Never Kiss a Rake (27 page)

And that was the very last thing he was going to do. “Open your eyes, Bryony,” he murmured, and to his surprise she did. He kissed her then, putting his mouth on hers as he’d been wanting to do again since he’d had her in his bed and he’d foolishly let her go. But then, he hadn’t known what he’d find the next morning when he found the clothes bundled beneath his bed, what he’d find in his wife’s apartments.

Bryony tasted of cognac and salt tears and sweet, untutored lust. She tasted of the redemption he could never have, the fiery hell he was heading for. She tasted of everything he had ever wanted, and he lifted her up against him, so she was pressed against his erection. He slid one arm under her bottom, supporting her, and by instinct she wrapped her legs around him, not noticing he was lifting the fine linen nightdress up her long legs so that he could feel the sleek skin of her thighs. He set her on the table, sweeping the decanter and brandy snifters crashing to the floor, and the pungent scent of the spilled liquor added to the night air, added to the smell of her skin and the taste of her mouth. He broke the kiss, pushing her back on the scrubbed wood, and she went willingly, staring up at him as his hands slid up her legs, moving between them. He wanted to unfasten
his breeches and slam into her—thank God she wasn’t a virgin, didn’t need to be wooed or treated tenderly. He could just fuck the hell out of her, hard and fast, as he desperately needed to, and wipe out the last twenty-four hours. He needed Bryony, nothing but Bryony, breathing her, taking her, drowning in her.

He looked down into her face, the indigo blue eyes and small nose, the lush lips that would feel so good wrapped around him, sucking him. Her tawny hair was loose, spread out behind her, and she looked delicious, irresistible, and her eyes closed. She knew what she was doing, and he thanked his stars. He pushed the night dress up to her waist, and she reached down in sudden shyness, trying to cover herself up again.
Not a virgin, but not much more than one,
he thought, ready for her, catching both wrists in his hand as he dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor and put his mouth between her legs.

He hadn’t done this to a woman in a long time, and he’d forgotten how much he loved it, the honey and sweetness of her. She was still making some kind of fuss, but he simply licked his way up to the tight little nubbin at the top of her sex, sucking at it while he used his other hand to trace her wet, silken folds. She’d had so little experience she most certainly hadn’t had this particular delight. He slid a finger into her, testing, and she let out a small cry, one of shocked pleasure. She was tight, too damned tight, and she was going to need to be a lot more relaxed or he’d hurt her, and he’d never enjoyed hurting women, even those who enjoyed being hurt. He suddenly realized she wasn’t struggling. Her hips were arching up against his hand, seeking completion, and he pulled out his finger and slid in two.

Tight, so deliciously, damnably tight, but he knew where to touch her, where to rub inside her, and he used his teeth on her, biting just enough that she arched off the table, spasming in hoarse, gasping response as he pumped his fingers, feeling her clench around him.

He didn’t want to stop, but she was panting, shaking with reaction, and he rose up, standing at the edge of the table, looking down at her as she lay spread out for him. “Wait,” she said in a raw voice. “I should tell you…”

If she was about to confess who she was she’d picked a hell of a time for it. “No,” he said. Her shawl had fallen and the nightdress was rucked
up beneath her bottom on the hard wood table. He took the fine material in his hands and tore it up the front, to the row of tiny buttons that popped off as the material ripped beneath his strength, and her breasts were small and hard and perfect—she was perfect. He slid his hands up her body to cup those breasts, plucking gently at the hardened nipples, and she sucked in her breath as another ripple of response danced across her skin.

“More?” he said, barely recognizing his own rough voice.

She closed her eyes again, arching into his touch. “More,” she whispered. “Please.”

He wanted to lick her breasts, but the angle was too difficult, and getting inside her was more important. After the first hard, fast fuck he could take his time with her, explore her, treasure her sweet body. But right now he had to shove inside her or he’d die.

He unfastened his breeches and released himself, and she was wet and slick beneath his questing fingers, ready for him, wanting him, thank God, and he rubbed the head of his cock against her, spreading his dampness and hers, and she let out a little moan of anticipation. He held his cock and began to push inside, into her glorious sweetness, trying so damned hard not to slam inside and hurt her, when he suddenly froze.

He stared down at her, the beauty of her imperfect face, her gorgeous mouth, the pale, aroused body waiting for him, ready for him, and he wanted to ignore everything but the roaring need inside him.

He couldn’t do it. He pulled back out, groaning, and shoved his damned cock back in his breeches, not caring if he hurt himself. Her eyes had flown open in surprise, and she rose on her elbows, staring at him.

From somewhere inside he found the ability to smile at her. “You little liar,” he said softly. “Didn’t you know I can tell you’re still a virgin?”

“You can?” she sounded slightly dazed. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”

But that was exactly what he was doing. “Hush, love,” he said, pulling her torn nightdress around her. He only wished he had a blanket as well, the more layers between her body and his, the better. “You don’t take a woman on the kitchen table for her first time. You take her to a bed with fine linen sheets and you do it slowly, carefully, so it doesn’t hurt, and she
feels like the treasure she is.” He pulled her forward and picked her up, cradling her against him. She was shivering, and he didn’t know if it was cold or reaction. He damned well wanted to shiver and cry as well.

“You’ve had that many virgins?” she said in a small voice, not denying the truth.

He shook his head. “I’d rather not take a woman’s innocence when I can’t offer her anything in return except pleasure. A man knows certain things by instinct, and I’m not deflowering you when you’ve had too much cognac.”

“I didn’t!” she protested. “And I want it. I want pleasure. I want someone to love my body despite my face.”

Someone. Anyone? It wasn’t going to be him. Not tonight. “Hush,” he said again, cradling her slender body in his arms. “Hush, sweet love.” And he headed for the stairs.

She was asleep by the second floor. He hesitated about taking her up to the servants’ attics—the last thing he needed to do was run into one of the inquisitive maids—and there were a number of smaller rooms on the third floor that would do. But that was far too close for comfort. He’d managed, just barely, to stop himself from taking her, one of the few decent gestures in his life. If he went back on it now he would have gone through all that pain for nothing.

The attics were still and silent as he carried her upstairs, just barely managing in the darkness of the unlit hall. He’d need to install gas lighting up here as well, he thought absently. Assuming he was going to stay here for much longer and not find himself on trial for his wife’s murder.

She looked so peaceful as he laid her down on the narrow, sagging mattress. They needed better beds up here as well. At least the maids didn’t have to share beds, as they did in most other houses, but one could hardly manage a decent night’s sleep on ticking like this. Bryony’s torn nightdress fell open, and he sucked in his breath. The moon was bright that night, shining in her window, illuminating her far too well, and he gave himself a mental kick in the arse. If he didn’t take her when she was drunk and awake he was hardly going to deflower her while she was sleeping so heavily. He wasn’t sure how much she’d had to drink before
he’d found her, but it had hit her hard, and she was almost passed out. With luck she wouldn’t even remember what had happened down on the kitchen table—he’d go back down and clean up the mess and try to forget it himself.

He slipped off her clothes, tossing the torn nightdress out the open door before going in search of another one. She made soft, unintelligible noises as he dressed her, and at one point she simply curled up against him, breathing in deeply as she fell back into sleep, and he wanted to groan. She wasn’t making this any easier on him.

Lifting her up, he tucked her beneath the covers, and did just what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He kissed her on the forehead, and then on her soft, sweet, dreaming mouth.

“Sleep well, darling one. Dream of the good man who’ll take you with love, and forget about a right bastard like me.”

He stepped back, before he could think better of it, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

He picked up her ripped nightdress and headed back to his makeshift room. He was still hard, and at this point he decided he’d probably stay that way until he damned well died of it. He started to strip off his clothes, then paused, staring down at his white shirt. He must have brushed against something as he searched through Cecily’s room. There was dried blood on the sleeve.

Had it really been the daughter of Eustace Russell, cleaning and scrubbing and trying to disguise his possible guilt? It could have been Collins, of course. The man was clearly loyal, and he’d be the first to cover up any misdeed. At times like these the Irish stood together, be they manservant or lord of the manor.

But he didn’t think it was Collins. It had to have been Bryony in there, scrubbing on her knees, straightening the chaos, hiding the truth of what had happened. Thank God.

Because when a wife went missing, and turned up dead, there was usually one man the gentlemen of Scotland Yard looked at: the husband. And while some of society was under the impression that he and Cecily were happily married, there were enough people who knew the truth.

He shoved the telltale shirt and Bryony’s nightdress in the pile in the back of his closet, hidden with the other blood-soaked clothes. He’d burn them later when he had a chance, that or simply get Taggart to get rid of them. Taggart would do anything he asked without question.

Or he could take Bryony’s torn nightdress to bed with him and take care of his current condition in a few moments, he was so damned hard.

But he wasn’t going to. He was going to be the saint he’d suddenly decided he was, and go to sleep.

And with a bed-shaking punch of his pillow, he did just that.

T
HE CRUSHING PAIN
in Bryony’s head woke her, that and the raucous cries of the birds. She tried to open her eyes, but it felt as if there were lead weights on her eyelids, and she rolled over, burying her face in the soft pillow, trying to shut out the incessant noise. Her entire body hurt, her skin was on fire, her teeth itched—everything was wrong. And if the birds were singing it was past time to get up and face whatever fresh disaster the day would bring.

Slowly, carefully, she rolled over again. She wasn’t certain what part of her body hurt the most, and she had no idea why. The last thing she could remember was going down to the basement after hearing Kilmartyn’s muffled curses.

And then she remembered the cognac! Good God, what had she done? She tried to scour her brain for details of the night before, but it simply made it ache more, and she put her hands to her head with a groan. She didn’t want to think about it, refused to think about it. If drinking spirits did this to you then she was never touching the foul stuff again.

At least she must have managed to get back to her own room safely enough. With great care she pushed herself up, swinging her trembling legs over the side of the bed. Her entire body felt tender, from her breasts to
between her legs to the soles of feet to her scalp. Sitting motionless on the side of the bed wouldn’t fix anything, however, and she could scarcely spend the day in her room. The only way to get past this was to get through it, and she pushed herself to her feet, swaying for a moment before moving to the wardrobe.