Читать книгу The Passionate Love of a Rake - Jane Lark - Страница 7

The carriage lurched forward a moment after he’d tapped the roof.

Jane grasped the strap.

He watched her with such brooding intensity, she felt as though she’d leapt from the frying pan into the fire. Of course, she’d realised abruptly when he began leading her from the ballroom, he was not the man she’d known before. Yet since they’d sat in the carriage, numerous memories of him sulking as a youth had spun through her head.

In childhood, his temper had always shown in this moody disengagement, when he’d not gotten what he wished, or hadn’t won, or been unable to have the final say.

But surely, he was getting his way now, wasn’t he? Or did he expect her to do more? How on earth would Violet behave in this situation? Should Jane speak? Should she move closer? She had no idea what to do or say. She had never been party to anything more than the light flirtation they’d shared before.

The silence stretched between them. She looked out the window and listened to the low rumble of the iron-wrapped carriage wheels striking the cobble, the horses’ hooves hitting the stone, the creak of the wooden shafts beneath the carriage, the encouraging call of their driver, and the crack of his whip.

She couldn’t stand it any longer.

Her head spinning to face him, she said, “A penny for them?”

His slouching silhouette was etched against the passing gaslight and silver moonlight that reached into the carriage as bars of light ran across him then disappeared. He was the epitome of all she’d heard and seen of a town rake.

“I’m sure if I spoke them, you’d blush.”

“As it is too dark for you to see, why would I care?” Her words were braver than she felt, yet if his thoughts were of her, she wanted to know them.

“I am thinking of how I shall make love to you. What do you like, Jane? What makes you sigh with pleasure? What brings you to conclusion?”

His tall, lean frame unfolded from his slumped contemplative pose, and his foot fell back to the floor. Then he slid closer and leaned forward, taking her hands in his while his elbows rested on his knees. His thumbs began gently stroking across her palms. She felt it all the way to her stomach, and a deep longing, a thirst or hunger, settled in the back of her throat.

“I shall begin by touching you, everywhere.” The movement of his thumbs slowed and became more sensual. “Then I wondered how you’ll taste.”

Her heart hammered, and the ache in her throat descended to her stomach. She wanted all of that. Did it make her wicked? She wanted to share it with him.

“Jane.” He brought her to her senses. “What do you want?”

She wanted to reach her hands to his face and draw his mouth to hers, to kiss away all that had happened before, to go back to him and the hopes they’d once shared. To be in his arms forever. For the rest of the world and her past to simply melt away and become a forgotten history. Could he give her that? Perhaps for an hour or two, if she accepted what he was offering, but not forever. She’d lost forever with him. Yet she could take what he was willing to give. She could have now.

What would Violet say? She wondered. How would Violet respond to this?

Violet would not merely sit here waiting to be done to. Violet would take the lead. Jane leaned forward, too, and pressed her lips to his. She felt his lift into a smile.

She pulled away, but he whispered, “Show me then, if you wish. Do not stop.” His grip on her hands pulled her back.

Her heart raced like a hammer ringing on an anvil as she freed her hands and curved one about his nape while the other rested against his cheek before sliding into his hair. She licked her lips as she leaned forward to kiss him again, and her tongue touched his mouth. He groaned, and the sound emboldened her. She touched the tip of her tongue against his lips as she kissed him, and, as if he could not resist it, his mouth opened, and his tongue touched hers, sweeping into her mouth as his hands rested on her back. Then his mouth pressed more firmly against hers, their lips open and their tongues fencing as he tasted her, just as he’d promised.

She had not known people kissed like this. He’d never kissed her like this before.

She felt the magnetic tug which had pulled her from the moment she had seen him standing at the head of the stairs in the ballroom, and moved to cross the carriage, her body arching towards him, but he gripped her arms and held her back.

“Not so fast, Jane, I don’t want to rush this. We have all night, as long as you like.”

A long breath slipped from her lungs, and her heart beat erratically as she dropped back into her seat. Had she made a mistake? She thanked God it was too dark for him to see her embarrassment.

“We’ve waited long enough for this. I’d rather savour it.” His harsh whisper filled the small space of the carriage.

He sounded frustrated with her, angry.

I did do something wrong.

Robert’s body strained against the confines of his breeches. He wanted her now, to strip her clothes away, taste and touch her, feel himself inside her, and know her body surrendered to his. He looked out the window and fought his impatience. They’d be home in fifteen minutes. She was silent again, too.

Did she want him as much as he wanted her?

Was she hungry for him, or was he just another man to her, a sexual acquaintance?

Was she just pleasure seeking, or was this about them, as it was for him?

She’d cast him aside before, stung his pride, more, given it a permanent dent. God, this was folly, tearing open this old wound, which had taken years to heal and left a scar running deep into his head and heart.

If … if? No, he’d not face the thought of a second rejection. What did he care now? He had four dozen other women who wanted him if she did not.

But here was the hub of it. Here was why he’d never truly dispelled her from his blood, because Jane was the one woman who’d turned him away. He’d spent his life since, proving no other woman could. His whole life was testament to the fact that the error had not been his. The fault lay with her.

He would make sure she did not reject him. His charm was an art form women could not refuse, wasn’t it? He’d spent bloody long enough making it so, making himself a master at this, so Jane would not refuse him again. If she did, he dare not contemplate the pain.

The carriage rolled to a halt before his home, and in a moment, James opened the door and set down the steps. Robert climbed down first and lifted his hand to take hers. Her fingers were delicate and slender. They stirred something deep inside him. He did not wish to explore the feeling. No other woman had stirred it.

He retained her fingers and led her up the steps. His butler, Jenkins, opened the door before them. Robert encouraged her to enter first and let go of her hand. She stopped, her eyes following the square rise of the staircase about the edge of the hall. It was one of those which seemed to hang in the air, without a single pillar to support it.

He pulled the bow of her cloak loose, slid the garment from her shoulders, and passed it to Jenkins. “Thank you. That will be all.”

Jenkins did not speak. He knew the protocol, as did all Robert’s household. They were to ensure his women felt secure in their discretion.

Robert bent and whispered to Jane as Jenkins walked away, “Shall we go upstairs, or would you rather seek refreshment in the drawing room first?”

Her perfume filled his nostrils, vanilla.

Robert touched her waist, felt her shiver, remembered his earlier expectation, and made the choice for her as she’d voiced no opinion. “Champagne in my chamber it is then, Jenkins.”

The butler merely nodded from across the room.

Feeling satisfied, Robert smiled and drew her towards the oak staircase.

Her eyes lifted again, apparently exploring the vast entrance hall as if awed. But he knew it could not be awe. Sutton’s must have been grander.

“Come, Jane,” he urged her on, catching up her hand.

When they reached the first floor, she was breathless.

He slowed his pace a little and squeezed the fingers gripped in his. The action stirred up a memory of being with her in the woods, where the border of his lands had joined her father’s, the two of them eagerly running through the trees, heading for their secret meeting place, then falling onto a pile of straw in a stable by the woodman’s hut. She’d been laughing.

The youth who’d been with her was not a person he knew any more, but what of that girl? She seemed different, too.

He opened the door to his chamber and let her enter first. His usual frippery greeted him, laid out just as he’d ordered. He’d forgotten all of that, all the ceremony he enlisted to aid a woman’s seduction.

Vases of white roses were spread about the room, filling the air with a heady floral perfume, and the fire had been lit to ward off a chill. It now glowed in the hearth, nearly burned out.

He smiled as he watched her absorb the scene. Her eyes were wide as they passed over the pale cream and light gold colours, the satinwood dresser and chest, the two soft leather armchairs before the hearth, the three burning candelabras on the mantel, and the fourth by his bed. Her perusal stopped as her gaze rested on the tall, wide, four-poster bed. The rich orange walnut wood shone, polished like glass. The cream covers and sheets were turned back a little.

It was the temple he worshipped at – the bliss that could be found in a bed with a woman.

He sensed she was about to turn and flee, and rested his hands on her narrow waist. He looked towards her lips, deliberately denying her the opportunity to offer any excuse to leave by not meeting her gaze, and lowered his head, whispering, “Where were we?”

His lips touched hers, and he felt them stir into movement as her hands slipped to his back then up across his shoulders and into his hair.

Her mouth was soft against his. She kissed with uncertainty and hesitation.

Because it was him, he supposed. Because it was them. But even so, she set his blood on fire, as she had done in the carriage.

He broke the kiss and left some space between them to watch his gloved hand slide up across her stomach, over her ribs and her bosom, to her neck, and then he touched her mouth. She sighed. He stripped off his gloves and threw them aside, knowing an expectant smile played on his lips.

Her gaze dropped as his hand touched her shoulder, his thumb resting on the bare flesh covering her collarbone, and he felt her shiver again when his fingers moved swiftly to release the four little buttons on her bodice.

Her breath pulled into her lungs, lifting her breasts a little.

Beneath her bodice, he tugged loose the ribbon securing the neck of her chemise, then slid his fingers inside, touching flesh. The circle of black at the centre of her eyes was a deep, inky pool, narrowing the emerald to only a slender rim.

Her eyelids fell, and a fan of long dark lashes rested on her cheek.

Her flesh was warm, and the sharp peak of her nipple pressed into his palm.

Her eyebrows had been plucked and were narrow and shapely, defining her forehead and the elegant bridge of her slim nose. Her cheekbones were high and her jawline beautifully crafted. Her appearance tilted an axis deep within him, flooding him with warmth, like hot glowing coals in his stomach. Jane. God. This was Jane.

He kissed her again, the delicate weight of her breast burning into his palm, its soft texture fluid in his fingers.

Another sigh escaped her lips, passing through their kiss.

He rained kisses along her jaw and down her neck. Then, as her head tilted sideward, he captured her nipple between finger and thumb and pinched it gently. She jumped and gasped, but it was not a displeased sound.

With his other palm at the small of her back, he bent and claimed her nipple with his mouth.

In his youth, he’d longed to do this, but then his sense of honour and his respect for her innocence had been too great. Now he would do as he wished and take whatever she gave.

A false cough echoed in the silence about them, then Jenkins said, “My Lord?”

Jane pulled away sharply and turned her back.

Robert smiled. So, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton was shy, though, as he looked at his butler, he could toss a coin for who was more embarrassed.

Robert supposed he should have shut the door, but at least Jenkins had the sense to keep his gaze lowered.

“Bring it in,” Robert stated, “and set it down beside the bed.”

The man nodded, doing Robert’s bidding with his eyes still to the floor. When he withdrew, he backed out without ever looking up.

“Will there be anything else, my Lord?” he asked from the door.

“No, Jenkins, that will be all for tonight. You may retire.”

Jenkins pointedly shut the door, and, internally, Robert laughed as he turned back to Jane.

She’d pulled her bodice back over her breast, but it still hung open, and it drew his eyes to the colour and texture of her skin. There had always been something exotic about Jane. Her skin was more ivory than cream, her hair so dark. Perhaps he’d stayed abroad because somehow being nearer to Spain, where her ancestors had come from, made him feel closer to her. He’d found many women of her ilk on the continent, but here in London, she was still rare.

He turned away and crossed the room to collect their champagne, and poured them both a drink.

When he returned, holding out a glass, she said, “Thank you,” her voice shaky and her eyes on his cravat.

She did not look at all coquettish now. She looked like the bashful, blushing fifteen-year-old bewildered by his first kiss.

He sipped his champagne and watched her do the same. Champagne was not his preference, but it was what women liked, and as what he liked was women, he drank champagne to please them.

She coughed, clearly choking on the bubbles, and set the glass down. When she straightened, her eyes finally met his again.

He discarded his glass, too, and felt her magnetism draw him closer. His fingers surrounded her chin and tilted her mouth to his.

“Should we not talk first?”

“I didn’t invite you here to talk. Your chance to talk was at the ball. You didn’t take it,” he whispered harshly against her mouth before claiming another kiss. His fingers slid her gown from her shoulders. With her arms hanging limp at her sides, it kept on going and dropped into a pool at her feet.

She wore no corset. But then he’d realised that before, when his hand had touched her back and he’d felt the slight, feminine muscle play about her spine. He would lay his hands beneath her while they made love to feel the curve and flex of her slender form as he drove himself inside her. Lord, she aroused him.

He felt her fingers pull the buttons of his evening coat, shaking.

He smiled against her lips, and, stepping back, took over the task, undoing his coat and shrugging it off before tossing it over the arm of the closest chair. When his fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, her gaze lifted and met his once more, pupils wide and glimmering with desire. Once he was stripped of his waistcoat, too, she stepped forward and touched his arms, her fingers running across his shirt.

Of course, in his youth, his muscles had not been so defined.

She began untying his cravat.

Yet again, she was too slow for his liking, and he took over the task, itching to be free of his clothes and have her delicate skin against his.

She did not appear skilled in undressing men, but then she was nervous, and that probably explained it.

When his neckcloth was loose, that was thrown to the chair, too. He gripped her waist and pulled her hips to his, kissing her as he pressed against her stomach. Her lips trembled a little beneath his, but her fingers began pulling his shirt from his waistband, brushing his skin beneath it.

God he could lay her down now and take her through the slit of her drawers. But he would not. He wanted this to last. He wanted the contact of flesh against flesh.

“Jane,” he said on a sigh into her mouth as her fingers lifted his shirt. He took it off while her eyes and her fingertips skimmed over his skin, exploring every contour of his midriff and his chest, pausing to brush over his nipples before sliding to his shoulders.

“You’re magnificent,” she whispered as he tossed his shirt aside, her eyes shining.

She kissed him.

Robert laughed into her mouth, and Jane slid her fingers from his cheek into his hair. She was being naïve again. But she didn’t care. Everything he did was turning her bones to liquid.

His fingers gripped her ribs below her breasts.

She was intensely aware of every move he made. He kissed like a master. It bore no resemblance to the stumbling kisses they’d shared in their youth.

This was her beloved Robert, but Robert was a changed man.

Drugged by his kisses, she didn’t care.

Her mouth open wide beneath his; she let him plunder.

The warmth of his palms heated her breasts again, and she ached for him to take her in his mouth as he’d done before. He did not. Instead, his fingers drifted downward, caught the fabric of her chemise, then drew it up.

She lifted her arms and let him strip it off.

He threw it aside.

A sharp rush of desire spun from her stomach and pooled between her legs as his head lowered and his hands lifted her breasts.

When he dropped to his knees, she felt something inside her drop with him, a sharp, sudden spasm of beautiful pain. She felt like a goddess with Robert on his knees before her, savouring her, while her fingers sifted through his dark brown hair.

An ache burned like fire beneath her skin. She had never imagined it would be like this.

“Jane,” he whispered as he glanced up and met her gaze, his voice reverential. But then he was kissing her again, his lips pressing against her stomach as his fingertips tugged loose the ribbon of her drawers. The garment fell away. It left her naked, bar her stockings and shoes.

She shivered as his lips drifted lower, pressing against the curve of her pelvic bone while his fingers slid up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh above her garter.

Her leg muscles jolted, surprised by the progression.

But then his touch was within her. “Oh.” Her exclamation was half shock, half bliss. She clutched his hair, holding on against the sensual storm he invoked.

She felt so gauche and inept. This was Robert’s art – love play, sex – and she hadn’t a clue how to take part. He was a master. She was a novice. Yet she was learning, oh how she was learning.

His mouth touched her there, too, and her whole body jolted at the shock of his intimacy. She felt herself redden with embarrassment. This was what he’d meant in the carriage. He’d not spoken of the taste of her mouth. He’d spoken of her taste there.

She shut her eyes and just felt, letting him touch and taste.

The ache inside was growing, rising in intensity. It was too excruciating to bear this slow caress.

“This is torment,” she whispered.

He looked up.

Her fingers gripped his scalp, her fingernails sinking into his skin.

“Give it up, then,” he drawled in a deep heavy burr, his dark eyes sparkling. “Let it happen, Jane.”

Let it happen? Let what happen?

Oh, Robert, what are you doing? she wanted to scream as she felt heat race across her skin.

He was laughing internally. She could see it in his eyes as they twinkled up at her, laughing at her naïvety. God knows what expression was on her face.

Then his hand took one of hers from his hair, and he pressed a kiss into her palm before letting it go. It was the sweetest gesture, but only a pause in the momentum of his onslaught, though the heat of his kiss continued to burn in her hand.

The crescendo was rising again. She gripped his hair.

Let it happen? What!

“Oh! Robert!” Her voice broke on a sharp, desperate cry, and her nails dug into his scalp. She felt as though she shattered, reeling into a wave of what could only be described as ecstasy. It tore through her senses, swirling into her limbs like a high tide in between the rocks. The muscles in her legs quaked, and she felt weak when it passed. But this must have been what he’d spoken of, because he seemed to know she could no longer stand. He laid her down, the rug beneath her.

“Robert? I … ” She could find no words.

It didn’t matter. He hadn’t brought her here to talk.

His fingers were working a charm over her again, and his kiss did the same to her mouth.

It was coming again.

Her hips pressed upward with an instinct of their own.

She lost her breath as the fire broke out on her skin. Her hands gripped his shoulders and merely held on. He had complete control. She had no power at all.

“Oh, Robert.” She slipped into a deep pool of pleasure once more. She wanted to feel their joining, to be complete. Her fingers searched for the buttons of his flap.

“Wait. Let’s get into bed,” he whispered, giving her a lazy, heated smile.

Into bed. Anticipation ripped through her as he took her hand and helped her rise. Walking backward, he pulled her towards the bed. She recalled holding his hand when they were younger, running or walking through the woods.

He bent to lift the covers and threw them back. The sheet beneath was dotted with heads of dried lavender, and the scent lifted into the air.

She suddenly felt intensely cold, and her arm covered her breasts as she pulled her hand free of his. How could she have been such a fool? This was not about her – the flowers, the candles, the bed. He’d planned to seduce Lady Baxter tonight. All this was for Lady Baxter.

Reality came crashing back in. All she was to him was another female body. Of course he knew how to make her feel good. He’d done this hundreds of times before, with numerous women. She could not do it, do this, and know it meant nothing to him.

How could she have thought she could?

She met his gaze and stepped back. “I cannot.” Then she turned away to collect her clothes, shaking. She felt so foolish.

“Jane? What the hell is this?” His voice was irate and impatient.

Oh yes, she remembered his anger, his instinct to judge and blame, and the cruel accusations he could cast. He’d yelled and railed at her when she’d told him she was promised to the Duke of Sutton. That was the last time she’d seen Robert.

Her clothes clutched against her chest, she held a hand out to ward him off as he stepped forward. “Robert, I, I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I cannot.”

He stilled, staring at her, and she could see he was seething. God knew what he thought of her after this.

She moved to touch his arm. “Robert, I just—”

He knocked her hand aside. “Do not bother, Jane. I have no desire to hear more of your excuses. I heard enough years ago. You obviously take great pleasure in turning me down. What was this, a game? No, do not answer that. I don’t care.”

With that, he spun away and strode towards the door, growling as he went.

His anger was in every taut muscle as he moved.

“I’ll stir Jenkins from his bed and have him call for the carriage. If you are lucky, he may have not yet retired.”

“Robert! Wait! I can walk.”

He stopped dead and laughed. It was a horrible, heartless, mocking sound. Then he looked back, and his glare hit her like a blow. It was callous and accusing. He turned, then, and crossed the room with long strides, advancing so fast, she instinctually backed away.

“Jane,” he barked to stop her as he neared. Then his eyes dropped to look at her left hand a moment before his fingers gripped it.

It was then before her face, with his finger pressing beneath hers, which still bore Hector’s obscenely large, emerald betrothal ring.

“You think you would make it home safely with this on your finger? No, Jane. I will get you a carriage. No one has ever accused me of being inconsiderate. Perhaps that is why you think you can be so cruel to me? Perhaps you believe the rest of us are as heartless as you?” As he glared at her, one eyebrow tilted as though waiting for some response, and his lips twisted in a sneer.

What could she say? This was beyond an apology. It was not about what had happened just now. It was about what had happened between them years before, and she wouldn’t apologise for what had not been her fault.

She lifted her chin and held his gaze, unflinching, just as she had faced Joshua earlier, determined not to bow or bend. She had done enough of that in her life.

He turned away, growling again, then launched into a stream of what she knew must be obscenities, but not in English. He grabbed his shirt before storming from the room.

Her heart hammered as she rushed to dress. Why had she thought she could do this? It did not take her much to find the answer. It was because Joshua had made her angry. That was a part of it. She’d wanted to spite him, yes, but mostly because it was Robert. She would not have even considered it with any other man. But he wasn’t her Robert. She didn’t know this man. He was a stranger in so many ways. Not the youth who’d loved her, but a man who’d mastered seduction and sex, and played with sensual feeling solely to use and discard women.

Tears in her eyes, her fingers shaking, she struggled to secure the buttons of her dress. She’d made a mess of things again. She’d never be like Violet. Perhaps she ought to just stop trying to emulate her friend.

“Let me do it,” he barked from across the room, his sudden reappearance making her jump, but his temper seemed to have cooled a little, at least.

Her hands dropped as he crossed the space between them, and her eyes lifted to his face.

His hair fell forward on his brow as his head bent, and he looked at her buttons. They were secure in a moment.

He’d roughly tucked his shirt into his breeches while he’d been away, and now, his back to her, he picked up his evening coat. He did not put on his neckcloth or his waistcoat and left his evening coat undone. He looked back at her.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

His arm lifted as if to encourage her forward, and it somewhat surrounded her as she passed him, but he did not touch her. They left the room in silence, and when they reached the hall, she saw the butler below. He also looked as though he’d dressed quickly, and he frowned when he passed her cloak to Robert.

She stood still as Robert slipped it on her shoulders, but she could not stop herself from shaking. She made no comment, knowing if she did, the only thing that would erupt would be tears.

Robert did not speak, either, but once her cloak was on, his hand touched her back and slipped to her waist. It only made her wish to cry more.

They left the house and faced his groom, who held the carriage door open, struggling to hide a yawn.

Robert gripped her elbow when she climbed the step, then followed her in.

They sat on opposite sides in the furthest corners as they’d done before.

Once the door had slammed shut, Robert knocked on the roof, and the carriage stirred sharply forward.

She stared out the window again as they raced across town through the dark streets, never looking at Robert.

When they reached Violet’s a short time later, Robert shifted quickly, rising, opening the door, and kicking the step down himself before the groom was even on the pavement.

She accepted Robert’s hand to descend. There was nothing intimate in his touch now. It seemed cold, and she felt bereft of him.

He let go the moment her feet touched the pavement.

She wished she could thank him for sharing with her the things he’d done. It had felt good in the moment. He’d been gentle and kind, despite her desertion. But, instead, she fought against the lump in her throat, held back her tears and ran up the steps to Violet’s front door, expecting him to go.

He did not. He followed her up and stood beside her again.

“Do you have a key?”

She shook her head.

He sighed before lifting the knocker with a resigned air.

It seemed ages before there was any sound. Then, finally, she heard footsteps.

A sigh escaped her throat, but on her inward breath, it became a slight sob as pain welled in her chest, and she bit her lip.

Then, as they heard a bolt draw back with a sharp, metallic scrape, his fingers touched her shoulder, turning her to him, while his other hand tucked beneath her chin and lifted her face. Then his lips touched hers briefly.

“I am sorry I shouted at you,” he whispered when he pulled away.

He must think it was that which had upset her.

The door opened.

“Your Grace?” the young night footman questioned.

“Forgive me.” It was all she could get out as she stepped inside without a word to Robert. She could not even look at him.

Immediately, once she was in, she swept across the hall and up the stairs in as close to a run as she could discreetly manage. When she reached her bedchamber, she shut the door behind her, and, leaning against it, slid to the floor and wept.