One Touch of Scandal (23 page)

“Adrian?” Grace swallowed hard. “Could it be we don't—”

“No.” He kissed her lightly. “Fate is never wrong.”

Then, as if to prove it, he drew out just an inch, then slid gently back inside her again.

“
Ahh,
” she said softly.

The pain was exquisite. Sweet. A pain yet not a pain at all, but instead the promise of pleasure to come. Grace forced herself to relax, to hold herself open and welcoming to him. The weight and the pressure still felt impos
sible, but to stop—even to slow—was not possible, either. And what she felt for him—the almost breathtaking need to give him joy—was beyond her own imagining.

She watched, mesmerized, as Adrian's eyes fell shut, and he slowly sheathed himself all the way inside her. Then he set a rhythm, thrusting in and out, their one flesh joined together in a delicate, age-old dance.

Grace closed her eyes, focusing on the incredible sensation of being one with him. She slid her right leg up higher still, reveling in the feel of his well-muscled calf and thigh and the hair that lightly dusted them. There was a pressure building inside her, an urgency that Adrian did not seem to feel. His face was beautiful, almost youthful and carefree as he hung over her, his arms planted wide above her shoulders, his black hair shimmering in the lamplight with his every thrust.

“Adrian,” she whispered. “Oh, I want…”

“Grace,” he said. “I know.”

She had thought, foolishly, that lovemaking would be fast and frantic. That passion would overwhelm, and that the end—whatever the end was—would be swift. But Adrian's every move seemed deliberate, and slowly calculated to ratchet up the need burning inside her. She felt afire with a ravening, building hunger for him—for that
thing
she needed. The thing only Adrian could give her.

She opened her mouth to plead for it—to surrender herself completely—but he came fully down atop her to cover her body with his. Banding one strong arm about her, Adrian cradled Grace against him as his tongue delved into her mouth again, tasting thoroughly on a sound of pleasure.

Slowly he thrust inside her mouth as his manhood thrust deep inside her, setting a perfect, sensual pace. Sensation drugged her. The scent of damp skin and fresh
linen and sex swirled round her in a dizzying, sensual heat as Adrian loved her for what felt like an eternity. She writhed beneath him, arching and pleading for release, and when at last Grace thought she would go mad with the wanting, Adrian lifted himself away, his face twisted as if with agony.

“
Come to me, my Grace,
” he whispered. “
Oh, God. So sweet…”

Yes, this was what she had longed for. She had come here wanting to give herself up to him. And in this moment of passion and pleasure, Grace did not care what that made her. Caution, like her virtue, had flown to the four winds. She lifted her hips to him, and he thrust and thrust again until something bright and blinding exploded in her head and ran through her like a bolt of lightning, setting her every nerve aquiver. Pleasure surged in wave after wave, until she fleetingly lost connection with time and place. Until her body and her heart flew to him.

When she came back to herself, she again felt that otherworldly sensation of having left her body, but this time magnified by a thousand, and channeled into pure and perfect bliss. She opened her eyes to see Adrian staring down at her, his eyes soft now, yet still intense in the lamplight. He had withdrawn from her and now lay a little to one side.

“Grace—” He dipped his head and brushed his cheek over hers like a cat seeking warmth. “Grace, you cannot know—”

To her shock, some nameless emotion choked his voice; something that went beyond ordinary satisfaction, or even joy.

“What?” she pressed.

His smile was sleepy. “'Tis nothing.”

Then he bent and rummaged in the floor to find his trou
sers, and it was only then that she realized he had spilled his seed upon the counterpane. He made short work of it, then collapsed half atop her with a grunt of satisfaction.

For an instant, Grace felt oddly bereft. But how foolish when he had, in fact, done her a great kindness. “Come,” she said quietly, urging his head onto her shoulder. “Come, sleep now.”

He tucked his bristled cheek against her neck. “Too heavy,” he murmured.

“No,” she whispered. “It's perfect.”

But it did not matter. She could already feel Morpheus's arms surrounding them, and the utter letting go that was happening inside Adrian.

 

Ruthveyn stirred to the sound of a clock somewhere deep in the house. Snuggled against Grace's warmth, he counted the chimes—three in all, unless he'd drowsed through the first. Grace lay on her side, spooned against him. On the other side, he could feel Silk tucked into the small of his back, rumbling away as she always did.

Careful not to disturb either, Ruthveyn reached round to absently scratch the cat's ears, then rolled up on his elbow to see that one lamp had sputtered out, but the other still burned. The light cast a warm, golden glow over Grace's face and the long blond hair that fanned across his pillow, and looking at her, Ruthveyn felt something deep in the pit of his belly give an ominous flip-flop.

Grace.
His lover.

Feeling rueful—but not entirely regretful—he stroked a finger over one of her lightly arched eyebrows. Hers was a classic English-rose sort of beauty, and now that her expressive face was at rest, he could savor the pleasure of simply studying the soft curve of her mouth and the high swell of her cheekbone.

At some point in the night she had grown cold, and he had tucked her beneath the covers. He hardly remembered it now, so dead to the world had he been. Indeed, he could not remember the last time he'd slept so dreamlessly, and for the first time in a long while, he felt refreshed.

And sober. Painfully, acutely sober.

The evening came starkly back to him. The driving need to claim her. The carnal satisfaction that went beyond the sensual and into a realm of contentment he had not known existed—with no otherworldly communication between them whatever. Nothing beyond the erotic flow of shared energy and the bond of two lovers giving of themselves to each other, with all the sweet, sensual uncertainty that entailed. Grace's mind had been completely, blessedly, closed to him.

In part, it had likely been the charas. Or perhaps, as she suggested, it was simply fate. In the gloom, his mouth twisted. Assuredly that was what he'd like to believe—but he wasn't fool enough.

And then there was that other small, niggling problem.

He had known, of course, Grace was likely a virgin. There was no use to pretend now that taking her innocence had been anything less than a mistake born of intoxication and suppressed desire. Now, his mind more clear, Ruthveyn bent to kiss her cheek and prayed she would forgive him, that she would have no regrets.

In sleep, she had none. Grace snuggled back against him with a drowsy sigh of pleasure, the swell of her bottom dangerously inviting. Ruthveyn wriggled onto his back between Grace and the cat, then dragged an arm over his eyes. He was not a man much given to regret; he had meant what he'd said about fate. Nonetheless, the wiser part of him wished he had not risked it—not her virginity, or her heart. Or even his. But that sort of dazed,
drugged lethargy made a man all too willing to give in to his baser impulses.

In the past, it had been opium and whores for him—not that he was proud of it. But at least his partners had known where they stood, and the euphoria had been enough to keep the demons at bay. But that was his old life. Or his
in-between
life. Those long, lost years after abandoning his diplomatic post and wandering aimlessly through the desert—sometimes quite literally.

But eventually those hedonistic wanderings had taken him to Algiers, and to that whorehouse where he had stumbled upon Lazonby, then in Tangier, Geoff. They had brought back to him the vow he'd made his father, and his grandmother. And he had begun to accept all over again that what he was would never change, and that if he chose to play out his days lotus eating, those days would be short indeed.

So he and Geoff had followed Lazonby to London—albeit not under armed guard—to carry through with their grand plan of formalizing the
Fraternitas
, and to see Lazonby freed of the accusations against him. And in helping Lazonby, Ruthveyn had reacquainted himself briefly with his Queen, and accepted, with all the grace he could muster, the thanks of a grateful nation. He had already been quietly created Marquess of Ruthveyn, the reward for his so-called diplomatic efforts abroad. Sometimes, even now, he still felt a little like Judas with his thirty pieces of silver.

But that did not bear thinking about just now. Lazonby was free, the Society was slowly reconstituting itself, and Ruthveyn was rarely called upon by the Crown for anything. He was
retired
—and his foremost concern was Grace. He rolled back to embrace her, only to realize she'd been watching him.

She smiled drowsily and cuddled against his chest. “I wonder,” she said quietly, “what you are thinking.”

He tucked his chin to look down at her. “Nothing of consequence,” he said, brushing his lips over her forehead. “But Grace, we do need to talk.”

She rolled her blue eyes back up at him. “Actually we don't,” she said. “I know, Adrian, how things stand. May we not simply enjoy our short time together?”

Did
she understand? He bloody well hoped so. Save for his wife, he'd never deflowered a virgin. He had no idea what might be expected of him. Still, something inside him fell a little at the ease with which she dismissed it all.

“Why don't you tell me, Grace, just how you think things stand?”

She gave a soft laugh. “I think I shouldn't have come downstairs tonight,” she said. “I think I tempted you into something you would not otherwise—”

“Just stop, Grace,” he interjected. “I take responsibility for—”

Her hand came up, palm out. “May I finish, please?” she asked. “No, I do not take all the blame upon myself. You had the bad judgment to smoke yourself up into the clouds, and for that,
oui,
you are to blame. Between the two of us, there was bad judgment all the way around last night—though I'm not complaining of the result, mind.”

He curled tighter around her then and set his lips to the top of her head. “What are you saying, exactly?”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated. “I'm saying that I do not make a habit of enticing my wealthy employers into marriage,” she answered. “It is, in fact, quite out of the question.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, a little surprised at the strange mix of relief and disappointment he felt. He did not wish to marry again. No, not even to Grace. And
the fact that he was already half in love with her only strengthened that resolve. Because he knew how it would end; that the more he loved her, the worse it would be.
That
was his fate. At some awful, inopportune moment, probably when he was thrusting inside her, right on the edge of release, that portal to hell would fly off its hinges. He could not live that way again, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Waiting to know the worst.

Oh, perhaps Grace was destined to give him a dozen healthy children, then outlive him by a decade—but that might be worse, in some ways, than the other. He would likely crawl out of her bed every morning the sun rose knowing not just that his days with her were numbered but how many they numbered, and perhaps even how they would end.

At that thought, he held Grace a little tighter. Good God, he would never be able to leave her as he had left Melanie, to go haring off on a series of ill-conceived attempts at portending the fate of the British Empire. Already he knew career and country would never supersede his need to be with her. He would not even try to use it as an excuse.

And there was no way to explain himself to her.

Just then, Satin bounded over the footboard and onto the bed. Grateful for the distraction, he sat up to scratch the cat beneath her chin. It would have been better, of course, had he not. He realized it the moment Grace's fingertip stroked over the top of his hip.

“Hmm, this is interesting…”

He turned, and lay back down, propped on one elbow. “What, that mark?” he said. “It's a tattoo.”

“I know that much,” she said. “The Berbers sometimes wear them.”

“Do you find it unappealing? Some people do.”

She laughed, her eyes dancing. “Some
women
do, you mean to say.”

He managed to smile. “It's been mentioned, yes.”

“Very few, I daresay, given what the rest of you looks like,” she murmured appreciatively. “May I see it again?”

“Why?”

She shrugged one shoulder against the sheets. “It just looks familiar.”

Reluctantly, he sat up again. The mark was customarily placed high on the left hip, though Ruthveyn had often seen it elsewhere. His father's, in fact, had been on his shoulder.

“What is it?” Grace asked, her fingertip cool against his skin. “I've seen it before—on the pediment of the Society's front door, yes—but somewhere else, too.”

He crooked his head to look back at her. “It's a common symbol,” he said. “I've seen variants of it all over Europe—on doorways, in frescoes, incorporated into family crests—rather like the fleur de lis.”

“Oh, not
that
common,” she murmured, still tracing, “These letters at the bottom—FAC—and the quill crossed with a sword—it's all very odd. And above is a Latin cross inside some sort of cartouche.”

“It's the Scottish thistle,” he said. “My father's people hail from Scotland, so they use it. Now, may I crawl back under the covers with you? You look desperately warm and inviting.”