One Touch of Scandal (22 page)

“It is nearly one in the morning,” she said, easing the stopper back into the brandy decanter. “What are you doing up?”

“Meditating,” he answered.

“Meditating?”

“Thinking about…not thinking,” he mumbled. “That is the goal, is it not?”

He made no sense. “I think you'd best go to bed,” she said gently.

“No.” His gaze seemed to grow more distant. “I cannot sleep.”

Grace bent down to better see him. “Nor can you stay up all night drinking and smoking,” she said, plucking a still-smoldering stub from the silver tray. “It's no wonder you look hagged. Precisely what is this, by the way?” She held it before his eyes.

A sideways smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and Grace could see the dark stubble that shadowed his lip and cheeks. Absent the civilizing influence of fine tailoring, he looked a good deal more disreputable, too.

“That, my Grace, is a cigarette,” he said.

“I know what a cigarette is,” she said. “I believe we French invented the term. What I wish to know is what you have
in
it.”

“Turkish tobacco,” he said calmly.

“And?”

“Herbs.”

“And—?”

He lifted one broad shoulder. “And charas.”

“You mean
kif,
” she gently chided. “Or hashish. Perhaps you forget that I have seen something of the world.”

“Perhaps.” The word dared her to challenge him.

But she did not. Instead, she moved the entire tray to the desk and sat down on the ottoman opposite him, their knees but inches apart. The intensity that seemed to almost thrum through Ruthveyn had somehow been stilled, and it was as if Grace saw him for the first time as an ordinary man—a very handsome, very dangerous-looking man—but ordinary in a way she couldn't quite describe.

He still sat perfectly relaxed, his legs crossed such that his bare feet were tucked atop his thighs. His toes, she noticed, were long, his feet narrow and beautiful like his hands. The robe he wore was made of gold silk shot with silver, brilliant against the loose white fabric of his trousers, and wrapped round the waist with a wide black scarf. He would not have looked entirely out of place, she thought, on a corsair's ship with a scimitar tucked in his sash—or standing over a harem, surveying his possessions.

“Why?” she said quietly, trying not to stare at the expanse of masculine chest that his gown exposed. “Why do you smoke it?”

“It calms me.”

“You never look otherwise to me,” she argued. “In fact, it is a little disconcerting just how calm you
do
look. Do you mean it soothes a physical pain?”

“I do not suffer physical pain.” He smiled a little drowsily and waved his hand toward a carved wooden box on
the corner of his desk. “The night is still young, my dear. Try it.”

“I don't have to,” she said. “There is enough of it floating in the air, I daresay, to knock me senseless.”

He crooked one black eyebrow. “Afraid, my Grace?”

“I am not your Grace,” she answered. “And no, I am not afraid. But you should think of the boys. One cannot count upon their sleeping through the night, Ruthveyn, or assume they won't go pilfering where they ought not.”

This clearly had not occurred to him, for he looked at the box and frowned. But she was indeed feeling light-headed. “Really, this just won't do,” she said, moving as if to rise. “I am going to open a window, and air the—”

In an instant, Ruthveyn's hand lashed out, snaring her round the wrist, and dragging her half over him. Another tug, and she was almost atop him. “Why are you here, Grace?” His voice was low and a little threatening.

“Ruthveyn, let me go.”

“
No.
” The brandy and the drug were sweet on his breath. “You came down here of your own volition. You know I'm not going to bed. Not alone. And you know I'm not entirely sober. So
why
?”

She jerked back, but he held her fast by both her wrist and her eyes, which were locked with his. “I just came to help—”

“Liar,” he softly interjected. “Lie to me if it makes you feel better, Grace. But don't lie to yourself.”

He was right, she realized, her gaze drifting down his face. When he looked through her with those ageless, all-seeing eyes, he saw straight to the heart of her, saw what she had wanted from the very first. Now her body was arched over his, one hand splayed against the sofa behind his head, the other caught fast in his grip, their
faces but inches apart, and the ache was like a hunger in her belly.

How in heaven's name had it come to this?

She licked her lips uncertainly. “Perhaps it's just…
fate,
” she whispered.

And then she kissed him.

R
uthveyn turned his face into hers and kissed her back, his sensuously full lips sliding languidly over her own. At once something hot and breathtakingly sweet melted through her, and Grace opened her mouth over his. His lips parted on a soft groan—an aching sound of male surrender—then he drew her tongue deep into his mouth. Rhythmically, he began to suck it, sending that sweet, hot heat spiraling lower and lower, from her nipples to her womb, all the way to the apex of her thighs.

Then, with a move that was not in the least languid, he twisted sideways on the sofa, dragging her fully astraddle him, hitching her nightclothes up to her knees as he plunged both hands into hair. He lay almost reclined beneath her now, propped up by the sofa's arm, his black
gaze locked with hers, and for an instant, the world stopped spinning.

“If this is fate, Grace,” he said quietly, “then let it take us.”

In answer, she set a hand to his cheek and closed her eyes. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and it was as if she could feel his darkness leaching into her, pulling through her like a magnet finding true north, then flowing away like a river into the night.

It wasn't just the cloud of
kif
that lingered, and it wasn't the madness of desire too long suppressed. It felt as though a metaphysical force surged between them, purifying and clean. It had been thus the first time he'd touched her face that long-ago morning in St. James's, when she had come out of herself somehow, only to return to a self free, at least for a time, of grief and fear.

His hands still tangled in her hair, Ruthveyn pulled her down to him and kissed her again—long, drugging kisses that left her trembling.

There comes a time in every woman's life, perhaps, when she realizes that whatever it is she's been clinging to—her pride, her virtue, or perhaps just her sanity—really isn't worth hanging on to anymore. Or perhaps she just meets the one thing that's well worth throwing it away on.

Ruthveyn—with one warm hand cupping her hip and his tongue thrusting slowly into her mouth—felt like that one thing. Tonight, the darkness in him didn't frighten her; it was what he was, and he was what she wanted. So when his mouth slid from hers to trail fire down her throat, then along the neck of her nightgown, she arched back and let his teeth catch in the flannel.

He tore at it, and the first ribbon slipped free, the neck
line gaping. On a low sound of approval, he cupped one breast through the cotton of her nightclothes.

“
Grace.
” Ruthveyn spoke her name like a prayer. “
Shouldn't…be here.
”

“I understand this,” she whispered. “I understand
you.
You think I don't, but I am not naïve.”

He didn't argue but instead set his open mouth against the vee of her throat and placed a row of kisses up her collarbone. “So beautiful,” he murmured. Then his hands came up, shaking ever so slightly, to slide the wrapper from her shoulders.

She wriggled it free, and it slithered down her back and onto the floor. He rolled his hips beneath her, and she felt the hard, hot weight of his manhood against her pubic bone. Grace closed her eyes and thought of how long she had wanted this. Of how long she had waited for the man who could make her ache this way. And never could it have been any man save this one.

She understood now the dreadful mistake she had almost made in marrying where she did not love and the life of emptiness she had almost surrendered to. Perhaps this was all there would ever be—this one night—but it would sustain her far longer than a lifetime of inadequacy. And perhaps, had he been sober, Ruthveyn would have refused her even this. And had her life not gone so thoroughly to hell, she likely wouldn't have asked. But that she would not think about. Not tonight.

On a soft sigh, she rode back on him, the compelling, unfamiliar ache overwhelming whatever shame she should have felt. Beneath her, Ruthveyn was all sleek, hard male, the silk of his clothing sensuously slick against her inner thighs. His hands roamed boldly over her body, warm and demanding.

On impulse, her hands went to his black sash. “What is this?” she whispered, unfurling one end.

“A
kamarband,
” he rasped. “Untie it.”

Grace's shaking hands made poor work of it, but the silk knot soon slid free. The gold fabric slid open across Ruthveyn's chest, which was layered with muscle and lightly dusted with black hair. A deeply puckered scar, now white with age, slashed across the turn of his shoulder. She traced her finger along it.

“What happened?” she murmured.

He flicked a quick glance at the chimneypiece. “A Ghilzai rifleman took exception to my looks.”

“Ah.” She bent to kiss it. “The jezail over the mantel?”

“It was him or me,” Ruthveyn muttered, preoccupied with weighing her breasts in his hands.

Grace's fingers raked the fabric of his robe open. Round his neck he wore a pendant on a gold chain, something that looked like a piece of polished ivory mounted in gold. It was, she realized dimly, some sort of claw.

She moved as if to slide the robe from his shoulders, but instead, he set his hand behind her head and drew her down to kiss her again. She came against him chest to chest, so close she imagined she could feel his heart thud slow and steady, every beat matched to the thrust of his tongue. She felt his warmth—that pure, almost sensual energy—melting through her once again. She wanted to tear off her own clothes, to lie with him skin to skin, as only a lover could.

Again, his fingers speared into the hair at the back of her head, lightly threading through it. Ruthveyn's other hand spread wide and warm across her upper back, clasping her body to his. For long moments, Grace lost herself in his kiss, then lifted a little away to look at him.

Seen in such sensual repose, the care stripped from
his face, Ruthveyn looked fleetingly like the boy he'd doubtless once been—a dark, beautiful Apollo, with his long, inky lashes fanned above his cheeks, and perhaps even the gift of Delphic inspiration, too. Grace cradled his face with one hand and kissed him again, more tenderly, something inside her heart soaring almost dangerously high.

Ruthveyn pressed his lips along her cheek, to the tender spot just below her ear. “Grace,” he said, his hands going to her nightdress. Without asking, he dispensed with the remaining ribbons, then slowly pushed the fabric off her shoulders. The cotton slid away, cool air breezing down her arms, then her bare breasts, as it fell.

“Grace,” he whispered again. “I have longed for this.”

She closed her eyes, faintly embarrassed. Ruthveyn's warm hands skated up her ribs to cup both breasts. Lightly, as if she were the most delicate thing on earth, he circled his thumbs over her nipples, making them peak with pleasure.

“
Oh.
” Grace tipped back her head, her breasts filling his hands with each breath.

Somehow, he pulled himself to a sitting position, the muscles of his belly and groin going impossibly taut beneath her. Then he turned until he was seated on the sofa, Grace straddling him, her knees set to either side of his hips.

His eyes, dreamlike and melting, flew to hers, then he pulled her against him, his lashes falling shut again as his lips went to her breast. For long moments he suckled her, his tongue circling, then teasing, his mouth pulling and drawing her nipple into the tantalizing heat of his mouth until Grace thought she might die of the pleasure, and of the yearning that coiled tighter and tighter, deep in her belly, to leave her gasping.

“
Please,”
she whimpered, her nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Please, Ruthveyn, just…”

Just what?
Grace hardly knew what she begged for.

Ruthveyn's tongue circled once more, then his mouth drew away. “
Adrian,
” he whispered, his breath cool against her wet nipple. “Say it, Grace.”

“
Adrian.
” It came out more of a sigh. “Adrian, please.”

“Please what, my Grace?” He nuzzled one side of his face against her breast, the rough bristle of his cheek lightly scraping her. “If this is fate, then I am yours.”

Grace drew back an inch, caught the hems of her nightdress, then drew it up and shimmied it off. His eyes warmed appreciatively, but he set his hands to either side of her ribs as if to lift her away.

“No,” she pleaded, her fingers going to the draw cord of his loose trousers. But he lifted her and stood. On instinct, Grace twined her legs round his waist and her arms round her neck as they rose. “Ruthveyn, no,
wait.
”

“Not like this, love,” he murmured into her hair.

And then, as if she were weightless, Adrian spun her about and carried her into the shadowy depths of the room. He elbowed his way through a door built into the oak wainscoting, then carried her through a narrow passageway into a chamber lit by lamps that flanked a wide, canopied bed. Satin leapt up, gave a tremulous stretch, then bounded away.

Adrian laid Grace in the middle of the mattress, letting her sink into a fluff of wool and down. From beneath half-closed eyes, she watched him. Somewhere along the way, the gold robe had been lost. Adrian wore nothing save his odd trousers—a pair of long, silk drawers that hung low on his hips and tied under his navel, and beneath which, she was oddly certain, he wore nothing.

A trail of dark hair began at his breastbone and ran
down a belly flat as a slab of tawny marble, to vanish somewhere beneath the draw cord. And suddenly, Grace wanted to stroke her hands down that belly. To feel those warm layers of muscle above, so lightly furred. To skim her palms beneath the silk and feel his flesh quiver to her touch.

She rolled up onto her elbows, one knee slightly lifted, and surveyed him across the mattress.

“If you are my fate, Adrian, come here.”

For an instant, he hesitated as if he might refuse her. Then surrender sketched over his face, and he set one knee to the mattress. On hands and knees, he crawled over her like some lean jungle cat, the silk almost dragging off his hip bones, the ivory pendant swinging from his neck as he came.

Grace set her palms to his belly and felt him shiver. His straight, heavy hair fell forward to shadow his face as he bent his head and kissed her hard without preamble, his tongue plunging deep, in and out, again and again, the rhythm of his intent unmistakable, even to Grace.

She slid her hands lower, hooking her thumbs in the silk, dragging it down until she felt it slither over the swell of his buttocks. She felt the hard weight of his erection spring free, long and silky-warm against the flesh of her inner thigh.

As if to distract her, Adrian deepened the kiss, cradling her face in his hands. But the weight of his manhood was unmistakable and a little daunting. Experimentally, Grace eased one hand along his belly. Adrian caught it and pulled it lower, inviting her to touch. Grace brushed her fingers over the tip, watching, mesmerized, as Adrian sucked in his breath on a hiss.

“Do you want this?” he rasped, his eyes still dreamy in the lamplight. “Tell me you want it.”

Tentatively, her hand crept lower to stroke the length of it. She thrilled to the sensation of warm silk beneath her fingertips and the tangle of curls at the base. Never could she have imagined lovemaking would be like this: so much pleasure in touching; so much warmth and bare skin and aching need. It all came together in an incredibly complicated mélange of emotion that left her drowning yet craving more.

Adrian's body hovered over hers, warm and sheltering, his weight still on his knees. She drew in his scent of soap and smoke and male sweat and felt that strange sensation writhing in the pit of her belly again. He nuzzled beneath her ear, then sucked lightly at her earlobe.

“Grace?” he whispered.

She knew what he asked. Since that first day in the library, she had wanted him, even amidst all the pain and fear and confusion, she had been drawn to him on a level that went beyond mere attraction. Yet now she felt oddly foolish and inadequate. A man such as Adrian would likely have had dozens of lovers, all more experienced than she.

But this was the here and now, and for now, he wanted her, this dark man who was beautiful and desirable beyond words. On an unsteady breath, she drew up her knees and let his weight cradle between her legs. Guiding himself with one hand, Adrian probed lightly between her thighs, the smooth head of his manhood sliding effortlessly between her folds.

“Do you want this, Grace?” he rasped, his voice thick. “Say it.”

“
Yes.
” She was wet and slick with need, and he entered her with a firm, sure push, stretching her tight—almost beyond bearing.

“Oh!” Grace bit her lip as Adrian held perfectly still.

“Oh, my.” She exhaled deeply. “That is…are we…?”

He made a sound, something between a laugh and a groan, then lowered his forehead to touch hers. “Not even close, my Grace.”

“Oh,” she said again, feeling foolish.

He lifted his head, a hint of contrition in his eyes. “Ah, Grace,” he whispered, “you are ever an enigma.”

“Am I?” Her voice came out high and thready.

To her relief, he drew out a little and hesitated. She could see a fine sheen of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“If it were done,” he muttered as if to himself, “'twere well it were done quickly.”

“I don't think,” Grace whispered, “that Shakespeare meant—”

But Adrian chose that instant to be done. He impaled her on a deep, certain thrust, leaving nothing but a cry of pure male satisfaction in his wake, and leaving Grace unerringly certain she would never walk again.

“Oh!” she cried, her eyes flaring wide.

Again he held himself perfectly motionless, his damp forehead dipping down to touch hers, his lips brushing over the tip of her nose. “'Tis over, love,” he crooned. “Be still, and know that it will pass.”