One Night with an Earl (6 page)

“I do like plants,” he agreed, following her gaze around the room. “Immensely. The classification of African and South American flora is a passion of mine.”

“Oh my,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips. “And here I believed you to be an indolent gentlemen like most of the male members of the
ton
.”

“What makes you think I am part of the
ton
?” he asked, throwing her earlier question back at her.

She waved her hand as he had earlier, allowing a light, teasing tone to enter her voice. “Of course you are.”

He chuckled, and she flushed with pleasure. It wasn't often that she engaged in teasing flirtation. In fact, she'd
never
done so. Even when she'd gone through her London Season, she'd been too shy to engage with men in such a fashion.

“I might be a member of the
ton
,” he said, serious now, “but I dislike indolence. So I keep myself occupied with something that is meaningful to me.”

She nodded, and he clasped his hands behind his back, gazing down at her through his mask with those dark blue eyes that had begun to sparkle as he'd lit the lamps.

She reached up and fingered her own mask, the metal edge cool and sleek under her fingertips.

“What do
you
find fascinating, my lady?” he asked quietly. He knelt down and slipped her muddy slipper off her foot before setting it aside.

“You,” she answered honestly.

He smiled at that. It was an arrogant, supremely masculine smile. “Good. But what else?”

She looked away from him. But some part of her didn't want to lie to him or evade his questions. “I have always been fascinated by food,” she admitted quietly.

“Food? Do you mean its preparation or its consumption?” He chafed the cold, damp skin of her foot between his hands to warm it.

“Its preparation,” she clarified. “As in, how to combine ingredients in a way that makes them most pleasing to a person's palate.”

He looked intrigued. He bent down to kiss the top of her foot, his lips warm and soft. No one had ever kissed her there before, and it was…erotic. It made her pulse flutter and her cheeks burn with a flush.

He sat on the sofa beside her and stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “So…you are a cook?”

“Not in a professional capacity,” she said. “But I enjoy going into the kitchen and collaborating with our cook.”

“What kinds of foods do you most like to prepare?”

“I enjoy all types of dishes. But my favorite? Baked sweets,” she admitted. “Biscuits, fruit pies, tarts, pastries, cakes…”

She looked away, eyes downcast, afraid of his reaction. No one of her class, except Jessica and her family, had ever accepted her fascination with cooking. The world in general believed that cooking was far below Beatrice's station. She was lucky Cook allowed her into the kitchen at all.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly. Pressing one finger against her cheek, he turned her head to face him. “I'd like to taste one of your creations,” he said. The backs of his fingers stroked her cheeks. “A lemon pudding, perhaps.”

He trailed the finger from her cheek, down the front of her neck, and over her breast, gently swiping over her nipple. Even through the fabric of her clothes, the sensation was so strong she gasped aloud.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I could lay you naked on our bed and eat the pudding off your skin.”

She shuddered.

“I'd lick off every bit of the sweetness, but that wouldn't work, would it? Because once the pudding was gone, your skin would be even sweeter.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. He'd just given her the most erotic image of her life. Herself, lying naked across a bed while he licked lemon pudding from her skin.

His lips curved. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like me to lick a sweet confection from your body.”

She gave a ghost of a nod, and his fingers swiped over her nipple again. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist of the hand that was touching her. “Wait. I…I want…”

“What do you want? Do you want me to take you back to the masquerade? Or…” He let the question hang, but she knew what he had been going to say.

Or do you want to stay?

And here it was. This was the moment of truth. Her universe balanced on a single point, and she had the power to choose. For once in her life,
she
was the master of her own destiny. This man wanted her—she could see it in the deep glint of his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw, in his posture, bristling with maleness. But he wouldn't force himself on her. He was a gentleman, and if she wanted him to, he'd take her back to Jessica immediately.

He waited, gazing at her. Was that hope in his eyes?

“I want to stay with you,” she whispered.

He blew out a long, slow breath through his teeth. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“I want to be clear. I didn't have any preconceived notion of bringing you here. But now that you are, now that we're alone in the privacy of my house, I want to give you pleasure. I want to offer you a night you'll never forget. If you give me that honor, I promise you, you will not regret it.”

She stared at him through the eye sockets of her mask. Every nerve in her body seemed to draw taut over her skin. She'd never experienced such a sensation, but she knew intrinsically what it was: anticipation of pleasure.

“Be sure of this. If you do not want that, tell me you want to go. Tell me you don't want to be here. That you don't want me. Say it, and we will leave this house immediately.”

She didn't want to go. She
did
want to be here. And she wanted him. Every inch of her ached with desire for this man. She wanted to be with him in every sense of the word. Here, tonight, in his house.

“I can't…I can't tell you any of that. I'm sure. I want to be here.”

Since he'd come to her on the terrace, parts of her body she'd never known existed had awakened. This warmth in her core, this yearning, this need. This ache, deep inside her, that she knew could only be relieved by his touch.

“Good.” His whisper sounded hoarse in the silence of the room. “Promise me one thing.”

“What's that?” She could hardly breathe, much less speak through the combination of excitement, anticipation, and desire flooding through her.

“Promise me you'll never pretend with me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, or if it makes you afraid, you need to tell me. I never want you to fear me.”

“I promise,” she said quietly. She didn't think he'd make her uncomfortable or afraid. In fact, she'd never felt so comfortable with a man. The only time she'd been afraid was when her own past had encroached, not because of anything he'd done.

“You need to simply say no and I will stop. I want you to trust me. It's important. For my pleasure, and for yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You may leave this on.” He touched the mask over her cheek. “For as long as you like. If you decide to remove your mask, then I'll take mine off and we can be acquainted as our true selves rather than as Persephone and John.

“But for now, everything else must come off. Of both of us. Starting here.” He reached around and found the ribbon that bound her hair. He pulled on the end, and it came free. He lifted the rosebud circlet from her head and carefully laid it, along with the ribbon, on the side table before turning back to her. Careful to avoid the ties of her mask, he dug both his hands into her hair and combed through, letting the strands fall in waves to frame her face.

“Like silk,” he murmured.

“Your turn.” There it was again—that edge of flirtation in her voice that sounded so foreign to her ears.

He cocked his head at her in question.

“You told me during our walk that you're good with numbers,” she said. “And I have been counting, sir. You have removed exactly three items of clothing from me: my shoe, my ribbon, and my crown. And yet you have not removed one item of your own. There is an imbalance.”

A slow grin curved his lips. “You are absolutely correct, Persephone,” he said silkily. “It
is
my turn.”

He bent down and removed both of his shiny black shoes, then turned his attention back to her, his eyes glinting as they perused her body. “It is true there is an imbalance in the number of items of clothing you have removed versus me. However, you are wearing a greater number of items than I am. That means it's your turn again.”

He reached for her throat and the ties of her cloak. His fingertips stroked along her neck as he untied it and then slipped it from her shoulders. He folded it carefully before setting it aside.

He was precise and exacting in everything he did. She liked that about him very much. To have lived the past several years in such chaos and upheaval, there was something calming about his precision.

When he turned back to her, she smiled at him. “Allow me.” She reached up and carefully untied his cravat while he sat still, watching her. She made sure to touch his skin as it was revealed, small sensual strokes of her fingertips. When it was undone, she slid it slowly around his neck and folded it carefully. She set it onto the side table beside her hair ribbon.

He took her hand in his own, squeezing gently, and one by one, tugged at the fingers of her glove, all the while gazing into her face. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled it off, folded it, set it aside, and repeated the process with her other glove.

How he could make glove removal so erotic, she'd never know. But a growing heat simmered inside her as she stared at his compelling blue eyes, and he touched her fingers with soft little strokes.

With utmost care, she unbuttoned his coat, slid the woolen garment from his shoulders, and folded it just as carefully as she'd folded the cravat. She placed it beside her on the couch, smoothing it out with her hand so nary a wrinkle showed.

He drew in a breath. “My God. You're so perfect.”

“No,” she said. An automatic response to a declaration that was foreign to her.

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, squeezing tight. “Yes. You are. Perfect. I've thought so since…since I first saw you.”

She reached up, tracing the side of his face with her fingertips, from the bottom of his mask to his jawline. His skin was rough to the touch, with the slightest hint of an evening beard.

“
You're
perfect,” she said. In that moment, she knew it was true. He was handsome, strong, and masculine. He was intelligent and protective, and the way he touched her—it was as if he cherished every inch of her. She had never met anyone who could draw her out of the protective cloak she'd wrapped around herself.

This man made her feel beautiful and desired…and strong.

He stood, sweeping her into his arms. She gasped in surprise, but when she saw the heat in his eyes, she reached her arms around his neck once more.

As she clung to him, he turned toward the drawing room door and rasped out, “We're going to my bedroom.”

I
t was difficult for Drew to stay calm, to hold back his roiling emotions, his almost overpowering need. He focused on being as gentle as possible as he carried her, laying her carefully upon his bed after they'd entered his bedroom.

He sat on the bed beside her, staring down at her, his body nearing the boiling point. So often, when he was a youth, he'd imagined this moment. Too many years had gone by, but here she was, gazing up at him through her mask with shining dark eyes.

She was in his bed. She wanted to be here—to be with him—tonight.

He needed to keep breathing, to focus on her pleasure, to keep every move he made slow and deliberate. If he did not, this would be over in a few minutes.

He wanted a few hours.

He stoked the fire and lit a single lamp. Then he sat on the edge of the bed again and reached out to touch her cheek. Creamy skin, so soft and so beautiful.

The clock on his mantel chimed, and he glanced over at it. “It's midnight,” he said softly.

She let out a breath.

“Are you ready for us to remove our masks?”

“I don't think I'll ever be.” The note of honesty in her voice made his gut clench.

“All right, then. Yours stays on, and so does mine.”

“That sounds fair,” she breathed.

“Doesn't mean I wouldn't prefer them to come off.”

“I think you would rather they stay on, in the end,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. I wouldn't.”

“You have no idea…” Her voice trailed off.

She was wrong. He had every idea. He knew exactly who she was, who she'd been before she'd married, something of what she'd endured at the hands of Fenwicke, how her parents were embarrassed by her, and how society had condemned her with cruelty.

“Hush. No more talk of our masks for now.” He lay on the bed and pulled her close to him. “Kiss me,” he said gruffly.

With a little sigh, she did. And once again, he tasted her, rolling her over until he was on top of her. His cock ached, and he pressed his pelvis into her thigh as he kissed her. She'd know exactly how much he wanted her.

She reached up and threaded her hands through his hair, pulling him close as if she couldn't get enough of his kisses. He couldn't get enough of hers either, but he wanted to sample other parts of her, too.

He moved from her mouth at a leisurely pace, drawing his lips over the lower parts of her cheeks and jaw. Her skin was so damn soft.

His lips grazed over her ruby necklace, then trailed to her shoulder. He slipped his finger under the strap of her dress and pulled back slightly to see her reaction.

He'd never seen anything as erotic as Beatrice Reece in his bed, staring at him with luminous, large eyes through the holes in her mask, her dark hair fanned out around her face, her lips wet from his kisses and slightly parted. He thought he couldn't get any harder, but it felt like his cock grew another inch, and he almost groaned at the agony of it.

“Do it,” she whispered.

Startled back into the moment, he looked down at his fingers hooked beneath her dress strap. Slowly, he dragged the thin black rope down over her shoulder.

“Pull your arm out,” he said.

She complied, and he drew the fabric at the velvet neckline downward until her breast was exposed.

God, there was something to be said for bedding a Greek goddess. No petticoats, no chemise, no stays. All he had to do was tug on the front of her dress, and the pale white curve of her breast was exposed for his pleasure.

He cupped it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. She gasped and squirmed. He stilled without releasing her breast and looked up at her.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “It feels…it feels…so good.”

He bent down and stroked his tongue over her nipple. She jerked under him, but he held her steady. And then, as he pulled her other strap down, he buried his face in the soft plumpness of her breast. Licking, suckling, taking extreme gratification from her little moans.

When he pushed the other strap off, he cupped her breast in his hand. He teased her nipple with his thumb while he moved over to the other side to lavish attention on that breast, using his mouth to tease that nipple into a taut peak as he had on the other side.

Her hands slid around to his back and pressed him down against her so he sank into the softness of her flesh while continuing to tease and nip and kiss her breasts.

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. She rocked up into him, straining, her body restless, her breath coming in short bursts. She was so sensitive here. He loved it.

But there was so much more to discover. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he drew back. He swiped his thumbs over her nipples once more and then pulled his hands away as he rose into a sitting position, straddling her body.

“My turn,” he said gruffly, and removed his shirt, watching her watch him.

He laid his shirt neatly beside them on the bed, then turned back to see her looking up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze, her eyes betraying her arousal.

Tentatively, she reached up to touch him, her hands roaming over his chest and down to his abdomen and back up again to his chest with a featherlight touch. When her palms swiped over his nipples, he bit back a groan of pleasure.

He allowed her to explore for a few more seconds; then he bent over her, resting his weight on his forearms. Burying his fingers into that silky mass of hair, he kissed her again. Once more, he moved lower, raining kisses on her neck, over her ruby necklace, and down to her chest, again covering each of her breasts and teasing her nipples with his tongue.

He nudged her dress even lower, exposing more of that creamy, soft skin, kissing each bit as it was revealed. He kissed her sides, feeling the subtle ridges of her ribs under his mouth. He kissed her sternum down to her belly button.

When he pulled the dress low enough for him to press his lips to her lower abdomen, he felt her stiffen minutely. So he moved up again, kissing and kissing, this time following the kisses with his hands, stroking her, kneading her breasts, teasing, showing her how much he wanted every single inch of her.

When he traveled back down, she didn't stiffen nor did she shift away. Instead she was panting, making little sounds that drove him crazy.

This time, he raised his head, keeping his hands on her waist. “Lift yourself so I can pull it the rest of the way off.”

She made a whimpering noise. “I…want…”

“What, love? What do you want?” He held still, drawing gentle circles on her hip bones with his thumbs.

“This,” she whispered. And she lifted her pelvis so he could draw the dress the rest of the way off her.

He tossed the dress away. As soon as it was gone from his hands, it was gone from his mind, and for once he didn't care whether an item of clothing was unfolded or whether it was on the floor. He undid her ribbon garters and slid her stockings and her remaining slipper off and tossed them away, too.

He only had eyes—only had thoughts—for the woman laid out like a feast upon his bed. He gazed at her for a minute. She lay there, all beauty and pale curves. Her shapely legs were pressed together; the triangle of hair that hid her sex was dark. Her narrow waist flared into womanly hips. Her taut nipples and supple lips glistened from his kisses.

But then he noticed her hands at her sides. They were clenched into fists. It felt like one of those fists was squeezing his heart.

Beatrice…

“My lady,” he said, and his voice sounded rough. Not like his own. “You are a goddess, after all. You're so beautiful. I'm not certain this mortal man is worthy.”

She bit her lower lip, and it slid slowly out from her clenching teeth, glistening. “When I was a girl,” she whispered, “I was told often enough that men would say such things to get a woman into just this position.”

“You're right. Men often spout pretty words in order to seduce a woman so she will be compliant in the bedroom. That makes those men liars. I do not lie.”

“Don't you?”

He shook his head. “I might subtly deceive, as is common among our class, to keep my position in the world stable and scandal-free. I know the rules of how to behave in the
ton
, and it isn't always completely honest. Politesse trumps truth in our society.”

“That's true,” she admitted.

He squeezed her hand. He wanted to press closer to her. But not until she was ready.

“But beyond those minor deceptions, I do not lie. I have never deceived a woman to get her into my bed, and I never will.”

“Why wouldn't you? Isn't that how men get what they want?”

“You have a low opinion of men, my lady.” And how could he blame her? Her husband had been a villain; her father was an ass.

“Not all men,” she said softly. “I know some who are honest.”

“I won't lie to you. I won't manipulate you.”

“I want to believe you, but it's difficult,” she said, “because not only was I trained from birth to be wary of such advances, but also I…” She went quiet for a moment, then gave a deep sigh. “I want to…I want to live in the now. I don't wish to worry about manipulations, lies, the past, or the future. What does any of it matter if we enjoy the moment? I vow to have no regrets in the morning.”

“Not if I can help it,” he murmured. He brushed his lips over her nose. “I've never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.”

“
I've
never wanted anyone the way I want
you
,” she said.

Quickly, he removed his trousers and stockings. When he came back to her, he was just as naked as she was. He lay beside her and pulled her against him. The tension in her body was still there, and he stroked his hand down her arm until he found her fisted fingers.

“If you're wary of my intentions, I don't know how to ease your mind. But touch me, Persephone. Feel how much I want you.”

He guided their clasped hands toward his cock, then released her fingers and pressed her palm to his tight, hot erection. She took a shaky breath and with tentative fingers began to explore him. Her fingertips grazed over every ridge and vein, making him shudder. When her palm passed over the head, he groaned, fisting her hair in his hand and pressing his forehead to hers.

She wrapped her fingers around him, her movements growing bolder. She stroked up and down in a few swift pumps, and he couldn't help it. He pushed himself into her hand.

“You're so…” Her voice trailed off. Drew kissed her again, thrusting into her hand, running his own hand down her hip and thigh, then slipping between her thighs and moving back up.

She froze when he touched her center. Slowly, gently, he began to stroke her.

“Oh…God,” she whispered.

“You're so wet. So ready for me,” he managed, though it took every bit of willpower he had to lie still beside her. “Let me make you feel good, Persephone. Let me make you come.”

“I can't…I don't…”

Her body began to shudder, and he moved so close, his lips brushed over her mask as he spoke. “Let go, love.”

His fingers slid through her slick folds, and he paid special attention to the area that would bring her most pleasure. Then he slipped a finger inside her, and she gasped, her back arching. He moved his finger into her wet heat, then slid out, over the bud that was the center of her pleasure, painting her own juices over it before dipping inside her again, stroking the silky inner walls with two fingers this time, then pulling out and repeating the process.

Her hand, which had never let him go, clamped around his cock. It was agony and bliss at the same time.

She started moving in time to his thrusts, her legs falling open, and when he withdrew to tease her, she rubbed her body wantonly against his fingers.

“That's right,” he said softly. “Let it all go.”

He loved the little noises she made, moans and whimpers of pleasure. She held him like a vise with one hand while the other clutched the bedclothes. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth was open in an O of pleasure, and beads of sweat had formed at her temples.

After several minutes of sweet torture, she began to shake, and he turned his focus to rubbing that little bud of pleasure. She moaned. “I can't…I…can't…”

“Yes,” he said firmly, “you can.”

And she did. Her muscles went tight all over her body, and with a little cry, she came, every muscle and limb trembling. He caressed her through it, but he couldn't resist pushing one finger inside her to feel the rhythmic pulses of her orgasm.

She descended from the peak, and as the pulses subsided, she squirmed and gasped as his finger stroked over her newly sensitized body. He gentled his stroke, then pulled away, bringing his hand up to wrap around the back of her neck and pull her to him for a long, deep kiss.

As he kissed her, he felt her quick rise from satisfaction to arousal. She was so responsive. Within moments, she was pressing her body against him, her hand once again stroking his cock in maddeningly teasing swipes.

He kissed her and kissed her, but when the heat began to expand at the base of his spine, he drew away.

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” she asked, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I'm going to come if you keep that up,” he clarified through gritted teeth. “I need you first, need to be inside you.”

Regretfully, she let go of his cock. “I like the feel of you in my hand,” she admitted quietly.

“I like the feel of you in my hand, too.”

In the dim light of the lamp, he could see that flush of pink spreading over her cheeks and seeping below the edge of the mask. The blush made him smile—and it made him want her even more.

“So beautiful,” he said, and he rolled them over so that he was on top of her again. He gazed down into her face. The infernal mask…If he could rip it off, he would in an instant. He wanted all of her.