The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (19 page)

The door closed after them and Grace barely registered the quiet click as he turned the key in the lock. Langdon took her to the bed, set the candlestick on a table beneath the window, and without pausing swept her into his arms again.

This time, the kiss was slow, sensuous, and very thorough. When he lifted his head at last, Grace was
heated, needy, and she murmured a protest when he unwound her arms from around his neck.

“Patience, love,” he murmured, bending to press a kiss at the corner of her mouth before trailing his lips down her throat.

Grace purred with satisfaction, tilting her head to give him better access and clutching handfuls of his coat in a vain effort to pull him nearer.

He untied the sash that held her robe together and it fell open. Then he lifted his hands, slipped them along the neckline of both robe and nightrail and slid both off her shoulders in one movement.

Grace would have protested the sudden brush of cooler air against bare skin but then he kissed her again and she was lost. His hands cupped her bare bottom and lifted her, fitting her more perfectly against him, the cove of her hips against the hard thrust of his. Grace gasped, awash in sensation.

She was heated, flushed, and panting when he tore his mouth from hers.

“I have too many clothes on,” he told her, his mouth quirking as she stared up at him, uncomprehending, unable to adjust to the sudden switch from heated passion to conversation.

Then she translated what he’d said and nodded.

“Yes, you do.” She brushed his hands aside and tugged at his cravat, then abandoned her efforts, leaving him to unwind it while she moved on to his shirt.

She couldn’t help pausing to stroke and explore each part of his body as he shed clothes. Her curiosity and fascination made his undressing take longer than it should have, but at last he shoved his breeches and smalls to the floor and stepped out of them.

Grace caught her breath, staring. He was amazingly built, with sleek powerful muscles layering his broad chest and down his abdomen, which tapered to narrower hips and strong thighs.

Her bare feet looked delicate and narrow, so close to his much larger ones.

Her gaze traveled back up his calves and thighs. Her eyes widened as she took in the aroused length of him, and caught her breath.

“Oh my,” she breathed when he visibly thickened beneath her stare.

“Did you never see your husband unclothed?” His voice was deeper, rougher than before.

“Oh yes,” she replied. She tore her gaze from the fascinating sight and looked up at him. “But never like”—she gestured at the jutting length of him—“like this.”

A faint frown of confusion creased a V between his brows before it cleared. “You mean aroused? Your husband didn’t get hard when you had sex?”

Grace felt the heat of embarrassment move up her throat and warm her face. “We didn’t, actually, um …” She cleared her throat, her gaze chasing away from his. “He couldn’t, so we never had sexual congress.” She laced her fingers together, staring at them. “He said it was my fault. I suppose I should have told you earlier … that I’m not good at this.”

Langdon’s low growl yanked her gaze back up to his.

“It was
not
your fault, sweetheart. He was older, maybe that’s why he was incapable, but whatever caused his problem, it damn sure wasn’t you.” He lowered his head and pressed a hot, openmouthed
kiss against her mouth and set her simmering once again, relieved and aroused. “You have to be honest with me,” he said when he lifted his head, his voice rough with desire. “Are you a virgin?”

“Of course.” She frowned at him, confused. “I just told you that I didn’t have marital relations with my husband. Why would you ask if I’m a virgin? What else could I possibly be?”

His eyes turned darker, more slumberous. “Oh, Grace, I’ve never met a woman quite like you. What else could you be, indeed?” He cupped her face in his hands and brushed cherishing kisses over her cheeks and closed eyelids until she shivered.

“And since you are,” he continued, breathing the words against the shell of her ear. “I’m thinking you might like to explore a little, yes?”

She nodded, her cheeks hot, and he chuckled before releasing her and easing back. He dropped his arms to his sides and nodded. “I’m all yours, Grace.”

She caught her breath, hesitating. But when he didn’t move and waited patiently, she reached out and closed her hand around his penis.

He twitched, going completely still, fists curled at his sides, his breathing labored, as she explored, smoothing her fingers over the head and testing the fascinating contradiction of silky smooth skin over steely hardness. He throbbed beneath her palm, pulsing with a rhythm as fast and hard as her own heartbeat.

At last, he groaned and covered her hand with his. “Grace, sweetheart, any more of that and I’ll be finished before we’ve started.”

“But …” she protested, not ready to cease exploring.

Gently, he took her hand from him and bent to swing her up in his arms, turning to lay her down on the bed. The sheets were cool against her back but she did not have time to do more than briefly notice before he came down on top of her. His much broader body blanketed her as he wedged a place for himself between her thighs. She felt a brief moment of panic but then his mouth took hers once more and desire claimed her, erasing her fear. He cupped her breasts, his big hands warm as he caressed her. He touched her everywhere, smoothing his palms over her throat, shoulders, and down her arms, stroking over the smooth skin of her abdomen and lower.

She loved every slide of his hand, every brush of his mouth against her throat and breasts. She’d never really been touched with affection and love by a man, and he tore away her defenses and loneliness with each glide of his hands and press of his lips.

His slow, heated seduction had Grace twisting beneath him, pleading, when he finally shifted, settling deeper between her thighs. She felt the hard length of him nudge against her, then a slow, heavy penetration that pinned her and had her clutching his shoulders to pull him closer.

He slowed, then surged forward and held himself still when she couldn’t hold back a moan. Braced on his elbows, he lifted his head and looked down at her, eyes molten.

“Are you all right?” His voice rasped, deep and gravelly.

“Yes,” she murmured. Threading her fingers into
his thick hair, she urged him back down. “Do not stop.”

He obeyed, his mouth taking hers as his hips shifted against her. Within moments, she was gasping, begging him for release from the tension that strung tighter with each slide of his body against hers.

Then the world exploded and she cried out, catching him tighter as he climaxed, then fell with her into a deep well of pleasure.

Exhausted, Grace fell asleep and was only vaguely aware that he left the bed, returning with a warm, damp cloth that he stroked gently between her legs. When he slid back into the bed beside her, she rolled against his side and murmured her pleasure as he wrapped her in his arms, and she slept.

He woke her again during the night and they made love with an intensity that left her feeling vulnerable, her emotions laid bare.

When she woke the next morning, she was in her own bed.

Langdon must have carried her back to her room, she thought. She smiled and wondered if he would come to her bed, or take her to his, that night.

The possibility made her heart beat faster.

She couldn’t wait. And she was giddy with the good fortune that had let her first lover be Langdon and not her husband. She couldn’t imagine spending those hours with anyone else.

She tossed back the covers, crossed to the armoire and pulled its door open, then bent to rummage through a stack of nightrails.

“Where did Mrs. Templeton put the umber nightgown?”

She wanted to wear it tonight. A mischievous smile curved Grace’s lips.

She now understood exactly why women became mistresses, she thought. It was time to embrace all the benefits of being the Wicked Widow.

Grace adjusted the intricate mask of silver and gold she wore. “Well, I suppose an uncomfortable mask is better than the oppressive hat,” she said to Langdon, burrowing closer to his side as the crowds of Vauxhall Gardens pressed against her.

He tightened his arm about her waist. “Very pragmatic of you,” he confirmed, a charming smile appearing just below his fanciful mask.

Grace smirked in reply. “Are you teasing me for being practical?”

“Not at all,” he replied in earnest. “It is one of your most admirable traits. And until you came along, one of mine.”

“What do you mean, until I came along?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she considered whether he’d meant to pay her a compliment.

Or not.

The crowd around them seemed to pulse with excitement. Cries of delight and anticipation broke out in the cheaper boxes. Wearing concealing masks apparently made the revelers feel anonymous—and more uninhibited.

Langdon bent closer and his lips brushed against the shell of her ear. “I mean, when you are in sight, I
cannot think rationally, let alone practically. All I want is you and damn all the rest.”

“Oh,” Grace replied, delight flooding her. “Is it wrong that I find the idea of holding some sort of power over you enjoyable?”

He laughed out loud, a charming dimple creasing his cheek. “Not at all.”

“Very enjoyable? Extremely so?” she pressed, desperate to see him smile.

“Power monger,” he muttered good-naturedly, the delicious dimple appearing once more.

Flirting again, after she’d spent so long avoiding innuendo and affection, felt good to Grace. She was elated to learn she’d not forgotten how to do it.

A man stepped in front of them, a sly, wily grin on his long, narrow face. “Good evening to you, Mr. Clark.”

Grace did not recognize him as a member of the Kingsmen, but that meant very little, especially in light of his jaunty scarlet mask. New recruits were forced into service every day. She was glad she still wore the serviceable dagger strapped to her thigh.

“Mr. Davis,” Langdon replied in a relaxed manner. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“You’ve not been able to see me, as you’ve been admiring the Widow, here,” the man countered, his smile friendly as he bowed politely to Grace. “And who would blame you.”

Langdon looked down at Grace, consideration on his face, laughter in his eyes. “Should I introduce you to Mr. Davis? His charm is well known. He might just steal you away, right out from under my nose.”

“Impossible,” Grace assured him, then held out her hand to the man.

“Very well,” Langdon proceeded. “Lady Grace, may I introduce you to Mr. Richard Davis, my second in command.”

Mr. Davis carefully clasped her fingers and bowed with polite deference, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at her from beneath his lashes.

Amused, Grace laughed softly.

“That is far too sweet a sound to have come from the Wicked Widow,” he remarked, winking rakishly.

“And that is far too grand a mustache to spring on unsuspecting strangers, Mr. Davis,” Grace replied, looking pointedly at his upper lip.

Surprised, Mr. Davis let out a hearty bark of laughter and smoothed his fingers over the brushy length. “All part of the masquerade, I’m afraid.”

She cast a critical eye over the man’s face, finally offering a nod of judicious approval.

“I see where the ‘wicked’ in your name was earned,” he said, then turned to Langdon. “It is a pity she will not be meeting the King this evening. She might have been able to thaw his heart a bit.”

Mr. Davis gestured toward the luxurious guest boxes located near the end of the promenade. “He awaits—with very little patience, I might add.”

“We are on time,” Langdon said, scanning the boxes. “Besides, we hold the upper hand. Surely the King understands this. Otherwise, he would not be here.”

“I agree. But even if he knows how this will play out, that does not mean the King has to be at peace with the impending takeover of his organization.”

Grace had heard countless men and women make references to the King. His reputation alone did not frighten her, but the thought of sitting near to the notorious gang leader who had given the order for her own death made her heart beat faster. She turned her body into Langdon’s until she was as close as she could possibly get to his hard strength.

He tightened his grip about her waist, which eased her concern … a little. “And you can assure me the night will proceed as planned?”

“What good would I be if I could not?” Mr. Davis asked dryly, rolling his shoulders back and standing tall. “I’ve had eyes on the gardens since you received the summons. The Kingsmen are well represented tonight, but we still outman them three to one. Seems they’ve underestimated just how seriously you desire this partnership to work.”

Mr. Davis’s information eased Grace’s nerves. “Then we’ll be safe?” she asked, wanting Langdon to confirm. Only hearing the words from his lips could completely convince her. And she needed to be convinced. Otherwise, she’d not be able to play her part in the evening’s charade. And she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—disappoint Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Nor herself. The Kingsmen would pay for Timothy’s death, and Grace would have a say in just how high the price would be.