Chapter 12
The door opened and he said a brief prayer of thanks that at least she had returned.
She fumbled her way over, and a searching, unsteady hand brushed his cheek.
Catching it, he drew her gently back onto his lap, realizing with a wince of embarrassment that his clothes were still disordered.
A courteous gentleman with a trace of brain left would have tidied himself while she was away.
“You can kiss me,” she whispered, “if you still want to.”
Hardly daring to hope, he explored the path with his fingers, up her arm, across her shoulder, up the front of her slender neck, to her firm chin.
Skimming to one side, he found the mask still there, cut so only her chin and lips were exposed.
Despite her tension, he followed the ragged edge up, over her nose and down the other side.
It was a more common style for a Venetian mask than full face, and he wondered why she hadn’t worn one like this in the first place.
Curiously, he explored a little more with his finger, and found full, soft lips.
Kissable, vulnerable, generous lips. He’d known how they would be.
Tracing around them, he detected no secrets except that her lips twitched as if he was tickling her.
He longed to demand an explanation of her strange obsession, but he wouldn’t risk this precious gift. Tilting her head, he put his lips to hers, hovering a moment as if at a shrine. It was she who wove her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
Though still aware of the mask, he surrendered. Perfect, perfect lips soft under his. A treasure of a hungry mouth. Deepening and blending, the kiss became a mating of its own, perfect in its way, so that when they slid apart, he felt almost as satisfied and drained as after sex.
Almost.
Her hand traced his face. “Thank you. You were right. I would hate to have missed that. Any of this. I want you to know that. It has to stop at dawn, but whatever follows, you have given me something very precious.”
So suddenly it should have been audible, his willpower broke. “It doesn’t have to stop at dawn.”
Her hand stilled. “It does.”
Holding her palm to his lips, he said, “Come away with me. It will be a scandal, yes, but in my circles, people accept scandal.”
“Your circles. Someone told me Brand Malloren is a lord. That his brother is a marquess.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He was surprised that it might have hurt her. “No bad reason, I promise. I didn’t want to discomfort you. And I’m not so elevated. I’m my brother’s land manager, that’s all.”
“Manager of a great deal of land, I’m sure.”
“If we’re talking of honesty, why not give me your true name?”
Her hand slipped free. “I can’t. That’s the simple, honest truth. Not for my sake, but for others. And for their sake, I cannot run off with you.”
Anger stirred. This was no dithering, tempted wanton. This was a woman who would hold by her intent. Had he actually liked the fact that she was strong?
What confined her so absolutely?
How could he break it?
“Would you run off with me if you were free?” he tried. “Not unmarried, but free of whatever binds you?”
“Is anyone ever free … ? But yes, if not for heavy obligations, I might. It’s bitter to me that I could be so weak, but that’s the truth. I am bound, though. I want you to promise never to try to contact me once we part. Please. It’s important.”
He put her gently off his lap and stood to disrobe her.
“I can’t promise that. For the sake of what we have, for your honesty, I will try to do your will.
I promise to try, but I can’t promise to succeed.
I’m not used to being weak either, but you have made me something of a stranger to myself.
I have no control.” His fumbling hands on her gown echoed his words.
As did her tremors. “I am the same. It’s wrong….”
He only half heard her, being more intent on the urgent loosening of her corset strings.
“I’m discreet,” he argued, tugging the strings until the corset was loose enough to pull over her head and toss away.
“Discretion isn’t enough. I wish you would promise.”
“I don’t make promises I cannot keep. Do you?”
“No.”
“Then promise me one thing.”
“What?”
He put his arms tight around her from behind. “If you don’t leave with me,” he whispered into her neck, “promise to send for me if you are ever in need. Of anything. Promise.”
After deep breaths, she asked, “How could I?”
“A message to Malloren House in London will always reach me. Marlborough Square. Or addressed in care of the Marquess of Rothgar. Promise.” He knew his arms were tightening. He couldn’t stop them.
“We shouldn’t—”
“Only in need. Promise!”
“It won’t happen!” Struggling against him, she gasped, “I have a good husband and loving family. I won’t need you. I’m not alone in the world!”
Abruptly, he loosed her. “Then I wish you were.” He fought the petticoat strings at her waist and managed to knot them. Frustrated—with the lace, with the dark, with her—he snapped them with his bare hands.
“Stop that!” she protested. “You’re going to leave me in rags!”
Ignoring her words, he lifted her so the petticoat dropped, then dragged off her cotton shift so she was finally, perfectly naked to his hands. He stilled them at her waist, caught almost breathless by the moment.
“Promise me,” he said again, trying to sound like the reasonable man he generally was, not the wild one he was in danger of becoming.
“Promise me that if ever you have need, any need, you will send for me.” He slipped his hands up slowly to fill them with the perfect generosity of her breasts. “Promise me.”
He could hear her breathing, feel it through his hands. “What if I summon you to be my love-slave any time I feel the need?”
“I can imagine nothing more delightful.”
“This is folly. Folly beyond reason!”
“Promise.”
“Oh, very well!” she snapped. “But it will do you no good. I will never be in that desperate a state.”
“I should hope that you’re right, but I don’t. I’m not sure I can live without you.” He was mad to reveal that. Clearly mad. He didn’t care.
“This is all. Tonight is all we have.”
Rage flared because he feared she was right. He didn’t understand her situation, her family, her husband, but he knew her. With his soul and his bones, he knew her. Whatever had driven her to this—and “driven” was not too strong a word—she wasn’t a woman who could live openly in sin.
Intolerably, she would never be his. With the dawn, she would disappear, pick up the pieces of her life, and banish him from her thoughts. But not from her memory or her dreams. He’d make damn sure of that.
He let her go and began to strip. “Our situations are different,” he said, choosing words like weapons as he pulled off his drawers and stood finally as naked as she. More naked than she. He wore no mask. “I’m not likely to stay celibate. I can find release tomorrow if I want it. What of you?”
“I don’t need release.”
“Liar.”
He took a step closer to her shadowy shape, and she inched back. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be snatching the time to give her sweet loving, not loosing his anger. Not trying to push her into admitting her need, her temptation. Not trying to whip her into wild ruin.
She stopped her retreat and her chin went up. “I didn’t find release in what we just did.” Now her tone was as harsh as his.
She was right. He’d not given a thought to her satisfaction. A dismal first.
“I suppose it’s as well,” she continued coolly. “After tonight, I will not do this again, so it is better, really, that it be something of a disappointment.”
He captured her wrist. “Don’t poke a lion, sweetheart, unless you want it to roar.” He dragged her toward the bed. She fought him.
“Slave?” he reminded her.
“Mistress?” she spat back. “My lord?”
Abruptly, unfairly, he let her go. “Leave then.”
His breath stopped. Might she actually … ? If he sank on his knees and begged … ?
But after a silent moment, she stepped closer, found his hand, and linked it once more around her wrist. “My lord?”
He almost swept her into his arms, but that wasn’t the game they were playing just now. “Slave,” he whispered. “Love-slave.” Let her interpret that as she wished.
Then he pulled her toward the bed, the bed he’d already turned down in welcome.
Pushing her down on her back, he tugged her hips to the edge then spread her thighs wide with his hands. He heard her suck in her breath, and waited. He wasn’t so far out of his mind that he’d truly assault her.
Abruptly, she relaxed, surrendered. Touching her hand to be sure, he found it limp by her thighs on the sheet. He raised it, kissed it, then kissed her inner wrist as he had done so long ago, brushing his lips up to her inner elbow.
Then, her hand still in his, he slid his other between her thighs. “Are you obedient to my every wish, slave?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then I command you to surrender. To enjoy.” To himself alone, he added: To remember.
She didn’t fight, so he roused her passion with his hand, pleasuring her breasts with his mouth.
Her crushing grip on his other hand spoke her passion, flexing and squeezing wildly, guiding him to go fast or slow, soft or hard.
As her hips’ wild dance rewarded him, he eased the pressure, hoping she had her other hand ready to cover her mouth if she screamed.
Hell, if she screamed and brought witnesses down on them, perhaps that would get him what he wanted—her as his wanton mistress.
Then he was rewarded with a deep groan, a sound he’d go odds she’d never made before. A secret, guttural groan for him alone. He’d have more. He was in control, he could do this for hours if necessary.
He drove her on, to bone-aching, tendon-straining tension, easing again to hold her back. Her feet came up to the edge of the bed and she arched off it. He stopped entirely.
“Down, come down, sweetheart.”
With a sob, she settled her hips, rolling. “Don’t … Please …”