Читать книгу Hot Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 6

Before the start of the London Season, March of 1818

“The choice is yours, my love. I want you—you know that. Meet me tonight, in the gallery. Don’t wear your gown. Wear something easy to remove…”

Grace Hamilton knew she should be scandalized by Lord Wesley’s proposition. She should refuse. But she had been trying to stay strong and good and proper for a week and she could not resist any longer.

“I do not know, my lord,” she whispered. He stood behind her, away from the hot, sparkling chandeliers and the swirling crowd, in the shadows of the ballroom at Collingsworth, ancestral home of the Marquis of Rydermere. Lord Wesley’s home and a place she had no right to be.

Grace stood by dark gallery doors, wearing a borrowed gown, terrified everyone would see her for the fraud she was.

His lordship rested his hands gently on her waist, his long fingers splayed to meet across her middle—she hadn’t expected him to touch her yet and the contact stole her breath. “I will be waiting,” he murmured, his voice a possessive growl. “If you aren’t there at midnight, I will have to assuage my broken heart elsewhere.”

How many other ladies here would accept his proposition? A wave of his hand and any number of women would beg to be kissed by him, would eagerly agree to meet him for sin. Dozens of women here wanted to marry him; their calculating eyes fixed on the prize—to become Marchioness of Rydermere.

This house teemed with lovely ladies of good birth, but Lord Wesley had singled her out, had pursued her ever since her arrival. From the first moment he had bent over her hand and let his lips play magic on her fingers through the thin muslin of her glove, she had been entranced. And each look he cast her way, each hot and intense glance, had assured her he felt the magic every bit as much as she.

Or was she wrong? What, after all, did she know about men in love?

“Midnight. By midnight,” she teased, feigning a confidence she didn’t feel, “you will know if I am coming or not.”

His breath tickled her neck, a hot caress. “Wicked wench. I’ll be there.” He moved closer to her, leaving the shadows to press his body against hers. She both stiffened and melted as a hard ridge snuggled against her silk-clad bottom.

“I can’t wait to grasp hold of this lush, fashionable arse—” With a groan, he ground his erection against her curves, setting her heart racing. “That, my golden nymph, is for you.”

And then he was gone.

Grace snapped open her fan and beat it so feverishly the thin silk tore from the spokes. She’d never had a man do this to her before. Be so bold. Be so gruff and direct and lusty—

“What was my rascal of a brother saying to you? Oh, Grace, you aren’t going to faint, are you? Your face is aflame.”

Grace started guiltily as Lady Prudence joined her in the private corner. Her friend’s closed fan rested against her lips, half hiding their firm line. “Did you let him coax you here?”

“No…I needed a rest,” Grace lied.

Lying had never been her talent and she doubted Lady Prudence was fooled. Her friend gave a tip to her head so the candlelight caught the tiny diamonds and sapphires threaded through her dark hair. Lady Prudence was so lovely. It was astonishing to Grace that she had such a friend.

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Lady Prudence warned, her gray-blue eyes very solemn. She bent close to be heard clearly over the graceful melody of the waltz. “My brother is a scoundrel.”

Couples twirled past, elegant and glittering beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Gentlemen’s hands rested lightly on slender backs; ladies’ gloved hands entwined with those of their partners. Skirts swirled around graceful ankles and coattails fluttered to give glimpses of muscular male bottoms.

Grace sighed. “Aren’t most of the men we encounter scoundrels at heart? That is what makes them so interesting. But no gentleman would ever really behave as a scoundrel with me.”

“For which you should be profoundly grateful.” They were the same age, both eighteen, but Lady Prudence suddenly looked wise and mature. “You are so exceptionally beautiful, Grace, you will make a devastatingly successful marriage.”

“Will I?” She was running out of time. Within a week or two, the fashionable world would all be in London. Her eldest sister Venetia was already in London, in a rented townhouse, drawing erotic art to save their family, and their mother was sick with worry.

And Grace could save them all. All she had to do was marry.

She ground the toe of her slipper into the gleaming parquet floor and gripped her fan until the splintered spokes bit through her gloves. All she had to do was capture a titled man and she could keep her family from the workhouse. She could return her mother to the world that had cast her out.

Since Grace had turned thirteen, her plan had been direct and simple. She would marry a title. She would make things right. Everyone had told her she was lovely, that she would grow to be a great beauty. She had overheard the secret conversations, when matrons had told her mother how valuable her beauty would be.

“Grace, I am serious.” Lady Prudence gripped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. The silk of Grace’s gown—one of Lady Prudence’s that she had bought but later decided she did not like—shimmered around her legs. “Do not believe a word my brother says,” Lady Prudence warned. “There is not a young woman on this estate that he has not…had intimacies with.”

“I know.” And Grace did. She knew she was a fool to imagine that Lord Wesley, a wealthy heir, a devastatingly handsome man, would want to marry a nobody like her. But she knew, even after only a week, that she could not bear to settle for anything less. It was not his title she wanted—it was him. The man.

Grace tapped her lips with her torn fan. She wanted it all. Could she not only marry well, but also marry a man she loved and desired? Or was she simply hoping for too much, when her family’s security was at stake?

Prudence had adopted a motherly air. “There are many gentlemen who are already besotted with you, Grace. Lord Ornsbrook, who is a viscount, and a wealthy one, is a thoroughly respectable catch. Pelworth hangs on your every word, and he is an earl!”

Grace swallowed hard. Either man should be perfect: young, reasonably attractive, and tongue-tied around her, which should be a good sign.

Prudence pointed with her fan at a lanky blond man laughing his way through the dance set. “Even Sir Randolph Thomas, over there. He possesses a fortune! Yes, he’s an atrocious dancer, but, really, a woman never dances with her husband.”

“Prudence, no—”

“Or Lord Wynsome. Such a suitable name. He melts every woman’s heart. And he’s heir to the Earl of Warren. He’s delicious, isn’t he? I’m certain he would take one look at you and—”

“Stop!” Grace cried. The Earl of Warren was her grandfather—her mother’s father. He had thrown her mother out and barred all of them from his house. Lady Prudence, of course, knew not of that. Like everyone else, Prudence believed the lies Grace had carefully cultivated—the lie learned by her and her sisters. Her mother was respectably married, her father, a sea captain who was away, far across the world, hoping to make his fortune. But that father was her mother’s fictitious creation.

She would never dare tell anyone that she was Lord Warren’s illegitimate granddaughter and that her father was really Rodesson, the famous and scandalous artist of erotica. Or that her eldest and talented sister was the one now painting the erotic works that bore Rodesson’s name.

Lord Wynsome had no idea she was, in fact, a cousin to him. There was no way he would guess, but it was still her greatest fear that he somehow would, that he would expose the truth to Lady Prudence.

Prudence was her entry to the ton, to the world of rich and titled and delicious gentlemen—

She couldn’t dare risk Prudence’s friendship. And, in truth, she dearly loved her friend.

“But, still, there are more,” Prudence said cheerfully. “Over there—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh good heavens, what is he doing here?”

Grace never heard that tone of voice from Prudence. Low, serious…fearful. Surprised, she strained to look.

A gentleman stood at the entrance to the ballroom—he towered head and shoulders above the crowd. He must have been over six and a half feet in height. And his hair—it was a wild mane of dark blond that streamed past his shoulders, unruly and wild. She knew, by instinct, that it suited the man.

He gave an enormous grin, which revealed deep dimples framing his handsome mouth and brilliant white teeth. Several servants were trying to push him out. With his arms crossed over his huge chest, he appeared to be an immovable wall.

The butler hastened up to the fray, but the mysterious guest merely amiably punched the servant in the shoulder.

Laughing, openly amused, the gentleman refused to budge. To Grace’s shock, she saw his head turn and his gaze slide over the crowd. Toward her. She was staring, but so was everyone else. There was no reason he should feel her curious gaze out of the hundreds of others.

Polite decorum decreed she should look away, but she could not stop watching him. His skin was golden bronze, close in color to his luxurious hair. He was obviously a man who exposed his body to the sun. Even bathed in the light of a chandelier, he stood too far away to reveal the color of those penetrating eyes, but she guessed they would be blue.

A silly fancy. She forced her gaze to move demurely away. But she was still aware of him; it was as though the music had stopped and the dancers had whirled away into the night, and there was no one in the ballroom but the handsome stranger and her.

The strangest sensation gripped her, along with a heat that threatened to set her skin on fire.

She’d desired Lord Wesley, but she’d felt nothing like this—

Every forbidden erotic picture, every one of her father Rodesson’s erotic drawings—those she’d secretly looked at—spilled through her heated mind.

She wanted this man, this powerful, compelling stranger. She wanted to know what it would be like to lie underneath him and part her legs and take him inside her. She wanted to know how his skin would taste to her lips and her tongue. To know if he would be rigid and big and if he would fill her completely and make her scream in pleasure. She wanted to see him naked, taste him naked, and make love to him until they were both sweaty and senseless—

He was staring at her.

Grace felt it. Felt an answering fire rush over her skin.

Preposterous! How could he even see her? But she glanced up, enthralled by the moment, knowing their gazes would lock—

Or was he looking at Prudence? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

He was not looking at either of them. Abruptly he turned on his heel and strode out through the gilt and ivory doors.

Her fan was in tatters beneath her fingers and her heart felt two sizes too big for her chest. Her throat was tight and dry. Her drawers were indecently wet.

She had to know. It was like a sudden addiction. “Who was that?” she cried.

“My half brother.” Prudence’s voice shook with…anger? Fear? An emotion Grace could not quite define.

“You have a half brother?”

“He’s a bastard,” Prudence continued, her voice contemptuous, using a word she should not. “My father’s by-blow. His first-born child, in fact, and my father is stupidly fond of him.”

Grace shook at the revulsion on her friend’s face. She was a bastard. Would Prudence feel the same way about her if she knew the truth?

Suddenly Grace felt as though she stood on a tightrope, balancing over a pit of wolves. No, this was the ton. Not wolves—mocking jackals with slavering jaws.

“He should be hung,” Prudence spat. “He’s a highwayman. Can you believe he is so bold as to come to this house? He’s probably robbed half the people here! And he was a pirate. Why the British Navy did not kill him, I cannot imagine. He’s a murderer, a scoundrel, and…” Prudence took a shaky breath.

Grace moved forward, startled by tears in her friend’s eyes.

“And our father loves him best!” Prudence cried and stamped her foot.

Grace hugged her friend. “Of course not!”

Prudence pulled out of the hug, shaking. “He does. His mother was a love affair, ours a duty marriage. Of course, he loves dashing Devlin Sharpe. But I hate him.”

“Why? Because of what he is?” Grace could hardly believe she wanted to press this. Why should she want to hear about the horrors of being recognized as a bastard?

“He murdered the man I loved. If I wouldn’t hang for it, I’d grab one of my father’s pistols right now and shoot him where he stands.”

Grace blinked. “How could he murder a man and escape punishment?”

Prudence balled her hands into fists, and Grace heard her fan snap. “I cannot tell you what happened. Not even you, my dear friend.”

She reached out and stroked Prudence’s arm as her friend turned red-rimmed eyes to her and asked, “Do I look awful? I have to dance with Lord Wynsome next.”

“You look fine.” But a chill washed over Grace as she watched Prudence stroll away. Prudence’s movements were controlled, precise, and lovely, belying her emotional outburst. If her illegitimate half brother had murdered the man she loved, how could he have dared walk into the house?

And even after hearing what a beast he was, she still ached between her legs. She was still flushed and anxious with desire.

She was supposed to meet Lord Wesley at midnight…After feeling all that mad, delirious passion and hunger and need.

She couldn’t bear to stand in this crowded, overheated ballroom one moment longer. She needed to escape.

“You weren’t planning to meet me after all, were you?”

Grace jerked away from the study windows and slowly turned around.

Lord Wesley stood in the doorway, the door closed behind him. There had been a key in the lock before and now it was gone.

His cravat was undone, the snowy-white cloth trailing over his black tailcoat.

He’d guessed the truth. She had not planned to meet him. She knew she couldn’t—for two reasons. Both that mad moment of lust for a stranger and the fact that she could not have intimate relations with any man until she wore his ring. So, she had slipped into the study and poured herself some brandy to take away the frustration of knowing she couldn’t meet him. But she tried to tease, “It is only the hour of eleven. You cannot possibly know that.”

“I can guess, Grace.” His lordship prowled toward her, his hip brushing a gilt table and setting the crystal glasses tinkling upon it. She saw from his unsteady gait that he’d been drinking. But then, so had she.

“I know you are afraid,” he said. “I know what you want.” He brushed back the now unruly locks of his white-blond hair.

“You do?” Brandy was hot in her blood. She leaned back against the arm of the settee. “I don’t even know what I want.”

“Yes, you do. But you deny it.”

“I liked you much better when you were direct. What do I deny, my lord?”

His dark eyes—a stunning blend of violet and blue—held hers. He was breathtakingly beautiful. Much more so than that coarse and bold highwayman who was his half brother. “You deny that you want passion. Heat. Fire. You want lusty, sweaty, passionate sexual pleasure. You want to strip away the gowns, the corsets, and the bloody propriety. You want to fuck, sweetheart. And you want to fuck me.”

She was shocked into breathlessness. The most confident, audacious grin turned up the edges of Lord Wesley’s sensual mouth.

“You are drunk.” She set down the glass, her heart like a live bird trapped in her chest. He was right. Of course. His very words had set her on fire. “And your sister warned me—”

“That I’ve bedded a lot of women. So have most of the other men here who act like eunuchs around you. The men who try to treat you like you are sweet and untouchable. Can you imagine a life wedded to one of them?”

“No.” It was simply the truth.

“You don’t want marriage, Grace. You want sex. You have to take marriage to get it.”

She laughed at that, thrown off balance by the entire conversation. Had she already waded in too deep? She could hardly swoon or race from the room now. She had shown him the woman she really was. But she liked speaking this way. Bluntly. Truthfully. It was exhilarating. “And you don’t,” she challenged. “What would ever tempt you to embark on marriage, my lord?”

“Love. Obsession.”

“The desire to possess something precious?”

“Perhaps that.”

“I saw a man tonight. Pru—Lady Prudence told me that he is your half brother. That he murdered—”

“Shh.” He pressed his fingers to her lips. “That is something that I intend to make right. I intend to spill his blood.”

Lord Wesley left her side and he raced over to the desk. She stood, stunned, watching as he wrenched open a drawer. He lifted out a brass box that gleamed in the firelight, laid it on the blotter, and opened it. When he lifted his hands, he held a six-inch dagger poised between the tips of both his index fingers, one pressed to the end of the handle, one pressed to the point of the blade.

Watching her all the while, he dropped the knife to the desk. It landed on its side with a thud. He stripped off his coat and threw it to the nearest chair—a leather club chair. His cravat and waistcoat followed.

There was only his shirt now. Fine linen between her gaze and his skin. “One day I will exact retribution from my damned half brother. But only if you tell me something that I need to hear.”

She stared in confusion as Lord Wesley let his cravat slide off, as he undid the ties of his shirt. As he strode to her he grabbed the knife and he yanked the sides of his shirt apart. He pressed the tip of the blade to his chest, just beneath the plane of his pectorals, on the flesh that covered his heart.

Her heart was in her throat. “What…what are you doing?”

“Marry me, Grace. Be my bride. Fuck me tonight and marry me afterward. I cannot wait another moment to have you.”

“Or you will stab yourself to the heart?” She was eighteen. She was not a schoolgirl—well, since they hadn’t been able to afford schooling, she never really had been, but—

He wasn’t really in love with her that much.

Was he?

“I want you.”

“Why me?” she asked. “Of all the others? Of all the rich beauties, of all the dukes’ daughters, of all the girls who try to move heaven and earth to attract you? No pretty words—the real words.”

“Because you are like me.”

That mystified her. And then he pushed the blade in and she was stunned to see a trickle of blood race down his body. It would ruin his shirt. “This is madness.”

He bent forward, the knife still cutting into his skin, and he skimmed his lips along her throat. She stood, passively, letting the remarkable sensation wash over her. Soft lips—like velvet, like silk. No…more than that. Like the touch of a flame. Or the brush of an angel’s hand.

“Saying no is madness,” he rasped.

His tongue stroked the length of her neck. Her body became fluid. She was wet—indecently, wonderfully wet between her thighs. The stubble on his jaw teasingly scratched her skin. Her pulse seemed to beat everywhere at once—in her head, her lips, her fingertips, her…her sex.

“You are beautiful.”

How many men had said that? But it mattered, from him.

“Touch me.”

“Only if you take the blade from your heart.”

“I will plunge it in if you leave me now. If you do not touch me. I cannot live without your touch. I could go to another woman. I know you are thinking that. I could bury my heavy, aching cock into her and fuck until my brain explodes and all the while I would be in pain because I wanted you. Do you have any idea what bloody torture that is?”

“I think I know.”

“I want to marry you, Grace. All I need is a yes. One simple word.”

“Yes.” And there was no turning back. She hungered to touch him, and, once she did, she had to go forward.

If she touched him, she had to agree to do everything a husband and wife were intended to do.

Slowly, she pulled off her glove—a white, virginal, and utterly irritating scrap of satin. She reached out, touching her fingertips to his chest, his skin hot and damp beneath her touch.

“Take the knife away,” she breathed. He was drunk and his hand cupped her bottom—a place a man’s hand had never been—but she was afraid he would crush her to him and stab himself by accident.

He was young. Spoiled. Passionate. Wild.

Hers. With one simple word.

“Yes,” she said again, to ensure there was no mistake, and she released a sigh of relief as he tossed the blade back to the desk. But in the next instant, he slid her skirts, petticoats and all, up her thighs. He pulled her drawers down before she could squeak, held her as she stepped out of them.

“You smell of lust, Grace. You stink of it and I love your smell. I want to cover my hands in it, my cock in it.”

His earthy words made her more wet, more creamy and slick, and she could smell herself, flushing as she did so.

“Now, hold up your skirts for me and let me explore.”

She obeyed and his hands slid around her naked inner thighs. His palms were strong, a little rough, and as he squeezed her skin she feared she’d fall to the floor.

“Stand up, Grace,” he commanded in a growl and his hands skimmed higher, up and up to the juncture of her thighs, to her hot and sticky quim. “Part your legs for me a little more.”

She did, aware of the wetness leaking down her inner thighs.

“Ah, yes, good girl,” he murmured, and his look of fierce hunger softened with his heartbreaking smile. “Lovely, soft curls.”

His fingers combed through them and she squirmed. Her quim felt tight and achy and hot and she was wriggling to ease the tension.

“Is your clit hard now? Would it like to feel my fingers stroking it? Would you like me to rub hard?”

She had no idea. A strangled, confused groan slipped from her lips. His bold erotic talk was what she wanted but not entirely what she’d expected. She was to be his wife—she’d thought he would be sweet. It would be sensuous and they would not speak—

Like a statue, she stood unable to move, and his long, strong fingers slid into her cleft. It felt so good, it felt—

His fingers sawed across her sensitive nub and she screamed. Her cry rang throughout the large room and his lordship laughed in response. “I knew you would scream,” he purred, and he suckled her neck, making her cry out again. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—all teased the tingling skin of her throat and turned her body to molten heat.

He fiddled with the buttons of her gown, muttering curses, and she knew then why he had wanted her in something easy to remove. A few gave way, her bodice sagged, and at once his hands were there, lifting her breasts over the ruffled neckline.

She saw the pale curves lift, felt the strain against the silk, then felt her breasts spill out. “God yes,” he groaned. “These tits. These enormous, plump, glorious breasts. I’ve been hungering to get my hands on these for a week.”

His head dropped to her right breast and she moaned at the whisper of his silvery-blond hair brushing her flesh. At once, his firm mouth closed over her puckering nipple and he suckled so hard she dropped her skirts and grasped the back of the nearest chair.

Yes, she had played with her own nipples before, but not like this. He sucked greedily, lavishly, then rolled her free nipple between thumb and forefinger. It was so much—too much! She shut her eyes tight, swamped by sensation. Stars sparkled behind her lids. Something hard stroked her nipple—his teeth, she realized. She was astonished. Shocked. A little scared.

But he was a master, skillfully using the hard pressure of his teeth to send her soaring. She drank in his masculine scent and it wrapped around her like a magic spell. Letting her lids flicker open, she saw him suck first her left breast, then her right, leaving a trail of saliva between the two. Her nipples were wet, and harder and longer than she’d ever seen.

Lord Wesley glanced up, fair hair dusting his vivid eyes, and her heart gave a pang. His smile was gloriously wicked. “Enough play, love. Let us move on to the main event.”

Grace wanted it to be slow and seductive, but he was far too aroused, she supposed. Tugging at his trouser buttons, he groaned, “I’m too damned hard to get these things off, blast it.”

She giggled at his loud moan of relief as the buttons gave and his placket opened. He shoved his trousers down just past his hips and she saw it—him—for the first time.

Darker blond hair dusted his abdomen, then made a curly thicket around the length of him jutting out. Before her mesmerized eyes, he wrapped his hand around its girth and gave a stroke that made his eyes roll back in his head.

He dropped to the floor and stretched out on his back on the rug. One arm pillowed his head and he held his…his hard cock upright. She stood like a ninny, a little nonplussed by his speed.

“Come here and straddle me,” he rasped. “I want you on top of me, Grace. You can control how hard you want the strokes. How deep you want my cock to go.”

Perched on top of her bodice, her large breasts stuck out, making it difficult to judge where she was as she lowered to the floor. Her breasts were much too big, unfashionably so, but Lord Wesley could not take his eyes off them.

“They’re luscious,” he promised. “Now sit on my prick, love, then bend forward and smother me with those tits for a while.”

She had never thought they would make love for the first time on a carpet in his father’s study. Yet the wickedness of it made it exciting. She was his coconspirator and she liked it. This was what she wanted. This was to be her future.

“Hurry, love,” he urged as she fought to push aside the heavy silk skirt of her gown and the layers of lace-trimmed petticoats. “Though I love watching your nipples jiggle as you struggle.”

Poised over him, she hesitated. Was she allowed to touch him—to hold his staff while she sank down on top of it?

“I’m dying, Grace.” One strong hand clasped her hip through her skirts, and she rubbed her quim along the tip of his cock. The head was wet and smelled lush and primitive, just as she did. She was so slick and he was so hot and rigid that he easily slid into her. Gasping, she lowered and bore her weight on her knees. Her position pitched her breasts toward his face, as he’d wanted, and he arched up with his tongue sticking out. His tongue furled around her nipple as she took his cock deeper. Her walls slowly pushed apart, clenching him tight.

You can control how hard you want the strokes… He’d promised that but he was thrusting up to her, filling her, invading her. He plunged up and a twinge of pain startled her. Then it vanished and she wriggled on him, glorying in the feel of being completely full. She lifted and lowered, shocked by the wet slurping as she rose and fell, stunned by the pleasure as their hips collided.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck me hard. Pound on me and make your tits bounce. I want to watch them slap up and down—”

Both his hands were on her hips, guiding her to slam up and down on him. Her hair tumbled free of her coiffure. Her breasts wobbled heavily. She panted for breath, getting hotter and hotter. Her thighs were slick, her breasts and back and forehead moist. If she bent toward him, she teased her…her clit with each stroke—

His face contorted. “God!” He pulled her abruptly forward and she sprawled over him, burying his face into her round breasts as he slammed his hips upward. Clamped to him by his strong arm, she dragged in breaths and squirmed on him. She’d felt pleasure but no climax.

She knew of the climax. She’d seen the expressions in her father’s paintings. Of women in ecstasy, melting in pleasure all over a man. Their mouths would be open wide in a scream, their eyes shut, their faces flushed. Sometimes they’d be gouging the man with their fingernails, as though they were fighting for their lives, as though fighting to survive the pleasure claiming their souls.

She hadn’t quite got there. Suddenly his arms lifted, and Lord Wesley relaxed back against the rug, grinning, and looking disheveled and gloriously handsome.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “I love you.”

But he gave a coarse laugh. “Lord, but you’re a good fuck, as I knew you’d be. Now make yourself decent and get out of here. I’m done with you.”