Forever Your Earl (24 page)

This kiss was filled with heat and intent. Blatantly carnal, the way his mouth took hers. And the press of his hips to her own revealed just how very aroused he was. His desire matched hers, and she rubbed against him, taking power and pleasure in their shared response. Deep in his chest, he growled. She responded with a low moan, her body aflame.

“I want you,” he rumbled. “Now.”

“Daniel—­”

He groaned, but stilled. “Stop?”

“I was going to ask how long it would take to summon your carriage.”

“Less than a minute.”

“Fetch it.”

He took a step away from her, and even with the minimal amount of light that reached them in the corner of the terrace, she saw the clear outline of his arousal in his breeches. Her heart thundered as the ache between her legs grew.

He shook his head, smiling wryly. “You're the only person to order me around like a servant.”

“But you obey,” she purred.

His eyelids lowered. “Willingly. Until it's my turn to give the orders.”

She raised a brow. “I don't take well to being told what to do.”

“Then we'll just have to fight it out.” He reached out a hand. “Come. I'm not letting you go until you're naked in my bed.”

Another wave of heat pounded through her at his words.

She laced her fingers with his. An echo of him leading her onto the dance floor. But that had all been a prelude to this moment. A steady, unstoppable building toward what they both desired.

“And
then
you'll let me go?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.” He tugged her close and kissed her again with an animal hunger. The polished, urbane earl was gone. He was a man of primal intent now.

“Hurry,” she whispered, pulling back. She didn't want to wait. Didn't want to think about the meaning of what she was about to do. All she wanted was this moment, and to hell with the consequences.

D
aniel always took pains to pay his staff well. He'd assumed that the better compensated servants were, the more likely they would be to do their jobs with utmost efficiency.

He wasn't wrong, and thank God for it. His carriage pulled up outside Marwood's house with gratifying speed, and the footman opened the door, permitting Daniel and Eleanor to enter. In less than a minute, they were en route to his home. Eleanor sat on one side of the carriage, Daniel on the other. Some of the pins had escaped her hair, and curls trailed down her back and framed her masked face. His own costume felt tight, restrictive.

“You're too far away,” Eleanor murmured, stroking the cushions of the seat beside her.

He curled his hands into fists. “Have to be.” His voice had never sounded deeper.

“Don't you want to kiss me again?” She gave him a wicked little smile. She'd always been a bold woman, but this boldness was new and had the power to raze him to the ground.

“Can't remember my own damn name,” he rasped, “I want to kiss you so badly. But if I start, I'm not going to be able to stop. Not until I make love to you. And I don't want our first time together to be in a carriage.” His fingers reflexively uncurled and curled, as if he could distract himself from reaching for her. “I've waited for this.”

“Have you?” Surprise was plain in her voice.

“You don't know the patience I've had to call upon.” Each moment in her presence before now had only whetted his appetite, drawing him tighter and tighter upon the bow of desire. “I want to take my time. All night. There's not an inch of you I'm going to neglect.”

Her smile faded and she looked wide-­eyed. “Oh.”

So they said nothing, not touching, for the duration of the journey back to his house. The air in the carriage seemed to glow with heat and expectation. By some incredible force of will, he managed to keep his hands to himself, but now he knew the feel of her even more, and his body had its demands.

They finally arrived, the coach pulling up outside the front steps.

“Not the mews this time?” she asked.

“No sneaking in,” he answered. “We go in the front door. Together.”

He stepped out of the carriage, then handed her down. She stood beside him and stared at his house, a look of wariness replacing the flirtation.

Frowning a little at her sudden caution, he led her inside, the butler and footmen bowing to him and Eleanor. He disposed of his hat, cape, and mask, and did the same with her cloak. Strangely, her fingers seemed slightly unsteady as she untied the ribbons of her own mask and presented them to the waiting butler.

She glanced at Daniel, then looked away, as if the sight of him without his disguise—­and the protection of hers—­was too intimate.

“Wine in the study,” Daniel directed the head servant.

“Yes, my lord.” The butler discreetly faded away.

Daniel's gaze remained fixed on Eleanor as she turned a slow circle in the vaulted entryway of his house. “It's much bigger inside than I'd anticipated,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Half the rooms aren't used, since it's only me.”

“I've never been in a nobleman's home before tonight. Marwood's and now yours. I've written about them, but never gone in. Strange to have the experience at last.”

“The houses are often drafty and cold,” he said. “Not very comfortable.”

“But designed to impress.”

“Are you impressed?” He asked this only half in jest.

She looked at him, finally. “The truth? You and me . . . we come from very different worlds. I always knew that. But seeing this”—­she waved at the tall domed ceiling of the foyer, the marble floor, and the portrait of the second Earl of Ashford hanging over the enormous curved staircase—­“makes it all so much more concrete.”

“You know
me
.” He took a step toward her. “We're not so different, truly.”

“Perhaps not so different in some ways,” she allowed, edging slightly back. “Yet in others . . .” She ran her hands down the front of her skirts, another protective gesture. “It frightens me a little.”

“Don't fear me.” He hated the thought of her being afraid of him.

“I don't. Not you.”

Something loosened within him. “When you see all this . . .” He gestured toward the grand foyer soaring around them, the chair that had been in his family since the time of the Restoration, the enormous chandelier sparkling above. “I hope you feel more than fear.”

“I'm . . .” She gave a self-­conscious laugh. “You'll think me ridiculous.”

“Impossible.”

“It also . . . excites me.” Her eyes flashed as she glanced at him, embers of her desire still glowing.

A delicate touch was needed. With his other bedpartners, he'd done his best to ensure their pleasure and willingness. Nothing was less enticing than a lover who didn't want to be there. But with those women, he hadn't felt the same near desperation that he felt with Eleanor. If those women had changed their minds and gone without sharing his bed, he would have suffered a little bodily, but he'd known he would endure. If Eleanor left, Daniel would mourn her loss the rest of his life.

Daniel bit back on his thwarted desire. Like hell would he force or cajole her into something she didn't want to do. But what he wanted, what he needed, was
her
.

To keep her by his side. To make her happy. To give her whatever she desired.

This night couldn't end. Not now. If they spent the whole of the hours before sunrise only talking, that would be enough. He simply couldn't part with her.

“I'll show you what a rake does during a night alone at home.” He held an arm out, directing her toward the study at the back of the house.

She accompanied him as they made their way down a corridor lined with more ancestral portraits, Chippendale tables, and blue-­and-­white Yuan dynasty vases. He watched her taking in all the details of his home, seeing her perceptive gaze lighting here and there, assessing, analyzing, her mind never at rest. Was she even now measuring the social gulf that stretched between them, embodied in a century-­old silver candelabra?

Yet she'd said that the difference between them also excited her. He could bathe her in luxury, indulge her every whim and want. As he longed to do. She'd had so little indulgence in her life. He hoped to be the one to give it to her.

They reached the study, finding a fire already lit. Two empty glasses and a decanter of wine awaited them on a table by the fireplace. A pair of wingback chairs also flanked the hearth, ready for them.

She stepped inside and stared at the rows and rows of books. A slow smile spread across her face.

“These must be inherited,” she said, running her fingers over the spines of several books.

He straightened. “I've bought many of these myself.”

Pulling one volume from the shelf, she consulted the title page. “Joseph Banks's
Endeavour
journals. And the publication date is last year.” Her brows rose. “Is this what a rake does at home? Read?”

“Sometimes.” He nodded toward a chessboard in the corner. “Play against myself occasionally.”

She wandered over to the board and studied the pieces. “I've no head for chess. But give me a deck of playing cards . . .”

“I already know what happens there.” He scowled without heat as he trailed after her. “I have no desire to be rooked tonight.”

“What else does a rake do when ensconced in his den of iniquity?” she asked, moving away from the board. She eyed his desk, where several documents and letters were scattered, some half completed. A grin spread across her face. “Write poetry? I hear you can't call yourself a rake without penning some verses honoring a woman's breasts.”

A sudden idea struck him, making him grin as well. “Think you could write a better poem than me?”

She placed her hand on her hip. “I
am
the writer, after all.”

“Very well, my boasting lady.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I propose a contest.”

“A
poetry
contest?” She stared at him in disbelief.

“Better than poetry. A duel. Writing limericks. The dirtier the better.”

“And what are the stakes?” she pressed.

“For each limerick one person comes up with, the other must . . .” Must what? “Perform a dare.”

“Do something silly?” She shook her head. “I'm in no mood for silliness tonight. And we can't wager money, because you're Croesus and I'm poor Diogenes in his tub.”

“Then what would you like to wager?”

She tapped her chin. Then her expression turned wicked. “I have it. The other person must remove an article of clothing.”

He liked the sound of that. “But,” he added, “the victor gets to remove the piece of clothing.”

Her smile turned wicked as she took the paper and pen. “Prepare to get naked, my lord.”

 

Chapter 17

While much is made of the coquettish language of fans, of gloves, of eyes and sidelong glances, few give proper recognition to the most potent language of flirtation—­that of words themselves.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 15, 1816

T
hey sat themselves before the fire, Daniel in one chair, Eleanor in another. He poured them both glasses of wine and was pleased that his hands didn't shake to betray his eagerness to be with her. The firelight did wondrous things to her, casting her in gold and shadow as she took her glass and sipped. She wasn't the first woman to have sat with him beside the hearth, but he could barely recall those other females when she was here, now. He had a feeling that after tonight, no matter what transpired, he'd remember no other.

“How do we begin?” she asked.

“We try to come up with limericks,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “That much, we've determined.”

“If you're asking me to formulate rules,” he answered, “you're sorely out of luck. I break rules, not make them.”

“I do the same,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “But between the two of us, I believe we can come up with something usable for this battle of wits.” She glanced up at the ceiling, contemplative. Then she snapped her fingers. “Whoever devises the first limerick gets the choice of what article of clothing to remove from the other.”

A very pleasurable prospect. “And so forth.”

She smiled over the rim of her glass. She was relaxing, becoming more at ease. More herself. “You're very amenable to the rules. Unless you have done this before.”

“Tonight is my first time.”

Her laugh was low and husky. “Imagine that—­I've finally found something
you
haven't done before.”

“Seems that you bring a certain degree of originality into my life,” he admitted, then took a drink as a result of his candor. She wasn't the only unsettled one. Eleanor lowered her lashes, and glanced up through them. “And you mine. But come, you're delaying. It's time for the contest.”

They fell into silence, thinking. His brain churned as the fire crackled. Why had he thought of this competition in the first place? Well, he'd wanted a way to make her comfortable. He hadn't counted on the rule of stripping away garments. Though he had a certain facility with words, when faced with such high stakes—­namely, undressing Eleanor—­his mind went infuriatingly blank.

She broke the silence. Standing, she held up her glass and declaimed with the sobriety of a parson:

“The pretty young lady from Surrey

Always got dressed in a hurry.

Her drawers she forgot in haste,

The wind blew her skirts to her waist,

Revealing her bum, which was furry.”

A laugh broke from deep in his chest. “I can see my competition is going to be stiff.”
Among other things
.

“Point to me, I believe,” she said. She waved at him. “On your feet. It's time for me to claim my first prize.”

It seemed the act of writing, even without a quill, unwound her. Made her more confident and unrestrained. Things he craved from her.

Daniel set aside his glass. “First?” He raised a brow as he stood. “That assumes there will be more.”

She grinned impishly, a sight that went straight into the center of his chest. “Oh, doubt that not, my lord.”

As he stood, she slowly walked in a circle around him. She stroked her chin in contemplation as she eyed him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His heart thundered as he endured her scrutiny. Yes, she certainly had grown more bold over the span of the night.

“What first?” she murmured.

“My shoes,” he said.

She made a scoffing noise. “Too prosaic. And while at some point I wouldn't mind seeing your feet, that's not what interests me at the moment. No,” she continued, stepping back and studying him, “the coat goes.”

He did as she ordered—­a part of him enjoying being under her command, when he was so used to being the one in control—­and started to shuck off his silk frock coat by loosening the sleeves. He started when she stepped behind him. Ran her hands slowly up his arms.

His body reacted immediately, tensing and tightening beneath her touch.

She continued to stroke upward, until her hands settled on his shoulders, her fingers running over the muscles there. He caught fire everywhere she caressed him, but he fought to hold himself still. She stroked along his shoulders until she reached his coat collar, then her fingers hooked into the fabric and tugged.

“Never been like this with my valet,” he rasped.

“I should hope not. Otherwise you ought to either sack him or give him a raise.”

She pulled and he helped, and together they gradually peeled away his coat. It was only the first layer of his clothing, but he felt profoundly bare once the article had been removed and cast aside. He now stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, body ablaze from this simple act.

Standing back once again, she stared at him, her own gaze hot as it lingered on his arms, shoulders, and torso. Undressing him further with her eyes alone.

“Quite a spicy game we've devised,” she murmured.

“Always liked spice in my food,” he answered. “Why should this game be any different?”

She shot him a saucy look. “It might get too hot for you. You could burn your tongue.”

Goddamn, he wanted to taste her. But he marshaled his straining control. He wanted this to be only about her. Her comfort. Her pleasure.

“How long has it been?” he asked softly, dangerously. “Since you last sweated?”

“Too long,” she answered after a moment.

A primitive, primal part of him growled with satisfaction. He knew she was no untried virgin—­was glad of it, in truth—­but that didn't mean he relished imagining her with other men. And he would make certain that, if he and Eleanor become lovers, she'd remember no one else but him. Words suddenly popped into his head, and he recited:

“A scribbling lady from Grub Street

Who sold many a broadsheet,

A good tupping she did need,

So I wish Godspeed

To the swain that attempts the great feat.”

His first reward was her honeyed laugh. Followed by her musing. “A good tupping, hm? Wherever could I find such a thing?”

“I have a few ideas,” he answered. “But first, it's time to claim my prize. Hold still.”

Narrowing the distance between them, he watched the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the front of her bodice. He picked up one of her hands, allowing himself the pleasure of stroking up and down her arm, feeling the strength and silk of her.

Leisurely, he began to remove her glove. He tugged lightly on each finger, loosening the satin that clung to her. Then he reached for the top of her long glove, which skimmed above her elbow. Inch by inch, he eased the satin down, baring her flesh.

He watched her observing the spectacle, her breath coming faster and faster. Until at last, he stripped away the glove, completely uncovering her left arm. He gave her naked skin one stroke, from the curve of her elbow to her wrist. Traced a pattern on her palm. And then moved on to the other glove.

By the time the second glove joined its mate on the floor, both Daniel and Eleanor were nearly panting. His waistcoat and breeches did nothing to conceal his rampant erection—­he'd never been harder, and all from the removal of a coat and some gloves.

He stepped closer, needing to kiss her, to feel her even more. But before he could move, she spoke breathlessly.

“A worldly, bad lad from the Lake

Was England's most notorious rake.

His lovers were many

From London to Kilkenny,

'Til his cock dried out like a cake.”

Daniel started. But of course she knew that his main estate was near Bassenthwaite Lake, in the Lake District. There wasn't one scrap of information about him or the aristocracy that she didn't seem to possess.

Then he laughed. “My cake won't dry out as long as it's well iced.”

Her mouth curved. “Sugar is costly.”

“All good things are,” he replied.

“Speaking of cost,” she said, “I have a prize to collect.” She scrutinized him again, her gaze alighting on different articles of clothing. He might as well be naked already, the way she looked at him, and the desire pounding through his body.

Her hands slid up his torso. He groaned at her touch. Daniel was as taut and quivering as a stallion scenting a mare. He felt animalistic, all thoughts of civilization gone. Only need and hunger filled him.

She bypassed the buttons of his waistcoat, her hands continuing upward. Until they reached the folds of his old-­fashioned neckcloth. With the same painstaking leisure with which she'd removed his coat, she undid the fabric around his neck, slowly, slowly untying it. Her fingers brushed the underside of his jaw, and then, finally, the bare skin of his neck.

The neckcloth drifted to the ground, adding to the growing pile of discarded clothing.

“I've always wanted to see this,” she whispered, lightly touching the tip of a finger to the hollow of his throat.

Jesus, she was going to kill him.

Hoarsely, he said:

“A rake and a writer did duel

Though neither of which was a fool.

With words they did battle,

Verbal sabers to rattle,

Until they wound up in bed together.”

“That doesn't rhyme,” she said.

“I don't care,” he answered.

“Daniel—­”

“My turn.” He knelt. “Place your hands on my shoulders.”

Without questioning him, she did as he directed. He reached beneath her skirts, the fabric rustling and shimmering around him, until he found the top of her stocking and the small band of silken flesh above it. He stroked her there on her thigh, feeling her warm skin, noting with triumph how she trembled. For him.

He caressed downward, bypassing her garters, but taking in the sensation of her stocking-­clad legs beneath his hands. Thighs. Knees. Calves. Strong and supple. Lower still, to her ankles.

“Lean on me,” he rumbled. When she did, he picked up one of her feet and undid the ribbons of her slippers. The slim shoe dropped to the floor, and he took a moment simply to hold her silk-­covered foot in his hand. He'd never considered a woman's foot to be particularly erotic, but there was something so trusting, so open and honest about touching Eleanor this way, that it filled him with a roaring heat.

He performed the same ser­vice for her other slipper, removing it and putting it aside. Something very much like a moan escaped from the back of her throat. He remained kneeling, and, through the silk of her gown, nuzzled along her belly and just above the apex of her thighs. What had been a burgeoning moan turned into one of full voice. She threaded her fingers into his hair.

“Daniel,” she breathed. “God. Kiss me.”

He wasted no time, rising to his feet and pulling her close for a deep, openmouthed kiss. She clung to him, giving herself fully as she took from him, too. The passion of her. He was a powder keg ready to explode at the slightest touch of her spark.

“Over there,” she gasped, breaking away and glancing at the sofa.

Much as he burned to make love to her at once, he shook his head. “I said I wanted you in my bed, and that's where I'll have you.”

She looked disappointed. “Is it far?”

“I've got long legs.”

He lifted her up in his arms and strode to the door. He shouldered it open, then paced down the corridor. Steadily, he climbed the stairs. Nothing would be rushed tonight. He'd give them both more pleasure than they could stand, and then he'd give them more.

Whatever she wanted, she would have. As he reached the landing and then paced quickly to his bedchamber, he made this vow to himself. Everything was hers—­especially himself.

L
ogically, Eleanor knew everything would change. How could she pretend journalistic objectivity when all she wanted was to make love with the subject of her articles? And given what Daniel had said, what he'd done, he had precisely the same goal.

But as she entered his bedchamber in his arms—­she still couldn't believe it—­she couldn't bring herself to care that things would alter. She wanted him. He wanted her. Nothing else at that moment seemed to signify.

Was this really happening? She and Daniel were on the verge of becoming lovers. That handsome, proud earl who had marched into her office weeks ago. Yet he was so much more than that now. He was a strapping man of flesh and intent. And he wanted
her.
It seemed to be something so wondrous, so fantastical, that it had to be a product of her imagination. But no, it was real. The truth of it resonated through her.

She had a brief impression of his substantial bedroom, lit only by a fire. Heavy, dark furniture, Persian carpets, a landscape painting over the hearth. Then she found herself deposited carefully in the middle of an enormous canopied bed, and the details of the room faded away. All that mattered was him, standing at the foot of the bed and quickly starting to tear off the remainder of his clothing.

“Slow down,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “You aren't the only one who's waited for this moment.”

He stilled in his movements. “Not the only one,” he murmured.

It was a bold confession of her own thoughts and desires. But this was a time and place apart, where truths could be spoken without fear of reprisal. He was the only man she trusted so much. Not only with her body, but herself. She held his gaze. He did as she requested, undoing his waistcoat button by button and tossing it to the carpet. The fire glowed behind him. She could clearly make out the shape of his body in his fine linen shirt. Unhurriedly, he plucked at the lacings of his shirt so that the neckline gaped open, revealing the contours of his upper chest. Dark hair scattered over his pectorals. Her mouth watered, thinking of that hair trailing even lower. Did it go all the way down?