Chapter 3 #3
“They’d not be unduly upset. Good.” His fingers slid into her hair again, but this time to twist her face up to his.
“I dislike scenes, Lisette. Let us be clear. I have no intention of marrying you. If you get with child, I’ll pay for its care, but I will not marry you.
I am not even interested in a permanent mistress.
When I tire of you, there will be a generous parting gift, but I’ll expect you to take your dismissal without a scene. ”
Elf shut her eyes. She hoped he took this for shock, but she needed to hide pure fury. The arrogance of the man! And how wretched that many women accepted such terms every day.
“Well?” he demanded.
He really didn’t care, which was another cause for fury. “Lisette” could be one of a hundred young women. She just happened to be the one to hand.
Elf told herself that the fact that Lisette was Lady Elfled Malloren had nothing to do with it. But Lady Elf was definitely not accustomed to being treated just as someone conveniently to hand.
Concentrating on appearing overwhelmed and flustered, she opened her eyes. “Of course you would never marry me, my lord. I would never expect it! But it’s a terrible step to take, to give my purity—”
“Sell,” he corrected. “Five hundred guineas when we part. Enough to make a future husband ignore any little details.”
Elf had lived her life among wealth and position and feared she could be just as arrogant in her own way. Her brothers were surely capable of this cold bartering of the flesh.
Viewed from the other side, however, it appalled her.
“Well?” he asked again. “I won’t rape you, but if I must keep close guard on you for a week, some sensual experiments will help pass the time.”
She reminded herself that she would use this to escape and snuggled closer. “If you promise to be kind, my lord,” she whispered.
“Good girl.” His hand rubbed against her neck, a comforting stroke now, as a person might stroke a cat. “You won’t believe how kind I can be, Lisette. Now, let’s see a little more of you.”
He unfastened the ribbons that held her domino closed and pushed it back. Then he blinked at her gown. “My dear Lisette! You need lessons in taste.”
Elf pushed away. “How dare you!”
“Offended you at last, have I?” he said with a laugh. “My dear, that is the most appalling ensemble I have ever seen.”
Now Elf did want to hit him, but she feared she’d let her ingenue manner slip. “These are my very favorite garments,” she informed him with a sulky pout.
“Then thank heavens I don’t intend to present you at Court.” He touched her angry lips. “Dress in the colors of the rainbow for all I care, poppet. I’ll even buy them for you if you want. But mostly I’ll want you naked . . .” Then he tilted her head back and brushed his lips over hers.
Despite her outrage, Elf couldn’t really object at this point, and so she let him tease her out of her annoyance.
He knew the tricks, did Lord Walgrave, and as he said, he could be kind. He did not force a kiss on her, but played with her lips while stroking her body, until she relaxed and responded without conscious thought.
Elf had been kissed a time or two, though never—being Lady Elfled Malloren—with such confident finesse. Even her boldest suitors had kept their senses alert for Rothgar.
Walgrave did not know he needed to be alert for danger. In fact, at the moment, none threatened and he was supremely at ease.
Having overwhelmed her first reluctance, he tightened his hold and brought his tongue into play. Elf struggled for a moment, but then relaxed. She was being thoroughly kissed by a master of the art and might as well enjoy it.
Taking a hint from his own practices, she slid her hands up to his shoulders and caressed his neck as he teased her mouth. She didn’t know how it felt to him, but touching his skin was almost as pleasurable as being touched.
The texture beneath her fingertips blended with the taste of him in her mouth, and with the feel of his body close to hers. The pleasure built faster than she’d imagined possible . . .
Then she realized he’d slid his hand between them to rub against her breast. Even through layers of stomacher and shift, the pressure tormented her. He unhooked the front of her open gown so it parted, leaving only her lace-frilled stomacher and scarlet satin petticoat to protect her.
She pulled her mouth free, intending to protest, but he laid his fingers over her lips and said, “Shhhhhh.”
To her bewilderment, she did.
Those eyes were the culprit, those bright blue—almost kingfisher blue—eyes smiling down into hers. She’d always known they were dangerous and she’d never seen them smiling before.
He should smile more often.
And now the aura surrounded them both, that aura of erotic energy she had always been aware of. It had been strong even in casual contact. Now it overwhelmed her, dizzying her as if with a fever.
Was it a smell?
No. A slight aroma surrounded him—a musky perfume and a subtle personal smell. But the aura could not be detected by anything except the especial part of a woman designed to respond to a man.
His hands had slid behind her, the touch on her ribs and spine sending shivers through her. With a few expert tugs at her stay-laces, he loosened her stomacher so he could ease it down from her breasts and fully touch one nipple.
Elf had definitely traveled into unexplored territory.
She knew she should protest, should fight, but it felt so utterly wonderful!
And would this ever happen again? She had escaped Elfled Malloren, who must be treated with respect at all times. Here she was just a woman being pleasured by a man. And such a man . . .
She relaxed against his arm and smiled.
He smiled back, looking so unlike her brooding, critical brother-in-law that she could almost be persuaded he’d traded places.
Traded places with the man of her dreams.
“Like that, do you, puss? And there are more wonders to come.” He eased her nipple up over the stiff stomacher and lowered his head.
At the first flick of his tongue, Elf gasped. When his teeth touched her, she squeaked and seized his hair, thinking to stop him.
Then he sucked at her and she whispered, “Juste ciel!” and held him closer.
“Ah,” he murmured softly against her flesh. “You recognize heaven, do you, little one.” He moved to torment her other breast.
Elf realized she was clutching his silky hair so tightly she was pulling it out of its ribbon. She relaxed her tense fingers, but then became aware of a throbbing itch between her legs that she understood all too well.
Never before, though, had she experienced hot desire quite like this. She wanted, needed, a man in a way she had never imagined possible.
Oh, she had certainly missed a great deal!
A purring noise startled her, especially when she realized it came from her own throat. That shocked her back to reality. She was in danger of falling into the trap she’d intended for him. She’d soon be so muddled she’d forget entirely that she planned to escape!
Escape, she reminded her dazed brain.
That meant she must fuddle him.
How, she had not the slightest idea. A wanton part of her body whispered that she could let him fuddle her entirely and see what happened next.
Still suckling at one, he touched the other exposed breast with delicate fingers. Oh yes, thought Elf, purring again, she could just let him enlighten her. After all, she’d wanted to experience this, and Walgrave clearly possessed useful skills.
Then her wits cleared. She could never make love and keep her mask on, yet to reveal her identity would be disastrous. Quite apart from scandal and his feelings about Mallorens, she didn’t want a traitor to know Elfled Malloren knew his secrets.
Traitor.
Treason.
Think, Elf!
So Elf did her best to ignore his sensitive attentions, drag her wits together, and find a way to turn the tables.
As a well-raised lady protected by four brothers she lacked experience, but having grown up with four brothers—one a frank-talking twin—she was not entirely ignorant. She had some theoretical notions of how to go on. Did she have the courage?
Of course she did.
She was a Malloren.
Shifting slightly, she pressed her hand to his chest. Then, while he continued to drive her mad with his skillful lips and fingers, she slid her hand down his front till she found the solid shape she sought.
A solid shape, she knew, meant he was at least half fuddled.
Lud! He must be almost entirely fuddled.
He raised his head and looked at her, amusement warm in his eyes. “I thought you were an innocent little bird.”
“Oh I am, my lord! But not entirely ignorant . . .” She had no idea what to do next, so she tickled with one fingernail.
He laughed. “Your imprisonment and education promise to be delightful, Lisette.” But he removed her hand and sat her up. “We must delay it, however. We’re here.”
With the calm efficiency of a well-trained maid, he tucked her breasts back behind the stomacher and tightened her laces. Then he hooked her gown, rearranged her cloak, and pulled her to her feet.
Elf let him handle her like a puppet, stunned to realize that the boat had reached the stairs and been tied up without her noticing a thing.
Fuddled indeed!
She shivered, nerve endings raw with arousal and fear. She’d have to be a great deal more careful if she wanted to even recognize a chance to escape.
He climbed out and turned to hand her onto the well-lit private stairs leading to Walgrave House. Glancing back, looking for the enemy, Elf saw only the dark river dotted with the bobbing lights of other boats. There was no way to know if the assassins were still close by.
She looked around, hoping against hope for some escape path. The head-high walls of the gardens of Walgrave House surrounded her, however, and ahead loomed the solid mass of the house itself. Some windows glowed with welcoming light, but it looked like an effective prison to her.
Don’t be a fool, she berated herself, as she walked along the path beside Walgrave, torchbearers before and behind. Chastity had escaped from a most efficient prison, and Bryght’s Portia had climbed out of an upper-floor window! There were always ways.
If she were left alone.
She flicked a glance at her captor. He smiled at her in a way that suggested he was not intending to leave her alone.
Oh, Gemini. Perhaps her best plan would be just to cry the alarm.
But they were in the house by then, and she doubted his servants would rush to her aid.
Out on the river, Michael Murray nursed his bandaged hand and watched Walgrave and the doxy walk toward the great mansion.
When they were out of sight, he told the boatmen to take his party on to the Whitehall Stairs.
His three companions relaxed, knowing no violent action would be needed in the near future.
Murray couldn’t remember being relaxed, and now tension clamped like a vise around his shoulders and neck. The earl had kept his word thus far; he had the wench safe. It didn’t feel right, though. It didn’t feel right at all.
A French titty. Murray himself spoke excellent French, and there were always French people in London, but it struck him as suspicious.
And she hadn’t acted like a hardened whore. Not even like a regular mistress. A woman moved in a special way with a lover.
He rubbed his wound, remembering how she’d not hesitated to strike at him. Hardly the behavior of the flighty wench the earl had claimed her to be.
His sixth sense told him something was awry, and this close to the time, he couldn’t endure it. He’d be easier with the woman dead beneath the bushes in Vauxhall. A lot easier. He’d like the earl dead beside her, but he needed his help.
And a dead or even missing earl might stir up trouble.
Murray began to weigh the earl’s usefulness against the danger he presented. By the time his boat nudged the steps at Whitehall, he had reluctantly decided that the benefits outweighed the risks.
For now.
Once the toy was in his hands, though . . .
He paid the boatmen and led the way up to Whitehall, analyzing ways to reduce that risk.
“Kenny,” he said, “you and Mack go watch the earl’s house. I want to know if he lets that scarlet piece go in the morning.”
“Then why canna we go back in the morning?” Mack grumbled with a yawn. “I’m fair forfochten.”
“Because this whole business tonight might have been a ruse, in which case he’ll send her on her way as soon as he thinks we’re gone.”
“That one?” Mack chuckled. “She had promising ankles, that one did, and we all ken the Earl of Walgrave can follow ankles upward. She’ll go nowhere the night.”
“We cannot risk the chance that you are wrong.” Murray tried to keep distaste out of his voice.
His men used whores. Even his beloved leader, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, was unchaste.
Michael Murray would not so sully himself, but he knew the others would laugh at him for prudery, undermining his authority.
Mack scowled, but accepted the orders. “So, what do we do if he does send her on her way? Follow her?”
“Of course not. Kill her.”