2Rakehell (2 page)

Upon Thorley’s illness, Adam’s cousin—and next in line for
the title and entailed estates—Hamish Forbes had installed himself quite
comfortably at Scarborough Hall along with his wife Fidelis. Though they
expressed only concern for the withering earl both still regarded Primrose
coldly.

She knew they gossiped about her like washerwomen—about her
lack of a pedigree and worse, her inability to produce an heir. Primrose didn’t
know why it bothered them so. For if Adam were to die childless, Hamish would
be in line for the earldom. Besides, it made Primrose’s head spin to think how
quickly Hamish and Fidelis would put her on the streets if they were to
inherit.

Adam shivered in his sleep and Primrose purposefully looked
away lest she succumb to Christian compassion and cover him up. The hateful
bastard. He deserved to be cold.

She cut her gaze at him and snorted indelicately before she
mustered her resolve again.

Rain began to patter the windowpanes and she traced one drop
down the glass with her gloved finger. How would he react when she told him she
wanted a baby?

Her mind drifted back to their wedding night. It seemed so
long ago, and yet as if it were only yesterday…

Five years earlier

Primrose gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Would he
find her pretty? Did he think she’d been a beautiful bride when he’d seen her
in her wedding finery?

She gave her long honey-blonde locks one more sweep of the
brush before she placed it on the dressing table. Its silvered back and
matching hand mirror had been monogrammed with her initials.

New bedclothes and plush drapes made of sumptuous fabrics
she’d chosen decorated the room.

She’d been outfitted with a complete trousseau, the
extravagant contents of which had been fashioned with lightning-quick speed.

It seemed everything in her suite gleamed new and shiny. The
scent of fresh paint on the lemon-yellow walls still lingered in the air. The
matching fabric for the drapes and bedclothes looked crisp and fresh.

The Aubusson rug in the sitting area looked as if it had
never seen footfall.

The widowed Earl of Thorley had spared no expense for his
new American daughter-in-law and her substantial dowry. He’d welcomed her into
his home with open arms—in spite of the scandalous circumstances.

Gnawing her bottom lip, she looked toward the door that
separated her chamber from her husband’s.

Her husband’s…

She was married now. The wife of the eldest son of an earl.

The Viscountess Black.

Lady Black.

Growing up in New York she’d never dreamed she would marry into
the aristocracy. Her chest swelled with a deep breath of excitement. She’d wedded
the most eligible bachelor in all of England—even if she had conspired in
trickery to do it.

Guilt nibbled at her but she refused to heed it. She’d been
left with little other choice than to marry him and after being caught in a
state of dishabille with the handsome heir, she’d gone along with the
perception that he’d sullied her—due mostly in part to Thorley’s insistence.

Adam had been so nice, so attentive after her mishap with
the horse. She’d loved him from afar since she’d first laid eyes on him. But
since her London debut, Adam’s abominable cousin Benedict, Viscount Lashwood,
had made overtures that made Primrose believe he intended to ask for—or rather
demand—her hand. He’d gone so far as to broach the subject with her father.
Primrose had argued desperately with her mother who felt the match to be an
excellent one.

To be sure the man was stunningly handsome and knew that
fact well. He was tall and terribly British-looking, with his eyes the same
color blue as a winter sky. His high cheekbones and sensual lips gave him a
haughty, menacing air that set Primrose on edge. Once she’d even witnessed him
ordering one of the pretty kitchen maids to drop to her hands and knees.
Mortified, Primrose had slipped out into the garden, knowing in her heart whomever
the poor soul he chose as a wife would receive the same base handling.

Adam was quieter but came with his own shadowy reputation.
Rumors abounded about his torrid affairs with bored wives, servants and loose
women of all sorts. During her first season, Primrose had accidentally stumbled
upon him in a dark corner of Lord Beckham’s garden. Adam had Lady Beckham bent
over his knee like a wayward child and was delivering several firm swats to her
bared bottom.

It seemed Lady Beckham thoroughly enjoyed her spanking and
from the ecstatic look on her face, actually derived sexual pleasure from it.

The image had filled Primrose’s nights with bawdy fantasies.
For the first time, she knew true desire—and she wished to exchange places with
Lady Beckham.

Given her choices, Primrose had still been ready to confess
when the old earl had insisted on a thorough examination by his physician to
determine her chastity—or rather lack thereof. However, both men had
steadfastly maintained that she’d been deflowered—and were even more adamant
that she go along with the ruse as well.

When she’d questioned why it was so imperative she married
Adam, Thorley intimated—threatened was more like it—that he’d use his title and
position to see that she was summarily married off to Benedict if she refused
to marry Adam.

That particular ultimatum had made Primrose’s decision for
her.

He’d mumbled something about her staining his son’s good
name and that was the only explanation she’d received. She smirked. An
explanation she could hardly believe. Adam possessed a dubious reputation
before she ever set foot on British soil.

Shame heated her cheeks as she recalled that day a scant
month ago. A good portion of the ton had participated in a hunt on Thorley
lands and she’d somehow strayed away from the others. A clap of sudden thunder
had spooked her horse and the unruly beast had thrown her and taken off through
the woods. Drenched and shivering, she’d made her way to the earl’s hunting
lodge and there had encountered Adam Black, who was already deep into his cups.

Her heart warmed when she recalled how tenderly he’d helped
her out of her wet clothes, how he’d draped her sodden riding habit over a
chair to dry in front of the fire and most of all how he’d wrapped her in a
warm blanket and prepared a hot toddy for her.

Her heart had fluttered at his touch. Her knees had shaken
from far more than the chill of the rain. She’d been a veritable lamb offered
up for the sacrifice but alas Adam had been the perfect gentleman—before he’d
passed out with a bottle still in his hand.

When the others had come looking for Primrose after her
horse had returned riderless they’d discovered her next to Adam, asleep in
front of the fire, still clad in nothing but her unmentionables and a blanket.

Assumptions were made. And shortly after the humiliating
examination, a special marriage license was obtained and Primrose and Adam were
wed under a storm cloud of shame.

He hadn’t seemed overly thrilled about the prospect of
marriage—to her or anyone else for that matter. Overly thrilled… That was quite
the understatement. He had in fact been livid and had exchanged heated words
with his father. Primrose wondered what Thorley had said to his son behind
closed doors because in the end the old man won out and Adam begrudgingly
signed the contract.

It stung her heart that Adam Black had to be forced into
marrying her. Especially when she cared for him. He’d grow to love her. She
would see to that. She would be an exemplary wife and rise above the scandal
attached to her name.

Her heart skipped a beat when the door opened and Adam
entered her room. Having discarded his wedding finery, he looked both
resplendent and dangerous. He’d removed his shoes and strode into the room
barefooted. The sleeves of his snowy shirt had been rolled up twice at the
wrists, giving him the air of a romantic swashbuckler. His black hair wisped
untamed around his chiseled face. He looked capable, fierce—and determined to
take his rights as her lawfully wedded husband.

Her stomach knotted with excitement. The corners of
Primrose’s mouth twitched as she offered him a demure smile.

“On your feet,” he commanded in the same tone he’d playfully
chastised Lady Beckham.

Her breathing hitched as she rose. Heavens, her legs were
trembling so badly she feared she’d collapse. She fumbled for the corner of her
dressing table in search of support.

Without ceremony he began unbuttoning his shirt. “Remove
your dressing gown.”

This wasn’t the tender knight in shining armor from the
hunting lodge. This was the rake who thoroughly deserved his black reputation.
Fear and doubt roiled. Primrose debated confessing to him that nothing had
happened between them in the hunting lodge but she couldn’t make her mouth
work.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she untied the sash of her
robe.

“Take it off,” he said, his words clipped and short.

A ragged breath left her lungs as she shrugged free of the
heavy fabric and let it slither down her body to the floor. The air on her
naked flesh caused her to shiver in spite of the sweltering waves of heat
undulating up her spine. Desperate to read his reaction, she lifted her gaze to
his.

He inhaled sharply. Her skin prickled everywhere he looked
at her. And he did look everywhere. “Would that I remembered claiming your
maidenhead.”

She tensed at the mention of her fabled ruination.

“Did you…enjoy it?” he asked, his voice low and menacing.

She nodded uncertainly.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He shifted his weight from one
leg to the other. And then—had she not been staring so intently, she wouldn’t
have noticed—a diabolical hardness seized his features. “On the bed.”

She cleared her throat. “M-my lord?”

“Get on the bed,” he repeated.

She’d known he was angry at having to marry. But she’d hoped
he’d resigned himself to it. For him to order her about this way—so icily—hurt
her. She’d expected something different. At least some semblance of tenderness.

That image of what he’d done to Lady Beckham intruded and
the knot welling in Primrose’s throat vied with a sense of excitement and
mounting desire. Rationally she knew she should be terrified, at least
scandalized. Instead she was aroused.

Shockingly so.

Her nipples grew painfully hard. She ached between her legs
where moisture gathered. The blood pumping through her veins felt thick as
syrup. It pounded in her ears and other places that made her yearn for his
touch.

When she didn’t immediately move toward the bed he stormed
toward her. This time her knees did give and she sank to the floor. Shaking,
she timidly lifted her chin.

With a sharp breath he cradled her face in his hand, brushed
the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. His admiring gaze caused her
insides to quiver. Indecent, lustful thoughts ran rampant in her brain. Bloody
hell but the sheer nearness of his body to hers alone had her quaking.

He twisted a lock of her hair around his index finger and
then let the curl fall over the swell of her breast. “My but you are an
exquisite little thing.”

She swallowed thickly. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I am your lord,” he whispered. “Your lord and master and as
such you will do as I say.”

“Yes,” she managed and dared to bestow a kiss on the hand
that had returned to stroke her cheek again.

“You are quick to submit. I daresay your naïveté prevents
you from knowing what being my wife entails.”

“My lord?”

A mirthless smile played on one corner of his lush lips. “I
have intense needs, dear wife. Very intense desires. And if you are able to
fulfill them we shall have a happy marriage. Do you understand?”

“I’m not certain,” she admitted, confused.

“If at any time I hurt you, calling me by my given name will
be my sign to stop.”

Her mouth went bone-dry. She could barely focus on anything
but the heat radiating off his body, the laundered fragrance of his clothes,
the subtle scent of his cologne mingled with that sultrier aroma of his skin.

“Say it for me now.”

She cleared her throat again. Why was she having such
difficulty thinking coherently?

“Say it, Primrose.”

Had he said hurt? Her heart skittered at the sound of her
own name coming from his lips. “Adam,” she said, her voice but a breath.

“Now get on the bed.”

Her pulse rioted. Pursing her lips, she stood and moved
toward the bed, aware of his hot gaze raking her. A sense of triumph blazed
through her. In spite of everything, she felt his taboo desire for her. She
felt oddly cherished—as if she were sex personified.

There was no delicate or modest way to climb onto the high
bed. A servant had already turned back the covers so Primrose quickly climbed
the two steps, bounded in and dragged the bedclothes up to her neck.

The unknown, unfamiliar sensation of soft sheets against her
naked flesh thrilled her, aroused her, until she almost forgot she remained an
untried virgin.

Time stopped as he neared her then climbed onto the bed with
the grace of a predatory cat.

A gasp tore from her throat as he snatched the covers and
flung them to the foot of the bed, baring her once more. His hands skimmed up
her thighs. His palms stroked her hips, her belly, higher. She arched as his
hands cupped her breasts and squeezed. Heat blossomed wherever he touched her.
“Tell me what you want,” he said huskily.

Her lips parted but she couldn’t produce words. Perspiration
dampened her spine and beaded under her breasts. “Y-you,” she said, her voice
but a hiss.

He groaned as he kneaded her soft flesh then plunged his
hand between her legs. “I’m going to fuck you, darling.”

She’d never heard such ribald language. She liked it.

He continued. “Here.” His fingers flirted with her slippery
mons. “And when you’re ready here.” She tensed when his fingertip sought her
rosette. His other hand followed her belly upward between her breasts and over
her chin. Three of his fingers eased between her lips to invade her mouth. “And
here.” Her traitorous sphincter relaxed to admit the tip of his cream-slick
finger.

Her fists curled against the bed. She expected the invasion
to hurt but instead it felt good. Sinfully good. How had she never realized she
was so sensitive there?

And oh, after he’d thoroughly teased her most private recess
his fingers stoked a fire that would have made Lucifer proud as they burrowed
through her folds.

“Damn,” he muttered and when he positioned himself over her
she felt the unmistakable ridge of his erection pressing into her hip.

She suddenly wanted him inside her more than she’d ever
wanted anything in her life.

His fingers fell from her mouth. His hand left her body and
she felt his knuckles brushing her flesh as he undid his fly. Her pulse pounded
like a runaway horse’s hooves in her temples and in her ears.

Every thought drifted away and primal physical sensation
rose to the forefront.