Lord Ruin (24 page)

She could only stare mutely, brought low by frank longing.

“Anne,” he whispered as he dipped his head for a kiss. He edged her toward pure sensation. An existence where she knew only the heat in her blood. His hand slipped between them, searching and finding, it seemed to her, every part of her body that might respond to him. “Hold still. I don’t want to tear your gown.” He laughed, a quiet rumble of private amusement. “Unless I have to.” Quite suddenly, he was inching her gown down her arms. “Sweet Christ. You truly are magnificent.”

The sleeves of her frock trapped her arms at her sides. She wasn’t anything now but a mass of longing. His fingers touched her bare skin, lightly skimming her shoulders. She could only pray he would not stop. Fingers caressed along her collarbone. Sensation. Nothing but sensation. First one, then both his hands at once, molding her, teasing her into mindless submission.

“When I made love to you at Corth Abbey, Anne, you moaned just like that. And when I touched you like this—” His fingertips touched her breast briefly, oh so briefly. “—I was in heaven. I had to have you, and so I took you. Because it’s what I wanted.” Then his mouth was there, where his hand had been, through her chemise, tongue sipping, teeth nipping, her own body dissolving. “Are you well enough for this?” In response, she tugged his head to hers. He picked her up and pulled her onto his lap. Her head swam when he bent over her for a long, deep kiss that seemed to go on forever and then, when he stopped, not at all long enough. “Open your legs, darling,” he whispered.

His hand under her skirt slid determinedly up her thigh. Molten lightning streaked upward from her toes to her belly. His tongue flicked out, teasing her breast. Desire filled her to bursting. She arched toward his mouth.

“That’s it,” he crooned. She didn’t know or even care what he meant by that until his fingers touched the curls between her legs. “Trust me,” he whispered. “I will take care of you.” A finger pressed there, circling gently.

Pleasure of exquisite depth stole over her. Cynssyr continued to kiss her, a long, sensuous kiss while his hand stroked. Once, he stopped, but only to bring up her knee so that she was opened farther for him. Her legs were exposed to the air, the very core of her welcomed him and the magic he worked on her. “Let go,” he said. “I am here.” His finger slid inside her. Her breath hitched in the back of her throat. And then, before she could do anything to prevent it, an incredible tension broke over her like a wave and sent her spinning onto a tightrope of desire. She couldn’t stop any of it. “My love,” he whispered. “My love. I am here.”

“Ruan.” That long, anguished moan came from her. He had a hand on her breast again. She lay across his lap, her legs bare to nearly her thighs while his fingers stroked between them. Her arms reached to catch him and hold on because he had her balanced at the cliffs edge and she really was falling. When he gently tugged on the peak of her breast, she came apart, fractured into a thousand pieces.

He pulled back to look at her. “Darling,” he whispered, not to her, but to himself. “Exactly so.” She felt the heat of his eyes on her, as green and bright as any gem could ever be, and was surprised when he reached to wipe tears from her cheeks.

She wasn’t sure how long they held each other, each wrapped in their shared silence. But even when someone tapped on the door, Ruan did not release her.

“Your grace?” came Merchant’s muffled voice.

“No,” Anne moaned, still bespelled by what he had done to her. The sofa, positioned as it was to face the fireplace, was at least partially hidden from someone standing in the doorway.

He lifted his head, but his hands continued a soothing stroking of her. “Do not come in, Merchant.”

From the doorway, the butler cleared his throat. “Your engagement with Lord Eldon?”

“Thank you for the reminder. Tell Dobkin I must have the charcoal suit.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ruan helped Anne fasten her gown, then took her in his arms. “I prefer to tarry in your warm embrace, my dear, but I can hardly put off the lord chancellor at my convenience.”

Anne pushed away from him, rising. Emotion paralyzed her, suffocated her. The feelings were so big and so dangerous she didn’t dare acknowledge their existence. “I told you once,” she said. “I do not wish to feel. We get along quite well without any of that. You’ve said so yourself. We are two entirely different people, Ruan. We’ve nothing in common, and I am trying my hardest not to fail at this.” Her breath caught in her throat. “And you persist in this . . . this.... In breaking me to your will.”

“Breaking you? That’s absurd.” But Ruan felt more than a small twinge of guilt. Wasn’t that his intent?

“That’s what it feels like.” She dissolved into sobs. “Leave me alone. Stop making me feel this way.”

“And what way is that?”

“Like your current diversion soon to be discarded. You have no right to be so tender when you do not mean it for me.” She rapped her chest with her fingertips. “You do not mean it for me, Ruan, and I cannot bear it. Save such words for Mrs. Fairchild, for she at least wants to hear them.” She clasped her head. “My God. Listen to me! I’m raving. Stark raving.” She looked into his face. “What have you done to me?”

His mouth twisted. “What have
you
done to me?”

Ruan’s meeting concluded earlier than expected. Castlereagh was there, among others, along with Lord Sather, who’d also fought in the war. The subject concerned a suitable candidate to send to Aix-la-Chapelle. Whoever went would conduct the negotiations concluding the division of Napoleon’s failed empire. Before Anne, Ruan would have expected to go and been more than eager to put forward his name were he not approached. Had someone else been chosen in his stead, he would have felt slighted. His reluctance now even to be considered surprised him. A bit.

“Cynssyr,” Sather said, “I’ve heard you might welcome an opportunity to go abroad.”

“You have misheard.”

“Indeed?” said Sather.

“I am but recently married.” With a meaningful glance at Castlereagh, he said, “Even if I were not, there are men who will more ably represent Britain’s interests.”

“You might take along your bride,” Eldon offered.

“My heir will be born at Fargate Castle. On English soil. Not foreign.”

“Quick work.”

Ruan shrugged. If Castlereagh or anyone else was annoyed at him for yet another reason, he didn’t give a tinker’s damn. His decision was made. He would not willingly leave Anne. They danced around the issue a bit longer, but at last it was agreed Castlereagh, himself, would go. By three in the morning, Ruan was back at Cyrwthorn. Early for him and far too late to hope Anne was awake. He dismissed Dobkin once he’d changed from evening clothes and had a glass of brandy and a book in hand. His intention was to sit before the fire until dawn came and went, but compulsion took him into Anne’s room.

With each passing day he wanted her more desperately. He wanted to think they had forged a respectful friendship, a first for him, having the sort of friendship with a woman that he had with Devon or Aldreth. But her accusation that he wanted to break her to him became a gnat at his ear, persistent, refusing to be ignored. She was right. He did want that, and one did not do such a thing to a friend. Anne was his friend. If he was to capture her love, he must come by it honestly so that when he had it, he would keep it safe.

Anne slept on. After a minute longer or so of him staring at her form in the dark, she stirred and lifted her head from the pillow. In a soft, lazy voice she said, “Cynssyr?”

“Yes.” His body tingled, anticipating his desire for her.

She slipped from the bed and moved in front of him, a slender, white-clad shape. Her spectacles gleamed in the dimness when she retrieved them from the table beside the bed. Though her figure was but faintly suggested, he knew what he would find if he undressed her. Full breasts, long legs, the swell of feminine hips. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. His body reacted to the image. She was like a drug to him, he thought. No opium eater could be more in thrall to his mistress drug than he was to Anne.

“Is aught well?”

“Castlereagh will go to Belgium.”

“An apt choice.”

“I came to make love to you.”

“Oh.”

“It’s useless unless you want me.”

She came close. Stood inches from him. “You are my husband,” she said in her quiet, reasonable voice.

“Scores of wives do not want their husbands.”

“There are husbands who do not want their wives.”

“I am not one of those men, Anne. You are more than any husband could want in a wife.” He trailed a finger along the line of her jaw. “Kind. Intelligent. Clever with a budget. Resourceful. There’s only one thing you’re not.”

“Beautiful,” she said. “I never cared before, but now I do. I wish I were.”

He held back a flash of anger. “Ordinary.”

“Yes. I am quite ordinary.”

“It’s been said a woman is not a beauty until I have pronounced her so.”

“You are a connoisseur.”

“I tell you now, of all the women I have known, you are the only one who deserves to be called a beauty. Only you, Anne. No other.” God help him. He meant every word. With a start, he realized he’d put a hand on her belly. His fingers spread between her hips as if measuring. “You are so miserably ill.”

“Mary assures me it will pass.”

He stroked her belly. “Ah,” he said, thinking he detected a swelling. “Are you quickening?”

She put a hand over his. “It’s too early for that.”

He thought she did not sound entirely certain of her denial. They stood a foot or two apart. Not particularly near, but intimate all the same because of his hand on her and hers over his. “Make love with me, Anne. Because you want me. Not because I’m your husband.” Desperate to bridge the widening chasm between them he said, “Or must I add disobedient to my list of your failings?”

At first, she did and said nothing. His request shocked her, he thought. Perhaps even appalled her. But, then she closed the distance between them. Since he had come to her wearing only his robe, when she reached for him the silk separated, and her palm touched his naked torso. “You’re wrong about me,” she said.

“I am judge and jury both. You
are
a beauty.”

“I meant,” she said, laughing a little, “that I am obedient.” The room felt suddenly very small. “What would please you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

Ruan didn’t move. He hadn’t expected this. Not at all. She’d never asked before, just done what he showed her or asked her to do. “Your mouth again,” he said. “Your mouth hot and wet around my most intimate part. Your lips on me everywhere you can reach.” Her palm stayed fiat against his chest until he took her hand in one of his and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Your beautiful backside,” he said. “Your breasts beneath my hands. Your legs, your knees, your arms. Most of all, I want what’s inside you. I want all that passion let out and overwhelming us both.”

“Ruan,” she whispered, although she might have said Lore?
Ruin
.

He went absolutely still when she freed her hand and stroked his naked chest again, sliding her palm so that she no longer touched any part of his robe. Her hand moved slowly, experimentally. For once, his thoughts didn’t leap to his pleasure but instead lingered in the momentous present. The pressure of her hand turned his blood to fire.

“Your skin is warm.”

“Yes, love.”

Her fingers slid upward. In the faint light, her spectacles flashed once. He was going up in flames. He knew it and fought it because he wanted her to control their passion. He closed his eyes and immediately felt sensations doubled. Her fingertip reached his nipple and glided over it.

“Should I stop?”

“Christ, no,” he said, breathless with the effort of holding himself in check. She had to have time. Time to want him. Time to accept what she felt and give in to it.

The silk of his robe slid over his shoulders. Both her hands touched him now. Liquid heat poured into him. Every part of him was sensitized to the moment. Slowly, her hands moved over him, tracing along his ribs and the muscles of his side, upward to his heart. He balanced at the edge of control, quivering with the effort of his restraint.

A groan escaped his tight shut mouth. Anne increased the pressure of her fingers over him and drew him that much closer to the inferno. His hands hung clenched at his sides, but when she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to him he could not help himself. He grasped her head and guided her to his nipple. “Here.” His voice sounded gruff, but her tongue flicked out. “Sweet Christ, yes.” She drew back and, beyond anything but desire, he cupped the side of her breast.

“Oh.”

“If Merchant or anyone else knocks on the door,” he ground out, “there will be no reply.” She shook her head, and blast it, he did not know what that meant. Agreement? Disagreement? “Hold nothing back, Anne. Shout if you wish. Scream my name. Caress me however you desire. I promise I’ll do the same.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Excellent.” Coming in for a kiss, he bumped his cheek on her spectacles. None too gently, he reached for them.

“Please,” she said breathlessly, taking them from him, fearing, and rightly, that he might toss them across the room.

He spent all of half a second watching her walk to the dresser. She gasped when he put his palms on the dresser top, one on either side of her to effectively trap her. “Anne,” he said, choking with desire. “Anne.” The spectacles clattered onto the tabletop. “My beauty, Anne.”

Time stopped, filled with nothing but silence and the tension he felt in her body. Then, she leaned back and gathered her nightdress in both hands. As she raised it, his body thrummed in anticipation, tingling, hardening, but he did not touch her until she’d brought it over her head and let it fall to the floor. He covered her breasts with both his hands. “You are exquisite.” Fire raged in him, shot through his veins when she leaned against him, reaching back to stroke the side of his legs. Her nipples peaked and became pebble hard under his fingers. A low moan came from her throat. Memories of Corth Abbey rushed back; her supple body, soothing hands, and a wickedly tender mouth. Lord Almighty, what a mouth. He’d exploded into her.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered. “Now. With us standing just so.”

He separated her cheeks with the palms of his hands and came into her, instantly at a peak of unendurable tension. Forcing himself to do nothing, he savored the heat that enveloped him, the shiver of fire that coursed through him. Only when he was sure he wouldn’t lose himself entirely did he pull her hips hard against him, wanting the feel of her backside. She made that sound again, that drawn out “oh” that was half groan, half moan and without a drop of protest. She accepted him easily despite being tight inside. He could see in the dresser mirror her pale torso and his own body behind hers, but mostly he felt his engorged sex moving in her, the thrill of a too-rapidly approaching orgasm.

Now, that would be disaster. He subdued the impulse to drive into her, to satisfy his own urges. Instead, he leaned against her, one hand around her waist and slipping upward, the other seeking between her legs, his fingers curling in crisp hair. She had to support her weight and some of his with both her hands flat on the dresser top. He meant to bring her to climax before he took his pleasure and that was fast seeming an impossibility, especially when she matched the circling of his hips, her pressure outward against his inward. She made an inarticulate cry when, summoning the absolute last shred of control he possessed, he withdrew from her.

She shivered at the loss of his warmth then turned around, breath coming rapidly. Eyes of dark-blue smoke hinted at the fire within. With him standing just inches from her, he could feel desire coming off her in waves. He was at the brink himself. A mass of dawn-lit hair fell over her shoulder, and he pushed it back.

“It’s not too fast, is it?” he forced himself to ask. “I’ll slow down if you think so.” He wondered if it would kill him if she said yes. But she shook her head. “Good.”

Too close to release, himself, he knew the pain of his denial now would only double his pleasure later. He sank to his knees, got her to spread her thighs and pressed his mouth to her. It didn’t take long.

She convulsed, crying out, “Dear God, Cynssyr!” Eventually, she simply collapsed. He had by then regained some of his self-possession, though the bed seemed altogether too far away. Her fainting couch was much closer, easily within reach. He got them both onto it. He was Lord Ruin, a man expert in the seduction of women, and he called on every ounce of his fabled finesse so that Anne would be bound to him. Only him. She met all of his passion and more. She cupped his behind, pulled him closer to her as she arched toward him, seeking and offering at one and the same time. Sweat beaded on their skin. His belly slid easily over hers as they found the rhythm of mutual need. Her face was a study in passion, her mouth slack at the edges. All that was lacking from his fantasy was her spectacles. He regretted having made her take them off. A slow, forward circle of his pelvis against her made her moan and bow upward. Her knees bent on either side of his hips, her hands gripped his forearms while he watched her climax with gratifying intensity. He gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed. She fell asleep in his embrace, with his heart beating slow and steady against the curve of her back.