Chapter 4
With the sumptuous shepherdess in her knee-length but voluminous, virginal white skirts presented like a pagan offering before him, what’d proven to be a boring evening took an interesting turn.
Tremaine would rather be shot than suffer through polite affairs hosted by insipid, simpering English ladies.
Given that he had taken bullets—four, to be exact, over the course of his debauched existence—and lived to bed dozens of wenches afterward, he could say so with absolute certainty.
A soirée, he’d avoid like Satan would Sunday sermons.
An invitation to the recital, where some simpering young lady sang or played pianoforte, he’d toss into a fire before even fully reading.
An opera, he’d attend, depending upon which particular mezzo soprano happened to be performing. But Tremaine’s devotion did not have a single thing to do with any appreciation for the arts and instead had everything to do with the skilled beauty’s more important skills in the boudoir.
A masquerade, Tremaine would occasionally make an exception for. Ultimately, his decision on whether to do so rested on how promiscuous and wicked the event promised to be. And that determination he ultimately arrived at by who an invitation arrived from.
This particular affair, Lord and Lady Rutland’s masquerade, he’d been on the fence about. Had it been the outrageously debauched Marquess of St. Albans or the Earl of Montfort, he’d have all too eagerly joined in the fun.
Until very recently, Rutland was London’s most debauched scoundrel. With the wicked fellow newly married, Tremaine had hoped for a delightfully sordid affair or, at the very least, a slightly risqué one. His hopes were in vain.
Now, with his lover for the night having kept Tremaine waiting, he’d almost left.
The last thing he’d tolerate was a woman who sought to exert some perceived power over him; he didn’t care how skilled she was in bed. Being the master and commander of his own life, the sea, and the people and world around him, Tremaine waited for no one, and he answered to even fewer.
But damn if Tremaine didn’t find himself bloody pleased he hadn’t left, after all.
Not when he found himself surprisingly eager to get off with the entrancing chit before him.
This, then, was the surprise Lady Featherstone had promised and scurried off to fetch. No doubt she wished for Tremaine to get started without her so that he could have their delectable third primed for when she arrived.
He contemplated the unexpected gift.
Lean-waisted, narrow-hipped, and with breasts big enough to fit in his hands, but not to overflowing, the chit didn’t possess the voluptuous form Tremaine generally favored in his partners.
Still, with her abundant, blindingly whitish-blond corkscrew-curly hair and diamond-shaped face partially concealed by a mask, with a narrow forehead, wide cheekbones, and a narrower chin, she certainly possessed the unique facial beauty to merit a place in stone in Rutland’s art room.
Tremaine ran his gaze hungrily over her lithe body. Lust flowed through him.
Then, returning his stare to her desire-filled but impressively steady eyes, Tremaine crooked a finger.
The lady darted the pink tip of her tongue out and trailed it invitingly along the tiny Cupid’s bow of her full lips.
Nervous, virginal beauty seduced by a debauched rake would be the performance they’d take part in? It was a new one for Tremaine, and also one he’d surprisingly discovered this night to be particularly erotic—especially with this convincing, statuesque actress in the part.
Tremaine, in the spirit of the game they played, gentled his voice. “Never say you’re shy with me, love?” he crooned.
“N-no. O-of course not. I . . .” The breathless quality of her desire-laden response lent an even greater believability to her act.
The minx held his gaze unswervingly. “Never you, Captain Jeremy,” she murmured.
There it was. Captain. Now the second time she’d referred to him thus.
That address, a reminder of his broken life, normally would have set him to snarling like the beast he’d always been. But so perfectly tendered, he welcomed her commitment to the act.
“Is there a captain you’d trust more on your journey, love?” he asked huskily.
“I . . . I . . . You know I cannot say that, Jeremy,” she gently chided.
Jeremy.
Before now, no woman had laid claim to his given name. In the throes of passion, when his lovers begged and keened, they called out for Tremaine. Captain.
From this pretend innocent, the ease and comfort with which she commandeered his name lit an unexpected fire in his blood.
“I’ve angered you,” she said haltingly. Worry left deep—and adorable—wrinkles in her brow.
“On the contrary, sweet,” he said huskily. “Under ordinary circumstances, yes,” he murmured.
He hooded his lashes and moved his gaze purposefully over her sharp but deceivingly delicate features.
Using the arms of the chair to propel himself upright, Tremaine unfurled to his full standing height. “I find, love, I can make an exception for you.”
The lady’s throat wobbled. “I kn-knew you’d understand.”
She praised him like he was some benevolent lord and not a ruthless savage who put himself and his desires above any and all.
He smiled coldly. They both played their parts well this night.
“Of course I do,” he purred.
Relief filled her flushed face; that becoming color revealed her shared desire for Tremaine and the performance they carried out.
Hungry as he hadn’t been in . . . in . . . longer than he could remember, Tremaine cupped the beauty by her nape.
His mystery lady’s breath caught. “Wh-what are you doing?” That question came trembling from her plump lips, and his blood fired even hotter.
“What am I doing?” He curled his lips in a wicked grin. “I believe it should be clear even to you, my innocent siren.”
“I-it isn’t,” she whispered tremulously.
Tremaine chuckled. “You are a gift.”
Her long, blond lashes fluttered, revealing eyes of the greenest, most fertile English fields.
Engrossed with her enormous emerald irises, Tremaine finally had a hint of understanding what kept men with their feet fixed to the hard earth and not sailing the unpredictable seas.
“You are,” she said with more of that shyness blended with pure, hot desire.
All Tremaine’s droll, cynical humor faded. There was a familiar air to his newest plaything, but he’d sooner forget his name than a lover like her.
“I did not expect to find you here this night.” He lowered his voice. “But I am very happy I did, my siren.”
His lover’s bosom heaved.
Tremaine curved his hands under the modest swells of her high, proud breasts so that the pads of his thumbs and forefingers framed those orbs.
“Wh-what are y-you d—?” Her tremulous query bespoke the lady’s personal fight for breath.
Tremaine threw himself fully into the act. “You really do not know?” he teased.
The entrancing minx bit her lower lip hard and gave her head an even harder shake.
“Ah,” he whispered. “You don’t want me to tell you. Not when it will be so much better if I show you.”
Tremaine stretched his thumbs up, and through the thin chiffon fabric of her bodice, he teased her nipples.
The delightfully big peaks instantly pebbled. “You have beautiful nipples,” he praised.
Perfect in her part as a virgin, the lady bit her lower lip even harder, like she sought to suppress the sounds of her longing.
While he tweaked and played with her swollen, sensitive tips, the lady’s sexual cravings forced her to abandon the pretense.
She closed her eyes and rocked her hips at empty air.
“You like that, my sweet.” He praised her lack of inhibition.
Tremaine stretched his index fingers up, hooked them in her ruffled neckline, and then gave a single tug.
Her breasts came spilling out.
She whimpered and tucked her head shyly against his shoulder.
His nostrils flared, and he feasted on the magnificent sight. The lady’s olive-hued skin bespoke a love for the sun, and those equally bronzed, teardrop-shaped orbs revealed a woman who bathed her body in the warm, bright rays of summer.
He traced a finger along the line where her slightly tanner skin met the lighter shade of her breast.
His lover raised her arms to hide herself from him.
“Don’t be bashful,” he crooned. “I know you strip yourself in summer and lie upon the river’s shore.” He leaned close and whispered into her ear, “Do you know I spend my summers swimming naked, too, love?”
Her passion-glazed eyes went soft. “Y-yes. I know.”
Ah, their game took a new turn.
A teasing grin tugged at his lips. “Do you?”
She gave a timid nod.
“You’ve spied on me before, love.”
This time, as the lady’s blush deepened, he had the pleasure of watching that flush spread across her bared breasts.
“Tell me, love.” His own breathing grew ragged. “Did you like what you saw?”
She dampened her mouth. “I’ve always liked everything about you, Jeremy,” she confessed haltingly.
His cock throbbed, and damned if he didn’t find his own desire reaching embarrassingly vast reaches.
“God, you are magnificent, sweet,” he hissed through his teeth.
The baroness had outdone herself. In so doing, she’d also committed the greatest folly by landing this enchanting beauty in Tremaine’s arms.
“Do you know, I find myself not wanting to share you tonight, my siren,” he marveled.
This all-consuming need to conquer, claim, and keep a lover to himself was as foreign to Tremaine as the tongues of people on islands he’d dropped anchor in.
She lifted her head so those expressive emerald pools met his dark stare.
“I don’t want to be anywhere else this night but with you, either, Jeremy.” She spoke with more of that well-acted timidity.
That soulful, sultry profession broke through his ironclad restraint.
A bestial growl rumbled in his chest. “That is music to my ears, sweet.”
Their wicked game suddenly too much even for his experienced self, Tremaine claimed the enchanting minx’s lips in a hard kiss.