Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

He had found no trace of a poacher, not that he had really expected to do so. He had checked with Farmer Jeffries, whom he had spotted working the fields nearby, but he had seen nothing either, although he had heard the shot. The poacher had aimed high, possibly startled into loosing the gun. It was the only explanation that made sense, Nicholas told himself, for the alternative was that someone had shot deliberately at Serena, and that made absolutely no sense at all. He decided not to worry her unnecessarily with this absurd notion. ‘It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more, but a most unsettling experience none the less. Are you sure you’re all right, Serena?’

She gave him a weak smile by way of reply. She seemed determined to appear little shaken despite the closeness of the bullet. She had real pluck, Nicholas thought with admiration. Every other woman of his acquaintance would have swooned.

‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him again. ‘I got a fright and let my horse bolt, for which I am ashamed. Thank you, Mr Lytton, for being my knight errant. I’m sorry to have put you to the trouble.’ She dropped a curtsy.

‘It was an honour, mademoiselle,’ Nicholas replied with a bow.

He closed over the door to block out the rain, which was now falling heavily. ‘It’s not exactly salubrious, but at least it will keep us dry,’he said, surveying the space. The barn was small, enclosed on all sides. Apart from some bales of hay stacked in one corner and a pitchfork leaning on the wall beside them, it was empty.

Rain pattered on the roof. A gusty wind whistled through the rough wooden walls. Serena shivered, making for the bales of hay, which formed a break against the draughts. ‘We can sit over here, it’s at least a little more comfortable.’

Nicholas followed her. Serena perched on one of the bales, reaching up to remove her hat. The action stretched the tight-fitting jacket of her habit against the contours of her body, the soft velvet outlining the fullness of her breasts. The long line of her throat showed creamy white above the lace of her collar. Turning, she found Nicholas gazing down at her, desire writ plain across his face.

Her heart picked up a beat. They were alone in an isolated barn. A ramshackle building with only bales of straw for comfort, hardly the setting she would have picked for her first experience in seduction. But the raw need on Nicholas’s face was unmistakable. She had only to acquiesce.

Nervously, Serena pushed a stray curl from her eyes. Did she want this? Her whole body screamed yes, but still she tried to be certain in her mind. It was an irrevocable step to take. An idyll, that’s how Nicholas saw it. She was not so sure she would be able to think of it in quite the same way afterwards.

Afterwards. Had she then already made up her mind? The atmosphere between them crackled with tension. Nicholas stood looking down at her, one brow raised. She knew what he was asking. Knew too that he would accept her no, though he wanted her yes. She wanted to say yes. Right here, right now, she wanted to say yes more than anything. But would she feel the same way tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? To surrender herself to him could be to cast the dice irrevocably. Was that really what she wanted? But to draw back from the game now would be to regret having done so for ever, wouldn’t it?

‘Serena?’

Why must he ask? Why must he look at her like that, so she could not think straight? She stood up, reaching to brush a lock of hair from his brow. It was damp from the rain. Black as coal. Soft as silk. She pushed it back, running her fingers along the contour of his skull, trailing them down his neck, fluttering against his skin. What was he thinking?

He smelled of rain and horse and man. His skin was cool and damp. She ran her fingers up through the short hair on the back of his neck. What was she doing?

Their eyes locked, blue on grey, deepening into dark pools of desire. With a harsh intake of breath, Nicholas pulled her roughly to him, holding her close, gripping her waist, cupping her head through her curls. Angling his mouth on to hers, he kissed her hard, engulfing her in sudden heat and passion and fire. Soft curves melted into hard planes.

He deepened the kiss. She reached her arms around him, under the material of his coat, against the soft linen of his shirt, the silk of his waistcoat, feeling the heat of his skin through the delicate material. Her hands roamed across his back, kneading the rippling muscles, tracing the knotted line of his spine. He was all bone and muscle and sinew. Power and strength coiled tight. Heady. Strange. Frighteningly, dizzyingly exciting.

Nicholas groaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, his kisses demanding, hardening, deepening. Long passionate kisses. Tiny licking kisses. Nibbling on the corners of her mouth, sucking on her bottom lip, his tongue tangling with her own, sweeping across the tender skin on the inside of her mouth. Licking and sucking and thrusting.

He pulled her closer, pressing his arousal against her through the soft leather of his buckskins. Shockingly hard. Unimaginable. Now, now was the time to stop. To stop before she did imagine. What it would feel like. What it would feel like…

She was hot. Her body thrummed, pulsed, pounded, throbbed. She was a hard core of heat, yet she was melting.

Nicholas licked, and she followed. He bit her lip gently, and she nicked his bottom lip between her own teeth. Tentatively touched her tongue to his when he thrust. She wanted to touch him, but did not know how. She knew she should stop, but did not know how. ‘Nicholas,’ she heard herself say, though surely that was not her voice?

He was still kissing her. Drugging, swollen, swooning kisses, as if he would suck the lifeblood from her. She gave and gave and gave and still he kissed her more. He undid the large buttons of his riding coat and waistcoat, shrugging out of both together. The tiny buttons on her own jacket surrendered to his hands, though she could not have said how. They stood chest to chest. She was breathing as if she had been running. Nicholas, too, his chest heaving, like in the fight. She had no will, no will of her own any more, save to do as he bid.

He tugged the folds of his shirt free from his breeches and took her hands, placing her palms flat on his heated skin. She ran them wonderingly along his ribcage, down the line of his torso to the indent at his waist, relishing the shivering response her touch elicited as she used her hands to draw the map of his body. Her fingers encountered the barrier of his breeches. She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned. She was burning.

Nicholas looked down at her anxiously. Her eyelids were heavy over the deep blue of her eyes, the long dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Her hair was undone from its pins, rippling down her back in long ringlets, one tress curling provocatively over her flushed cheek. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. She looked every bit as wanton, even more arousing than in all his fevered late-night imaginings.

‘Serena?’

She stared up at him. He took her hand again, placed it back on his chest, relishing the feel of her skin on his, while desperately trying to read her thoughts. Was she frightened? For a moment he thought so. Because this was the first time? For a moment he hoped so. Because it was not? No, don’t think of that.

Beneath the soft silk of her blouse he could see her breasts rise and fall. He could see the hard peaks of her nipples. Carefully he tugged the lace at her neck, finding the fastenings, slowly undoing them, until her blouse was open to the waist. Her breathing quickened. Her hand curled into the muscle of his chest, but she did not stop him. He pulled the blouse free from the waistband of her skirt. He tugged at her undergarments, expertly freeing her breasts from the wisps of lace and fine lawn cotton that constrained them. At the first touch of his thumbs on her nipples Serena moaned, slumping back against the bales of hay.

She wanted him. Nicholas arranged her gently, supporting her against the straw. She was a picture to rob any man of control, with her golden hair spread out like a fan, her countenance flushed, her eyes heavy with desire. The creamy mounds of her breasts with their rosy-tipped peaks rose and fell alluringly against the white of her undergarments. Just exactly as he’d pictured. The blue velvet of her skirt trailed out beneath her. Nicholas drank his fill of the vision, his breathing heavy, his heart thumping erratically as desire surged painfully through him.

‘Nicholas.’

Serena breathed his name in that special way of hers, watching him through eyes slumberous with desire. She was no vision. She was flesh and blood and heat and luscious, perfect curves. And his, all his. Pushing her legs apart under the voluminous skirt of her riding habit, Nicholas knelt down in front of her. Cupping her full breasts in his hands, he licked the soft undersides, teasing her nipples into hard, swollen fullness between his fingers, pinching them just enough to make her moan with the overwhelming pleasure of it. He leaned in closer, circling her nipples with his tongue, flicking over the hard peaks, sucking gently, then hard, gently, then hard.

She was mindless. She was lost. She was frightened by what was happening to her, but in a way that made her want more. Heat spread out from her belly, a dull glow turning into a burning ember, sparks flying out through her veins, igniting her blood, making her burn. Was this normal? Serena writhed restlessly. She didn’t want him ever to stop. His mouth on her. His hands on her. He was making her do things. Things she didn’t know she knew.

She should stop. She couldn’t stop. She arched against him, pushing her body into him, finding the restraining cloth of her skirt, his breeches, an unbearable barrier. ‘Nicholas.’ She breathed his name again, slanting open her eyes to look at him, hot hands, hot mouth, hot eyes on her. She wanted this, and now she wanted something else too.

Nicholas lifted the hem of her blue velvet skirt, pushing it up around her waist to reveal the long graceful line of her legs. Little boots laced tight around delicate ankles. Silk stockings clinging to the outline of her calves, their ribbons tied under the lace-trimmed edges of her underwear. God, so beautiful.

Serena blushed because he was looking. Blushed because she could see he liked looking. Blushed because she liked him looking. She shifted under his gaze.

The movement caused the gap between her pantaloons to open, giving Nicholas a brief, tantalising view of blonde curls. He inhaled sharply, drinking in her body hungrily, feasting on the full length of her legs, the outline of her thighs under the delicate lawn of her underclothes, breathing in the smell of hay, her flowery perfume, the elusive musky scent of vanilla which seemed to emanate from her skin. With his eyes closed, he ran one hand teasingly from the top of her boot up over her stocking and along the velvet-soft skin on the inside of her thigh, feeling her rippling response. Running his hand over her other leg, he breathed in deeply, relishing the smell of her, the feel of her, the lines and textures of her. A multitude of sensations bubbled through his blood, making him swell with desire, wild with the anticipation of possession.

He reached for the gap in her pantaloons, unerringly finding the source of her heat. Gently, he touched, stroked, pressed. She responded, pushing against his hand. He pushed her legs apart, revealing all the glory of her soft curls, her creamy white thighs, her wet centre.

Serena felt the heat of his mouth, a gentle breath on her thighs. She tightened, her body a bow stretched taut to breaking point. He was licking. The slow sweep of his tongue made her gasp. He licked again, teasing her, circling around the rough edges of desire, homing in, then out again, stroking her with his fingers, pushing her back when she arched against his mouth, his determined control of her frustrating and stimulating at the same time.

Lost, lost, lost. Serena moaned and pushed and twisted against him, wet with need, overcome with wanting. Still the licking teased, brought her to the edge, withdrew, driving her into a frenzy, making her feel as if she teetered on the brink of some huge chasm, wanting Nicholas to push her, wanting to jump, unable to do so without him. She was terrified he would not make her.

Make me, Nicholas, she wanted to say, though she didn’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. Please. He heard her. Did he hear her? Heat erupted suddenly, ripped through her, and she shattered, her whole body pulsing outwards from the centre of her climax, mindless, falling, whirling, lost. Her hands clenched on the straw at her sides, her heels dug into the bales supporting her, and she moaned over and over in a rhythm of her own, shaking, hot, trembling, wet.

Nicholas raised himself up, bending to kiss her. Serena reached up to pull him close, her mouth hot on his, kissing him back passionately, wild with the need to taste him, to make him feel what she was feeling, to take him to the place where she was.

He breathed hard against her, struggling with the fastenings of his breeches, desperate now to finish what they had begun. The final button on his buckskins gave way, and at last he was free from constraint. He took her hand, placing it on his erection, closing his eyes in pleasure at the feel of her butterfly touch fluttering over him. He was so highly sensitised he could almost feel the ridges and swirls of her fingertips.

Serena looked in awe at the thick jutting length of him. So strange. She could feel the pulse of his blood. She could feel the tension in him etched into every muscle. Here, here was where the centre of all that power was. He took her hand and wrapped it around his hardness. She watched his response with a mounting sense of excitement as she touched him carefully, stroking him, cupping him, watching him, learning from the way he moved, throbbed, moaned under her caresses. Something fierce clutched at her insides. Something powerful and horribly addictive. She ran her thumb over his silky smooth tip. She thought she’d done something wrong. Then she saw from his face that she hadn’t.

With a low husky growl Nicholas pushed her back against the hay. As he stood over her, made ready to plunge into her wet, honeyed centre, he became dimly aware of an insistent noise. The door to the barn was being rattled fiercely. He stilled, unable to believe his ears. Not now. Please God, not now.

‘Who’s in there? Is that you, Master Nicholas?’

Nicholas swore furiously. Tearing his eyes from the vision in front of him, he quickly fastened his breeches, carelessly thrusting the ends of his shirt into them. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered to Serena, making swiftly for the door, slipping outside before Farmer Jeffries could glimpse the scene inside.

‘I thought I recognised Titus,’ the farmer said. ‘Is there anything wrong, Master Nicholas? Only, after the shot, I came out to check things over for myself, and found your horses tied up.’

‘The rain,’Nicholas said, running a hand through his dishevelled locks. ‘We were sheltering from the rain.’

The farmer looked as if he were about to say something, but to Nicholas’s relief he contented himself with a nod. ‘Just as you say, Master Nicholas. I’ll keep an eye out for that poacher. Good day to you.’

‘Good day, Jeffries.’

Nicholas returned to the barn. Serena was huddled on the hay, struggling with the buttons of her jacket. Her skin was flushed, her lips raw and swollen. ‘You look quite delectable. Here, let me help you.’He pulled a piece of straw from her hair.

She blushed fiery red, getting to her feet, studiously avoiding his eyes as she brushed out her skirts. ‘I should go.’

Nicholas studied her as she adjusted the lace at her neck and pinned the little hat, its feather still drooping with rain, rather lopsidedly back in place. A few moments ago she had been like molten heat in his arms. Now she was simply embarrassed. The horrible suspicion that he had completely mistaken her could not be ignored. He looked around him at the draughty barn, the forlorn bales of hay, and abandoned any idea of continuing where they had left off. What had he been thinking!

He picked up his hat and riding crop. ‘You’re quite right, you should go home. We’ll finish this tomorrow, when we can be sure of no interruptions.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Serena gave a rather forlorn smile. ‘Yes, we’ll finish this tomorrow.’

He was perturbed by her tone. ‘I’ll see you home. We’ll ride to your lodgings, I can lead Belle back.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Come on, before the rain starts again.’ He threw her efficiently into the saddle and they cantered back to the village in silence. As she handed him Belle’s reins, the rain began again in earnest.

Serena opened the door of her rooms on her return to find an empty grate and a note from Madame LeClerc informing her that the modiste had accepted a ride to London with their landlady’s son. Crumpling the letter and hurling it into the grate, Serena cursed shockingly fluently in Madame’s native language. Her own journey to London would now have to be undertaken alone. Unless Nicholas escorted her. Serena sighed. She doubted very much he’d be inclined to do so after tomorrow.

She lay awake for most of that night, deeply troubled by the day’s events. The feelings that Nicholas’s love-making had aroused in her were frightening in their intensity. Despite her lack of experience, she knew it was more than mere physical attraction—at least on her part. She was out of her depth, in danger of drowning in the heady potion of desire, attraction and affinity that made up their relationship. In her heart of hearts she knew what she felt for Nicholas was not the fleeting fancy of a spring idyll. If the farmer had not interrupted them, she would have lost more than her innocence. She would have lost her heart.

As a grey dawn crept through the folds of the heavy curtains, Serena forced herself to acknowledge the inevitable. The time had come for her to fold her cards. Any notion she had of returning to Knightswood Hall and finishing what they had started yesterday was foolish beyond belief. Casting all chances of future happiness with someone else to the winds for the sake of a few hours’ idle pleasure would be madness. No matter how much she might yearn for it. No matter how right it felt. Madness.

She tried very hard to picture that someone else of her future, but he stubbornly refused to resemble anyone other than Nicholas. Her country house always turned into Knightswood Hall. Her children all had dark hair and slate-grey eyes. It was useless.

Perhaps she would have more success when this was over. Perhaps, after all, immersing herself in the balls and parties of the London Season would be a wise next step. Not towards matrimony, but away from danger. At least it would give her something to occupy her mind other than what might have been. What now would never be, she thought morosely. For Nicholas would not, in any case, be interested in her once she told him the truth. She had come close today to making him break his own rules, though he did not yet know it. Nicholas Lytton was not a man who would take kindly to that sort of betrayal. A lonely tear tracked down her cheek. Whichever way she looked at it, she dreaded the coming interview. However she tried to imagine it, right now, at this moment, her future seemed bleak.

Nicholas did not sleep much either. Tossing and turning in his tangled sheets, he cursed his over-vigilant tenant. The image of Serena spread out on the hay occupied his mind with tortuous clarity. He had never felt so desirous of a union of the flesh in his life. He had never felt so frustrated in his life. He groaned, turning over again in a vain attempt to find a cool spot in the rumpled bed. Tomorrow. If he did not have her tomorrow, he would go insane.

He was rudely awoken in the morning by a brisk rap on his bedroom door, which most certainly did not emanate from his considerate valet.

‘Nick, you dog, get up.’ Standing in the doorway was Charles, Lord Avesbury, a notable Corinthian and Nicholas’s best friend. Closing the door behind him, he strode over to pull back the window hangings before sitting himself on a chair by the dressing table.

Nicholas sat up in bed. ‘Lord, you must have made an early start. What the devil brings you here? Not, you understand, that I’m not delighted to see you, but your timing is appalling.’

‘I was staying with the Cheadles,’ Charles replied. ‘It’s not more than fifteen miles away. There was talk of a picnic or some such nonsense today, so I thought I’d make my escape for a few hours.’

‘I see. Lady Cheadle still hopeful, is she?’

‘It’s my mother’s fault. She and Lady Cheadle are bosom buddies. She will have it that it’s the dearest wish of her heart to see me leg-shackled to her friend’s eldest daughter.’

‘And you, Charles? Is it the dearest wish of your heart, to wed Penelope Cheadle?’

‘Steady on, Nick, I wouldn’t put it that strongly. I’m getting on though, about time I was setting up my nursery. I’m turned thirty.’

Nicholas stretched up to tug the bell for his valet. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Charles. Rather you than me. I’m going to get dressed. Go down to the breakfast parlour, Hughes will bring you some coffee. I’ll join you shortly, then you can tell me all the news.’

‘Not much to tell. Truth is Nick, you’re mostly the news at the moment.’

‘Don’t tell me my duelling opponent has inconveniently died?’

‘No need to worry on that score, he’s making an excellent recovery. You may come back to London whenever you’re ready. No, it’s not the duel. Get dressed, we can talk over breakfast. I’ll be dammed if I’ll sit here with you when you’re not even wearing a nightshirt.’ Refusing to be drawn any further, Charles retired downstairs.

Chapter Five

Nicholas did not tarry over his toilette, joining his friend in the breakfast parlour some twenty minutes later. Charles was gazing out of the window where a long line of men were scything the lawn. He was a good-looking man, famed for the perfect cut of his coats, which he had always from Weston, and the intricacy of his cravats, which he always tied himself. He was neither as tall nor as well built as Nicholas, but he had a leg shapely enough to look well in the tight pantaloons and tasselled Hessians he wore—from Holby, naturally—and his amiable countenance showed surprisingly few signs of wear despite his solid membership of the hard-drinking, hard-playing Corinthian set.

As Nicholas entered the room, Charles raised his quizzing glass. ‘I’m not sure I like the way you’ve tied your cravat. These country ways are making you lax. Time you were back in town.’

Nicholas laughed, sitting at the table to carve some ham. ‘I was never so fastidious as you, Charles. Tell me, for I’m on tenterhooks, what on earth can have made me the talk of the ton.’

‘Hear you gave Diana Masterton her congé.’

‘Yes, she was becoming tedious in her demands, I told Frances Eldon to pay her off. Don’t tell me that’s it?’

‘No, of course not. At least…’ Charles took a sip of coffee. ‘Bumped into your cousin Jasper at White’s the other day. Asked me if I knew aught about the Cyprian who’s keeping you company here. Wondered if she was the reason you’d rid yourself of the fair Diana. Needless to say I couldn’t tell him anything, except that I doubted the truth of the rumour, since you’re always so careful to keep your fancy pieces at a safe distance.’

Nicholas paused in the act of cutting into the slice of ham on his plate, frowning at his friend. ‘She’s not a fancy piece.’

‘What!’ Charles exclaimed, startled into spilling his coffee. ‘You mean to tell me it’s true, there’s a woman here? Come on, Nick, that’s not your style. What are you thinking of?’