Chapter 2
It had been just over one year since August Archdale, the Earl of Culross, had felt anything.
That was, anything other than the scorching burn of resentment over the failed alliance he’d sought with the McQuoids—a rival shipping magnate family.
He’d wasted his time courting Miss Linnie McQuoid Smith—one of their many female kin—at the express request of the lady’s brother, Captain Campbell Smith and cousin, Captain Arran McQuoid, whom Culross made friends with.
It hadn’t mattered to Culross either way. He’d gone ahead and courted the lady, only for the chit to choose another—Captain Jeremy Tremaine.
Culross wasn’t a man who settled for no or accepted defeat. He’d convinced Captain McQuoid of his abiding love for Linnie McQuoid-Smith. He’d turned McQuoid and the whole gullible family against Tremaine.
How easy it would have been to drive a wedge between the McQuoid girl and Tremaine, who’d foolishly and openly admitted to marrying the lady to advance his shipping gains.
With the help of Captain McQuoid, Culross had secretly boarded a ship and set about wooing the na?ve thing. His success would have been assured. After all, what could be easier for a rogue like Culross than to sweep in and soothe a bereft bride?
As bad luck would have it, McQuoid’s ship was blindsided by the approach of a pirate vessel. They’d been boarded, and a ruthless fight broke out.
Tremaine had sailed in as if out of thin air, rescuing the day, his wife, and killing all of Culross’s grand plans.
Now, when Culross wasn’t riddled with the burn of resentment, he was stalked by nightmares of that bloody battle at sea.
The once-gleaming deck slick and carpeted in the sanguine life force of dead and dying sailors. The blood-curdling screams and the thunderous reports of muskets firing in repetition.
He’d attempted to bed away the memories of his foolishness and the fiery battle at sea.
But the women, no matter their beauty or inventiveness—or how many Culross took at a single time—failed in either use he had for them: a receptacle to pour his hate into and a distraction from the demons of war.
He’d not been discriminating. Nor had his lovers been compelling. They all served the same purpose.
That was, they hadn’t been compelling—until now.
Culross didn’t know his mystery partner’s identity.
It mattered not.
As he took his place across from the woman dripping in crystals, he knew one thing with absolute certainty—it wasn’t a matter of if Culross would have the dazzling diamond under him, over him, and every way in between—but when.
From the minute he’d stood propped against one of the Doric columns, contemplating his boredom—and eyeing the exit—he’d spied her grand entry, and it felt ordained.
The lady owned the crowd. Every space her slippers touched belonged to the vision dripping in crystals and diamonds.
With Culross’s profound lust for the creature, he—much to his repugnance—was as bespelled as the rest of the room.
There was one slight, but significant, difference between Culross and the others.
The dandies and popinjays around her had a greater chance at snatching King George IV’s crown than laying claim to the enigmatic beauty.
From this night, until however long it took to tire of her, the temptress belonged to him.
And she wanted him too.
While couples assembled around them, his and the woman’s gazes remained locked.
From the moment she caught sight of him, she’d traced the tip of her tongue over her lips, nibbling at that flesh. Inviting him. Tempting him.
Every last swath of her skin, dripping in crystal, lace, and satin though it might be, could not hide the flush of color that covered her body.
The lady’s trimmer waist and smaller breasts set her apart from his usual bed partners.
She sank into a curtsy in response to his bow.
Culross offered his hand.
His delectable prize laid her gloved fingers in his with the same eagerness she’d shown when he’d staked his claim before her gaggle of suitors.
Lowering his lashes, Culross applied firm pressure to her hand, letting her know with his subtle squeeze and lingering hold who she belonged to this night—and in the nights to come.
Her fingers trembled.
Not with fear but something deeper, more elemental. Anticipation.
As they galloped down the line, the speed of their sashay brought their bodies briefly brushing. Her bejeweled silvery-white bodice grazed his leather-lined double twill great cloak.
A fresh wash of color rolled across the small, unmasked portions of her face.
Culross fought the urge to snatch the covering free, to expose her.
He would.
And when he did, it would be for him alone.
As they approached the turn, Culross placed his hand firmly at the small of her back, staking his claim, marking her as his.
They faced each other with joined hands.
Her fingers trembled. Culross deepened his pressure, steadying their quake. The distance their outstretched arms forced between them stretched the crystal-beaded satin taut across her breasts.
The reel’s tempo picked up to a frenzied speed.
Burning for her, Culross abandoned the polite rules of dance and drew his lady nearer.
Amid the swell of footfalls striking the marble floor and the whine of the orchestra, he detected the way her breath caught.
The moment Culross released her, his graceful mystery lady stumbled. She swiftly righted herself.
Before the gallopade forced them apart, outside the set, Culross leaned his mouth near hers. “My glittering diamond needs my touch, does she?” he purred.
A siren’s smile teased the corners of her lowered lips upward. “I do not need any gentleman.”
She neither bowed nor simpered. Her refusal, her spirit, a challenge stirred something he had not felt in a year—maybe ever.
“Is that right?” For the first time since he’d returned from sea, he felt a flicker of amusement. “Then that is good news for you, sweet?”
The lady trembled in his arms. “In what w-way?”
He drew a slow breath through his nose. The need to snatch her close and bury his mouth against hers gripped him hard. “Fortunate for you, sweet, I am no gentleman.”
Their gazes met. He bore his gaze on his intrepid beauty, testing her, daring her to show herself as a coquette or a worthy partner deserving of a place in his bed. Her chest rose visibly. The tiny dangling crystals in the heart-shaped V of her neckline danced and twinkled in the candle’s glow.
Her eyes remained locked with his.
He, on the other hand, let his focus slip lower. He drank in the rest of her, giving her surprisingly ample hips their due consideration.
A fresh wave of heat coated his veins.
Aye, her hips were generously curved, a cushion meant for a man’s fingertips—a purchase for Culross’s grip while he drove himself into her welcoming heat again and again. As they turned quickly, he caught a proper glimpse of her arse. Not too big. Not too small.
Culross’s breath grew shallower; the dissolution of his steady breathing had nothing to do with the speed of the gallopade.
Her arse would do nicely.
They met in the middle, their hands coming together as they galloped down the line. Their bodies close brought a rapid rise to his breathing—and hers. The swells of her jewel-encrusted breasts moved swiftly. All other dance partners ceased to exist upon the marble floor.
They separated and moved outside the set. Culross cursed her body being snatched away too quickly.
Their gazes locked across the distance dividing them. His desire was reflected back in her eyes.
Words were not needed. They never were. At least not between a man and a woman.
They were like animals—fancifully dressed up for propriety’s sake—but beneath the finery, no different from the most primitive beasts.
Such held true for Culross anyway. Aside from sex, there wasn’t a thing he wanted or needed from a woman.
It was why he was hot and hard from nothing more than the feel of her lithe, willowy frame in his arms.
His current partner made no effort to hide her hunger. Why should she? She knew the age-old game they played.
They rejoined at the center, finding each other’s fingers; the other pair a nuisance.
He nearly hissed with relief as the allemande steps brought him into position behind her.
Arms curved around her, Culross held both her hands in his and angled her nearer. With the intuition of Venus, his mystery partner pressed her pert arse against his hardened length.
Culross breathed in slowly through his nose. Her minx-like smile proved his soon-to-be lover knew exactly the effect she had on him.
How could she not?
He was rigid as a pike.
Their joined hands lifted and curved. His delightful diversion tipped her head in a way that displayed the long, graceful column of her neck.
“Are you familiar with the tune, my lord?” she asked, her voice a husky contralto.
Hers were the bedroom tones that drove weaker men mad.
Even with Culross’s restraint and well-earned history as a rogue, he found himself drawn under her siren’s spell.
“I am not, my lady.” They could have danced to silence and he wouldn’t care. As long as she was in his arms—and later beneath him—the world could burn.
For over a year he’d sought a distraction. She did nicely.
As they completed another circle, she stretched up on tiptoe to whisper against his ear. Her breath, laced with vanilla, fanned his skin. He yearned to drag that sweetness from her mouth. “Haud the lass till I run at her.”
Caught in her snare, her teasing words failed to reach him.
Until now.
“Haud the lass till I run at her…”
Culross sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“You are familiar with it,” his greatest temptation said. Her imp’s smile curved in an invitation.
“I am not,” he said thickly.
“Let me tell you about the song, my lord.”
He gripped her harder. “Yes,” he hissed.
Christ.
She was meant to be taken and often. He would rectify the lady’s situation tonight.
Nay, before the ball was through.
Amusement danced in her eyes.
Blast her power over him, and worse, the fact she knew the effect she had on him.
He would punish her insolence, teasing him as though he were a green lad.
And hell with his eagerness to get between her legs—she’d turned him into one.
Aye, he’d punish the chit, and she’d love every minute of his hard palm landing on her sweet arse.
He’d spank her raw until she was caught between that place where pain met pleasure.
To hell with propriety and proper movements, he nestled his hardened length against the curve of her arse, letting her feel the sheer size and power of him.
Her legs wavered.
Culross tightened his hold upon her hands—punishingly so.
With her back to his chest, the masked jewel angled her head. Her breath fanned his skin. “It is a Scottish reel.”
Culross went cold.
Desire died fast.
His erection withered.
As quickly as this imp could rouse a man, she could undo him.
“Indeed?” He infused a warning into his chilled tone—if she did not proceed carefully, she was about to forfeit the best night of her life.
The bloody McQuoids. Any mention of a Scot—or anything Scottish—sent rage rushing through him.
“Lowland and Border piping it may be,” she whispered. “I’ll forgive it, as it is not English.” The chit tilted her head at a fetching angle. His bewitching partner looked up from beneath dense lashes, held Culross’s gaze, and winked long and slow.
A fresh wave of desire stirred in his groin.
He would make an exception on the lady’s account. Scottish mention be damned. Even he could get behind the erotic innuendo of a lass ready for mounting.
“And you have a particular disdain for the English?” he asked, his voice thick.
Once seated betwixt her sweet thighs, she could sing Scottish ballads the whole night through.
“Not all.”
Some unfamiliar emotion darkened her eyes. She inched closer, defying decorum, and brushed against Culross.
“I can make an exception for you, my lord.”
His nostrils flared as lust roared anew within him.
Culross leaned close, the question of where to meet left unfinished as he and his mysterious minx met their paired partners in the middle.
His body went whipcord straight. His muscles coiled so tightly they threatened to snap.
The Devil tested Culross—first with all the beauty’s talk of Scots, and now with the brush of fingers against his enemy and shipping rival—the Duke of Hartwell.
And brother-in-law to Lady Linnie Tremaine, née McQuoid Smith.
The thinly disguised peer paid Culross no notice. Unlike everyone else—Culross included—Hartwell’s gaze locked on Culross’s mistress in the making.
Culross recognized the other man’s look. He’d worn it himself.
Stiffening, Culross shifted his focus to the Lady of Diamonds.
She had forgotten him.
The lady’s wide-eyed, unblinking stare belonged to Hartwell.
A roaring filled Culross’s ears.
The hell another Tremaine would poach what belonged to him. He would not be made the fool twice.
A possessive instinct, swift and unfamiliar, unfurled in his chest.
Not another.
Not another man stepping where Culross meant to stand.
The costumed peasant girl’s lips formed an ugly pout. “Darling?” While the set continued around them, the duke’s buxom, barely clad partner pressed her generous breasts against Hartwell’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Hartwell’s tastes had always run loud and obvious.
With her shrill, childlike voice, the woman could have been Aphrodite herself, and Culross would sooner cut his ears off than bed her.
“Enjoying a spot of fun, are you?” Culross jeered, taunting the duke with a reminder of his impending nuptials.
Let the pompous bastard squirm.
Culross’s enchantress didn’t wait for him to release her. She snatched her hands away, breaking the charged moment between the two men. Towering several inches above the other guests, Culross tracked the rapid path she carved through the crowd in her bid to escape the dance floor.
No one had ever fled him.
As if she could flee him.
He did not lose what he set his sights on.
The Tremaines forgotten, his pissing match with Hartwell forgotten, Culross was not finished with his enigmatic partner.
He went after her.