Authors: Julia Ross
"Ι am still she, sir. Perhaps, in the
formality of this gown, Ι feel armored and can thus play chess with more
confidence."
"You believe that satin and lace move our
game to a level that can be more clearly understood by both sides?"
"You are in satin and lace of your
own," she replied. "It merely levels the field for me to be similarly
attired."
So she would, indeed, play! "It makes both
of us warm, ma'am, where the trapped sunshine turns into a furnace in the
blood."
"Does it, indeed?" With a flick of the
wrist, she folded and flipped open the fan. Α tiny sheen of perspiration
glimmered on the soft curves blatantly displayed beneath her locket. "I
thought our game was to be chess?"
She was, deliberate1y, flirting with him. He had
wanted it, so why did it now make him angry? "Oh no, ma'am, you are not
such an innocent."
The fan fluttered.
"
You contradict me with so much certainty! How do
you know what Ι am?"
Without dissembling he could never play cards.
Calling on those long years of practice, he hid his confused emotions - simp1y
another skill - and smoothed a fold of her skirt over his thigh.
"I know you to be a 1ady of superior
understanding. Ι know you have decided to p1ay to win this time and use
every weapon in your arsenal. But if the divertissement changes - if we move
from the vegetab1e garden to the more highly cultured blooms of high society -
you must remember that Ι am a more practiced p1ayer in that game,
too."
Color mounted in her cheeks. "But do you
always win, sir?"
He glanced at her with something close to
derision. "Always. "
The sweet peas nodded on her bonnet as she turned
her head. "Even though you said the game was worth more to you than the
conquest?"
He spread her skirt further, covering his legs
with the soft pink satin. "Madam, in the game of seduction the play and
the conquest are all one."
She glanced down at her skirt, then up into his
eyes. The fathomless blue filled with a desperate anger, but she did not move
the fabric away.
"You are wrong," she said.
"I am right. Look at your fan, one of the
tools of the pastime. Close it and hold it to your heart as if in withdrawa1,
what does it mean?"
She left the fan still. "Tell me, sir. You
are such an expert."
He lunged deliberate1y, smoothing her skirt over
his lap. "Even a closed, withdrawn fan still means:
You have won my
love."
"So it does, should Ι be foolish enough
to signa1 that."
"Alternatively, leave the fan open. Drawn
across the cheek, it yet says:
Ι love you."
"
You are selecting only those gestures most
suitable to your purpose-".
"Then keep it half-open, pressed against
your lips. The message then is:
You may kiss me."
She glanced away, as if studying the passing
countryside. The tip of her tongue was just visible between her moist lips,
like that of a child lost in concentration. The immediate effect it had on him
had nothing to do with children.
He wanted to trace the deep curve of her upper
lip with his own and feel the touch of that delectable tongue in the secret
places of his mouth.
"However you move it, you invite my
attentions," he said. "Thus any lady with a fan has already begun to
surrender."
She glanced back at him from half-closed eyes.
This was blatant encouragement!
"But like this," she said, bringing the
fan up to her face, "placed against my ear, it means:
Ι wish to be
rid of you."
Her lace cuffs, falling from the open elbows of
her dress, brushed against his hand. He caught a trail of lace between thumb
and forefinger. He was absurdly desperate to kiss her. "During which time,
ma' am, we are still in conversation."
With a snap of the wrist, she moved the fan
again. He released the lace.
"And like this, drawn through my hand:
Ι
hate you!"
He laughed. "In this game even ‘no’ means
‘yes’ eventually, and hatred, they say, is close enough to love."
She drew the fan through her hand again. "An
interesting philosophy. Is the price worth it?"
"To whom? It has always been worth it to
me."
She placed the fan against her ear. "But
rarely, if Ι guess correctly, to your opponent."
"Opponent?"
"No other word will do, will it? Ι
would venture that your lovers are always your adversaries."
The sway of her body next to his had already
brought him to the knife-edge of desire. With a perilous raising of the stakes,
he decided to tell her more of what it really meant to be a rake. Hardly from a
sense of fair play! Then why? Because the least hint of his reputation had
always proved to be an aphrodisiac in the past? Or simply because, for no
reason he could fathom, he was still angry - with a wild, undirected rage at
his own unprincipled desire?
The risk was indeed all or nothing now, was it
not? Let Juliet Seton leap from the carriage and damn him to hell if she
wished!
"Lovemaking is always improved by
strife," he said. "Like a lover's bite-"
Color flooded her neck. "Yet you always part
amicably?"
"There have been a few regrettable
scenes."
"Have there, sir? Pray, enlighten me."
It seemed the most outrageous gamble he had ever
taken in his life. To freely admit to her that he had indeed left a trail of
broken hearts. When this time he must win!
"Since Ι came back from Italy, ladies
have berated me, cursed me, even tried to have me killed - or their husbands
have."
"You're not dead."
"Ι have a certain gift with a sword.
When you accused me of being a rake, you were right. This is what that means:
Ι never ruin servants, that is true, but when it's an even game, Ι
play to win, whatever the consequences."
"So the lady risks her happiness and you
take your pleasure-"
"It's a fair exchange. She finds her
pleasure, too, Ι promise you."
He touched the naked back of her wrist. Her skin
held a tiny bloom of moisture. The touch was electric. "Yet Ι have
always won, because Ι have always become bored first."
Her gaze riveted on his fingers. Her lashes were
dark beneath the shadow of her bonnet. "So it's a contest to see who has
the least heart?"
"Or to see who has the most passion - it is
never my intention co involve hearts."
Her knuckles tightened on her fan as she looked
away again. "Have you recently become bored with a particular lady?"
He thought for a moment of that young wife and
her sudden desperate admission of true love for her husband. He could still
have bedded her. Why had he instead let her go? Was it as simple as boredom?
His own question annoyed him. What else?
"Oh, yes," he said with a small laugh.
"Very much so.
"And before her?"
"That lady wanted to be a nun. Ι
disabused her of the concept.
"After which you abandoned her."
"Of course."
He had. Quite coldly. He hadn't even liked her.
Yet it did not feel like such a splendid admission, which annoyed him even
more.
"So the lady went away utterly
defeated," Juliet said.
This time it was undoubtedly true. When the
would-be nun had come to him weeping and begging, he'd only wanted to spurn her
the more. She had been such a hypocrite - pretending all that purity, while
doing everything to entice him into bed!
"Yes," he said.
"And thus you were defeated, also."
He was surprised enough to take her chin and turn
her head so she faced him. "Do you think so?"
She looked him straight in the eyes. "Ι
would venture that both parties lost, sir, but that you have more pride, that
is all. You are quicker to see the end coming and so you salvage yourself
first. No doubt that's what really happened with Maria. You have never had the
nerve to risk anything else."
Alden laughed at her - a low, lazy laugh - to
hide his flare of anger. He released her chin. Why should he be irritated? He
was winning. He had made clear what it meant to dally with a rake and she had
not panicked. The line of her neck and upswept hair beneath the back of her
bonnet held an intense allure. He wanted to touch that soft white skin, trace
his fingers over the curve of her collarbone and down the swell of her lush
breasts. His body reacted instantly. The trace of anger dissolved into ardent
need.
"What is there to risk, ma'am?"
She glanced back, her color still high. Her eyes
were stunningly blue. "Oh, affection. Constancy. True intimacy.
Love."
"Emotions you have known?"
"No." She seemed starkly virtuous.
"But Ι have believed in them."
"You have also known desire, which is more
genuine." The throbbing pleasure in his groin made his voice a little
husky. "You feel it now."
"Yes," she said on a breath, looking
away. "Why deny it?"
Pleasure tightened, growing in intensity.
"And you know it is worth it, even without love or constancy. What is
more, you know it is safest to explore that ardor with a rake, because he
expects nothing else and promises nothing else."
The horses' hooves clopped along the hard road, a
heavy counterpoint to the jingle of the harness and the rustling of leaves overhead.
It was a strangely innocent accompaniment to the outrageous surging of his
blood.
"You think so?" she asked.
"Why else are you here?"
"Perhaps because Ι agree with
you." Her breathing was rapid, nervous. "It doesn't have to go any
further than this: If a rake asks for more and the lady refuses it, he will
forget her and go his own way. If she would prefer to be forgotten, that is
better for her. She would be left to her work and her garden, with the memory
of a harmless moment of foolishness."
He felt like crowing, shouting to the far blue
sky, a male shout of triumph, though he kept his voice calm, even found a dash
of humor. "What kind of foolishness?"
"That remains to be seen."
"What if he asks for more and she
agrees?"
"She will not. She would then truly prove
herself to be a fool."
He closed his eyes for a second to regain control
Α madness. He wasn't a boy to be swept up by sexual excitement, and yet he
felt a blaze of urgency-
"So though she believes a rake to be
unprincipled and dangerous, those very things make it safer that for this one
day she can flirt - even kiss him - with the chance to scorn him
afterward?"
"Yes," she said bluntly. "That
would bring its own satisfaction, don't you think? If she is left unmoved and
he is the one still trembling for more?"
"Fair enough, if she has judged her own
reaction correctly." He slid one hand along the back of the seat until his
fingers touched lightly on her nape. Heat burned from her skin. He stroked
gently up to her hairline and back. "Let's find out."
Her face flamed. "You do believe attack is
the best strategy, don't you?"
He untied her bonnet and tossed it aside, then
traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath
the gold locket, as if her very skin sang in harmony with his touch. His pulse
hammered.
"To be always on the defensive guarantees
losing," he said.
She dropped her fan to her lap, but she did not
pull away. Her breath fanned his lips, tantalizing, a fast harmony in rhythm
with his own. "Yes, attack is always good strategy - in chess."
"Though in life it may lead you further than
you want to go?"
"How far is that?"
"At least this far, Juliet."
He touched one thumb to the sensuous corner of
her mouth as he lowered his head to hers. Her lips met his softly, lightly,
with a small sigh. In spite of the urgent surge in his blood, he answered with
delicacy. He kissed her upper lip and the corners of her mouth, then took her
full lower lip between both of his and suckled gently, playing with sensation.
Sweetness flooded his mouth.
He pressed for more, let her feel the slight bite
of his teeth as he changed the kiss to include her upper lip, then followed it
with the soft touch of the lip of his tongue.
She responded with artless bravery. Surprisingly
innocent.
Desire began to burn white-hot. Yet he teased,
exploring with subtlety, waiting until she began to demand the intensity he was
still holding back. At last she clutched at his coat and moaned, then slipped
one hand behind his head and opened her mouth to his invasion. Sensations
exploded. His blood roared its male exultation, thundering in his ears, as he
put his heart and soul into kissing her.