped center him, and he latched on to the direction of her conversation gratefully. “Two brothers and my parents are alive.”
“Are they in England as well?”
“No.”
She looked at him, awaiting a response, but he did not want to outright lie to her. The less information he provided the better. He gritted his teeth as sourness coated his gut. He hated only confiding parts of his life to her. He should not be surprised. He hated deception in all forms and, not surprisingly, he despised it in himself, even if he hungered for solitude. The urge to reveal his wealth and status welled inside, and he had to ruthlessly push it down. “I have cousins in England, but the core of my family resides in Russia.”
“Would they be pleased with you wanting to court me?”
“Why would they not be?”
Her chin went up a notch. “I am untitled and an American. Though you are similarly untitled, they may wish a greater elevation for you with an English lady.”
Whenever she referred to him as ordinary it set his teeth on edge. “They will respect my choice. Above all my family wishes for my happiness, not for me to form connections.”
Concern creased her brow, and she stepped away from him and walked to the stone bench and sat. “My family will not be very understanding, and I must be forthright with you…my mother and aunt will be very rude.”
He sat beside her, and she leaned in to him so their shoulders brushed. Sweet pleasure twisted in Mikhail. There was no need in him to jerk away from her. In fact, he would have liked if she rested her head against his shoulder. “I have the skin of a walrus,” he said softly, in awe of the needs surfacing in his soul.
She laughed, the sound husky yet musical, and some of the tension released from her. “I only wanted to prepare you. My father may be more amiable. But my mother and aunt are very determined that I marry a lord, and they will see a simple turn in the gardens with a man like you threatening to their ambitions. But I confess nothing would ever move me to such a union.”
Mikhail’s mind blanked for long seconds, and something akin to panic clawed from the back of his throat. He pushed it down and narrowed in on the evident pain she tried to bury. It could not have been easy being jilted and facing the censure of society. “Not all men are dishonorable, and those who are belong to both high and low society in equal measure.”
Her eyes flashed fire, and she held up her hand. “I have met many lords, and I daresay I can say with confidence I know less than five men who are true gentlemen. At first I was coveted for my wealth, maybe my beauty, but never for my intelligence and accomplishments. After I was jilted I received several invitations from men to be their mistresses. My worth was lowered in their eyes because one of their own no longer thought I was suitable for marriage. I will admit being a part of the haute monde was exciting initially, but then I realized it would never end—the balls, the gossip, the careful masking of oneself so as not to offend. As long as I married a man of the haute monde…I too would be subject to their infernal rules and hypocrisy.”
Understanding scythed through him. Most of his appeal was because he presented as common. She really had no interest in his wealth, or that he was seemingly connected to as notable a family as the Calydons. The notion was so startling it rendered Mikhail silent and, instead of filling him with pleasure, unease settled heavy in his gut. He had never met a young lady who did not yearn for a title. The entire success of their coming out in society depended on securing an advantageous match, the loftier the title the better, the more yearly income the better.
“And what would be your opinion of me, if I confessed to possessing several titles and that I am far wealthier than most of the lords you know?” He kept the tension from his voice, hoping she would view his question as mild curiosity.
She lifted startled golden eyes to his and then chuckled. “I would urge you to reconsider calling on me for, though your kisses are sublimely wonderful, I yearn for a life without the glitter of high society.”
He clenched his jaw against her assertions, burying the snarl of denial. Her words were said teasingly, but her voice rang with sincerity. “You must yearn for wealth,” he murmured, his heart beating more frantically than he would like. He was a damn prince. He should be cool and unflappable at all times.
“I do not.”
“Damn it to hell.” The snarl ripped from him, and she jerked, her eyes widening.
“Mikhail, I—”
“No…tell me what it is that you want from life. What do you need? A title or a lack of title does not define a man or a relationship. Whether I am the blasted king, or the poorest of commoner, you would have expectations of me…as a man, as your man. Tell me what those expectations are,” he ended hoarsely, unable to tolerate the idea that the only woman he’d ever wanted, ever craved to feel her touch, would reject him because of his blasted titles. The feelings of wanting something more had been tentative, but now the thought of really experiencing a life more profound, and not encased in an emotionless shell, made his teeth ache with the need to attain.
I want to know how to please you, to chain you to me, so when I reveal my nobility you will see that you will want for nothing.
A streak of rebellion glowed in her eyes. “I want to wear trousers and ride in London if I wish without judgment. Connie’s husband, the Duke of Mondvale, owns the gaming club Decadence, and I confessed to wanting to see inside. I was scolded as if I were a child and not a woman who could speak her mind and offer her opinions freely. I want to be loved…admired…respected for all I am, and not be ridiculed if I push the boundaries of the conventions instituted by a hypocritical society.”
She gave a disdainful sniff. “I do not want to be told I cannot because I am not a man. Do you know how frustrating it is to never be able to feel as if I have choices? In the quiet moments when I spoke of wanting to write, I was scoffed at. When I showed my illustrations I was looked down on, not celebrated as I had hoped.”
Her golden eyes flashed as she shifted on the bench to face him fully, leaning so close their lips brushed. “I…I…want to kiss you, to feel your hands on my bare skin, teasing and caressing me, and not feel as if I am wanton to indulge in such a desire.”
Her words were like the hottest of fists clamping over his cock.
“Get up, mount your horse, and return to the estate. I will call on your father tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened, and then her gaze dropped to his lips. A soft moan hissed from between her lips as if she reacted to the charged tension roiling from him.
“Payton, if you do not leave, I will hoist you onto the table, kiss you, tease and caress you as you desire…but I will not stop until I have you seated deep on my cock.”
She gasped and lifted eyes that were darkened by desire and shock.
Christ.
A trotting horse broke the spell weaving around them. A good thing, for she had been close to climbing onto his lap and urging his lips to hers. Payton drew away from the temptation of Mikhail and looked for the intruder.
Lord Jensen broke through the small thicket.
Anger, quick and sharp, surged through her. She stood and took an involuntary step in his direction before faltering.
What is he doing at Sherring Cross?
A pleased smile broke across his face when he recognized her. With his golden blond locks, gray eyes, and wide smile, Lord Jensen was accounted as one of the most affable, charming young gentlemen of the haute monde. His countenance quickly darkened with disapproval when he noticed Mikhail and the glasses and bottle on the stone table.
“Payton, I would speak with you,” Lord Jensen said, his voice clipped and angry.
She flushed at his lack of manners. A quick glance at Mikhail showed an expression of boredom, all traces of sensuality buried.
“Lord Jensen, may I introduce you to Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich.”
Mikhail stood and nodded in acknowledgment, and embarrassment flushed through her when Lord Jensen ignored him.
“Gather your horse and come. I will ride with you back to the estate.”
“You have no cause to be so rude, my lord,” she snapped.
“And I have no patience with your defense of this…” He seemed to gather himself. “I traveled nonstop to reach Sherring Cross once I received your father’s reply to my request. I saw you race away without an ounce of decorum upon my arrival. I lost precious minutes readying a horse to come after you.”
She glared at him. What request had he sent her father? A hollow sensation formed in Payton’s stomach. “I did not ask for your interference, and you have no cause to ride after me. You, my lord, are not my keeper.”
Anger darkened Lord Jensen’s mien, and he dismounted, striding to her swiftly. “Do you understand the precarious position you placed your reputation in with your reckless little racing adventure? As your—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on her lips. “Has this bounder kissed you?”
Payton stiffened in outrage. “My lord, you have overstepped your bounds.”
“I know how your lips appear when they have been well kissed, for I have tasted from them enough times to know,” Lord Jensen growled, anger mottling his face.
Mikhail subtly tensed.
Her heart pounded, and mortification twisted in her. Lord Jensen’s words made it appear as if she were a wanton who traded kisses with any man to pay attention to her.
“I…” Tears pricked behind her lids, and he reached for her.
“Do not touch her.” Though spoken softly, Mikhail’s words were infused with cold command, freezing Lord Jensen.
Payton did not wait to observe his reaction to Mikhail’s order. “Excuse me,” she snapped, and raced past Lord Jensen to her horse.
“Do not presume to tell me I cannot touch my fiancée,” Lord Jensen hissed.
Payton stumbled. Fiancée?
Gripping the reins of her horse, she faced him, her heart thundering in her ears. He was here because her father sent for him.
No. Her father wouldn’t. He had always been her ally in the war with her mother and aunt. She glanced at Mikhail. He stood with his feet braced apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets his eyes remote and carefully masked.
Call on me. She mouthed the words, and tenderness pierced her when a slow smile curved his lips.
Mikhail strolled over, gripped her hips, and helped seat her on Aeton.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and rode away ignoring Lord Jensen’s shout for her to wait for his escort.
She prayed his presence did not mean what she feared, but somehow she knew it did, and the battle she had planned for independence seemed as if it had arrived far sooner than she anticipated.