Chapter Seven
Perhaps Eliza should have expected to find Redver lounging on the bed without a stitch of clothing. After all, he’d been working his way through his outer layers when she’d fled the room. But she hadn’t been ready for an up-close view of the portrait Man as He Was Born.
She didn’t even bathe without a thin layer to hide her nakedness. In fact, when Hermia had helped her undress, she’d insisted on retaining her chemise.
The Black Widow had given her some idea of what to expect—even going so far as to share with her a book of prints quite unlike any she’d ever encountered. Still, she dared not peer too directly into the shadows.
What she could see beneath the sheet was more suggestion of the male form than menacing detail. Even so, she wasn’t sure Florence’s greatest sculptors could have chiseled a finer torso.
“A friend of mine,” Redver began conversationally, “frequently tells me never to trust a woman’s word.”
“Is that so?” What friend? Harbury? Her enmity spiked.
“I’ve always believed his thinking flawed,” he continued. “But now—”
“Just because I did not immediately jump to do your bidding, my lord,” she interrupted, “does not mean I have changed my mind, or that I am not willing to honor my commitments.”
“And yet, you keep yourself apart from me. I’m afraid we’ll have a devil of a time seeing to your education if you insist on occupying the opposite end of the room.”
“Not quite opposite.” She reached out, forced him to drop the sheet, and then snatched back her arm.
Again, she’d felt that connection.
When the Black Widow had suggested Eliza spend the night locked in carnal exploration with one of the people she detested most, she hadn’t, at first, understood how such an act would help her restore her reputation.
It wouldn’t, of course. But restoring her reputation was what she needed.
The widow had promised her what she wanted—the satisfaction of seeing Redver desperate with need, of making him understand how it felt to be used as an object for another’s satisfaction.
She’d thought her inexperience would make the scheme impossible. But then the widow explained how men enjoyed feeling superior, believing themselves in control. She suggested Eliza use her inexperience to draw him in.
By the end of the night, the widow assured, he’d want to see her again. He’d need to see her again. And she would refuse his request.
Mercenary, she knew. Possibly even cruel.
Even this gorgeous fallen angel deserved to be wanted for his own sake.
On the other hand, she could be saving his future conquests a good deal of grief. After tonight, he would never again take feminine accommodation for granted.
Simple enough.
But he was naked.
He rolled onto his back and re-fanned his linked hands behind his head. “Suit yourself.”
The underparts of his arms were lighter than the top. She frowned. Did he spend time out-of-doors without a shirt?
“However,” he continued with a wry, partial grin, “I’d rather you not call me ‘my lord.’ Especially if you are going to insist on making a mockery of the courtesy by your tone.”
Despite herself, she quirked her lips upward. Had she gotten under his skin? Perhaps she was not at as much of a disadvantage as she felt.
“Perhaps if you told me your Christian name—”
He interrupted her with a knowing chuckle. “Not a chance.”
“Well, let’s see then.” She mimicked his voice. “Since you’re contrary, stubborn, and demanding, perhaps I shall call you the Terrier.”
He opened his mouth to retort and then closed it again. His brows drew together.
“Ah.” He compressed his lips and blew, causing them to bubble as if he were forcibly holding back a retort. Then, he nodded. “Ahhh.”
He couldn’t be thinking, could he? Not just thinking, but considering her criticism?
“Now I see how bestowing a name on you without your consent might have seemed…” Finally, he chose his word. “Patronizing.”
She scowled. He wasn’t supposed to think. To consider her words. To change. He was supposed to be the object of her vengeance and a means for her to acquire knowledge.
She preferred him to be contrary.
A conciliatory Redver both bruised her conscience and became a curiosity. She couldn’t afford to be curious. He was simply too compelling a mark—and, far, far too dangerous.
“In my defense,” he continued, “Bessie has always chosen bird names for the women who agree to share my bed.”
Bessie? Was that the widow’s Christian name? “Birds for the ladybirds?”
“What a terribly scathing tone. Deserved? Possibly… I never even considered whether the women themselves agreed or approved. My intent was to discourage unintended attachment.” He inclined his head. “I apologize if I offended you. Would you prefer I use your Christian name?”
Ha! “Not a chance.”
Her refusal elicited a smile that matched her own. Not that he could see hers, blindfolded as he was. She felt another tug of affinity. Of care.
“The Blackbird will do. Apology, however, accepted. I hadn’t expected you to grasp my implied censure.”
“No? I shudder to think of the impression I’ve made.”
“Twaddle and bilgewater.” Her smile widened. “You don’t care a fig for my opinion.”
His brow crinkled as if he were considering. “I suppose the shuddering part could be considered twaddle. But for my statement to be stagnant and fetid as bilgewater”—he grinned again—“I’d have to have flat out lied. My words stand. And why wouldn’t I wish for your good opinion?”
“Because I’m but a distraction to you.”
“Brought that one on myself, I suppose.” His mouth flattened. “Very well, point conceded. I’ve unintentionally belittled my lovers. Call me Terrier if you like and I will meekly suffer the wound to my pride.”
His slightly protruding lower lip made her heart skip. Was he trying to draw her in? Or was he being sincere?
“Rogue may be more apt than Terrier,” she said.
He hummed in a beckoning way. “Climb into bed and I will show you just how much of a rogue I can be.”
Heavens, what a voice he had. Rumbling. Low. The kind of voice that demanded obedience without words. She leaned over the mattress, testing his ability to see by waving her hand in front of his blindfold.
“I can’t see you”—he held out his hand—“but I feel you.”
Eyeing him as if he were a cat about to pounce, she allowed him to help her up onto the mattress.
He released her, angling his body so that they faced one another. However, they were far from touching…unless you counted the place where her leg had fallen into the indent occupied by his knee.
“You’ll find the pillows quite comfortable. And you don’t want to miss the intriguingly carved canopy.”
As she glanced upward, her shoulder slipped into his. A shock of heat flared through her body. She ignored the flare and focused her gaze above. The tester, like the one above the bed she and Cassandra occupied in their godmother’s home, was decorated with clouds and winged, angelic creatures.
However, these creatures, though winged, were not angels.
She frowned. “I’m not sure what they are doing is possible while in flight.”
“Difficult, certainly,” he agreed with a laugh.
She turned back to him. Oh, by all the naughty, frolicking angels, why did he have to keep smiling?
“Have you tried”—she glanced up doubtfully—“that particular act?”
Which involved the man being placing his mouth between the woman’s thighs.
She’d seen a couple in a similar pose depicted in the widow’s book of scandalous prints. She still wasn’t certain why that was supposed to be pleasurable.
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“Those…beasts are not kissing.”
“A kiss does not have to be confined to the mouth, you know.”
She sent him a dubious sidelong glance. “I understand cheeks to be extraordinarily popular, too.”
“Cheeks? How disappointingly pedestrian of you, Blackbird.” His smile slanted. “Where’s your imagination? Right now, without the least bit of effort, I can name several places I’d like to kiss you.”
Oh? She swallowed. Ohhhh.
Finally, she grasped his implication.
His sentence had left his mouth parted, and those lips she couldn’t resist, slightly puckered. Like a bee to a flower, she touched her finger against the slightly roughened, slightly damp skin.
“Soft,” she whispered.
He closed his mouth over her finger and sucked. Rivulets of pleasure tumbled over her skin. He pulled back, leaving a glistening point on her tingling finger.
“Sweet,” he replied.
Tiny hairs on her neck and arms rose. “I’m not sweet.”
“No?” He bent his head and then brushed his mouth against her own. Again and again, he kissed her lightly, each time nudging closer. Repeated touches, brief and tender, quickened life in other parts of her body.
“Well”—he came up for air—“you taste sweet.”
She stared at his lips. He’d a wealth of carnal knowledge. She’d none.
But she wanted him. She wanted him to want her. And she was beginning to fear she wanted him for reasons beside the satisfaction of bludgeoning his arrogance.
“Rogue,” she whispered, “teach me what you know.”
They were barely even kissing and, God, he couldn’t breathe. Each, featherlight touch of her lips—hesitant, almost completely innocent—restricted the expansion of his lungs.
He rested his hand against her cheek.
Her skin was as smooth and pliant as he’d remembered. She’d high cheek bones—he moved his fingers over the contours of her face—and thin delicate brows. He brushed a lock of hair from her brow, quickly realizing the chignon that had tamed her mane had been either removed or come undone.
Her thick, silky mass of locks now hung free.
“Soft,” he murmured in an intentional repetition of her description.
Gently, he planted a precise, deliberate line of kisses across her jaw and then down onto her throat.
“And, yes, sweet.”
He nuzzled beneath her ear, seeking the place he’d touched the last time. The tiny patch of skin that had made her whimper like a cat in heat.
But nipping the lobe only made her hum. A nibble two inches below merely caused her to flinch. Then, he darted his tongue into a valley just above her collar bone. Her breath hitched. He’d found his prize. He fluttered his lips over the spot until her hiccup turned into a long, low moan.
“Again,” she demanded.
“Perhaps, I’ll indulge you.” He moved his free hand to her shoulder, which was not, as he’d expected, bare. On the other hand, her chemise was of the finest cotton. That thin fabric was no protection. He smiled. “If you’re good.”
“I didn’t come here to be good.”
Her low, husky whisper heightened his desire. “There she is…The Blackbird who came to take her pleasure.”
She answered him with a low hum.
“This”—he ran his hand beneath her right strap—“is an unnecessary barrier.”
She shifted her position. His body protested the loss of her warmth. But then, her chemise moved like a whisp of air along his side sending a shudder of anticipation down his spine. She must have pulled the garment up and over her head.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to see her now. He pictured the swell of her breasts, painted in the color of her nipples, making them dark rose, peaked, and ready for his attention, of course.
“Better?” he asked.
“Not better. Just strange. Unlike you, I don’t believe I’ve been, ah, as I was born for a very long time.”
Her honesty disarmed him. Bold and innocent was a strange and heady combination.
“I think I’m cold,” she continued. “I’m shivering, at least.”
“Easily remedied.”
He pulled her down to him, wrapping her in his arms. He didn’t believe cold air had caused her to tremble. Her senses must deceiving her, because her skin was almost feverish with heat. How could he know?
They were chest to chest, hip to hip, and toe to toe.
She fit nicely. Soft curves against hard muscle. She smelled divine, too. He couldn’t have hidden his arousal if he’d tried.
Not that he wanted to try.
Now that she was naked and pressed up against his body, his head floated. His body simmered. Not the painful kind of burn—the kind that demanded he scratch—but with a warm effervescence, a fizz soothingly bubbling into his groin.
This—this conversational seduction, this tentative introduction of his body and to hers was not oblivion, but…something better? Something that could have a lasting impact.
What was wrong with him? The tisane?
“Blackbird—”
A tremor shook her body as he spoke against her skin.
“—you’ve made me hard for you.”
“So I can feel.” She sounded uncertain. “What should I do?”
Do?
He’d be obliged if she rolled onto her back, parted her legs, and bid him enter. He imagined she’d be so slick and wet and tight, this prolonged experience of want would come to a swift and powerful end.
But no.
He’d promised to educate her in the ways of pleasure and putting his own first wasn’t going to fill that dance card.
“You needn’t do anything. Yet.” He found her mouth again, this time with deeper kisses. Kisses that forced her to open. “He can wait.”
“He?”
Her light rush of breath could have been a snicker.
“Definitely he. Assuredly with a mind of his own. Right now”—he kissed her—“for instance, he’s rather incessantly demanding to be intimately introduced.”
His vulgarity caused her to emit a high-pitched sound of protest.
“He won’t be satisfied, of course. But I don’t intend for you to be equally disappointed.”
Using his thumb, he rhythmically stroked the sensitive place on her neck while his mouth continued a journey of exploration. As he drew closer to her breasts, she panted, “What are you doing, Rogue?”
“My best to drive you mad. Obviously.”