“I know it were at your place,” Trent was telling his brother-in-law as the three men ascended the stairs. “In the picture gallery, which must be at least a mile long, and he were in the alcove and Jess said he were her favorite—”
“The gallery is one hundred eighty feet long,” Dain said. “As Ainswood will attest. On the day of my father’s funeral, I set up one of the portraits of my sire upon an easel and proposed an archery contest. You recall, don’t you, Ainswood? Using my dear Papa for target practice was sophomoric, you claimed. You assured me that I would find more satisfaction rogering that evil redhead, Charity Graves, in the master bedchamber. Having tested her yourself, you deemed her worthy of my efforts.” He clapped Vere on the shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs. “Ah, well, my lad, those days are over. No more sharing trollops for us. We must make do with ladies, and only one apiece.” He turned to Bertie. “Good night, Trent. Pleasant dreams.”
“I say Dain, but you—”
Dain’s deadly black stare cut him off.
Bertie tugged at his neckcloth. “That is. Well.” He backed away from Dain. “Mean to say, congratulations, Ainswood, and good night and much obliged, you know—groomsman. Honored.” He shook Vere’s hand, nodded at Dain, then fled to his room.
In the recesses of Vere’s brain, the wispy something teased again, but his glance stole down the hall to the last door, behind which his duchess waited, and that hot awareness blotted out the vexing will-o’-the-wisp.
“My lady’s expecting our brat sometime in February or March,” Dain said, recalling Vere’s attention to him. “It wants godparents. Perhaps you and your bride will accept the position.”
It took Vere a moment to believe his ears, then another to digest the implications. Then his throat tightened. Despite time, separations, misunderstandings, and mills, he and Beelzebub were friends, still. “So that’s why you were so eager to see me wed,” he said, not altogether steadily.
“I was eager on several counts,” said Dain. “But I will not make you stay and listen to my reasons. You have…responsibilities.” He smiled faintly. “I will not keep you from them.”
To his horror, Vere felt the heat rise in his face.
“You are blushing, Ainswood,” said Dain. “Today is truly a day of miracles.”
“Go to the devil,” Vere muttered, starting down the hall.
Behind him, he heard Dain’s low chuckle. “If you find yourself stumped what to do, Your Grace,” he called, “feel free to knock on my door.”
“Stumped what to do, indeed,” Vere answered without turning around. “I taught you everything you know, Beelz—and not half what I know.”
He heard another of the satanic rumbles that passed for laughter, then the sound of a door opening and closing.
“Knock on your door,” Vere went on under his breath. “Very amusing. Hilarious. As though I’m not the elder and wasn’t the one who brought you your first trollop.” He rapped impatiently at the portal to his room. “Bloody damned know-it-all. Always was. Always will be. I should break his big beak for—”
His bride opened the door.
He was vaguely aware that she was still fully dressed, but he didn’t pause to wonder about it. He entered, kicked the door shut behind him, caught her in his arms, and crushed her to him.
He buried his face in her neck. Her soft, thick hair tickled his cheek while her scent stole into him, and he drank it in greedily. “Oh, Lord, Grenville,” he murmured. “I thought I’d never get away from them.”
Her arms came up about him, but stiffly, and her long body vibrated tension. He lifted his head to gaze at her. Her face was pale and hard. Her eyes gave him back his own reflection and something else. Something dark and troubled.
“You’re weary,” he said, loosening his boa-constrictor grip. “It’s been a very long and tiring day.”
“I’m not weary.” Her voice throbbed. “I came straight here, and fell onto the bed and asleep before my head touched the pillow.” She eased out of his arms. “I woke an hour ago. I’ve had plenty of rest. And time to think.”
“Which left no time for changing into something more appropriate for the wedding night,” he said, resolutely ignoring a fierce jab of the conscience he wasn’t speaking to. He had rushed her into matrimony. He’d taken advantage of a moment of weakness. Very well, then. He was unscrupulous—along with depraved and obnoxious and the other et ceteras. That was his nature. “That’s quite all right. I’ll be happy to help you out of your armor.” He brought his hands to the topmost button.
“I’m not prepared to consummate the marriage,” she said stiffly.
“No problem.” He unbuttoned the first button. “I’ll prepare you.”
She swatted his hands away. “This is serious, Ainswood. We must talk.”
“Grenville, you know we can’t converse for more than two minutes without quarreling,” he said. “Let’s not talk tonight, what do you say?” He started to work on the second button.
Her hand, very cold, clamped upon his. “My conscience will not allow me to be your wife,” she said. “I want an annulment.”
“Your conscience has lost its mind,” he said. He kissed her straight, haughty nose. “This is merely bridal nerves.”
“I am not a nervous person.” Her voice climbed, grew shakier. “I am not hysterical, and you are not to patronize me. All I have done is come to my senses.” She paused, setting her jaw and lifting her chin. “The fact is, I am not a lady, not even half a lady. You are the Duke of Ainswood. You must wed a lady. You owe it to your family.”
“I’ve wed you,” he said impatiently. “I don’t want a lady. I shouldn’t know what to do with one.” He grasped her shoulders. “I hope you’re not turning missish on me.”
“We cannot go to bed.” Twin spots of pink appeared in her cheeks. “You must not be fruitful and multiply with me. I cannot allow you to take such a risk.”
“A what?”
“My family.” She choked out the words. “You don’t know about my family. I should have told you before, but I was too agitated. I had been so alarmed that you were killed, and then…” She pulled away. “It is so absurd. I wanted to make you happy, and you were so set upon marrying without delay. I do not know why I wanted to make you happy, why I fancy I can.”
“It’s easy to make me happy, Grenville. All you need to do is take off your—”
“My mother was sickly from the time my sister was born.” Her words came out in a rush. “My mother died when I was ten. My little sister took consumption and died barely three years later. My father was a third-rate actor and a drunkard and a gambler. He possessed not one redeeming quality.” Twisting her hands together, she walked to the fireplace. “Mine is bad blood. Your family deserves better. You must consider them—the line you represent.”
“A pox on my line,” he said, but without heat. She was obviously overset, on the edge of hysteria. The strain of the day’s events was telling. He went to her. “Come, Grenville, only listen to yourself. You’re a worse snob than Dain. The line I represent, indeed. What’s become of Miss Liberté, Égalité, and Fraternité? What’s become of Madam Vindication of the Rights of Women? Where has my dragon-girl gone?”
“I’m not a dragon,” she said. “I am merely a lowborn scribbler with a foul disposition.”
“I see that you’re not in a humor to listen to reason,” he said. “We’ll have to settle this in sporting fashion.”
He stepped away from her and shrugged out of his coat. Then he tore off his neckcloth. A few swift yanks released his waistcoat buttons. He pulled off the waistcoat and tossed it aside. He kicked off his shoes.
He assumed a fighting stance, fists upraised.
She stared at him.
“Hit me,” he said. “I’ll give you three tries. If you can’t connect, I get three tries.”
“To hit me?” she asked, plainly bewildered.
He relaxed his stance. “Grenville, if I hit you, you’d drop stone co
ld on the floor,” he said patiently. “What bloody good would you be to me then? Use your head.”
He resumed his pugilistic pose. “If you can’t hit me, I get three tries to make you fall onto the bed, panting with lust.”
A martial light sparked in her blue eyes. “Devil confound you, Ainswood, haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Can’t you take your mind off your breeding organs for a moment and consider your future—and your ancestors—and your position?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Not that civilized. Come, Grenville.” He stuck out his chin. “Aren’t you itching to break my jaw? Or how about my nose?” He pointed there. “Wouldn’t you like to plant me a conker? Not that you’ve a prayer, but it’ll be amusing to see you try.”
She glowered at him.
He danced a bit, jabbing the air with his right, then his left. “Come, what are you afraid of? Here’s your chance to give me the pair of stinkers you promised in Vinegar Yard. Or was that all boasting? Did the tap on my jaw hurt your little hand too much, my delicate flower? Did you learn your lesson then?”
It came from nowhere. Lightning fast and low, her fist shot toward his privates.
He nipped aside in the nick of time. “Not there, Grenville,” he said, swallowing his astonishment. “Think of our children.”
She stepped back, her eyes narrowed, assessing him from head to toe, looking for the chink in his defenses. “You didn’t say I had to fight fair,” she said.
“You wouldn’t have a prayer if you did,” he taunted.
She brought her arms up, holding them at strange angles, while her body began swaying side to side, like a cobra preparing to strike. Her hair was coming undone, tumbling about her shoulders. It was a glorious sight, and he ached to tangle his fingers in it. But he could not let his mind wander. She had any number of tricks in her repertoire, and she was devilish unpredictable. Not to mention quick.
He waited, bracing for the strike, wondering where it would come from, and aware she was playing with him, staying in motion to distract him while she waited for an opening.
He caught it half a pulsebeat before she moved: the merest flicker of a glance downward. Her skirts hitched up as her foot shot out, but he moved in the same instant, spinning to the side. The miss threw her off balance and she started to topple. Reflexively, he reached for her—and pulled back an instant before her outthrust elbow could connect with his groin.
“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped. He was not so much winded as stunned. If he’d been an eyeblink slower, she would have had him singing High C.
He waited, braced, not daring to relax his guard, even though she’d turned away and was working her way through the standard list of profanities.
“That’s three tries, Grenville,” he said. “My turn now.”
She swung about to face him. “What happens if you—when you fail?” she demanded.
“You get another three tries. Then I do. Until one of us wins. The winner gets what he wants.”
And I’ll make bloody damned sure you want what I want, he added silently.
She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Very well. Do your worst.”
He eyed her up and down, assessing her as she’d done him. He began to circle her. She stayed where she was, only her head turning as her wary gaze followed him. He paused close behind her.
For a long moment he simply stood there, making her wait, building tension. Then he bent and lightly traced with his parted lips a meandering path from her ear to her creamy cheek. “So soft,” he murmured while he let his fingers skim down her arms, drawing them away from her chest and down to her sides. “Your skin is like rose petals.”
She inhaled sharply. “That’s one,” she said, her voice strained.
He brushed his cheek against hers. “I love the scent of your skin.” He drew his outspread hands ever so lightly—barely touching the fabric—and slowly down over her lavish bosom to her waist and lower still, to gently press her belly, drawing her back against him, her lush derriere just touching his trousers front, under which his rod eagerly swelled for business.
Her eyes closed and she swallowed. “That’s t-two.”
He did nothing, letting the moment stretch out while he remained still, his cheek to hers, his hands resting on her belly. His touch remained light, only enough to keep her in place and inescapably aware of his aroused masculinity and its heat.
A tremor went through her.
Still he waited. It was killing him, but the hot tension was working on her as well. He could feel it, the struggle within her, intellect warring with feeling, abstract principle fighting for supremacy in a nature fiercely physical and sensual.
She squirmed, ever so little, pressing just a fraction nearer.
He brushed his mouth at the corner of hers.
With a little moan, she sank back against him, turning her head for the kiss he teased her with.
He teased her still, letting his lips play lightly and lazily over the soft fullness of her mouth.
Her hands covered his, holding him to her.
“That’s three,” he said thickly. “Your turn now.”
“You beast,” she hissed. “You know I can’t fight you.” She tried to turn to him, but he held her where she was, letting her sweet rump torment his loins.
“Ah, no, not so quickly, dragoness.” He nipped her ear and crushed her closer. “I had planned to go easy on you—this being your first time and all—but that would be patronizing, wouldn’t it? You’re not afraid to fight me—and not shy about where you aim, I noticed. Delicacy would be wasted on you.”
He lashed one arm ’round her waist to keep her against him while with his free hand he undid the long parade of buttons.
He pulled the frock down to her waist. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, trapping her arms.
Soft, creamy flesh beckoned from the borders of petticoat and corset. He made a carpet of hurried kisses over the fragrant skin behind her ear and down to the nape of her neck and over her shoulders. She shivered.
He undid tapes and hooks, released her arms from the sleeves, and pushed the frock down over her hips. It slid to the floor, making a rumpled heap at her feet. He nudged her to step out of its tangle and went immediately to the corset, his fingers working swiftly at the lacings. The stiff garment at last gave way, sagging to her hips. He drew it away and tossed it aside.
He swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He let go, dropping her on the mattress. She swore, but before she could scramble up and strike him, he fell upon her. He dragged his fingers through her hair and held her while he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, fiercely.
She struggled but a moment before yielding, as she always did, as she ought to understand by now she must do.
“No annulment,” he growled when at last he freed her mouth. “No someone else. Ever. So put it out of your mind.”
“You idiot.” Her voice was husky. She grasped his shirt front and pulled him back to her. She took her revenge, her ripe lips smoldering against his, her tongue stirring a devil’s brew inside him.
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, his mouth clinging hungrily to hers, his legs tangling in her petticoats.
He pulled up the skirts of the frothy garments and groaned as his fingers touched stocking and traced the sleek outline of her thigh. Inches above the garter, there was only warm, silken skin…all the curving way up to the wicked arc of her rump.
Her utterly bare naked rump.
“Sweet Jesus.” His voice was a thick whisper. “Where are your drawers, you hussy?”
“I forgot to pack them,” she said in suffocated tones.
“Forgot.” It was the last articulate word he uttered, the last clear thought he had.
With a low, animal growl, he pushed her off him and onto her back. It took him but a few feverish seconds to tear off the last of his garments. Before they reached the floor, he was untying the ribbons of her petticoat’s bodice.
The neckline gathe
rings loosened and he pushed the fabric down. Her skin was as pale as moonglow, a miracle of softness and lavish curves. He drew his hands down over the creamy swell of her breasts, let his thumbs play over the pink buds, taut even before he touched them.
With a soft cry, she arched up, pushing against his hands, reaching for his shoulders, even as he bent to take one rosy pearl into his mouth.
Her fingers tangled in his hair to hold him to her while he suckled, drawing helpless little cries from her that made his heart drum and his insides tighten and ache.
He stroked down over her belly, felt it tighten under his touch. But the petticoat’s fabric tickled his skin. Impatient, he pulled it off and flung it away. He made himself pause to drink in the sight of her, so perfectly formed, his beautiful amazon. Then he let his hands and mouth touch and taste boldly, and reveled in her hot answering caresses, in the soft sounds she uttered, of surprise and pleasure.
She’d been made and meant for him, every velvet-smooth, dragon-scented inch of her. And, as his fingers stole into the soft mound of curls between her legs and he felt the tiny recoil, he found her ready for him.
She was already damp, passionate dragoness, and his first gentle caresses in that intimate place had her squirming against his hand.
In his power. Under his control. At last.
He’d wanted to bide his time, pleasure her into madness before he pleasured himself. He’d wanted to make her wild and helpless. He’d promised himself that he would, that he’d make her beg, and he had more reason now, after what she’d put him through this hellish day.
Her quick, hot answer to his touch burned up all those promises and wishes.