Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (37 page)

Christ. He loved her.

He wanted her. Playful. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sinful.

Forever.
 

He matched her smile with his own. “I can think of ways I would enjoy myself more.”

She placed her hands at the curve of his buttocks and squeezed. He groaned. “Show me.”

And he did.

He moved in deep, decadent strokes, and she matched him, lifting her long legs, his name on her lips like a mantra, first soft and barely there, and then a cry of pleasure, making him wish this moment would never end. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close as he thrust, and her hands came to his shoulders, wrapping tightly around him as she cried out for him.

As though he would leave her.

As though it were possible for him to leave her.

He would never leave her.
 

She pulled back at the last moment, as he thrust fast and strong against her. She met his gaze. “Now,” she said, the word full of desire and wonder, hinting at something he would be able to grasp if his head weren’t so damn full of her. “Now.”

Now, indeed.

She fell into pleasure, tight and perfect around him, with such power that he thought he might not survive it. She called his name as he thrust once, twice, hard and fast and glorious until his release raced toward him, and he pulled out of her, coming hard and fast and like nothing he’d ever experienced.

As one.

And he knew, instantly, that he had not ruined her for other men.

She had ruined him for other women. For life.

He pulled away, and she sighed a protest at his departure, making him ache for her once more. He wasn’t ready to leave her, but he fastened his trousers loosely, and removed a handkerchief, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to one of the large chairs on the far side of the room before settling her into his lap and cleaning her.

“You didn’t…” she trailed off.

“I didn’t think you would want the risk.” Not that he didn’t secretly enjoy the idea – a collection of tiny blond children with their mother’s pretty amber eyes. “You did not choose the last time. You should choose the next.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and he pulled her close, wanting to keep her safe now.
Forever.

Christ. That word again.

She curled into him as he stroked his hands over her beautiful, soft skin, replaying the event in his mind as their breathing returned to normal, turning over her words, her movements, her sounds.

The moments of surprise. Of wonder. Of desire.

Of discomfort.
 

Realization dawned.

She lifted her head when his hands stilled on her. “What is it?”

He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

Not wanting it to be true.
 

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Tell me.”

I have not… with anyone…
 

She’d said it. He simply hadn’t believed her.

Who was she?

What game did she play?

What game did Chase play?
 

He met her eyes, noting the openness there, the honesty. So rare. Something must have shown in his own gaze, because hers went wary. “Duncan?”

He didn’t want to say it, and yet, he could not stop himself. “You’re not a whore.”

Chapter 17

… It is a constant surprise to this publication that Lady G— was so easily dismissed for nearly a decade. What we would not offer for a peek into the lady’s past! Alas, we shall have to settle for watching her bright future…

… Several critical votes are before the Houses of Parliament this week. The owner of this very paper is a vocal proponent of setting clear limits for child labor, and watches carefully as this great Nation’s leaders decide the fate of her youngest citizens…

The News of London
, May 9, 1833

She froze at the words.

Perhaps she could have brazened it through, if not for the way he’d made her feel, the way he’d slowly, effortlessly dismantled her guard, leaving it on the floor with her trousers and his cravat and all their inhibitions.

The way he’d somehow given her pleasure and peace and the promise of more, even as she’d known all of it was fleeting.

Perhaps she could have lied, but how could she? How could she pretend to know the tricks and trade of London’s finest lightskirt when he’d so thoroughly destroyed her with his kiss and touch and kindness?

She’d expected the kissing. The touching.

But the kindness had been too much. It had stripped her bare, leaving her with nothing to protect her from his careful observations and his probing questions.

For the first time in an age, she did not know what to say. She left his lap, standing, moving naked to the place where he’d divested her of her clothing and her lies. She lifted her shirt from where it had landed on the arm of a chair, and slid into it, pulling it closed around her as he spoke again. “You cannot hide from me. Not in this. You and Chase clearly have some kind of plan – something of which I am a part. Unwillingly.” The words sent fear straight through her, as this brilliant man discovered one of her best-kept secrets and came closer to uncovering all the rest.

The irony, of course, was that most men would be thrilled to know that they had not just slept with a prostitute.

But there was nothing about Duncan West that was like other men.

And there was nothing about him that appeared pleased with the discovery.

He did not seem to care that she was virtually naked, or that she was emotionally bare, or that she was unsettled by his statement, or that she did not wish to discuss it. “When was the last time you slept with someone?”

She tried to hedge her way out of the conversation, leaning down, retrieving her trousers. “I sleep with Caroline quite often.”

His gaze turned furious as he leaned forward and she tried her best to ignore the way his muscles shifted, rippling beneath his smooth skin. “Let me rephrase, I forget sometimes where you have chosen to make your life. When was the last time you fucked a man?”

The curse was a gift, reminding her that she was more than this moment, that she was queen of London’s underworld, more powerful than he could imagine. More powerful than anyone could imagine.

Even he.

She should have been angry with him. Should have squared her shoulders, nakedness be damned, and told him precisely what he could do with his foul language. Should have stalked, bare and bold, to the wall and rung the bell to call security to this place, where he should not be.

Where she should not have brought him.

Where she would never forget him.

She looked away. The whole afternoon had gone pear-shaped, and instead, his anger made her want to tell him the truth. To mend the moment. To answer his questions and return to his arms and restore his faith. Not an hour earlier, he’d vowed to protect her.

How long had it been since someone had wished to do that?

“Look at me.” It was not a request.

She looked at him, desperate to stay strong. “What we did… it wasn’t…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “That.”

He narrowed his gaze. “How would you know?”

He meant to hurt her, and he did, the question a blow. Not undeserved, but a blow nonetheless. She answered him, laying herself barer than she had ever imagined she could. “Because the last time I did this, it was.” His brown eyes searched hers, and she let him see the truth. Finished her thought, the words quieter than she’d expected. “This wasn’t the same. This was… more.”

“Christ.” He came to his feet.

She met his gaze. “It is something more.”

“Is it?” he asked, the question filled with something like doubt. He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “You lied to me.”

She had, but now she did not wish to, even though she’d wrapped herself in lies. Wrapped them both in them. Even though her lies were layered in myriad ways, too many and too complex to tell him the truth. Too connected to too many others to find their way into the light of honesty.

“I want to tell you the truth,” she confessed.

“Why don’t you?” he asked. “Why don’t you trust me? I would have – had I known that you – that Anna – that none of it was true, I would have —” He stopped. Regrouped. “I would have taken more care.”

She’d never in her life felt more cared for than in the last hour, in his arms. And she wanted to give him something for it. Something that she’d never given another person. Her darkest secret, kept only in her deepest thoughts. “Caroline’s father,” she whispered. “He was the last.”

He was silent for a long moment, before he asked, “When?”

He still did not understand. “Ten years ago.”

He sucked in a breath, and she wondered at the sound, at the way he seemed pained by her truth. “The only time?”

He knew the answer to the question, but she replied nonetheless. “Until now.”

His hands came to her face, lifting her chin, forcing her to look at him. “He was a fool.”

“He was not. He was a boy who wanted a girl. But not forever.” She smiled. “Not even a second time.”

“Who was he?”

She blushed at the question, hating the answer. “He worked in the stables at my brother’s country estate. He saddled my horse a few times, rode out with me on one occasion.” She looked away, wrapping her arms tight around herself. “I was… bewitched by his smile. His flirt.”

He nodded. “So you took a risk.”

“Except it wasn’t a risk. I thought I loved him. I’d spent my young, entitled life without a care in the world. I wanted for nothing. And, in the great error made by every entitled child since the beginning of time, I searched for the thing that I did not have instead of celebrating the things that I did.”

“What was that?”

“Love,” she said simply. “I did not have love. My mother was cold. My brother was distant. My father was dead. Caroline’s father was warm, and near, and alive. And I thought he loved me. I thought he would marry me.” She shrugged the memory away with a smile. “Foolish girl.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his handsome brow furrowed. “What is his name?”

“Jonathan.”

“That’s not the part I want.”

She shook her head. “It’s the part I will give you. It does not matter who he is. He left, and Caroline was born, and that is that.”

“He should pay for what he has done.”

“How? By marrying me? By becoming Caroline’s father in name as well as deed?”

“Hell, no.”

Her brow furrowed. Everyone with whom she’d ever discussed Caroline’s birth had agreed that if only she would name the man, all would be well. Her brother had threatened her with marriage, as had half a dozen women who lived with her in Yorkshire, after she’d birthed Caroline and raised her into childhood. “You don’t think he should be forced to marry me?”

“I think he should be forced to hang by his thumbs from the nearest tree.” Her eyes widened, and he continued. “I think he should be stripped bare and made to walk down Piccadilly. I think he should meet me in the ring in the heart of this place, so I can tear him apart for what he did to you.”

She would be lying if she did not say she enjoyed the threats. “You would do that for me?”

“And more,” he said, the words not boastful, but quick and honest. “I hate that you protect him.”

“It is not protection,” she said, trying to explain. “It is that I don’t wish him relevance. I don’t wish him the power men hold over women. I don’t wish him to be a part of me. Of who I am. Of who Caroline is. Of who she might become.”

“He is none of those things.”

She watched him for a long moment, wanting to believe him. Knowing the truth. “Maybe not to me… but to them… to you… of course he is. And he will be, until there is another.”

“A husband. With a title.”

She did not reply. Did not have to.

“Tell me the rest.”

She lifted one shoulder. Let it fall. “There is not much to say.”

“You loved him.”

“I thought I loved him,” she corrected. And she’d believed it. But now…