The Naked Viscount (19 page)

He laughed, sending a tiny current of air over her skin. “Patience, Jane. That's the way the game is played. The longer you wait, the more the need builds until finally it explodes.” He drew a lazy circle around her nipple with his tongue, still not touching the point. She made a little sound—not quite a growl, not quite a whine. She felt his mouth pull into a smile against her breast.

“Skeptical, are you?” he said. He leaned over and finally flicked her nipple with his tongue.

She squeaked, jerking as a flash of exquisite sensation shot to the ache between her legs. Oh, my. And then he sucked the nipple into his mouth, and another bolt of liquid need surged through her. Her hips twisted on the bed. She required his attention
there.

His hands gripped her, holding her still, as his mouth moved lower. The room's air chilled the wet nubs he'd left behind, but that was all right. That other part of her was demanding his attention—crying for it, if the growing dampness was any indication. But what would he—

Oh! Who would have thought it? She would never have imagined…His
mouth
was on her. His
tongue.
It touched one particular spot, flicked over it…She grabbed the sheets with both hands and arched her back.

Her world narrowed to that tiny point of flesh. Edmund had no pity—each slide of his tongue wound her tighter and tighter. She was going to fly off into a thousand pieces; she was—

She caught her breath, bit her lip. She was on the edge now. It—whatever
it
was—was almost here. She was going to…do something in just an instant…

Edmund's tongue touched her one last time.

“Ohh.” Her hips jerked and then wave after wave of drenching pleasure swept through her.

Mmm. She felt satiated, every part of her body heavy and relaxed—boneless. Wonderful, but…she frowned. Something was missing. She looked up at Edmund. He appeared to be exceedingly pleased with himself, but also a little…tense.

Because he
was
tense, of course. He moved and she felt his erection brush against her leg. He was still very hard and thick—that didn't seem right. He'd given her release, but he hadn't taken it himself.

“We aren't finished.” She ran her finger over his cheek; it was rough with the faint shadow of his beard. “You aren't finished.”

He smiled, though the expression was definitely strained. “No. I'm not.”

He
should
be finished, he thought. He should kiss her quickly and lift himself away from temptation. The bath-water was still in the room. It might be chilly enough to cool his ardor a little. But, dear God, he wanted to be inside her so badly he could taste it. He swallowed. All right—he could taste her. She was still sweet on his tongue, and her scent filled his every breath.

He would send her back to her room, and use his hand to ease his discomfort. Or he could show her how to give him release. She did not have to give up her virginity to save him pain. They could wait. They
should
wait.

He didn't want to wait. Jane was here in his bed—the bed where generations of Smyths had been conceived. She would be his wife before God and the law soon. He wanted—needed—to make her the wife of his body now.

He felt her hands running down his back, pulling him closer. She arched her hips and pressed her wet heat against his leg. “What are you waiting for?” She gave him a saucy smile. “A personal invitation? I thought I'd already extended that, but if you need another…” She shifted so she found his tip and rubbed herself against it. “Please, Edmund. Please come inside.”

She didn't need to ask twice.

He kissed her, slow and deep—the last thing he was going to do slow for a while, though deep…yes, he would be as deep inside her as he could be. Mmm. And he would stay there, and give her his seed and, God willing, a child.

But first he had to get inside, and that would not be so pleasant for her. Best get it done as quickly as possible.

He thrust his hips forward.

“Ow!”

He held still and kissed her forehead. “I'm sorry. It will only hurt this first time.”

She made a disgruntled little sound. “I suppose it didn't hurt you the first time you did it?”

“N—no. I don't believe it did.”

“It's not fair. Men should have to experience the same trials women do.”

“Um.” He was not capable of an extended conversation at the moment. His mind was overwhelmed by his cock, by the exquisite sensation of being buried deep in Jane's lovely, tight, wet heat.

“We will have to do it again,” she said, “so I can see what it is like without the pain.”

“Um.” His cock throbbed in agreement. “Yes. Indeed.”
Many times.
But first he needed to finish this time. His body was clamoring for him to move. “Are you all right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hold on, then. I'll be quick.” He pulled back and then surged forward. Once, twice, and once again, holding deep inside her as bliss slammed through him and his seed spurted into her, into the woman he loved.

He collapsed; he couldn't have moved if Satan had burst through his door that very moment.

He'd never before felt such complete, such utter peace. Normally he spilled his seed on the bed—he wanted no by-blows—paid his money, grabbed his breeches, and left. But this time he wanted to stay, wanted Jane to stay and sleep in his bed all night.

But she couldn't. Her mother and the aunts would be home shortly.

“Mmm. That was nice,” Jane murmured by his ear, “after the part that hurt, of course.” Her hands slid down his back to hug his arse closer. “When can we do it again?”

His traitorous cock started to swell eagerly. “Not now.” He flexed his hips backward, breaking her hold and lifting himself off her. “You have to be sore.” He stretched out next to her.

“Maybe a little.” She snuggled against him. “Will I be better tomorrow?”

“I think so.” He ran his hand over her hip. The minx lifted her leg and draped it over his. He removed it. “But you have to go back to your own room now.”

“I don't want to.” She snuggled closer. “I want to stay here.”

He brushed her hair back from her face and ran his hand down her side. “You don't want your mother to find you here, do you?”

She stilled. “No.” She threw a worried look at the door. “Do you think they are back from Lord Fonsby's yet? Mama might stop to check on me.”

“It is probably too early, but we'd best not take any chances.”

She sighed. “I suppose you're right.”

He kissed her quickly. “I wish you could stay. I know you came to…” He paused. Wait a minute. When he'd first seen Jane, she'd been hiding under his bed. He frowned. “Why
did
you come to my room?”

“Er.” Jane looked extremely guilty.

“I came looking for the piece of Clarence's sketch we found at the Harley Street gallery this afternoon.” Edmund wouldn't get angry, would he? Not after the wonderful activity they'd just shared. Though perhaps it wasn't quite so wondrous for him—he
had
done it before with other women.

She found she did not care for that thought at all.

“I'm sorry for invading your privacy,” she said, “but I got the distinct impression you weren't planning on showing me the drawing.”

“I wasn't.”

“What?”
She sat up, and his eyes dropped to her chest. “Stop that!” She hauled the coverlet up to block his view—and uncovered his splendid chest and waist and…

She tore her gaze back to his face. “How could you think not to show it to me? I was the one who found it. I found every single piece of that sketch. You can't keep it from me.”

“I can. I have.” His face looked like the cliffs of Dover. All warmth and tenderness had vanished. She wanted to grab him, shake him, knock some sense into him.

She wasn't stupid. She knew banging her head against a rock would only give her a colossal headache. Still, she had to try. “Be reasonable, Edmund.”

“I am being reasonable. Satan is involved, and, as you discovered this afternoon, his involvement is not to be taken lightly. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger”—he covered her belly with his hand—“especially now that you may be carrying my child.”

His child? Oh, dear God. The man wasn't just being overly protective because he was a man and she was a woman, but because he saw his line endangered. Surely she wasn't enceinte.

“So if we hadn't”—she waved her hand at the bed—“you know. If we hadn't done this, you'd let me see the sketch?”

“Of course not. I want you safe. The possibility of a child just strengthens my resolve.”

He really could do a fine imitation of the cliffs of Dover; in fact, they could take lessons in impassiveness from him.

“But what harm can it do just to show me the paper?” She dropped the coverlet to spread out her arms; Edmund's eyes didn't move from her face—a bad sign. “Look around. We are the only ones in the room. Satan will never know.”

“No.”

“But I helped you with the other clues. I might be able to help you with this one, too. Have you looked at the drawing yet?”

Edmund glared at her. “No, I didn't have time.”

“Then you don't know if you need my help or not.”

A frown creased his brow and his mouth took on a mulish line. “I don't need your help.”

She leaned forward and poked him in his lovely, naked chest. “Remember, you had to ask Stephen to identify the
Magnolia grandiflora
in the first part of the sketch, and I had to help you find the tree in Lord Palmerson's garden.”

He shrugged, making his muscles move in a very interesting way, and pushed her hand away. “That was the first part.” He wouldn't meet her eyes; he obviously realized the power of her argument.

“And you would never have discovered the second piece had anything to do with the Harley Street gallery if I hadn't puzzled it out.”

He shrugged again.

“So why do you think you'll be able to make sense of this third part of the drawing by yourself?”

Had he growled? He looked frustrated enough to have done so. “Let me see it, Edmund. Please?”

He let out a long, annoyed breath. “Oh, all right.” He swung out of bed and walked naked to his desk. Mmm. With his strong legs and muscled back and buttocks, he looked like a statue of a Greek god come to life.

She scrambled off the mattress and found her nightgown under the bed. “I already looked in your desk.”

“I know. The sand I left on the top was disturbed.”

“Oh. And here I thought you were just not very tidy.” She slipped the nightgown over her head and went to stand next to him. How could he be so casual about his nakedness? She couldn't look anywhere but at him. She ran her hand over his arse and around toward—

He stepped out of her reach. “I thought you wanted to see Clarence's sketch.”

“I do.” His penis had gone from dangling by his legs to standing straight out from his body in a matter of seconds. Fascinating. She reached for him, but he dodged her hand, stooping quickly to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist.

“You have an odd way of showing your interest.”

“Oh?” How could she show more interest? He kept dancing away from her.

“In the sketch! Your interest in Clarence's sketch.” He made an exasperated noise, half sigh, half laugh. “
Will
you stop looking at me like that?”

“Hmm?” The towel didn't do a very good job of hiding his penis. It looked rather like he'd affixed a small tent to his front. “Like what?”

“Like you wanted to eat—Oh, never mind.” He opened one of the desk drawers—a completely empty drawer, she knew since she'd looked in it earlier—and fished around inside. She heard a little click. Then he pulled on what she'd thought was merely some decorative carving on the back of the desk. A section of the desk swung open, revealing a narrow space behind it. Edmund pulled out a piece of paper.

“How clever! I never would have found that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I hope you wouldn't. I paid a man a hefty sum to build it so even a person used to looking for such hidden places wouldn't find it.”

He spread the paper on the desk. This was the lower left corner of the sketch. More members of the
ton
were behaving shockingly. Lord Easthaven knelt on the floor under an unruly potted tree while a footman wearing Baron Cinter's livery—oh, dear. She averted her eyes only to encounter the ancient Duke of Hartford. At least he was engaged with a woman—well, two women and neither was his wife. A balloon coming from his mouth said, “I love a lusty wench—the more, the merrier!” And in what would be the center of the picture…

“Do you have the other sketches?”

“I do. I brought them up from the safe downstairs. I'd intended to look at them all after my bath.” Edmund went over to the chair where he'd left his coat and pulled the papers from his pocket. He arranged them so they fit together. Jane studied the area where the pieces met.

“Damn.” She scowled at the drawing. Why had Clarence even bothered sketching this figure? All one could see was the man's—or woman's—long cloak.

“There's not much to go on, is there?” Edmund said.

“No.” She traced the intricate pattern around the cloak's hem. There was something familiar about it, but she would swear she'd never seen a cloak like this. “Do you think this pattern is actually embroidered on Satan's robe—if this is Satan—or is it something Clarence added?”

“I don't know. It
is
distinctive, isn't it?” He pointed to the torn edge of the new sketch piece. “We may finally learn something when we have the last section. See, the robe is pushed back slightly. It looks like he or she is holding something.”

“Faugh!” Jane straightened. “There's not enough here to give us any indication of Satan's identity.” She would gladly have strangled Clarence at the moment if he weren't already dead.

Edmund nodded. “Unfortunately we do need that last piece. Now let's see if Clarence has given us a clue as to its hiding place.” Edmund got a magnifying glass out of a desk drawer and examined the new sketch piece. “Damn!”

“What?”

Edmund held the magnifying glass over the bottom corner, by a man riding a goat. Hmm. Perhaps not precisely riding the goat…well, all right—riding but not
riding.

Did people really do that with animals? Surely not!

Jane focused on the other magnified bit. A man and a woman—rather a tame pairing for old Clarence—were wearing hooded robes like the shadowy partial figure in the sketch's center, but, except for their faces, there was nothing shadowy or indistinct about these people. Clarence had drawn all their bits in loving detail.

Loving—or rather, just happy swiving. The woman was sprawled on what looked like a marble casket, her robe fallen open so her body was completely on display. The man's body was covered except for his enormous cock sticking out of his robes. The couple was surrounded by an army of randy Pans, their prominent penises echoing the robed gentleman's. One of the Pans was even grinning.

“What does this mean?” Jane pointed to the words in the bubble by the woman's head:
“Fay ce que voudras.”

“‘Do what you will.' It's carved above a doorway at Medmenham Abbey, which was the site of a sort of hellfire club about sixty years ago.”

“Sixty years ago?” Jane frowned. Was Edmund joking? None of the members of that club—or, at least, very few—could still be alive. But Edmund looked completely, unpleasantly serious. “Why would Clarence care about something that happened sixty years ago?”

“That's the question, isn't it? My guess is Satan has started a new hellfire club—or taken an existing club in a new direction. At the Palmerson ball, Stephen said he'd heard rumors to that effect.”

“Oh. And what do hellfire clubs do?” Jane gestured at the papers. “Engage in various forms of debauchery?”

“Yes. Hopefully that's all they do. But there is a strain of devil worship that can infect these groups. Put a number of drunken men—and women—together and sometimes people get hurt. Add someone like Satan and I would wager people get killed.”

“Oh.” Jane felt the same chill she'd felt when she'd realized how close she'd come to death this afternoon. “Like your runaway carriage.”

“Precisely.”

“And Clarence's odd demise.”

Edmund nodded. “I expect so.”

She turned back to look at the small picture. “But what can we do? We have to find the last piece of the drawing and Clarence hasn't left us a clue.”

“But he has.” Edmund pointed to the casket. Clarence had drawn a rampant griffin—and its wings and claws were not the only things in the air. The creature was very obviously male, its dimensions rivaling the Pans'.

“That's rather obscene.” Jane wrinkled her nose. She'd never be able to look at heraldic devices in the same way again.

“And the Pans aren't?” Edmund snorted. He did have a point. “And look here. On this side of the griffin, he's drawn the planet Saturn three times, and on the other side, a clock showing eleven with a crescent moon above it.”

Jane rubbed the back of her neck. “That's all very well, but I have no idea what it means, do you?”

“Unfortunately, I believe I do.” Edmund did not look happy. “The griffin represents Baron Griffin—”

“The sweet old balding man who is such a philanthropist?”

Edmund grunted. “There are some who think his good works are merely penance for his sins—and the more he sins, the greater penance he does.”

Jane's eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up. “I believe he just gave a very generous donation to the Foundling Hospital.”

“Exactly.” Damn. Was that for something Griffin had just done—or was about to do? He didn't like this situation at all.

“So what do the other pictures mean?” Jane ran her finger over the casket.

Should he tell her? She'd want to be part of it if he did—and the most damnable thing was, he probably did need her help. “The three Saturns mean the third Saturday of the month; the clock and moon, eleven at night. Griffin is known to host a masquerade then.”

“Really? I've never attended. I've never even heard of it.”

“Of course not. It is not for respectable women. Even many of the male members of the
ton
choose not to go. At best it's a drunken orgy; at worst—” He shrugged. There had been rumors for years of bestiality and animal sacrifices. Stephen had told him a few of the darker, more recent tales before he left England, stories about prostitutes and children from the Foundling Hospital going missing. Many influential people were concerned, but no one had any proof atrocities had been committed or could identify the perpetrators.

Damn. He would much prefer to have nothing to do with Griffin's gathering, but it very much looked as if he had no choice—nor any choice about Jane's involvement. Men said if you didn't come as part of a couple, you'd be paired with one of the extra whores.

Perhaps Jane would see reason and refuse to come, but then who would he find to take her place? He definitely didn't want to be burdened with a light-skirt.

Jane frowned at the sketch. “How could Clarence have been part of all this? I only met him once, but he certainly didn't appear to be a monster. And his sister is one of Mama's friends.”

“I'm sure he wasn't a monster. People get drawn all the time into situations they don't like.”

She leaned back to give him an extremely skeptical look. “Would
you
have gotten involved with this group?”

His gut twisted. He was far too particular to be part of Griffin's set. “Good God, of course not.”

“So you admit there was something wrong with Clarence?”

“I admit there was something odd about Clarence.” He had a good idea what that was—Clarence must have had unusual sexual proclivities—but he wasn't about to share that with Jane. “That doesn't make him a monster. I imagine he was appalled by what was going on, and that is why he went to all this effort to reveal it.”

Jane frowned. “For heaven's sake, why didn't he just tell Cleopatra?”

“Perhaps because he knew the knowledge would put her in danger. Who knows? He might even have known his life was at risk. At least he did this much.”

“Yes. So are we going to this masquerade? Tomorrow is the third Saturday.”

“I know.” He paused. He wished he could come up with a way to keep Jane far away from Griffin's house.