Never Trust a Rogue (25 page)

“Hmm. Then I shall have to find a better means of persuasion.”

Tipping up her chin, he subjected her to a light, teasing kiss. She could have drawn away, but the brush of his lips felt too wonderful. One of her hands rested on his chest, where her palm absorbed the strong beating of his heart. It was no use denying the fact that she desired him. When his tongue probed for entry, she parted her lips and slipped her arm around his neck to draw him closer.

Oh, he did know how to please a woman. Being caught here in the dressing room gave them the luxury of time to kiss and caress. He continued to explore her mouth while his hand wandered up and down her bare arm, then along the curve of her waist and hip, sending a delicious shiver through her. He seemed far more in control tonight than during their last passionate encounter in the library of Jocelyn’s house, when Lindsey had fended him off with a letter opener.

She traced the long, thin scar on his cheek. “Is this the legacy of another disgruntled woman?”

He chuckled. “Hardly. It was an unfortunate encounter with a French bayonet.”

“You never speak of the war. What was it like?”

“Hell on earth.” He nuzzled her hair, whispering, “I vastly prefer Heaven on earth here with you.”

She should laugh at such outrageously romantic blather. But common sense fell prey to the pleasure that wrapped around her. And her imagination ran wild at the suggestive sounds coming from the bedchamber.

The rhythmic rocking of the bedsprings, the moans and groans of excitement, now made her burn with unladylike zeal—for Mansfield. It was shocking to realize that she ached to do that same carnal act with him. She wanted it so much her entire body hummed with need.

Through the gloom, she traced his lips with her fingertip. “You cannot expect me to believe such overblown flattery.”

“Mmm. If you prefer, there’s no need to talk at all.”

Much to her delight, his mouth took hers in another drowning kiss that left her gasping. She moved her hands over him, sliding them inside his coat and relishing the firm muscles of his chest and the narrow slope of his waist. He was like a furnace, radiating the heat of passion.

Bending his head, he ran his tongue along the bare skin above her décolletage. She bit back a moan and buried her hands in the thickness of his hair. His warm breath stimulated her skin, the sensation traveling down to the throbbing center of her body.

The darkness of the dressing room enhanced her awareness of him. With every breath, she drew in his spicy scent. Moving against him brought her into contact with hard contours of his body, so harmoniously paired with her own softness. How was it that no other man had ever made her feel so alive?

She’d always scorned women who fawned over men. They seemed like silly twittering birds begging for a crumb of affection. It had been something of a shock when, the previous year, her otherwise rational sister Portia had succumbed to the charms of Colin, Viscount Ratcliffe. That they were happily wed and expecting their first child had left Lindsey with a vague sense of perplexity.

But now she was beginning to understand the power of bodily desire. Especially when Mansfield slid his hand beneath her skirts.

She forgot all else as he worked his way upward, over stocking and garter. A part of her was scandalized, yet a fevered anticipation robbed her of breath. She found herself shifting restlessly against him, tugging up her gown to allow him better access, shameless in her fervor. When his finger slid into her damp heat, she moaned from sheer bliss.

“Shh,” he murmured.

A tenuous grip on reality alerted her to the need for quiet, and she buried her face against his chest. Mansfield continued to ply her lightly, rubbing and stroking, seeming to know precisely how to feed the heat inside her. Lindsey hardly knew what she craved, except that she could happily endure this torturous delight forever. She clung to his shoulders, needing him as her anchor, as her purveyor of pleasure.

His touch became deeper, more rhythmic, until she feared she might die of pleasure. Each caress sent her closer to the verge of madness. Needing surcease, she pressed herself against his hand. “Oh, Mansfield . . . please . . .”

“Lindsey, you’re mine. Mine alone . . . never forget that.”

His voice barely registered as a powerful rush of bliss swept through her body. It was so intense, so startling, that she arched back, crying out in sheer wonder. Quickly he caught her close, holding her face to his neck while the marvelous sensations ebbed away, leaving her replete and happy.

Only then did she sense Mansfield’s alertness. Against her ear he murmured, “Hush, darling. They’ve heard us.”

From the bedchamber came the sound of upraised voices. The bed ropes squeaked. Heavy male footsteps hit the floor and stomped toward the dressing room.

Awareness returned to her with a shock. She struggled to slow her breathing, to think coherently. If they were found here like this, with her clothing in disarray . . .

She tried to get up, but Mansfield clasped her close, not allowing her to move.

The footsteps proceeded past the dressing room to the outer door, where Wrayford shouted something unintelligible.

His face buried in her hair, Mansfield whispered, “He
thinks it was one of those other two buffoons, spying on them.”

Lindsey nodded wordlessly.
Oh, thank heavens
. After a moment, a door slammed, the footsteps went past, and the bed creaked again.

All the while, she was keenly aware that Mansfield’s hand still lay beneath her skirts, his finger resting casually in her most intimate folds. A little aftershock of pleasure rolled through her. How amazing that he could coax such a surfeit of sensations from her body.

And no wonder girls were warned never to allow a man’s touch. Lindsey had a sinking suspicion it could become addicting.

What little she knew about mating came from her time in India, where such matters were not so strictly hidden as in England. Once, not long before her family’s departure, she had wandered into a Hindu shrine dedicated to the worship of Shiva’s lingam. Women praying for fertility had placed garlands of marigolds before the stone statue of an erect male member. Their willingness to kneel in supplication to a symbol of raw masculine dominance had disturbed her greatly. It had seemed humiliating for any female to prostrate herself in such a manner.

But now, the memory thrust Lindsey into the throes of a new temptation. Mansfield had not achieved his own pleasure. As he kissed her brow, she let her hand slip down to the waistband of his breeches—and lower. She found the hard swelling shape of him and cupped him in her palm.

A tremor coursed through his body. He sucked a breath through his teeth, then reached down and dragged her hand away. “My God . . . don’t do that.”

Suddenly uncertain, she flushed at her own boldness. “I’m sorry. I only wanted . . .”

“I want it, too,” he whispered roughly. “You cannot imagine how much.”

From outside the dressing room came the groans and cries of repletion. The screeching of the bed ropes finally came to a stop.

Mansfield’s face moved in a grimace that she felt against her cheek. He continued, his voice a mere breath of sound, “But not here. Not now. When we make love for the first time, I’ll have you in my bed . . . as my wife.”

His declaration stirred Lindsey in a way that left her restless and confused. She wasn’t supposed to trust him at all, let alone fall prey to his charm. “It’s wrong of you to coerce me.”

To her surprise, he chuckled softly. “Haven’t you learned? Coercion can be quite a delight.” Beneath her skirts, he lazily fingered her again, igniting a pulse of hot sensation in her core. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to cling to your plan of remaining a spinster.”

His amusement spurred a quick, rash answer: “Yes, I
would
.”

“I see.” His tone smug, he withdrew his hand from beneath her gown, much to her discontent. “Well, then, it seems you won’t be needing me anymore.”

The following morning, Thane was tying his cravat in front of the pier glass when a sudden rapping on the door caused him to yank too hard and put the knot askew. “Come in,” he snapped.

Bernard entered the bedchamber. The valet looked as well-groomed and composed as ever, albeit with a distinct spring to his steps. That hint of jauntiness only fed Thane’s grouchy mood.

“It’s high time you returned.”

Unperturbed, Bernard bowed. “Good morning, my lord. I must humbly beg pardon for my tardiness. My pocket watch stopped.”

Thane knew exactly why the fellow had forgotten to wind his watch. A miasma of contentment oozed from Bernard. He’d been given leave for an overnight conjugal visit, a circumstance that only served to remind Thane of his own unsatisfied lust.

Peering into the mirror to straighten the crooked folds of the cravat, he made a stab at civility: “How is the wife faring?”

“Quite well, thank you. A bit prickly, but that is only to be expected of a woman in her delicate condition.”

Bernard strolled into the dressing room, leaving Thane alone with his brooding thoughts. He could hear the valet
whistling under his breath in an uncharacteristic breach of protocol. Clearly, Bernard had enjoyed a much more satisfying night than Thane. If only he himself could feel so at peace with the world.

Good God, now he was envying his servants.

Only a few short weeks ago, he would never have imagined himself wishing he was married with a little one on the way. Having grown up under Uncle Hugo’s strict rule, Thane had never known the closeness of family life. He and his timid cousin Edward had been like oil and water. There had been no one to mourn Thane when he’d run off to join the cavalry, where he had found camaraderie in an itinerant military life. The only women he’d known had been camp followers and the occasional daughter of a local landowner, and none had stirred more than a passing carnal interest in him.

Now he acknowledged a twinge of emptiness. Meeting Lindsey had caused Thane to take a hard look at his solitary future. He found her boldness and vitality a welcome contrast to the ranks of insipid young debutantes. The two of them shared a penchant for adventure and a disdain for the vanities of high society. Once he’d overcome his anger at her for following him to Lady Entwhistle’s house, he’d felt a certain admiration for Lindsey’s courage in tracking down a murderer—even if she believed that villain to be him.

Thane scowled at the thought. Whatever false logic Lindsey had employed to convince herself of his culpability, deep down she had to be aware of her mistake. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have lowered her guard in so spectacular a manner. Her uninhibited response to his touch had revealed the passion hidden behind that cool exterior.

She had driven him mad with desire. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, finally resorting to his hand to relieve his pent-up frustration. But that was a poor
substitute for having Lindsey in his bed. In his fantasies, he was back in that pitch-black dressing room with her, only this time he let her unbutton his breeches. This time he allowed Lindsey to pleasure him as he’d done to her. And this time he pushed her down onto the floor and mounted her, riding hard until they both reached the peak of bliss—

“Ahem.”

He realized that Bernard stood before him, holding a fresh length of linen. Thane glared at him. “What?”

The valet lowered his gaze to frown at Thane’s throat. “You cannot mean to go out with your neck cloth in so disastrous a condition, my lord. Unless you wish for my reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman to fall into complete and utter ruin.”

“Don’t be theatrical.”

Nevertheless, Thane ripped off the ruined cravat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He looped the fresh linen around his neck and then shifted impatiently from one foot to the other while Bernard deftly tied it.

The valet’s precise movements reflected years of discipline in the military. Thane admonished himself for his testiness when he owed the fellow a debt of gratitude for saving his life. The two of them had survived many a battle together, equals in fighting a common enemy. Thane knew of no one he trusted more.

“Regarding cravats,” he said in a more modulated tone, “have you found out who stitched the one used in the murders?”

“I’ve visited a number of tailors, and as yet no one recognizes it.”

Thane had known that hope was a long shot. “Try some of the gentlemen’s emporiums along The Strand. The villain might have purchased his neck cloths from a lesser-known establishment.”

“I will indeed—and the button you found beside the third victim, as well. By the by, did you learn anything of importance from Lady Entwhistle yesterday evening?”

Thane had learned he was a glutton for punishment. He had been trapped for the better part of an hour with the most desirable woman in the world, yet he had stopped himself from taking the ultimate prize. He didn’t know if that made him a hero . . . or a damned fool.

One thing was certain: the episode had been a huge distraction from his investigation. He’d been following a hunch that Lady Entwhistle might be in cahoots with Wrayford in regard to the murders. The first victim had been in her employ, and given her penchant for playing nasty games, it was possible she had provided Wrayford with a handy place to conduct his romances with the slain maids. Those two were precisely the unscrupulous sort to get their jollies out of seducing and then strangling vulnerable women.