A Good Debutante's Guide to Ruin (16 page)

 

Chapter 20

A
unt Peregrine filled the carriage with her chatter on the ride home. She recounted every waltz Rosalie danced with particular relish. “That first dance with you, Declan-­dearest, truly set the proper tone.” She patted his hand where it rested on his knee. “Well done, nephew, well done.”

He grunted a response. Now, he supposed, was not the time to confess that he had thought very little about prospective suitors when he swept Rosalie into his arms. It had simply been a valid reason to hold her. To touch her again. He hadn't thought at all. Need had guided him.

“I even saw you dancing this evening, Aurelia. With Lord Needleton and Lord Denton.” Aunt Peregrine bobbed her turbaned head with happy approval. “An all around good evening, I must say. I count it a resounding success. Perhaps we shall have two matches to announce before the Season ends.” She brought her hands together in a single clap. “Won't that be simply brilliant?”

Aurelia snorted softly. Rosalie's gaze flicked to him. Upon seeing him staring back at her, she quickly averted her gaze. She'd been skittish as a colt with him all evening, and he'd supposed that was understandable. He knew her secret. More than that. He knew her taste. It was imprinted on him. He wondered if she thought about everything they had done as much as he did. It was a problem. He could not stop thinking about her. And he wasn't thinking about her in the manner one thought of a stepsister. He saw her as a woman. A woman he wanted in his bed.

Aunt Peregrine's voice grated on his ears, droning on and on about the merits of a country wedding versus one here in Town. After seeing her tonight with the Fanning fellow, the prospect of Rosalie's marriage to another man felt like a very real and impending thing. A sour taste coated his mouth at the thought of Rosalie in another man's bed . . . of another man kissing her, tasting her, parting her thighs—­

“Declan-­dearest? You look unwell. Is something amiss?”

He snapped his attention back to his aunt. She stared at him worriedly, her forehead creased. His cousin watched him, too. Even Rosalie had lifted her gaze. Her warm topaz eyes looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

His gaze dropped down to his hands clasped tightly on his knees. He loosened his death grip and tried to relax his features. Unclenching his jaw, he replied, “Not at all.”

Aunt Peregrine looked from him to his hands and then back up to his face. There was mild skepticism in her eyes, and that surprised him. For the first time that he could recollect, his aunt looked somewhat cognizant. As though she might not only know he wasn't well, but she might know why. He held her gaze, swallowing against the uncomfortable knot in his throat. She slid her gaze to Rosalie before looking back at him again, arching one eyebrow.

“We're here,” Aurelia declared unnecessarily as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his home.

He descended first and then turned to assist each lady down, making certain his hands did not linger overly long on Rosalie.

“Well, I am exhausted,” Aunt Peregrine declared as they entered the foyer.

“Me, too.” Aurelia was already heading up the stairs ahead of them, working the pins free from her hair. “Don't look for me until the afternoon.”

Aunt Peregrine grinned. “I echo that sentiment.”

Rosalie sent him a hesitant smile. He waved for her to precede him. Lifting her skirts, she ascended the stairs after his aunt and cousin. He followed, the sway of her hips beneath her skirts mesmerizing him. His hands opened and closed at his sides, the memory of her filling his palms still present and alive for him. He'd never forget. Never stop wanting her.

Cursing beneath his breath, he walked a straight line for his room, murmuring a terse good-­night as he passed her.

At his door, he looked sideways, his gaze colliding with hers.

“Good night, Declan,” she said so softly he scarcely heard her, but he read her lips. She slowly turned the latch to her door, smiling ruefully at him. That smile felt a little sad, too. A little like farewell.

His chest tightened almost painfully as he watched her disappear inside her bedchamber.

He paused in front of his door, listening for a moment to her voice and the voice of her maid. Shaking his head, he strode into his chamber, shooing his valet away and undressing himself. Climbing into bed, he folded his hands behind his head and stared into the dark, working on convincing himself that these feelings would dissipate once she was out from under his roof. Once she was married to another man. He'd stop caring. He'd learn to forget. Time. Distance. It would cure all.

R
osalie laid wide-­awake a good hour after she dismissed her maid for the night. The evening had been agonizing. Dancing with Dec was the one bright light, but from there it had been merely banal conversation with gentlemen more interested in her dowry and the Duke of Banbury than her.

She rolled to her side, smiling weakly and tucking her hand beneath her cheek. She supposed she understood at least part of that. She was more interested in her stepbrother, too. A silly giggle escaped her in the dark. Dec clearly occupied the majority of her thoughts. Her foolish grin slid away as she wondered if it would always be that way. When she was married and old with grandchildren, would she still be full of thoughts for him? She rubbed her hands over her face. How had her life become such a mess? What happened to her days in Yorkshire? Reading to the younger students? Picking flowers on the moors in spring? Sharing a room with Rachel, who snored whenever she drank tea right before bed?

Two raps on her door broke the silence of her chamber. She sat up in bed. The low burning fire in the hearth cast the room in a warm glow. She didn't move for a long moment, staring in silence at her door. Perhaps Aurelia didn't go straight to bed after all and wanted to talk. Hopefully, she didn't want another go at Sodom's.

She pushed back the counterpane and started for the door, stopping when it swung open. Dec stood there, shirtless, wearing only his breeches. Her heart jumped to her throat as she devoured the sight of him. The hard chest. The stomach chiseled and defined. Her entire body tingled and came alive at his presence, at his nearness.

Still watching her, he entered the room, turned slightly and closed the door. She heard the faint click of the lock and her stomach dipped.

He took several strides toward her and then stopped. A few feet separated them but neither spoke. His gaze swept her once before fastening on her face. Her pulse rushed in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn't manage to get out any of the words tripping through her head.

Why are you here
?

What do you want
?

He took one more step and stopped again, his bare chest lifting on a great inhalation, and she knew. There was only one thing that would bring him to her chamber in the middle of the night.

She released a breath of her own. This would be the time to demand that he leave. If she had any sense of modesty or self-­preservation at all, she would point to the door. She wasn't certain who moved next. They came together in one motion, mouths colliding in a hungry kiss. He swept her up, lifting her off the floor. Her toes grazed the carpet as he walked her backward to the bed, one strong arm hard around her waist, his other hand cupping her cheek, their lips never breaking contact.

Her hands curved around his shoulders, his back, smoothing over the firm skin, reveling in the play of muscle and sinew rippling under her palms.

Despite the intensity of their collision, he eased her down gently into the soft bed. His body was hard over hers. His weight slipped between her thighs, her nightgown billowing all around her, loose and insubstantial. No barrier at all.

His mouth consumed her. And his hands. His hands roamed everywhere. Her face. Her throat. She moaned as he kneaded her breasts through her nightgown.

She broke their kiss on a gasp as he yanked her nightgown down, exposing a breast so he could dip his head and take her nipple in his mouth. She sputtered inarticulate sounds, words that might not have been words at all. There was no thought. Just sensation. Just the wet heat of his mouth as he drew her nipple deep, as his teeth scraped the sensitive point and had her fisting his hair with a choked cry.

He came back up, his face hovering over hers, the angles and hollows more pronounced in the shadows, making him appear even more attractive, if possible. “I'm not fighting this anymore.”

She nodded, understanding, relieved.
Glad
. That was the only description for it. It had been a fight, a struggle, from the very beginning. From the first night she arrived here she'd been at war with herself, running toward and away from Dec. And now the fight was over.

She touched his face with a shaky hand, tracing the rough scrape of his jawline.

“I may regret this tomorrow. You most assuredly will, but I need to hear you say that you want this.” His eyes drilled into her. Everything seemed to slow and pause as he waited for her to answer.

She brought her hand back up his cheek, her fingers roaming over his strong features. “I want you.”

The words were out, but he still hesitated, letting her touch his face, the delicious weight of him bearing her down. He stared like he was memorizing her, and everything inside her swelled with emotion. Without any more words, he simply let her hold his face, watching her watch him.

“I won't regret this tomorrow,” she murmured as she traced his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth.

He smiled, slow and heart-­stoppingly beautiful. Flutters erupted in her belly. “You can't know that right now.”

“So you're changing your mind, then?”

His answer was his mouth on hers. His tongue teasing her lips open to tangle with her own. His fingers speared through her hair, pinning her head for his ravaging lips. She squirmed under him, her hips working, thrusting, seeking instinctively an end to this. To the hunger, to the ache. And she felt his desire, too. His hardness was there, pressing between them, prodding through the bunched fabric of her nightgown. She longed for him . . . felt the ache in her very teeth.

His hand arrived there, too, pushing the fabric up to her hips. He pulled back slightly and she mewled her disappointment but devoured the sight of him as he stripped his breeches. Perhaps the enormity of what was about to happen should have struck her then. When he loomed over her stark-­naked, that part of him large and so very erect. And yet as he came at her slowly on all fours, she felt only heady anticipation.

His fingers curled around the nightgown bunched at her waist. His gaze didn't break with hers as he yanked it up and over her head. And then they were both naked. As never before. Her breathing fell ragged then. He swept her with a hot look. “You're beautiful.”

A happy flush spread through her.

When his body came over her again it was different. Skin-­to-­skin, no part of them was shielded. His mouth found hers, kissing her until she was wound tighter than a coil, arching and straining against him. His hips nudged her thighs, spreading her wider. She obliged, too eager to harbor any fears.

His fingers found her, skimming up her thighs and parting through her folds to the core of her. She jerked at this first touch. He'd touched there before but she was hardly accustomed to such a thing, and this was different. They were both fully unclothed. Tonight there was no going back.

“You're so wet. I can't wait.”

“Don't.” She arched, digging her nails into his back. “Don't wait.”

His hands left the core of her, and then he was there, his hardness nudging against her opening, parting her.

He braced his arms on either side of her head and bowed his neck until their foreheads touched. His breath gusted over her lips and mingled with her own.

His hands framed her face, fingers feathering against her hair. He eased in a little deeper, and she felt herself stretch, accommodating him even though he had yet to lodge himself fully. Still, it wasn't enough. She knew there had to be more.

“Please,” she begged, wiggling her hips and pushing up, trying to take him in deeper. Ready. Hungry for more.

“Rosalie, I don't want to hurt . . .”

She dragged her hands down his back. Grasping his tight buttocks in both hands, she hauled him to her. He groaned a sound that could have been her name and buried himself deep, fully seating himself inside her.

She arched against him with a cry. It was more discomfort than pain. The sensation, the fullness of him so deeply within her, overwhelming. He was large and pulsing inside her.

“Oh, oh, oh . . .” Her breath escaped in broken little spurts. She had never felt particularly small. Or fragile. But he made her feel like the daintiest of females. Normally she would not have liked feeling so vulnerable, but she knew somehow if she didn't, then this wouldn't be what it was.

“I'm sorry, Carrots . . . give yourself a moment to adjust,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can stop.”

Stop?
Impossible. She hadn't come this far to wait another moment. If there was more, she wanted it now.

She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her open mouth against his throat, biting down gently and then licking, loving the taste of him, the warm saltiness of his skin. He quivered under her mouth. “I don't want a moment.”

“Rosalie—­”

“
I
can't wait.” She worked her hips, managing to move a little. She moaned at the sudden friction that sent sensation arcing through her.

His fingers dove through her hair, palms cupping her head as he pulled almost all the way out and then drove back inside her.

Her head fell back on the bed. “Yes, yes.”

His hands slid from her hair. He tucked his forearms under her back and curled his hands around her shoulders, fingertips brushing her collarbone.