Reckless (9 page)

At that moment she couldn't remember. It seemed
so long ago, lost in the realm of her own monumental stupidity. “Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped. “I was…scientifically curious. As for your stupid Portal of Venus, Lina was going to point it out to me, but she disappeared.”

His expression didn't change, and yet she knew his amusement at her expense was increasing. “Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. I'm more than happy to ensure you experience everything you've ever wondered about.”

From this short distance the bottle wouldn't kill him, but it might startle him enough to give her time to escape. Though the door would have to be opened. If he was to be believed that time wouldn't come until morning. “You fail to understand,” she said stiffly. “I'm an old maid. A spinster. Happily on the shelf. Since I would have no chance or interest in experiencing the…the lust that seems to be of such paramount importance in most people's lives, I thought I could simply come and observe. I'm of a scientific bent, and there's nothing wrong with a little intellectual curiosity.”

He laughed again. It should have annoyed her. Instead it sent a trickle of warmth into her belly. “A true scientist does more than observe—he experiments.”

“I'm not a true scientist. Observation is enough.”

“Then would you like to sit and watch while I disport myself with a more willing female?”

“No,” she said instantly. Then regretted it.

“And why not?”

When she didn't answer, he laughed again. “Never mind, precious. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I have no secrets,” she said sharply.

“Don't you, now?” he said softly. “Then you'd be the only one.” He stretched, slowly, luxuriantly, like a sleepy cat. A tall, beautiful, elegant, sleepy cat. “You really have no idea what you're turning down. I'm accounted to be one of the most accomplished lovers in society. No woman has ever left my bed unsatisfied, no woman has ever refused to return for more.”

“Then why don't you get one of them in here?”

“Because I want you.”

That silenced her. The four simple words were devastating, both to body and soul. Her stomach reacted with an ache of longing, her breath and heart lifted in unconscious response, and she felt…hot…damp…between her legs.

Reflexively she clamped her knees together, and his soft laugh told her he didn't miss her movement. “Come lie on the bed with me, Charlotte. I won't do anything you don't want me to do. And it's the only way you're going to get out of here in any timely manner.”

He was Satan himself, she thought, because she was seriously considering his offer. She was tired, bone tired, and this chair was hard and uncomfortable.

And it was Rohan lying on that slightly rumpled
bed—beautiful, haunted Adrian Rohan—who'd just said the very words she'd dreamed about for what must be years.
Because I want you.

What would the harm be? He'd promised he wouldn't touch her body unless she asked, and that would never happen. He'd sworn he would never rape. She could lie next to him on the bed, close enough to hear his heart beat, close enough to feel his body warmth. He might kiss her again. She could allow him to put his arms around her, chastely. To hold her through the night, her one chance of lying in the arms of the man she loved…

No, she didn't love him. She didn't even know him, and his reputation was disreputable. But for some reason, sane, sensible, practical Charlotte Spenser had dreamed about the lost and beautiful viscount and his elegant hands, his bewitching mouth. And he was offering her all that beauty, and the lost soul that hid behind it.

Even in the darkness she could see his smile widen, the glitter of satisfaction in his bright, brilliant eyes. “Come to bed, Charlotte Spenser,” he said softly, his voice a soft, impossible invitation.

And she did.

A
drian Rohan said nothing as Charlotte rose from the chair. She'd squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and crossed the few feet to the side of the bed, but he could see the faint nervousness, the slightest hint of trembling that she doubtless thought she'd hidden. Poor angel. If he were a kind man he'd summon the servant he'd sworn wasn't available and let her go free.

He wasn't a kind man.

He rose as she approached. She was not a short woman, but he was taller, and he was careful not to loom over her too badly. It wouldn't take much to spook her, and then he'd have to start the cajoling all over again, when all he wanted to do was lie down with her. Touch her face. Kiss her mouth. Fuck her senseless.

He could just imagine her reaction if he used those words. He'd have to peel her off the ceiling. He'd wait
until it was a fait accompli, until she looked up into his eyes and said “yes” and “please” and “now.”

The bed was pushed up against the stone wall. “You get to be on the inside,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Why?”

“If you want to escape I'll let you,” he said in a deliberately bored-sounding voice. “Just say ‘let me up' and I will. In the meantime, I prefer to lie on the outside.”

For a moment he thought she was going to balk. But a moment later she'd climbed up onto the bed, pulling the monk's robe up to crawl to the far side. She ended up tucked into the corner, trying to sink into the carved limestone, and he kept a straight face as he lay back down beside her.

“You and I are the only two who are going to sleep in this bed, angel,” he said. “You really don't need to be so far away.”

“I like a fair amount of space.”

He turned on his side, facing her. The tall candelabrum cast a decent amount of light onto her face, leaving him in shadows. He could see the fear in her eyes, on her full, pale mouth. It was too dark to see the gold flecks of her skin, but that was a small price to pay for getting her on her back beside him.

Which was patently absurd. He had never in his life gone to so much trouble to bed one woman. “Move closer, Charlotte,” he said in a low voice.

She did. In the close quarters of the bed she
smelled delicious. Wet grass, and honey, and heated female skin with its own, indescribable scent. Her wild red hair had been doing its best to escape confinement, and tendrils curled around her pale face.

He reached up a hand to push some of it out of her eyes, and she flinched, annoying him. “I'm not about to hurt you,” he said dryly. “You do realize that, don't you?”

If she'd said no he might have been irritated enough to let her go. If she didn't know well enough by now that he wouldn't force her, then this was a lost cause.

Fortunately she didn't know how close she came to being released. “Yes,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, what?” he prompted her.

Her eyes met his. The changeable hazel eyes of most redheads—in the dark they looked almost black. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Yes, Lord Rohan?” she ventured.

He laughed. “No. Yes, I know you won't hurt me. Adrian,” he added. “We're in bed together—you may as well call me Adrian.”

She jerked, startled, as if just realizing that they were, in fact, lying in the same bed. “I think Lord Rohan is more appropriate,” she said in that starchy little voice of hers. Which was patently absurd, with her lying beside him in the shadowy room, her eyes wide, her mouth soft.

“Let's not waste time discussing what is or isn't
appropriate. Appropriate behavior tends to be boring. I much prefer inappropriate goings-on. Lascivious riots. Isn't that what you called this?”

“Not
this,
” she corrected him. “This is coerced proximity and nothing more.”

He touched one errant curl, his fingers brushing against her cheek, and this time she didn't flinch as badly. It was like breaking a horse, he thought. Patience, getting her used to his touch, his weight. He was very good with horses—one frightened, virginal spinster should be easy. At least she couldn't kick him in the head and kill him.

Even if part of her might want to. He smiled at the thought, and her eyes narrowed. “What do you find so amusing?”

“You, dear Charlotte.” He let his fingers trace the line of her stubborn jaw. Her skin was soft, smooth, creamy smooth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of her, the touch of her. He was quite unaccustomed to working so hard for anything but a horse. And even more astonishing, he was enjoying it.

He opened his eyes again, looking into hers, and for a moment their gazes caught and held, like a physical connection. His fingers carefully cupped her chin, and he felt the tension through her entire body as he moved closer.

“You promised you wouldn't touch me,” she whispered.

“I won't touch your body,” he said. “I'm just going to kiss you. I promise you, it won't hurt. You survived my first kiss—you'll survive another.”

In retrospect. that first kiss had been remarkably unsatisfying. She hadn't known what to do, and he'd been too busy maneuvering her into the room to really concentrate. He wanted to take his time now, see how long it took her to respond.

Because respond she would—he had absolutely no doubt of it. And that would be the first step toward where he needed to be.

It would be too dark for her to see his erection—a good thing. He could feel the faint tremors dancing through her body. If she knew what was going to end up between her legs she'd try to bolt.

He leaned over her, his mouth just above hers. She didn't move, but her eyes were dark with apprehension. “What are you so frightened of?” he whispered against her lips. “It's just a kiss…”

She made the mistake of wetting her lips in her nervousness. He couldn't resist, closing the short distance between them, putting his mouth on hers before she realized what he intended.

He'd planned on taking his time, starting soft, but her jaw was clamped shut, her lips tight, and it annoyed him. “Open your mouth,” he whispered against her tight lips, “or I'll make you.”

Her eyes flew open, staring at him in consternation. It was enough of a surprise to make her mouth
unclench, and he slanted his own across hers, pushing it open, using his tongue.

She froze in panic, and he was damn lucky she didn't bite him. He caught her rigid shoulders and pushed her back against the pillow, and his kiss softened, turning seductive, beguiling, touching her tongue, sliding his against it, gently. She was holding herself very still, simply letting him, when her own tongue moved, just slightly, reaching for his as he withdrew, and he let out a groan of muffled pleasure.

She'd put her hands on his shoulders, clinging to him, and he suddenly pulled away as he felt her weaken. “Breathe, Charlotte. You're supposed to breathe.”

She let out a
whoosh
of suppressed air, bringing more into her lungs. “How?”

He couldn't resist a small laugh. “A combination of ways. You sneak in a breath whenever your mouths change angles. You breathe through your nose. And you take a deep breath if you know you're about to be kissed. Like now.”

He settled his mouth against hers, a second after she drew in her breath, a slow, deep kiss, then lifted his mouth. “Breathe,” he whispered before he slanted his mouth against her, changing the angle, reveling in the delight of her untrained mouth. He lifted his mouth to bite her lip. “Again,” he whispered. And used his tongue.

This time she was ready for him, kissing him back with real enthusiasm that was all the more arousing for the fact that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Clearly no one had kissed her before, and it made her capitulation curiously endearing.

Even touching nowhere but her shoulders he could feel her slowly building arousal. He moved his lips to the side of her mouth, then brushed them against her eyelids, her cheekbones, the soft curve of her ear.

“You aren't supposed to touch me below the neck,” she said in a hushed voice.

He lifted his head to look down at her, and he smiled. “Your hands are on me as well, precious.”

She'd been clinging to his shoulders. She released him immediately, but he simply caught her hands and placed them back on him. “Nothing without your consent,” he promised, kissing her again, silencing her midprotest.

He already knew how to loosen the monk's robes—it wasn't the first time he'd brought a woman dressed in the plain costume back to these dark rooms. It fastened at the shoulder, held together by the rope belt. He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer against him, and managed to get his hand on the rope.

She'd double knotted it, of course, and pulled it tight so that it couldn't accidentally become loose. He had a knife nearby—he would have happily cut it,
but he needed to sneak up on her. She wouldn't know she'd been compromised until she was climaxing.

In the meantime, he kept her mouth and her mind busy with his kisses while his fingers fiddled with the knot. It took a while, particularly since he didn't want her to feel what he was doing, but he was nothing if not patient, and once the first knot gave, the rest was simple, the belt opening and falling onto the mattress between them.

And then he couldn't resist. His hand was too close, and he slid it up the front of her until he reached her breasts, closing over one.

She jerked, surprised, and if she hadn't been too busy kissing him she probably would have said no. His fingers toyed with her nipple, feeling it harden instantly in his hand, and he wanted to shove the robe away from her and put his mouth on her, sucking in deep.

Slowly, slowly, he reminded himself, trying to control his rampaging body. Maybe he should leave her here, go find someone else to take the edge off so that he could come back to her and take his time. His need for her was advancing at outrageous speed—it usually took him a great deal longer to get so close to exploding. For some reason, Charlotte Spenser's shy, reluctant responses were setting him on fire.

But he wasn't going to leave her. If it hurt, so be it. He would take as long as he needed to get her cooperation. He couldn't risk scaring her—all he
needed was her adamant refusal and he'd be fucked. Or not.

He laughed deep inside as he slid his mouth down her throat. “What's funny?” Charlotte murmured, dazed.

“I am. Going to all this trouble.”

Wrong thing to say. She tried to skitter away from him, to the far side of the bed, but the effort made her robe pull open to expose the thin black silk beneath it. She let out a shriek, trying to pull it back around her, but he caught her hands, stopping her by moving closer, so close that she couldn't reach between them to restore her modesty. He put one arm around her waist, clamping her against him, and with his other hand he cupped her chin, holding her still for his soft, seductive kisses, lulling her into a mistaken sense of safety.

He rolled her underneath him, pushing her into the soft mattress as he covered her, his erection up against the juncture of her thighs, his mouth teasing hers, her breasts against his chest, rubbing, rubbing, the nipples irresistibly hard. Her hands were on his shoulders again, clinging to him, not pushing him away. It wasn't complete surrender, but it was moving that way, and his arousal intensified, until he knew he had to slow things down or he'd embarrass himself as he hadn't since he was thirteen years old.

What was it about her that made him so impossibly eager? Was it the adolescent dream of fucking
his governess finally coming to fruition? His own hadn't been exciting, but he remembered his cousin's very proper Miss Finster….

He slid his hands up her arms, and he rose, pulling his mouth away reluctantly, staring down at her through the milky candlelight. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, and her usually sharp eyes were dazed. The scowl was gone. Who would have thought starchy Miss Charlotte Spenser could look quite so deliciously aroused?

She blinked for a moment. Her gaze came back into focus as she looked at him, and he felt her initial stiffening.

“What am I doing?” she whispered, horrified. Now she was pushing at him, and he let her go, rolling onto his back to keep from shoving himself into her like a randy bull. It took him a moment to control his breathing, and in the meantime she tried to scramble over him in her need to escape.

He caught her, of course, as one of her legs straddled his in her attempt to get away. He felt the resistance in her body, and he knew she'd say no, so he simply stopped her mouth with his so she couldn't demand her freedom.

Not that he would have granted it at this point. To hell with the rules of the Heavenly Host. He didn't give a damn if she was initially unwilling. She wanted him, and he was going to take her, and to hell with the consequences.

He didn't move his mouth away from hers until he felt her entire body soften. Once more he considered leaving and finding a fast tup to get the edge off. He wasn't going to be able to take the time he wanted to, but at that point he didn't care.

“What are you doing?” he echoed her, faintly mocking. “You're lying on top of the most accomplished rake in London.” The robe was open around her, and he used his free hand to push it off her shoulders. Lovely shoulders, and he could see the gold flecks now that she was closer to the light. Stardust scattered on her skin, he thought, and leaning forward, he licked the skin on her shoulder, just tasting.

She made a small, worried noise, and he captured it with his mouth. The garment she wore under the monk's robe was thin, black silk, with no corset, no petticoats, and he suspected, hoped and prayed, no drawers. Just the long silk chemise. It would have come from Evangelina Whitmore—it slid against Charlotte's skin like a caress.

He'd gotten her into the locked room by kissing her into submission. He should be able to get inside her by the same process. He slid his hand between them, catching the silk and slowly pulling it up her long legs. She let out a little shriek of protest against his mouth, and he simply rolled her underneath him again, with the chemise halfway up her thighs, trapped between their bodies.