Chapter 19 Derek
Derek
Derek hated that man. And not the normal hate he harbored for nearly everyone who walked this earth.
No. He loathed that man. Pennington was worse than scum.
Scum didn’t even like that man. He and his oily entourage preyed on the vulnerable—those without the power to push back against the shield of privilege their titles provided. Like his poor wife.
Somehow, that woman still found a reason to smile.
She was the only reason Derek endured a second of the man’s vile presence.
Lady Pennington was Lady Rutledge’s best friend, which meant Derek by default had to be friendly with the woman.
As friendly as he was able. She wasn’t a horrible sort either.
In small doses. But, Christ, the respect Derek held for her.
He could only imagine what that woman was subjected to being Pennington’s wife.
Derek’s lip pulled back. And the man had looked at Miss Forester like she was his next victim.
Not in Derek’s bloody lifetime. Derek had experience saving women who’d been preyed on by Pennington.
The man took what he wanted as if it was his due, including women.
Miss Forester wouldn’t be one of them. If that man so much as laid a finger on her, Derek would fucking break it off.
Followed by the rest of them, so the man would never be able to touch her again.
He shook out his fists, trying to temper some of the blistering rage that had come over him.
His heart drummed in an incessant rhythm against his ribcage.
Miss Forester was his. It didn’t help that he now knew what it felt like to have her pressed up against him, her arse nestled in his lap, his arm banded around her.
She’d leaned into him, had gladly taken refuge in his arms. The beast in him liked that.
Something soft whispered in his chest, distant, barely discernable.
Something he shook off. He wanted more of her surrender; that was all the reaction was.
He pushed into his private rooms and spun to face Miss Forester.
She froze, and their gazes collided. The click of the door rang through the room.
Something volatile surged through him; the fevered rush from winning, the primal urge to protect, to stake claim, colliding into something even more heady, impossible to tamp down.
His lungs strained for air, the storm brewing inside him threatening to escape with each rough breath.
Visions of the night flashed through his mind.
Miss Forester’s head thrown back as she laughed.
Wild. Free. Unrestrained. Her long, elegant neck on full display.
Mouthwatering. The way she’d easily kept track of the deck.
He’d wager his fortune she’d used some sort of mathematical system to determine what cards were left.
The way she didn’t just use it to best the house.
No, she was a strategist. She was cunning.
She used it against Derek too. Why? It’s not as though they were playing against each other.
It was because she found it fun. She was so far from a tepid mouse. She was wily.
He needed another taste of her. Needed to feel her bare skin, that spark that lit the minute they touched. He advanced on her.
She took a step back for every step he took forward but didn’t have far she could go.
Her back hit the door. Those blue eyes were impossibly wide behind her gold mask.
He lifted a hand and hesitated. He needed bare skin.
He hastily tore off his gloves and then he was cupping her face.
She inhaled, the sound soft, yet sharp, and he hoped it drowned out his own reaction.
Because something indescribable tore through him the minute his fingertips landed on her silken skin.
Their gazes held, neither speaking. A silent room that was loud with wicked intentions. His thumb brushed the rim of her mask. A barrier. Too much of her was hidden from him behind it. His hands slid back to find the ties, and then it was gone, nothing but a dull thump against the floor.
A pained noise left him at the red lines marring her pale skin.
How dare that mask harm her, how dare it mark something so perfect.
The only one allowed to mark his minx was him.
His lips were on those injuries in the next moment.
He coasted over them, soft, lingering. Like he could take them away with a simple brush of his mouth.
Her hands shot to his wrists, gripping him in a strangling hold.
Her shuddering breaths bounced off his chin, his throat.
But she didn’t push him away. If anything, he could have sworn she pulled him closer.
He trailed lower, ready to claim those plush pink lips. But the image of her laughing filled his mind again. No. He needed to finally claim that neck. He changed course, pushed her chin up and feathered kisses down to her neck. Yes. She was sweeter here, her vanilla scent stronger.
Her hands flexed on his wrists, and he let his tongue slip out.
He followed with a soft graze of his teeth.
A tremor went through her frame. A wicked smile curled his lips.
Time to see how the minx liked it when she played with a beast who had sharp teeth.
He nuzzled her neck, time to sink his teeth in—
“No.”
He stilled.
Her choppy breaths were the only sound in the silent chamber. Because when Derek had stilled, he’d stopped breathing. Had he heard correctly?
“No,” she whispered.
He stiffly pulled back, his hands still cradling her face, her fingers still wrapped around his wrists.
Her gaze was locked on the floor, her bottom lip imprisoned by her top teeth in a bite that could only be painful.
Then those hypnotic irises met his, and his lungs stalled.
Midnight blue, drowning in lust. He slowly ran his thumb over her high cheekbone, warm from the blush glowing on her skin.
He leaned in, hovering. They were inches apart, breaths mingling, so close his vision blurred.
“No?” he whispered. Because everything about her was saying yes. Everything in him was screaming yes.
Something passed through those stormy blues before they fell shut. Confusion? Shame? His brows drew together.
When they opened again, they were crystal clear. “No, my lord.”
He nodded slowly and stepped away, his hand falling to his side.
She fidgeted with the black silk of her dress. “I should get changed into my original dress.”
He shook his head numbly, still coming down from whatever had almost come to pass between them. “The dress, the mask, everything, is yours.”
The side of her mouth tilted up. “What on earth am I going to do with a dress like this?”
“You seem resourceful, Miss Forester. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He cleared his throat, his mask of indifference falling back in place. “Gather your things; I’ll escort you back home.”
She studied him for a moment, her lips looking very much like they were fighting a full smile. But all she did was dip her chin in a nod and then head toward the dressing room.
When she reached the door, she glanced back at him, chin resting on her shoulder. “It was a valiant effort, my lord. Just so you know.” And then she disappeared.
Something burst in his chest. The thrill of coming so close to seducing that woman. She was so unexpected. A worthy adversary.
Victory was hers.
But he still had a carriage ride, and he had a very good idea of how he was going to use it.
Derek watched her. And he knew she could feel it. Lust. Want. How desperate he was for her. The shadows flickering through the rumbling carriage only added to it all. It was swirling around them—thick, intense, dangerous.
Need.
Arousal.
People underestimated what could be done without touch. His gaze trailed over her mouth, and he skated his teeth over his bottom lip. Her gaze dropped to the movement, her lips parting slightly. Sometimes denial was just as effective. More.
He’d done a great job of seducing himself tonight, dressing her up in fabrics he’d had made specially for her.
His silk on her skin. Something primal radiated violently inside him, a bolt of heat ricocheting, so piercing he almost flinched.
He clenched his jaw and breathed slowly through his nose, eyes locked on her.
He told her how hungry he was for her with nothing but an unrelenting stare.
An unsteady exhale fled those much-too-full lips, and his lips curled.
She could see it. He was a beast starved, and he was desperate to feast on her.
His gaze dropped to her lap. All of her.
But he needed to seduce her, not himself.
He slowly tugged his coat off, one sleeve, then the other, making sure his movements stretched the clothing underneath over his chest. Her gaze traced over his newly revealed linen shirt and waistcoat, wariness glimmering back at him in the moonlight. He winged a brow.
“It’s warm. You don’t mind if I get more comfortable, do you?”
“Depends on how many layers you’re planning to remove, my lord.”
A grin flashed before he could repress it. Minx. Her attention snapped to his mouth. “Just the one, darling,” he purred. “For tonight.”
She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled. She was adorable when she pretended to be vexed.
He casually rolled the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow.
A delicate swallow rippled down her swanlike neck, and heat sank heavy in his groin.
Yes, his minx would love if he shed more layers.
Bloody hell, he wanted to touch her. But she was too good at refusing him the minute he laid a finger on her.