Lady and the Rake Read online

  She did not breathe until he stilled.

  But so far, everything was going as planned. The counterpane had not been drawn down on this side. She was exactly where she needed to be.

  If only the bed was not so very high up.

  But she had expected it to be. Penelope had even had her practice climbing into her own without the steps.

  Inch by careful inch, she drew the heavy cover downward until it was out of her way. That completed, she waited for another shiver to pass before summoning her courage for this next step.

  She placed one foot up and onto the mattress and then had to count herself down to three twice before practically vaulting onto the bed.

  Although her heart raced, she didn’t allow herself to breathe heavily but instead lay silently, fearing that her gymnastic leap had awakened him.

  He shifted slightly, but his breathing continued.

  Even, heavy, and reassuring.

  And then it hit her. She’d forgotten to remove her night rail first.

  Eyes opened, she stared at what would have been the ceiling if not for the darkness. She would make a horrible spy, after all, in that she’d forgotten something Penelope had considered to be imperative.

  She was pleased and surprised with herself, however, in that she had accomplished the feat of entering his room and actually climbing into his bed. She’d doubted her ability to make it this far.

  Committed to her task but mortified by this next step, she squeezed her eyes shut, gathered the lower half of her night rail, and then maneuvered it up and past her bum.

  Cool air hit her legs and reminded her that even with the gown covering her top half, she was quite uncovered and most scandalously… exposed.

  She hastily slid her feet and legs beneath the counterpane and then lay silent until she was certain her movements hadn’t awakened him. She wasn’t quite ready for that.

  The sound of deep, even breathing reassured her.

  Slowly and methodically, she extracted her arms from the sleeves of her gown and then slid the cotton material over her head.

  She could still change her mind. It was not yet too late. She could drop off the side of the bed, don her gown once again, and, if necessary, crawl on all fours out of the room.

  But if she did something so cowardly, she might also regret it for the rest of her life.

  She held her gown over the edge of the mattress and, taking a deep breath, allowed it to drop to the floor.

  Indeed, sneaking into his room was utterly improper, but George was her fiancé.

  It was not as though she was trying to trap the man, for heaven’s sake. He had already asked her to marry him. This was simply a matter of putting one’s cart before one’s horses so that one could assure herself that the horses, could in fact… er… gallop?

  He should not be shocked or even scandalized to awaken to discover that she’d climbed into his bed. She wasn’t some debutante trapping a helpless man, she reminded herself again. She was a grown woman—a widow, attempting to seduce her intended.

  Hardly scandalous at all, really.

  Not at all.

  Her breath hitched.

  She could not help but remember the last time she and her husband had made love. Lawrence had already been weakening but he’d not completely taken to his bed yet. He hadn’t been able to hold himself above her. They had switched their position so that she was on top. He’d felt fragile beneath her.

  Mr. Kirkley was a larger man than her husband had ever been, even before he had taken ill. Her intended was tall but also brawny and managed to appear quite vigorous.

  She inched herself in his direction, and then halted, inched and then halted, over and over again until she was not quite touching him. Her breath fluttered when she was close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin onto the bedclothes around him.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  In one determined motion, Margaret jumped off the cliff and pressed herself against him. He was not wearing a nightshirt. Oh, my.

  Oh, my!

  He was as naked as she was. He wasn’t as hairy as she’d imagined. His skin was taut and silky… Despite all the fears she had, she couldn’t help but relish this physical touch. It was as comforting as it was arousing.

  And it felt…

  Wonderful.

  “Ummm…” he murmured and kissed the top of her head. “I thought you would make me wait, tease me a few days longer.”

  He was not disappointed. Relief swept through her.

  She slid her arms around his waist. Smoother than she expected, although tufts of hair on his chest and… lower… sent the most delightful sensations running through her.

  “You are not upset? That I have come to you?” she whispered against his chest. She had not expected her reaction to his male hardness to be so powerful.

  “I haven’t the discipline to turn down one as sweet as you.” His lips trailed from the top of her head to behind her ear. “You are soft. And warm. Does it feel as though I am upset?” He pressed himself against her.

  She did not have to ask what he meant. She would most definitely not be forced to use her hands to ensure his enthusiasm.

  Her own body might as well be singing and her mind—which had only hoped that he would consent to her seduction—rejoiced. Not only did it seem like he would consent, but, she noted as one of his hands trailed along her hip, he was doing so quite enthusiastically!

  He worked his mouth away from her jaw to the corner of her mouth. “Such a lovely surprise.” His tongue slipped past her lips.

  This kiss was nothing like the one he’d given her after she’d accepted his proposal. It sent heat spiraling to her breasts and between her legs.

  Lawrence had only allowed her to kiss him with an open mouth on a few occasions.

  George had never even hinted that such intimacy could be possible between them.

  Margaret’s tongue swirled inside of his mouth of its own volition. He tasted of mint. He tasted healthy and clean and masculine and…

  She strained even closer, resisting a most ridiculous sudden urge to cry.

  This was what she’d imagined lovemaking would be. She’d loved her marriage bed with Lawrence, and she felt guilty for making a comparison. But it had not been quite like this. Rarely in her life had she ever experienced such mutual desire. Already, over the course of just a few minutes, she felt wanted, cherished, sensual.

  A warm, knowing hand explored her skin.

  When his palm covered her breast, she gasped against his mouth. When his fingers and thumb massaged her and then squeezed the tip, her gasp turned into a small cry.

  All along, the pressure of his member—of his cock, dear God—ensured her that this hunger building between them would be satisfied.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured when his mouth abandoned hers. The stubble of his whiskers scratched her jaw and neck as he tasted his way lower.

  Her fingers threaded the strands of his hair and gripped his head. So gloriously soft and springy—not at all as she’d believed it would be.

  She arched her back when the hot, wet, heat of his mouth replaced his hand on one of her nipples. Dear God! She’d never known such a sensation, such excitement and delicious anticipation.

  One of his palms slid beneath her, squeezing her buttocks; the other moved to cover her other breast. At this point, Margaret began to lose all intelligible thought.

  Offering an invitation as old as time, she dropped her knees wide so that he could settle atop her. Legs, strong and thick and hard, kneeled between her own.

  And then his mouth abandoned her breasts, and his tongue trailed down sensitive skin to her navel. Dipping inside of it.

  Her fingers tangled in his hair and rather than arch her back, she found herself thrusting her hips off the mattress, his hand assisting her.

  The heat of his mouth abandoned her navel and dipped lower, whiskers scratching, tongue drawing a lazy line to the patch of hair at her apex,
and then lower. He inhaled greedily and then turned his head from side to side, scraping his jaw along her inner thighs. His fingertips stroked at her most intimate flesh.

  “George!” she cried out.

  He stilled. To tease her? To torment her? “Oh, my God, George. Don’t stop.” She wiggled to encourage him.

  But he halted his sensual onslaught. After a moment, he drew back, and then, most disappointingly, pulled away, leaving her cold when the night air replaced his touch.

  “George?” she said again, hesitantly this time. Was it possible her enthusiasm repelled him? But that did not make sense. He’d seemed to be enjoying all of it as much as she had.

  The mattress groaned.

  “Where the hell is a Godforsaken flint?” he groused.

  Margaret froze. George never swore. In fact, he’d criticized those who did on more than one occasion.

  Sudden awareness of this man’s smooth skin, his soft hair, and now the difference in his voice sent the truth of what she’d done slamming into her.

  “George… It is you, isn’t it?” Oh, dear God. Oh, dear God.

  “George Kirkley is my uncle. Are you not the little maid who flirted with me earlier? The redhead?”

  Oh, but she ought to have realized. His skin was not that of an older gentleman but of a youthful one, sinewy and not yet weathered from decades of living. And his taste.

  She ought to have known! In horror, Margaret rolled to the opposite side of the bed where she’d dropped her gown moments ago… minutes? Seconds? Hours? Oh, dear God! Oh, dear God!

  Searching for the opening and then the armholes, she hastily scrambled to cover herself before he could locate a flint and illuminate their… situation.

  The sound of drapes opening coincided with a slash of moonlight cutting across the room.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, moonlight reflecting off his silver eyes.

  But Margaret was not about to linger for any such interrogation or conversation. Seeing the outline of the door, she burst to her feet and sprung for her escape.

  Once in the corridor, she wasted no time. Fearing he would come after her, as though she was a burglar or spy after all, she didn’t even take the time to look backward.

  She would make for a dismal spy indeed! She nearly laughed hysterically at the thought.

  She’d seduced the wrong man!

  The wrong man! She swallowed hard as she rounded the corner to safety.

  Thank heavens she was familiar with her surroundings. In a matter of seconds, she had arrived at her own chamber, entered, and locked the door behind her.

  She could hardly comprehend the error she’d made. And then she frowned. She had gone to the precise chamber Penelope had told her belonged to George. She was certain of it.

  Penelope had been mistaken! Margaret would take her sister-in-law to task in the morning for making such an egregious error, but for tonight, she could hardly comprehend the magnitude of what she’d nearly done.

  And not with just anyone but with her fiancé’s nephew!

  Oh, dear God! She chastised herself again and again. She deserved this for allowing herself to attempt such a selfish errand.

  At the same time, her traitorous body throbbed with the wicked need he’d awakened. She touched her fingertips to her lips. They were swollen. Her breasts ached and an emptiness at her core beseeched her to be touched.

  “Oh, Lawrence! What have I done?”

  3

  A Late Arrival

  By the time Sebastian Wright, Marquess of Rockingham, was able to step into his trousers and stumble to the door to peer outside, his late-night visitor was long gone. In frustration and disbelief, he scrubbed one hand down his face.

  “Lucky, lucky Uncle George.” He chuckled as he closed the door, brows raised.

  Just over one week ago, in London, his mother had informed him that her only brother, dear old Uncle George, was finally going to take a wife. She’d announced that Sebastian’s uncle, who’d sworn never to marry, had absented himself from Mayfair a few weeks ago in order to make an offer to Viscount Danbury’s widowed sister, Lady Asherton. He’d traveled to the far ends of England, in fact, to do so.

  And now Sebastian had, as well. Because dear old Uncle George had forgotten to take with him a most vital necessity: a ring.

  “You will take it to him, won’t you, Sebastian?” The priceless heirloom had been set aside by his mother’s family for the second son to gift his intended. “The house party promises to be most enjoyable, and it’s not as though you have anything better to do with your time.”

  “George wants to marry?” Sebastian could hardly believe it. His uncle had never shown any inclination whatsoever to take on a leg shackle. “He has fallen in love with the woman?” It could be the only explanation.

  “At his age, why else would he break his vow of bachelorhood?” His mother had shrugged. “But now that he has, he really must do it properly. George is a very handsome man and of an excellent lineage, but the lady is a countess and the ring might help him to persuade her if she is wavering. It would make me so very happy to see my brother settle down and be happy—perhaps even begin a family.”

  She’d exerted the most powerful item in her arsenal upon Sebastian—motherly guilt. Something Sebastian nearly always succumbed to.

  “George must have the ring to present to her, and there is no one else who can be trusted with something so valuable,” she’d implored him. “Please, darling?”

  He was quite certain that she had other reasons for sending him to the ends of the earth. The Duchess of Standish wished to remove her eldest son from the clutches of one Miss Celeste Blanchette, the opera singer who’d caught his eye this month. And, of course, she’d been successful. Because her eldest was a good son, a loyal son.

  Padding barefooted across the floor, Sebastian adjusted himself and winced. Celeste would have come in handy in this moment. Her mouth was not only gifted for song…

  Could the woman who’d bolted from his bed be his uncle’s widow? Surely not!

  Sebastian rubbed his chin. If she wasn’t the widow, then who, exactly, was she?

  With a regretful sigh, he located the flint that had eluded him earlier and lit a few candles. A glance at the bed assured him he had not dreamt the unusually erotic encounter that had left him unsatisfied. The counterpane lay wrinkled at the foot of the bed and both pillows were quite disturbed.

  He rubbed his fingers together and then held them up to his lips. She’d left a flowery, musky aroma that did nothing to quiet his awakened libido—dashed uncomfortable.

  Was it lavender?

  She could not have been the widow.

  If she was not, that meant that Uncle George was not in love and was not planning to abandon his wicked ways. The man had nerve, that was for certain—attending a house party with his fiancée while also seeking out a dalliance.

  In his fiancée’s brother’s house, no less.

  He shook his head.

  Sebastian removed his trousers before extinguishing the flame, drawing up the counterpane, and climbing back into bed. Of course, she’d thought it was George’s room. Upon arriving, his uncle had taken one look at the elegant chamber Lady Danbury had allotted Sebastian and promptly complained about the direction the windows faced in his own. Would his dearest nephew mind changing with him?

  Sebastian couldn’t help chuckling that his uncle had indeed missed out for his want of a larger chamber. Ultimately, Sebastian would miss out as well. He’d halted their lovemaking too soon, or not soon enough, depending upon how he chose to look at it.

  Sebastian plumped his pillow and then adjusted himself a second time. Damn, but he’d come so close to indulging in his favorite feast in the world. The scent on the pillow reminded him of silken hair beneath his hands, luxurious and inviting.

  As he’d trailed his mouth down her body, he’d savored the anticipation of tasting her… all of her. Lavender, yes, it had been lavender, and he inhaled again, the swee
t aroma of woman. Her mouth had been soft, as had been her hands and the skin between her thighs. Gripping himself and then sliding his hand up and down, he intentionally recalled the feel of her flesh and the texture of curling hairs where he’d buried his face.

  Was it possible she was Uncle George’s widow and had intended to join her betrothed for an impulsive premarital night of lovemaking?

  No, she’d asked him if he was upset that she’d come. Definitely not the widow. Furthermore, Sebastian considered it highly unlikely that a proper lady, one his uncle was willing to marry, no less, would be so very… enthusiastic about mouth play.

  He licked his lips.

  The woman who had climbed into his bed had wanted what he’d been going to give her. She’d been needy, moaning—and wet—so damn wet.

  Definitely not the widow.

  Someone else. Not a servant. Perhaps a companion, or a governess.

  Sebastian’s mother had gone out of her way to point out that several pretty young ladies would be in attendance at this house party—despite the exorbitant travel distance required to attend.

  A more likely possibility was that one of the married ones had found herself bored with her husband and Uncle George had made it known he was willing to provide her with nocturnal entertainment.

  Thoughts of his mother and his uncle and some old lord’s unsatisfied wife chased Sebastian’s hands out from beneath the covers.

  There was no way he could ask Uncle George who she was. “Say, Uncle, was it your fiancée or your mistress who climbed into my bed last night?”

  He chuckled to himself.

  Perhaps it would become obvious over the next few days. Perhaps the widow would sit quietly amongst the dowagers while the mistress made eyes in George’s direction.

  Sebastian rolled over and shoved thoughts of tonight’s encounter from his mind. He’d traveled a great distance this week and was now content to have a well-deserved rest.

  A shame though.

  Sleep usually came much easier after a vigorous bout of lovemaking.