The Passionate Love of a Rake

“The Dowager Duchess of Sutton’s cloak.” His voice echoed in the space about them. One footman disappeared. “And send for my carriage. Oh, and once we have left, please tell Lady Rimes the Duchess has gone.” Robert smiled, telling the man their reason for leaving.

When the footman returned, he held up her cloak, but Robert claimed it and put it on for her, stealing the opportunity to brush the skin at her nape and across her neckline from the back of her gown over her shoulders.

She shivered, and he saw her fingers tremble as she tied it.

It was pleasing to know he could discompose her. In fact, the thought sent his blood thrumming in his veins and a weight into his groin.

How would it feel if she shivered from his touch and his kiss when they lay naked?

The muffled sound of his carriage drawing up outside penetrated the door and his thoughts. A footman opened it and stepped back. Robert splayed his hand across her back again and felt her muscles tighten further. Her head was high and her back straight, apparently ignoring the footman’s speculation.

James, Robert’s groom, stood before them, holding the carriage door open. The step was already lowered.

Robert nodded up at his driver, Parkin, before taking Jane’s hand and helping her ascend. Once she was inside, Robert turned and whispered instructions to James, then followed her in, climbing the step and ducking inside.

He neither lit the internal lamp nor drew the blinds. Instead, he let the gas lamps in the street give them a little light, but there were not many, and the carriage was frequently thrown from light into shadow as it rolled forward.

She’d taken a seat in the opposite corner, her back still stiff, her fingers clasped on her lap, and her eyes turning to the view from the far window.

He did not break the silence, but leaned against the window beside him, propping his shoulder against the pane of glass, his elbow resting on the narrow sill and his chin on his fist. He lifted one foot to the seat on the far side, leaving his knee bent. But he did not look out the window; he looked at Jane.

Lord, she was beautiful. At times, he’d thought her beauty embroidered from his patchy memories, as much of a fiction as her personality had been. Yet she was sitting before him now – it had never been a fabrication.

He’d spent his entire life since Jane honouring the beauty of women, learning to appreciate their every form, and Jane was the pattern card he judged them all by. But when he’d appreciated a woman’s body and compared it to Jane’s, it had only ever been an imagined view. He’d never seen her naked, never touched her beyond a superficial fondle. She’d been innocent, so had he, and he’d treasured it then, and treasured her.

Now, though? Now, they were experienced, mature players of the game. Now, he would know if she was all he’d dreamt.

The thought was disarming. In a way, he almost did not wish to know. He did not want his blissful illusion shattered. No, he’d loved a fictional Jane, and perhaps he had idolised a fictional Jane all through these empty years, too. Did he really want to know the truth?

She neither moved nor spoke, her eyes on the street, but he was certain she was not looking at anything in particular, just away from him.

He remained silent, too. He was in no mood to be conciliatory or ease her path.

If she’d been his intended companion, Lady Baxter, he would have had the woman pressed down upon the seat by now and his hands up her skirt.

A smile pulled at his lips. Sometimes he did not even get a woman as far as Bloomsbury Square before he had taken what he wished and set her down.

But with Jane, he required more than that. He intended to savour each moment, to learn every inch of her body and consign it to memory. It would take hours of slow appreciation to satisfy the thirst which had been in his blood for years.

His mind began crafting images, the ideas, the method of her seduction, and the achievement of their completion. Oh yes, he intended to enjoy this, and he intended to enjoy it in the comfort of a bed, unrestrained by time or space. The weight in his groin grew denser merely at the thought of touching her.

His impatience beginning to build, he reached up and tapped the carriage roof twice, ordering Parkin to stir up the horses.

Chapter Three

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?