The Surrender of a Lady (11 page)

All was quiet. A good price. Spending the next month and some with Villieux was no hardship. He was a considerate lover.

Maybe Rothburn hadn’t recognized her.

All eyes were now on Mr. Chisholm. “Excellent. Well, then, gentle—”

“Twenty thousand.”

Heads turned away from the auctioneer and toward the deep voice. Jinan could have sworn she heard a hiss from Asbury’s direction. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the pillars straight ahead. Jinan didn’t need to see the man who had bid the outrageous sum. She remembered his voice, the deep baritone that had had many a woman swooning in her ballroom days.

Intention impossible to decipher from his blank, unemotional look, Lord Rothburn stepped forward. Jinan’s gaze slammed into
his
. If she were the fainting type, now would be the ideal time. A shame that she wasn’t. How could she lie with this man? There was no bidding price great enough to make up for a broken heart. Because she well knew, the cost of lying with him was her heart.

The smoldering stare he gave her could not be defined. It could have been a look of sexual appetite, annoyance, or anger. Perhaps it meant nothing at all. She bit her lip, knowing her display of nervousness was hidden beneath the veil. The knowledge of being purchased by him roiled uncomfortably through her body, right down to the pit of her churning stomach.

Jinan turned to look at Mr. Chisholm with a silent question in the curious scrunch of her brow.
What is this about?

Mr. Chisholm gave his usual sneer—lifting the right side of his mouth—jolting her understanding. This deal was done long before she stood upon the dais.

Strange, she hadn’t seen Lord Rothburn before now. When had he ever laid eyes upon her? And after he’d had such a short perusal of her person tonight, had recognition had time to settle in? Impossible. She was thinking too hard and took a deep breath to clear her head.

It didn’t help. It made her more nervous.

What more could he want than to taste the olive-skinned princess? One he would never dare enjoy among his own kind.

The distance between them shortened faster than she was prepared for. She searched her inner thoughts for a memory of any man who was as remotely closed off in emotion as his lordship seemed. There must be some chink in his exterior, into the shield blinding her to his true intent. Did he know who she was? It was disconcerting, to say the least, and more than a little alarming that she did not know how to deal with this man, for fear of revealing her true identity.

Her hand clutched feebly at the air before she stilled her obvious unease and fisted her hands at her sides. He stood but a handspan away. His attention was not on Mr. Chisholm but her.

For how long would she amuse this man? Jinan, the “Whore of Paradise,” was a favorite of these lords. How long did Amir expect her to keep Lord Rothburn company?

How
terrible
to be put in such a predicament. To be fair, it wasn’t as though Amir knew the whole of her past . . . her prior association with this particular lord.

No use dwelling on it now. She made too much out of nothing. Any one of her sisters could have caught this man’s attention. His being here was happenstance, not
qismet,
as the Turks said. All Amir did was sell her well, probably highlighting her carnal abilities with an explicitness that made even the most salacious lord blush while bargaining.

She would treat this lord as she did all others. And keep him at arm’s length from her heart.

This was like any transaction of human flesh that went on within the Pleasure Gardens. Jinan—not Elena, since she no longer associated herself with her past—would give Lord Rothburn his sterlings’ worth and play the dark, exotic princess he craved.

Mr. Chisholm gave a succinct nod, and Jinan unclenched her hand and held it out to him. It wasn’t Mr. Chisholm’s slight, cool hand that grasped hers. Lord Rothburn’s firm, warm fingers slipped over her hand. Her heart nearly tripped right out of her chest in trepidation. His hold was strong, as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough.

He helped her down the steps of the dais. When she was eye level to him he released her hand and clasped the back of her knees to swing her up in his strong arms.

Her arms went automatically around his wide shoulders. Tilting her head back, she gave him a hooded gaze, one that showed the depth of her desire and willingness to fulfill his deepest yearnings.

It was wasted.

He stared straight ahead without so much as a word to Mr. Chisholm. She looked over Rothburn’s shoulder, seeing the envious crowd of outbid gentlemen, then raised an eyebrow at Amir in question, but he paid no heed to her misgivings. Then everyone’s attention returned to the auction. She was forgotten as the men sought to purchase their pleasures with another of the forbidden women.

Rothburn’s gait was smooth, his strides determined as he carted her off to one of the private, sari-covered alcoves.

Sweeping the gauzy silks aside, he stepped into the small nook.

His arm slid away, releasing her knees, forcing her to stand in front of him in the darkness. The soft scent of jasmine filled her nostrils, as did the smell of man, sending her heart aflutter. The beating of it was so loud in her ears she wondered if he could hear it. She could smell a faint aroma of olive oil, probably from his soap, and a little bit of sweat, not at all unpleasant. It was nice and so very masculine. He stood a full head above her, a towering, imposing figure. Taller than she remembered. Even though they’d once danced a cotillion and a waltz together. Even though they’d spent every night of their two-week courtship in any secret place they could sequester themselves.

Conjuring the details of her past was dangerous. Besides that, it wasn’t like her to take to these flights of fancy. He was her lord for however long Amir said. She’d do her duty. No more.

Pushing the old memories from her thoughts, she began to play her part in the seduction.

The lamp was unlit in this room. It was too dark to make out his expression so she raised one hand to sculpt his face. He said naught as she felt the prominent planes of his cheekbones, smooth and defined with hard-edged lines. Her fingers were slow, feeling every contour as she stroked his smooth-shaven jaw and the cleft in his chin.

Curious, she raised the other hand and caressed the soft plumpness of his parted lips. An even stream of his hot breath met her exploring thumb. He seemed in no rush to stop her, standing still while the tips of her fingers molded lightly over his closed eyes. A small sound of ecstasy escaped him as she put the tip of her thumb in his mouth, touching his tongue. He bit down lightly to hold her in place as his tongue swept around it.

Her resolve to banish the past from her thoughts was as futile as denying Rothburn her body. How she wished her life had taken a vastly different path.

Concentrating on the physical and not the memories that stole her ability to seduce, she pulled her thumb from his mouth and trailed her fingers lower. The column of his neck was strong, manly, the pulse that beat there erratic, telling her an entirely different story than that of the sound of his controlled breathing. Did he know she was just as aroused as he? He’d know it if he touched her. As the thought slid into her mind, he raised his arms, hands reaching for the veil placement at the back of her head. She pulled away, shaking her head no, the copper coins at the edge ringing like distant wind chimes.

His hands dropped away from her hair, falling loose to his sides. The outline of his head, barely visible in the dark, cocked to the side in question. She put her finger to his lips and said in Persian, “Amir would have been explicit in this. My veil stays for the duration of the contract.”

He didn’t argue, and seemed to understand the meaning of her foreign words.

She opened her mouth to ask how they should continue when his finger crossed over her lips. “Shh . . . no words between us this night. I want you silent, no matter what I say to you. Your owner will discuss the contract we’ve agreed upon when I leave. Just give me all of your true self this night,” he responded in English.

What did he mean by such words?

The only indication he had moved was the sound of sliding material. She thought he had removed his vest or unbuttoned his trousers to take them off. She was mistaken. His hands reached for her arms and after a gentle squeeze he turned her around, pulling her back flush to his cloth-clad chest. He burned hotter than the summer night, yet goose bumps rose at her nape where his breath fanned through wisps of her hair.

It took her but a moment to understand what piece of clothing he had removed.

Complete darkness blanketed her eyes as he tied his stiff neckcloth around her head, locking over the clasp that held her veil in place.

His message was clear. She’d played the submissive often enough that she understood the significance of the blindfold. He forbade her to see him when denied the privilege of viewing her. Now more than ever it was imperative she not remove the veil for fear of revealing her identity. So be it. It was better this way.

If the moon awakened from its sleepy hollow in the clouds and illuminated the room, he would be able to read her flitting thoughts in her eyes. Read the hunger that went beyond her being a mere mistress of the night.

When the material was snug he pulled her in tighter. Her back bowed, bringing her shoulders to his chest and her derrière into his hardened groin. He didn’t nestle his cock between the cheeks of her buttocks as she expected.

His hand made a downward arc between her naked breasts, caressing over her ribs right to the top of her navel. Then lower, his fingers spanned the sloping curve of her stomach. His other hand wrapped around her neck, his fingers turned her face till her ear was pressed to his mouth. His breath was rushed, uncontrolled as it rasped out in a needy thread.

He did nothing more than hold her in that position. She wasn’t aware how long they stood there, both breathing hard in anticipation of the inevitable outcome.

It was as though nothing existed but him in the dark world he had created with the blindfold . . . and that wasn’t good. She needed to guard herself carefully. She would not lose her head or her heart to him again.

What did he plan to do with her?

He scooped her up in his arms again and strode over to the plush divan where he lightly deposited her on her back. She couldn’t see so she listened to his movements, the shush of his quiet steps, the raggedness of his breath as he came closer. The press of his body between her thighs dipped her forward. He pushed her knees out with his hands. She was quick to spread her legs wider and place her heels close to her rear to give him at least a slight view he could appreciate even in the darkness.

His groan was barely audible, but she heard it and grinned. Some men liked the vulnerability of a woman’s body. Men were aroused by the raw, unadulterated liberty a woman gave them in the intimacy of sexual congress. That was the most important thing Amir had taught her. And that was what she offered Lord Rothburn by exposing the core of her femininity without fear or reserve.

She was not an untried English miss. Not once would she give him reason to believe they had a previous acquaintance. A previous engagement, no matter how brief it had been.

She waited for him to release the buttons on his trousers, but he only pressed his clothed body to her naked flesh. His weight came down fully upon her; his hands pulled her hips up off the divan and snug to his arousal. How she wanted to rub up and down that length until she found her own release.

Afraid to show too much desire, too much of her own need, she held still in his grasp.

With his hands still clasped to her hips, he bent over her and rubbed his cheek over the delicate skin between her breasts. His pace was indulgent, languorous, and meant to excite her senses and increase her arousal. Why didn’t he take her? Why didn’t he thrust inside her and lose himself in what she offered so willingly? Perhaps she needed to take him in hand, rub him off—some men could only find their bliss this way.

Jinan lowered her hand toward that prominent thickness but was stalled when he grasped her hand. Manacling her wrist and throwing it painfully to the bed, he said, “Do not touch me this eve unless I give leave to do so.”

She nodded her understanding. He released his hold and let her arms fall on either side of her. Some men liked to know how a woman reacted to certain touches, to better take complete control of a woman’s desires.

His lips touched the plumpness of her breast before he bit down—not too hard—just enough to test her limits. She moaned and arched higher off the divan, wanting him to take more, do more. How badly she wanted only to pretend she wasn’t just an agreeable whore. With a desperation unlike her, she needed to mean something more than a frig and passing pleasure to Lord Rothburn. She needed tenderness drawn from caring and . . .

Love.

The only thing she needed was to banish these indulgent thoughts.

Even so, she stretched her arms above her head to find purchase against the wall and pushed closer to that warm, inviting mouth of his. The kisses were featherlike, followed intermittently with the sharp nip of his teeth. He bit her shoulder, his breath hoarse, hot and heavy against her fevered skin. A deep appreciative moan passed her lips when his teeth plucked at the flesh on the underside of her breast, then did it again and again until he’d covered the whole underside of that tender flesh with his mark.

He pulled her in harder against his cock, grinding at an even, unhurried pace. He was intent on their finding their climax just this way.

She should stop this madness. It was she who should be pleasuring him, touching him.

As if he had read her thoughts, Rothburn said, “Thread your hands together above your head.”

So, he was the type to bind his ladybird. Was that what she should expect this evening?

Her nether region was soaked. Her slit slid easily against the material covering his cock. His grasp never lessened as he held her hips, riding her along his rigidity.