Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
X ander would give the little Northerner this: she was prompt.
He could just hear the final tolls of midnight from Grosvenor’s Chapel when she popped her head around the back garden wall and scowled over toward where he waited, lounging on a usefully placed bench.
“Good evening,” he said. “You are marvelously good at telling time. We shall put that in your list of accomplishments when seeking a husband for you.”
She ignored this bit of nonsense and kept on scowling.
“You sent a street urchin to my home,” she said flatly. “It was not subtle. The maids will be talking.”
“It feels a bit uncharitable to call Petey a ‘street urchin,’” he observed. “He’s son to one of the grooms here. To be fair, that particular groom has quite a few sons, so they do run wild a bit, but ‘urchin’ does seem a stretch. Have a bit of charity toward a wayward child, Miss Fletcher. Think about what a vicar would suggest; I always find that a good way to promote moral behavior.”
Or he would if he were interested in exhibiting moral behavior, but that was neither here nor there.
She ignored this, too. Had she somehow grown immune to nonsense since the night prior? That would be a shame; he liked to play with his toys properly. It was one of the very few respites he ever got from being the venerable Duke of Godwin.
“If people are talking,” she said exactingly, as if explaining a very simple concept, “then my reputation is at risk. If my reputation is at risk, I won’t be able to find a husband. If I can’t find a husband, then why on earth would I be doing this?”
“Fun?” he suggested, mostly because he thought it might annoy her.
He was right.
“Fun!” She all but shrieked the word before hastily lowering her voice. He could have told her that none of his family had bedchambers on this side of the house, and, even if they did hear something, neither they nor any of the staff would be so foolish as to stick their noses into something that was very clearly Xander’s personal business. It was far more amusing to let her fret over it, though.
When she spoke again, she sounded a bit strangled.
“This is not fun ,” she said. “This is my life—my future. This is my sister’s life and future.”
“I like your sister,” he commented. “That bit about the sheep? Marvelous. Your cousin though—yes, he is a chore. I can see why you wish to escape him. I don’t really see why you need my help, though, since he seems perfectly ready to humiliate himself in order to throw you in front of powerful men. Have you considered just letting him about his business? Sure, many of them will be put off by his whole…manner, but certainly some will bite the hook, and you do only need one—two, if you count your sister.”
She took a deep breath in through her nose, then let it out through her mouth. He’d seen that move before, usually from whatever governess his cousin Ezra had been attempting to chase off at that point. Ezra was usually victorious.
Either Helen was made of sterner stuff than any of those governesses, or Xander was not nearly so irritating as his younger cousin, but she spoke with impressive calm a moment later.
“I am asking,” she said in a very reasonable way, “that you be somewhat more cautious about my reputation. I understand that this cannot possibly blow back on you as severely as it would on me, but I would consider it a personal favor if you might try just a bit harder.”
Well, damn. He could respect that. He’d been trying to irritate her, and she’d refused to let him win. And it really had been so very long since he’d enjoyed sparring with a proper competitor.
And if he was going to bed this one as well as compete with her? Well, all the better.
“Fine,” he said as though he were making a very great concession. And then, because he could not resist, he added, “Though I cannot say that you seem so very concerned with your reputation, given how freely you come to my residence at night. First yesterday with the study, now tonight in the garden. Brazen, indeed, Miss Fletcher.”
She grumbled under her breath. She really was a prodigious one for grumbling, his little Northern girl. He supposed he could understand why now that he’d met her cousin. Still, this time, the only word he could hear was men .
Poor, sweet little rabbit. She might think this was the kind of war she was used to waging, but she was wrong. There were men, and then there was him. She was about to learn the important difference between the two.
Although, he was beginning to learn that there were differences between most women and Miss Fletcher, too. For, instead of rising to his baiting comment, she merely let out another one of those beleaguered sighs, then closed her eyes and spread her arms wide.
And then she waited.
She really did surprise him at every turn.
She looked less like she was preparing herself for pleasure than like she was auditioning to be on the cross for a reenactment of The Passion. The image of seduction it was not.
Since novel entertainment was worth its weight in gold in a city where it was the same constant swirl of faces, places, and so-called diversions, he waited to see what she would do next. He waited until she cracked open one eye as if she was afraid of what she might see, and then, apparently, nothing finding what she feared, opened them both.
She dropped her arms and frowned.
“Well?” she said, impatient. “Aren’t you going to get on with it, then?”
“Get on with what?”
She gestured indelicately at her person. “Oh, you know. Taking your end of the bargain. Was I not sufficiently clear?”
Xander couldn’t help it; he laughed, not a wry, rakish chuckle or a snide little snicker, but a full, robust laugh that he felt in his gut.
God, he’d been a fortunate man indeed when he’d tried flirting with the younger Miss Fletcher because the elder one was such a treat .
She was deeply unimpressed by his mirth.
“Why are you laughing?” she demanded. He noticed that her accent got thicker when she was feeling her emotions more intensely. Now, she sounded nigh on Scottish. “That’s what you summoned me here for, isn’t it?”
“Oh, my darling Miss Fletcher,” he said as his laughter finally died down. “You really are too droll.” Her expression was guarded and cross. She was ever so much fun to poke and prod at. “That is not at all how this is going to go.”
“It isn’t?” She sounded suspicious. Good. She should be.
“Not at all.”
It was only then that Xander got to his feet. He moved with slow, leonine grace, stretching the moment out. He could feel the weight of the anticipation in his hand. That was, he mused as he watched Miss Fletcher watch him, the difference between him and the saucy Northern handful in front of him. She was hoping to get things over with so that she could put this behind her. He intended to enjoy the journey a great deal, indeed.
It was half the fun. He didn’t like to be wasteful.
He circled her, not unlike the way a bird of prey might circle its target. Xander had never much taken to falconry, but he had learned a thing or two. He could sense, for instance, how much more nervous she got when he was out of her eyeline, her shoulders stiffening and her breaths growing shorter, sharper.
When he crossed around in front of her again, she tried to hide how carefully she was watching him, tried to pretend like she was entirely unperturbed by his watchful eye. She’d have to try her tricks elsewhere, though. She’d not slip through his fingers.
“I know what you’re thinking, Miss Fletcher,” he said after he’d circled her twice. Her hair was done up more nicely than she’d bothered with the night prior, though part of him found that he preferred the haphazard plait. It had looked deliciously disheveled, as though she were coming from her boudoir—which, he supposed, she likely had been, though not exactly in the way that had come to mind when he’d looked at it.
“No, you don’t,” she insisted, voice gravelly. She didn’t sound entirely confident.
“I do.” His own voice was smooth as silk, unbothered and unhurried. “You think you will come here, lie back and think of nothing while you allow me to take my satisfaction.”
Her sharp intake of breath proved him right. The flush on her cheeks was just an added pleasure.
“You plan to be all but absent, to do, think, and feel as little as you can. To pretend you’re not part of it, that I am the only one doing anything. Like you’re not even there at all.”
“I—I—You,” she stammered. And then, with a sour tone that was clearly bravado, she asked, “What do you even care?”
Xander wasn’t ignorant of the idea that this was a duty for her, but he had no interest in taking an unwilling woman. For one, the idea was repugnant to him. He’d murder anyone who tried to do such a thing to a woman of his acquaintance—including, frankly, brave little Miss Fletcher—and he had no desire to make himself into a villain. His role forced him to make quite enough difficult decisions as it was. He didn’t care to add one of the blackest of marks to his soul.
For another, he had no need. He wasn’t flattering himself to say that there were dozens of women in Mayfair alone who would come to his bed the instant he crooked his finger. He’d be flattering himself if he thought they wanted him for him instead of for his dukedom, his fortune, his name. He knew the score. He knew how the game of Society was played. They traded in privilege, power, and pleasure—and little else.
For a third, he didn’t want Miss Fletcher wooden and unfeeling. Women, despite what some men might think, were not mere vessels upon which men could slake their lust. Good bedsport meant two (or more, he supposed, though he’d never partaken in such things personally, but one did hear stories) eager participants. Preferably so eager that they were half mad with it.
And because, finally, making her want it was the true game after all. That was the thing that would satisfy him, not some fleeting physical pleasure. He wanted her surrender. He wanted her pleasure.
That was how he would win the game.
“That very question, my sweet little rabbit,” he purred, coming up close enough behind her that she could feel the heat of him, though they weren’t quite touching, “shows how little you know.”
He felt her bristle at that before he stepped back, making her feel the loss of him as well as his presence. His eyes tracked the minute adjustments to her posture, the way she shifted but tried to hide it.
Xander recognized that part of why this game with this woman appealed to him so much was because Miss Fletcher really didn’t have any interest in him—not in the man, though he was well accustomed to that, but not in the duke or the money, either. When she’d come to him for a favor, it hadn’t been for a loan. It hadn’t been because she wanted to be seen on the arm of a Lightholder. It was because she’d wanted his advice, his direction—and not one single thing more from him.
If she’d been wholly unattracted to him, that would have made things different. There were, after all, ladies who preferred other ladies, not to mention ladies who held obsessive, foolish, consuming passions for someone unsuitable—stable boys, married men, or other foolish figures for whom Xander had no patience.
But Miss Fletcher was so charmingly responsive to him. Her breath caught when he was near. Once or twice as he’d circled, he’d caught her twitching in his direction instead of away.
Oh, yes. She might not want to want him, but she did want him.
And he planned to torment her until she admitted it.
Abruptly, he stopped behind her, stepping close. She stopped breathing for a moment, and he ran a finger from the wide curve of her hip, up the nip of her waist, and almost, but not quite, over the curve of her breast. He wasn’t even touching her, not really; he could feel the faintest rasp of her gown under his fingertips but none of the pressure of the flesh beneath.
Even so, her breath grew ragged, like she might faint if she wasn’t careful.
Oh, yes. She wanted him very much.
“Here is what is going to happen, my sweet, little Miss Fletcher,” he said, bending down so that his lips only just grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke. From here, he could see that the back of her neck was prickled with gooseflesh. The sight filled him with a kind of savage satisfaction.
“I am not going to take you tonight.” She let out a breath that did not sound entirely like relief. “In fact, I am not going to take you until you beg me for it.”
She whirled, impulsive little thing that she was, then went wide-eyed as she realized how close this brought their faces together. He could see each individual lash that bordered those shocked amber eyes. They were extraordinarily long. Before she could step back, he placed his hands firmly on her waist, holding her in place. She was soft and warm in his grasp.
“I’m—” Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. He couldn’t wait to taste her lush mouth. He just knew it would be delicious. “I will not beg you for anything.”
He smiled. She put up such a good front of pride. But her gaze had gone to his mouth, now, too. He licked his own lip, just to watch her eyes flare wide once more.
“You will,” he said decisively. “I am going to show you all the passions that you never dreamed of, Miss Fletcher. I am going to ruin you for all other men and then pack you off to your husband anyway. I am going to show you what things can be in a way that you will never forget.” He paused, bending even lower until their noses were nearly touching. A hairsbreadth closer, and he would be touching her. A centimeter more, and he could be kissing her. “But not until you ask me very nicely for it.”
He was pushing, pushing rather hard, actually. But he had her on the hook because she didn’t pull away, didn’t shrink back. She just looked absolutely astonished as she looked up into his eyes, down to where his hands still held tight on her hips, and then back to his mouth.
That was where her eyes rested.
He waited and watched.
“You know,” he commented mildly after three or four of their breaths had mingled in the cooling night air, “you can ask right now, if you’re truly gasping for it. Just say, ‘Kiss me, Your Grace. I need it.’”
She reeled back, furious, though she didn’t get far with his hands on her waist. She raised a hand to slap him, but he was ready this time. He caught her swing neatly, then forced her hand back down to her side.
“Rude,” he said. “That was rude. Just for that, I want you to ask me even more eagerly. I want you to tell me how you ache for me, how desperate you’re becoming. I want to hear how very badly you want me to kiss you, to taste you, consume you. Go on, Miss Fletcher. Say it.”
She was practically vibrating with tension now.
This was another push—and a gamble, as he didn’t know quite how she would react. And yet, his dear Miss Fletcher surprised him yet again by narrowing her eyes as though he’d laid down a challenge, then pressing up on her toes and touching her mouth to his.
The kiss was timid and unpracticed, but her mouth was warm, wet, and welcoming, and Xander was only a man. He let one hand travel up from her waist to thread through her hair at her nape, then used his leverage to tilt her back so that he could take proper control of things. If his little rabbit thought she was going to manage him, she well and truly had another thing coming.
He was not the kind of man who one managed .
He plundered, his tongue tangling with hers, his lips angling to press harder into her. He nipped at her bottom lip, which made her gasp again, which opened her more to him. She was just as delicious as he had anticipated, even if she was doing her best not to fall into the embrace. She was losing, though. She had her hands clenched into little fists, he noticed, as if she was fighting to stop them from reaching for him.
Yes. Excellent.
He kept the embrace going long enough to give her a taste—and then just a little longer for his own sake because she was as delicious as he’d imagined.
And then he pulled back, leaving her blinking dazedly after him.
“That was very naughty, indeed, Miss Fletcher,” he said, wagging an admonishing finger at her. She looked at him, at that finger, and then the blush in her cheeks changed from one of excitement to anger. How fascinating that he could so plainly see the difference.
“I—what?” She was furious. He was charmed.
“I told you to ask, ” he told her in his most patient voice, the one guaranteed to make her blood boil. “I even gave you the words. But you thought you could trick me and take what you wanted, instead. Very naughty.”
“It’s not what I wanted!” she insisted. “It’s what you bargained for!”
He shrugged one careless shoulder. “I told you; the terms have changed. I will not give you anything until you ask for it.”
She wanted to argue, he could tell.
“Or,” he added before she could, “if you’d like, we could call the whole thing off. Go our separate ways. You can find your own husband. Would you prefer that?”
She glowered.
“I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he said sweetly. “You need only say what it is that you want. Go on, then.”
“You are a loathsome, loathsome man,” she said, which was not a refusal or a recanting.
“It’s been said before,” he allowed. “Now, either ask me nicely or take your leave.”
“Fine,” she breathed. “I still want your help.”
Just as he had suspected.
Splendid. “Well, that’s enough for one night. I’ll summon you when it is convenient. Run off, little rabbit. I’ve a husband to snare for you.”
Miss Fletcher looked positively mutinous at this, but she was a worthy opponent for a reason; she was not about to let a good opportunity to regroup slip her by. She backed up the first few steps like she knew it was dangerous to take her eyes off of him while they were still standing close to one another. She had good instincts, his Northern lass. Good sense. Those talents would really make this bargain oh so much more entertaining.
She was nearly all the way out of the garden when she finally turned and stormed away, her body tight with barely restrained anger.
“Goodnight, my dear opponent,” he muttered after her, feeling lighter than he had in ages. He smiled into the darkness. “Until we meet again.”