Candice Hern (5 page)

"Was it? Not for me, I assure you." He brought her hand to his mouth again and slowly drew his lips across her knuckles. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, taking in the incredible fragrance she must have dabbed at her wrist. It was not the sort of soft, flowery scent he would have expected from her, but something slightly heavier and more intoxicating — jasmine, perhaps? — and as incongruous as her laugh. Rochdale added a quick flick of the tongue across her knuckles before lifting his head.

She sucked in a sharp breath and drew her hand away. "You have not won the wager yet, my lord."

"Ah, but that was not a true kiss. Certainly not worthy of a wager. But I can tell you liked it."

"No, I d—"

"In fact, I am quite sure you would like to be kissed. By me."

"That's not tr—"

"You are simply dying to know what it would be like to be kissed by the oh-so-wicked man with the oh-so-dangerous reputation." He moved closer to her, pressing his hip firmly against hers, until she had no recourse but to flatten herself into the corner, with no place left to go.

"You, sir, are impertinent. And remarkably arrogant. I have no wish to be kissed by you."

"Of course you do. The need is radiating off your body like heat waves. I can almost taste it. But you are all tied up in your Bishop's Widow's propriety and afraid to let yourself be simply a woman. A woman with a woman's needs and desires. It is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it is infinitely more shameful to keep yourself all tied up in self-imposed knots."

He leaned in close, and her whole body strained to put some distance between them. It seemed to him that her spine must be fused to the side wall panel. But he had not lied. He could feel her desire in the touch of her hand, which he still clasped. When he let go, she gave a shuddery breath, then held it again when he began to loosen the ribbons of her bonnet.

"All tied up," he said, "just like this bonnet. It is unhealthy to be so tight-laced all the time, you know. One has to breathe." The satin ribbon slipped loose and he gently lifted the straw bonnet off her head and placed in on the small shelf beneath the front window, beside the high-crowned beaver hat he'd discarded earlier. Her blond hair was coiled in a plaited crown high on her head, more silvery than gold in the moonlight streaming in the front window. She had not cut and teased short curls at her cheeks and temples like so many ladies of fashion did. All was sleek and simple, giving attention to her elegant cheeks and long white neck. Her beauty was cruelly serene.

As he studied her again — gray eyes huge with anxiety, full lips slightly pursed, skin so finely textured it might have been unglazed porcelain — Grace did not struggle. She did not try to throw him off or strike him. She might not have believed it, but he would have stopped if she had done any of those things. But she did none of them. It was as though she had so thoroughly trained herself to keep all emotion under control that she became rigid as a statue, unable to speak or move.

Rochdale wondered if she'd always been such an ice princess, or if it was the bishop's doing. And what would happen to her once he'd chipped away that cool, polished marble façade and let out the warm-blooded woman beneath? Would she loosen her tight laces forever and open herself up to life?

Perhaps she would thank him as he rode off on Sheane's Albion.

"I spoke before of taking risks. Isn't it time you took a small risk, my dear Mrs. Marlowe?"

Her breathing became slightly ragged, a nervous agitation. She was out of her depth, even a little frightened. Yet she did not drop her unbending composure. Was it courage? Or simply pure mule-headedness?

"I am taking a risk," she said, "merely by being in this carriage with you, am I not? Is that not enough?"

"But what are you risking? Your virtue is safe with me, as I have already assured you. And sharing my carriage was no risk for you since you had no choice in the matter. No, I think you require more of a risk than that."

"Of course you do. You are a gambler. Taking risks is your way of life. It is not mine."

"Not yet." He brushed a knuckle down the edge of her cheek and along her jaw. She blinked rapidly a few times, but did not flinch. "But as you say, I live to take risks. And do you know what? I find I am all agog to win this wager with you."

"You won't win."

"And yet I have every intention of doing so. But I think it only fair that we both appreciate what the stakes are. Let us see exactly what we are playing for."

He slid an arm around her shoulder, pulled her toward him, and kissed her.

Grace steeled herself against an assault, but his lips were unexpectedly gentle. And mobile. This was not a static kiss, the only type of kiss she'd ever known. His lips moved over her own, testing and tasting, tempting and confusing her.

Her palms were pressed flat against his chest. He held one arm around her shoulders, lightly caressing her, just as he'd done with her hands. His other hand cradled her chin while he continued his slow exploration of her mouth. She flinched at the touch of his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. So thoroughly shaken at the very notion of tongues being involved in a kiss, and lost in the odd wet sensation of it, she did not at first realize what he wanted. When it came to her at last that his tongue was trying to coax open her lips, and his hand was trying to relax her jaw, she sucked in a startled breath — and in so doing, inadvertently parted her lips. In the next instant, his tongue was inside,
inside
her mouth.

Grace had never experienced anything like this in all her life. Her entire body tingled and trembled, every inch of her heated and flushed. She ought to be disgusted, but she was not. She ought to push him away. But dear God in heaven, she did not want him to stop.

A yearning that was both pleasure and pain spread through her body, coalescing in the most private part of her, setting off a warm throbbing between her legs. Her breasts tightened beneath her stays. Hardened nipples strained against the whalebone.

She should not be feeling like this. She should impose more control over her body. But she couldn't stop the sensations flowing through her and over her. It was wrong. It was frightening.

It was exciting.

Her body seemed to have come alive in a whole new way, a way so unrecognizable that for an instant she felt like a stranger in someone else's skin. Someone loose and carnal, sensual and unbridled. So,
this
was passion. This was the exhilaration the bishop had warned her against.

Remembering her husband's words caused her to be a little frightened at what was happening to her. Fear wound its way around tentative passion, intensifying it, adding more danger to the moment. Rochdale was infamous for using and discarding women. Publicly so. She should not allow him, of all people, to do this. Yet she could not seem to muster the will to put a stop to it. Instead, she simply allowed herself to experience it. For once in her life.

And before she realized it, fear had been transformed into need and wanton desire.

Grace kissed him back.

Her tongue hesitantly touched his, and he responded by clasping her tighter against his chest, and setting up a dance where their tongues circled each other and retreated, circled and retreated. Heat and longing spread through her like a fever. She was lost in pure sensation.

Her hand had somehow crept up over his shoulder and into his hair. Silky black hair between her fingers. Lord Rochdale's black hair.

Lord Rochdale
.

His name and all it represented brought her back to earth with a thud.

Dear God, the man was a devil. A black-hearted spellbinder.
What had he done to her
?

She pushed him away with such force he became unbalanced and almost slid to the floor. Grace pressed a hand to her mouth, horrified at what she'd allowed to happen. "How dare you," she said in a voice so strangled she hardly recognized it.

Rochdale righted himself, straightened his neckcloth, and stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have no right to kiss me like that. I cannot believe you are so lacking in decency that you would accost an unwilling woman, trapped in a carriage with nowhere to run."

"Ah, but I am the man who debauches young ladies and publicly abandons them, am I not? You cannot expect decency from such a blackguard."

"Ooh, you are loathsome!"

He smiled and his teeth caught the moonlight, giving him a diabolical look. "Claws in, cat." He reached inside his coat and brought out the silver flask, unscrewed the top, and held it out to her. "Perhaps a sip of brandy will calm you down. You are unsettled, to be sure. But you were not unwilling. Certainly not uninvolved. In fact, you were quite charmingly responsive."

"I was not!" she snapped and knocked the flask out of his hand, furious and resentful because he was right. She was angry with him because he'd coaxed her into dropping her guard for the first time in more than a dozen years, since the early days of her marriage. Angry at herself for allowing it. Angry at the world for placing her in this untenable limbo of confusion.

"Don't worry." His voice was full of laughter as he retrieved the flask from the carriage floor. "You could not help it. It was a perfectly normal reaction."

"Not for me." She realized she had all but admitted to her wanton response and bent her head in shame and embarrassment.

"No, I daresay it was not normal for you, Mrs. Marlowe. And what a pity, for you are rather good at it. In fact, I look forward to collecting my winnings when we prove that I have won our little wager."

"You will not win." And thank heaven for it. Grace did not know if she could withstand another kiss like that.

"I do not suppose you have a Bible in your reticule so we can resolve the wager right now? I am anxious for another kiss, my passionate prude."

That label sent a rush of heat to her cheeks, for she feared it was altogether too close to the truth. "No, I do not have a Bible with me. I wish I did, for I would spend the rest of the journey reading it to you."

He gave a theatrical shudder. "Thank
God
I shall not have to endure that penance. We shall simply have to settle the wager tomorrow. I shall call upon you to collect my winnings."

"No, please." The thought of Rochdale in her home was too much to bear.

His black eyebrows lifted. "You wish to come to my house instead?"

"No!"

He grinned. "I thought not. Then you may expect me tomorrow. And I do not know if you happened to notice, but we are almost at your front door."

"Oh." She had not, in fact, noticed. All at once, she was gripped by a rush of anxiety. What if she was seen at this hour of the night with Lord Rochdale? She reached for her bonnet and quickly set it in place. "My gloves, please," she said as she tied the ribbon beneath her chin. He handed her the yellow kid gloves and she struggled into them awkwardly.

The carriage slowed and Grace saw the familiar brick façade of her Portland Place town house. A faint light shone in the glass above the front door, but all else was dark. It must be almost two o'clock in the morning. And she was arriving home at this late hour with an infamous libertine.

When the carriage stopped, she rose from the bench — rather awkwardly, bent from the waist, her bonnet knocking against the carriage roof — and reached for the handle to open the door.

Rochdale touched her arm. "Wait. Allow me." He made a move to descend before her, but she held up a hand.

"Don't you dare step out of this carriage." In a clumsy tangle of skirts and booted legs, she made her way down the lowered step. "I do not wish to be seen coming home with you at this hour."

He chuckled and moved back into the darkness of the carriage. "A wise decision. We must have a care for your reputation. It has been a most enjoyable journey, my dear Mrs. Marlowe. I shall wait here until you are safely inside. Then I will do myself the honor of calling upon you tomorrow. Good night, ma'am."

She thought to tell him not to call on her, but turned away instead. It would do no good to tell him anything. He would do as he pleased, and she could not stop him. But tomorrow, she would ask him to stay away from her. She never wanted to see him again.

Grace reached for the house key in her reticule, but the door opened before she could retrieve it.

"Good evening, madam." Her butler stood aside to allow her to enter.

"Thank you, Spurling. You really need not have waited up so late. I do have a key, you know."

He smiled, and there was a look in his eye she could have predicted, a look that said he knew his duty and would do no less, regardless of what she had to say about it. "May I ask, madam ... Is the young lady ...?"

Grace had sent round a note when she had gone off with Beatrice that afternoon, alerting Spurling of the situation. She had not known how long she would be gone or even if she would return tonight at all, and she hated for her household staff to worry about her.

"She is safely returned to her home, I am happy to say, and no harm was done." Not to young Emily, perhaps. Grace could not say the same for herself. She was still shaken by what had happened in the carriage. In fact, she was making a supreme effort not to fall apart in front of poor Spurling.

"Excellent news, madam."

"Yes. But I am quite exhausted. Is Kitty awake?"

"I will send her upstairs right away. Shall I have Cook prepare a tray? A light supper or a pot of tea?"

"No, thank you, Spurling. I could not eat a bite. But if you would be so good as to ask Kitty to bring me a glass of warm milk, I'd be grateful. It has been a trying evening and perhaps it would help me to sleep."

Grace continued to cling tightly to her self-control while her maid assisted her with the complicated ritual of undressing, deftly managing the various tapes and laces, buttons and pins. The poor young woman had obviously been roused from her bed to see to Grace. Sleepy-eyed and silent, she removed each garment and carefully stored it or put it aside for the laundry. When Kitty finally left the room, taking the garments to be laundered with her, Grace sank down on the edge of the bed and sighed aloud. Her body shivered as she released the tension she'd been holding in for hours.