Gareth: Lord of Rakes (9 page)

Brilliant. She had outgunned him with her composure, her evasive maneuvers, and her sheer… manners. He repositioned his hand over hers on his arm as she rose, but hesitated before rejoining the powdered, perfumed, bejeweled throng inside.

“If you must know, I broke off with Lady Hamilton several weeks ago, and I make it a practice never to resurrect old liaisons,” he said, looking straight ahead.

Any other woman would have hugged that admission to her breast with visible glee—not that he would have made such an admission to any other woman.

“Why? If the lady met your criteria for an intimate partner, and if she is also clearly willing to continue the affair, why would you break it off?”

Felicity apparently did not understand that a marquess explained himself to no one. Gareth lost sight of that signal fact himself, though for only a moment. He did not stop as they approached the doors that would lead them back into the light, but admitted the puzzling truth as they walked along.

“To continue with Edith would not have been kind. She was becoming possessive, and I was growing… bored.”

***

“Would you like to stay for the last act, or shall we take our leave?”

Felicity considered her options and considered the ache in her bones that wasn’t exclusively physically.

“Let’s go, if you don’t mind. The day has managed to be long, though I did very much enjoy coming here.” She stifled a yawn as Gareth helped her to her feet.

“Sleepyhead,” he murmured, drawing her against him. “You must inure yourself to the long hours required by a life of wickedness.”

She must inure herself to ignoring the teasing note in his voice and the pleasure of simply leaning against his strength when she was tired, particularly when, not long ago, she’d wanted to cosh him over the head.

“Take me home, please, Gareth, or I shall fall asleep even in your scintillating company.”

“I would hold you as you slept, and treasure the moments.”

Oh, to the very devil with him. He was trying hard to jolly her, while she felt like crying.

“You will please
not
start in with your flirting, your lordship. Were I to fall asleep, you would throw a carriage rug over me and hie yourself off for… a fencing match.”

“Cranky when you’re tired?” he asked as they once again moved toward the front doors of the theatre.

“Beastly,” she replied, willing to elaborate on her sentiments at length. Further reply was cut off by an imperious voice from behind them.

“Heathgate, do you not greet your own mother?”

Gareth stopped and turned slowly, dropping Felicity’s hand. So much for the pretense that their business with each other was proper.

“Mother, my apologies. I did not know you were in attendance. Andrew.” With a bow, he greeted the younger man standing beside his mother. “A pleasure to see you, madam. Did you enjoy the performance?”

Gareth’s mother was a trim, tidy woman who might never have been a raving beauty, though in her later years she could claim a dignified handsomeness and more sable in her hair than gray. Beside her two sons, she looked small, though Felicity and the marchioness were almost the same height.

“The performances, both on stage and off, were tedious,” his mother replied. “Your manners, my boy?” For the second time, Gareth performed introductions, and Felicity found herself the subject of two thorough, if polite, blue-eyed perusals.

“You,” pronounced Lady Heathgate, looking closely at Felicity, “are a good girl. See that you stay that way. My sons are not to be trusted.”

Not knowing whether the woman was trying to be witty or simply rude, Felicity was at a loss for a reply. Lord Andrew spoke up, saving her the trouble.

“Mother, if we are not to be trusted, one must look to our upbringing.” His voice was, like his physique, a younger version of his older brother’s. He shared Gareth’s muscular height, icy blue eyes, and thick sable hair. His tone, though, was patently teasing, and the light in his eyes humorous.

“Hah!” said his mother. “You are both the trial of my dotage. That you are accepted into Polite Society at all is a testament to my long-suffering and persevering nature. Now, go fetch the carriages, you scamps, while I interrogate Miss Worthington.”

Gareth shot Felicity a look halfway between a warning and an apology. She waved him away, all too happy to see his best-laid plans knocked asunder twice in one evening by sheer happenstance. “We shall enjoy a short visit.”

“So, Miss Worthington,” Lady Heathgate began as she took Felicity’s arm and led her in the wake of the retreating brothers. “What is my son’s business with you? You are not his usual type.”

The mystery—had there been one—of where Gareth came by his blunt speech and imperious airs was thus solved. “His usual type?”

“Don’t be tedious, dear. You needn’t mince words with me. We both know he usually disports with the likes of the Hamilton trollop. Bored, vacuous, tedious creatures who trespass on his generous and randy nature.”

Felicity chose her words carefully, not wanting to deceive Gareth’s mother. Lady Heathgate was a woman who had survived unimaginable grief, and she was entitled to protect the family she had left.

“Your son is assisting me with a business matter a woman in my circumstances could not resolve without… could not resolve on her own,” Felicity said. “His interest in me is mostly charitable, and I appreciate his generosity.”

Deceitful but not quite a pack of lies. Perhaps one grew more accomplished at dissembling the more one practiced. Gareth was generous; he was also too shy to admit such a thing.

The dowager displayed the same cocked eyebrow Felicity often saw on her son. “That’s a pretty speech,” she conceded. “All the ladies appreciate his confounded generosity. He is seldom charitable, in the true sense. The man is nigh thirty years old and needs to set up his nursery. Given his bachelor proclivities, I wonder if any decent woman would have him. There is the title, of course. I don’t suppose you’re interested in that?”

Felicity caught sight of “the Hamilton trollop” across the lobby, laughing on the arm of yet another man who looked ten years her junior. “My lady, I doubt Lord Heathgate intends to set up a nursery. I believe he is relying on his brother to ensure the succession.”

“Told you that much, did he? Did he also tell you he never wanted the title and still doesn’t?”

Felicity stopped walking, hearing in the words something more than grief or a mother’s meddling. Lady Heathgate was
worried
for her son. He was a great strapping, brash, handsome, growling beast of a man—and yet, his mother worried for him.

Which was both dear and sad, also a relief, because Felicity worried for him too. “I know of the… accident, your ladyship, but not of the specifics to which you refer. Surely family confidences should not be exchanged with a mere acquaintance such as myself?”

Lady Heathgate continued her scrutiny, but seemed to accept Felicity’s remonstrance.

“Ask him,” was all she said as they emerged from the building. “Ask him for those confidences, then.” She straightened and looked about for the approach of the carriages. “Your breeding does you credit, Miss Worthington. You may call upon me. I do not attend many of the social functions of the approaching Season, but I am at home on Wednesdays. Ah, the knights approach with their chariots.”

Felicity saw Gareth alight from his carriage, while Andrew emerged from the one behind it. Andrew approached the ladies and offered each one an arm, while Gareth exchanged a few words with his coachman.

“Miss Worthington, it was a pleasure meeting you,” Lord Andrew said. “No matter what my brother tells you about me, you must not forget his lamentable tendency to habitual mendacity—and he, alas, is my example in all things.”

Felicity let Gareth hand her into the carriage, bemused by the encounter with his family. She was struck too, by the sense of familiarity she felt as Gareth settled himself beside her. His physical presence was becoming a comforting fixture in her life, and she would miss it when they parted.

She would not miss his aloofness, his arrogance, and his sexual… pedagogy. Well, maybe she would miss those a little, but she most definitely would miss the solid reality of
him
.

“How bad was she?” Gareth took Felicity’s hand and stroked his thumb across her knuckles. Felicity had a habit of taking her gloves off when she settled into a carriage with him, something he liked about her.

He also liked that Felicity had met his family, which made no damned sense at all.

“She restrained herself, though I would not want to be in her path when she’s in full sail. She rather put me in mind of you, and Lord Andrew is very handsome.”

He was. And no longer a boy. When had that happened? “There’s a family resemblance.”

“Not that you aren’t also very attractive, my lord, in your own way.” Said so very earnestly.

He bit her knuckle. “Women who tease me can also be turned over my knee, Felicity. We’ll consider it part of your intimate education.” The education he’d failed to advance much in an entire month of regular meetings.

“Hang my education. I had a lovely evening, Gareth, and you have my thanks for that. The dress is beautiful, the orchestra was in good form, and I had you all to myself, even though we were out among the beau monde. Thank you.” She kissed his cheek—the first kiss he could recall her giving him, and what good cheer he could lay claim to dissipated.

“I introduced you to a woman who’s barely received, Felicity. I do not want your thanks for that.”

He wanted the next two months with her to be over. He’d introduced her to his last mistress, for God’s sake, and the dress was merely something he’d seen in a shop window earlier in the week.

“Well, you have my thanks. I saw at least four new hairstyles for Astrid to try. You can’t know how that will contribute to our domestic tranquility.”

She spoke of hairstyles, when their real agenda was her ruin.

Inspiration struck, low, mean, and appallingly appealing. They’d dithered and dallied long enough, and Felicity was either going to have to send him packing or take him to bed soon.

“I thought this evening would be an opportune time to explain to you to the pleasures of
cunnilingus
,” he said, kissing her palm, when what he wanted was to put his fist through a window.

Her breath drew in sharply when his tongue flicked out to touch the webbing of her thumb. “That sounds—Latin.”

To
lick
the
cunny.
“It is. It refers to the use of my mouth on your sex for your pleasure. We left the theatre early—there is time—and I think you might enjoy it, Felicity.” Though perhaps he shouldn’t have admitted as much, lest she refuse him on that basis alone.

“Must we?”

She could not have sounded less enthusiastic, which suggested confronting their bargain in this manner—a vulgar, purely physical encounter in a moving coach—might free him from further dealings with her.

“We don’t have to, but I want to.” As much as he wanted free of his obligations to her, the male animal in him also wanted to put his mouth on her sex and experience her reactions. He wanted to give her the kind of shocking pleasure no decent, plodding husband ever would, even if it was only this once.

“May we douse the lamps?”

“All but one,” he allowed, because he wanted to see her face when she came. He should be allowed that much for his sacrifice. He took off his hat and extinguished the carriage’s interior lighting, save one lantern that he turned down to a small flame. Next, he draped a lap robe on the floor—sore knees being no kind of addition to arousal—then lowered himself to kneel before Felicity’s tightly clenched knees.

He hadn’t swived in a coach for years, which suggested sheer novelty had something to do with the arousal coursing through him.

“Your job, Felicity, is to relax. I am not going to touch your breasts, though you should certainly touch yourself if you feel so inclined…” He dropped his voice to a low, sensual near-whisper, lest the damned coachman be entertained. “I will explain to you what I’m about as we go along, and you should ask questions if they occur to you. You must, of course, tell me if you are at all uncomfortable.”

He gave her a moment by unfastening his cloak and folding it up beside her on the seat.

“Why do you spring these maneuvers on me when I’m not expecting them?” She sounded peevish, much as he’d felt peevish when she’d sprung her situation on him weeks ago.

“I spring them on you so you will not fret in anticipation, sweetheart. Anxiety is a close cousin to pain, and I would not for the world bring you discomfort.” He slid her slippers off both feet and began massaging her stocking-clad feet, which were, literally, cold.

“I am uncomfortable,” Felicity muttered as she braced herself back against the squabs, one hand covering her stomach. Beneath her skirts, Gareth slid his hands along her calves, then around her knees.

She would, of course, make him work for it. He should have expected nothing less, and yet… even the woman’s
knees
were silky.

“Let me rephrase myself: it is no end of diverting to make you uncomfortable, Felicity, but I would never bring you physical pain, though I’m sure we’ll have more to say on that topic as it relates to your clientele. Now, hush, close your eyes, and relax. You have much to learn, and it is my privilege to disabuse you of your ignorance.”

Though hopefully, not of her innocence, not entirely.

She concurred with a terse nod.

“Permission granted,” he murmured, letting his hands trail up under her skirts as far as her thighs. “There are salient terms with which you are unfamiliar, so attend me.” In the coach’s deep shadows, her face was set in lines of dread and steely resignation, her eyes closed tightly, and her hands fisted on the seat.

She was braced for him to toss up her skirts and fall upon her like a starving wolf, which in some ways might be kinder to her, though he simply wasn’t capable of it.

Not with her, not tonight.

“The surface of a woman’s inner thigh,” he began, stroking both thighs and pressing them wider as he spoke, “is a sensual delight to both man and woman. I enjoy it because it is so smooth, warm, and forbidden. You enjoy it because my touch here evokes anticipation of my touch here.” He slid his hand higher, so he was almost brushing her curls. Again he brought a slight pressure to bear, pushing her legs gently apart. He contented himself with stroking her thighs for a bit, while he slid her skirts up to rest just over her knees.

He wanted to pleasure her, and he wanted to leap out of the coach.

He could devour her, and he could kick himself for getting entangled in the whole infernal mess.

She shifted on the bench, slid an inch closer to him, bringing the scent of clean, intimate female wafting past his plans and intentions. His cock liked that fragrance exceeding well; his resolve to shock her witless was rather distracted by it too.

He moved his thumbs in small circles, massaging, exploring, and all the while gently pressing Felicity’s legs open with his forearms. Still he did not bare her to his gaze, but let her skirts trail over her thighs.

His forbearance was not a sop to her modesty, but rather, a nod to his flagging self-restraint.

As his fingers caressed Felicity’s intimate flesh, the dread in Felicity’s expression was replaced by something else—curiosity? Inchoate arousal? Her mouth was slightly parted, and her breathing a bit accelerated.

She deserved better than this. Better than him.

“What do you feel, Felicity?” Gareth asked, bringing his thumbs together and limning her outer folds, while in his head trying to recall the geometric proof for bisecting an angle.

“Restless,” she muttered. “Itchy under my skin.”

His touch on her told him she was aroused, but not to the degree of torment his attentions to her breasts seemed to cause. Interesting, because he, poor, randy sod, could have closed his eyes and come with no further provocation than she’d already provided.

“Restless is a start. You can learn to touch yourself the same way. We’ll practice as often as you like.” His set of antique jade phalluses came to mind, none of which were any harder than the flesh and blood appendage in his breeches.

The need to feast on her had become tearingly urgent, and her folds were wonderfully slick, but she wasn’t writhing or moaning. Not yet. For a few minutes, he limited his touch to Felicity’s outer flesh, but when her hands began to open and close on the leather seats, he carefully slid a thumb higher.

“This small, hidden little piece of flesh here”—he punctuated his words with a sudden increase in pressure—“is a source of much pleasure.” Felicity gasped and relaxed her hips forward.

He took shameless advantage of her discomposure, inching her skirts up until he could see what he was touching. The sight of her was almost enough to make him spend, so wet and pink and lovely was she by the light of the single lantern.

“Gareth.” She was asking him for something—relief, understanding, he knew not what.

“Relax, Felicity. There’s no rush, and I’ll do whatever you want me to…” He kept up the pressure on her, moving his thumb in slow circles and letting her feel the small surcease of a gratifying rhythm. “I think you might feel a little better, love, if I also touched you inside, though.”

He slid a single finger in and out of her body, shallowly, slowly. Her breathing accelerated further, and she tossed her head against the leather seat. What he would not give to replace that finger with his cock—

And yet, he was relieved too, that it was only his finger, that he was suffering torments of arousal rather than truly deflowering her under these circumstances.

“Gareth… it’s too… I need…”

God, so do I.

Felicity was wet, tight, hot, and denying him nothing. Cautiously, he slid a second finger into her and penetrated a bit deeper. The deuced woman
liked
that, rocking her hips into his fingers and showing not the smallest sign of being appalled, disgusted, or brought to her proper senses.

“It still isn’t enough, is it?” Gareth asked, coming up on his knees and moving Felicity’s skirts up to her waist. “Maybe this will help.”

He found her with his mouth and drew firmly in a slow, relentless rhythm. Shock rippled through her, then her hips lurched forward and her legs parted wider. He slid his hand under her derriere, lifting her against his mouth more firmly as he plied her with steady, skilled precision. She was squirming and rocking against him helplessly when Gareth realized she was trying to speak. He lifted his mouth from her, frustrated at the interruption of what he was convinced was the closest she’d been to waking sexual satisfaction.

“You are torturing me,” Felicity managed. “I don’t want you to stop, but I can’t… this is unbearable.”

“
Shall
I stop?” He was frankly looking at her spread flesh, toying with her damp curls, and running a finger over her wet folds. He did not want to stop, and not out of any generous impulses toward her and her limited experience of pleasure. “It’s your decision, love.”

He’d promised her this, that he’d stop, because he was sly, manipulative, and nowhere near as clever as he thought himself to be. He’d thought himself experienced with women, and he was—with the Ediths of the world—but Felicity was not like them.

Yet.

“I need to…” Felicity licked her lips while Gareth clenched his teeth. “I need to rest.”

Well, of course. This was Felicity, and he’d been so sure he could shock her into abandoning their agreement. He laid his cheek against her mons, wanting to howl, get drunk, and curse—or swive her until neither of them could walk.

Felicity stroked her hand over his hair, slowly, as if the contact soothed her.

“It helps that you don’t just pop up here beside me, all tidy and dapper and full of more vocabulary.”

Helps whom with what? “I am,” he said without moving, “also a bit undone. These are the precise circumstances under which a man might be well advised to see to himself.”

Her hand on his hair went still. “See to yourself?”

“Masturbate, self-gratify, come in the hand.” He raised himself to sit beside her, and noticed Felicity didn’t immediately twitch her skirts back into place.

He was making a wanton of her, and that did not please him at all.

“I don’t mind if you want to… to do that here.”

So bloody damned gracious of her, but he didn’t want to go prowling through the night for a partner, and he was hard
now
. They had talked about self-gratification, about how his father’s generation regarded it as a harmless pleasure, and a growing sentiment in the present misguided day regarded it as sinful.

“I will trespass on your generosity.” On her courage, on her determination.

Her damned stubbornness.

Felicity did smooth her skirts down, with a single, casual brush of her hand. “You will embarrass me but not humiliate, Gareth, and the rest is simply… overwrought dignity. Couples all over Town are fornicating as we speak, every alewife and baroness, and all London seems to have known it but me. What would you like me to do?”

He would like her to find some other way to meet the terms of the damned will, a will he should have had Brenner read by now.

Instead, he undid his falls, extracted himself from his clothing, then sat back and wondered if there was a particular corner of hell for men who corrupted aging virgins.

“Watch,” he said, letting his eyes drop to her mouth, then to the tented flap of his shirttail. He wanted her mouth on him, wanted her hands on him, and yet all he could manage was to ask her to watch.

Nothing more but watch.

She was a damned spinster, virgin, bluestocking excuse for a madam in training, and she was going to drive him absolutely barmy.

***

Gareth was in dishabille on the cushioned seat and gazing at Felicity with all the inscrutability of a large, hungry cat.
This
was personal tutelage. This was exactly what she was supposed to gain from him, though the transaction felt as unbusinesslike as anything Felicity had ever undertaken.

Her body hummed, sweet and alive with sensations she had no words for, while her heart… she’d let him down, somehow, and he was disappointing her as well.