A Certain Wolfish Charm (15 page)

   But then Emory had led Lily outside. Into the dark. Into the night. Into his domain.

   The moon still hung high and full in the sky. It wasn't as powerful as before, but it still led him. It did not control him, but it did lead.

   He watched as Emory trailed his finger across her cheek. She didn't shove him away. Perhaps she'd enjoyed it. Then Emory took her hand in his. He'd wanted to jump through the bushes that separated them and carry her away. But he held himself back, watching her reaction.

   Now she had the nerve to look at him as though he'd done something wrong. He would show her. He would show her what
he
could do for her. He would show her what she'd be missing if she chose anyone else over him.

   He bent at the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

   "What are you doing, Simon?" she gasped.

   "Do be quiet, Lily love. Or you'll draw a crowd. I'm sure you don't want that, since I'm about to have my way with you."

   "You will do no such thing," she gasped.

   "Watch and see, Lily." He chuckled to himself as he slipped his hand beneath her skirt and clutched the back of her thigh. She hit at his back with her fists. The blows were more annoying than painful, like a bug that flies in your face but never stings you. He strode further down the darkened garden path.

   As soon as they were far away from the light of the assembly hall and any wayward strollers who might also want to take advantage of the cover of darkness, he stopped and put her down. Her face was red, the silky skin of her neck and shoulders blotchy.

   She moved to walk around him. "I am going back, Simon. I don't know what you think you're doing."

   He stopped her by grabbing her wrist and spinning her around. He ran his knuckles across her cheek. His hand shook with the effort it took to go slowly. "Did his touch feel like mine?" he asked.

   "You're being ridiculous, Simon." She stomped, but she also leaned her face into his hand. He knew she didn't intend to, but she stretched into him like a cat who wanted to be stroked. And stroke her, he would.

   He cupped her face as her hand came up to hold his. His lips hovered over hers, barely brushing them as he said, "Tell me my touch is better."

   She tried to fight it. He knew she did. He saw the battle as it played across her face. She failed miserably.

   "Tell me," he breathed as he brought his free hand up to cup her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple. Her eyes closed, and a breath rushed from her.

   "Yes," she said quietly, looking into his eyes as his lips touched hers softly. But she still hadn't said it. She hadn't done what he wanted.

"Yes, what?" he teased as he brushed her nipple again.

   "Your touch is better," she acquiesced before pulling his lips firmly against hers.

   Simon took the time to tease her, to play with her mouth. He touched his tongue to her lips. They opened, and she tentatively met him. He tilted his head so he could delve deeper. She pressed back.

   Simon groaned against her mouth and pulled her hard against himself. He cupped her bottom, pulling her belly against his arousal so she could feel every inch of him.

   Simon removed his coat and spread it in the shadows beneath a tree. Her body was supple and pliant as he picked her up and laid her gently upon the coat, anxious to cover her body with his own and sink into her.

Slow, Simon
, he chided himself.

   Gently, he pulled her gown off her shoulder and replaced it with his lips. Her skin felt like silk and smelled better than the sweetest ambrosia. He fought the beast to maintain control, to make it good for her.

   He tugged her sleeve down further and, in doing so, bared the swell of her breast. He dropped slow kisses against the fevered flesh. Her breaths rushed in and out, causing the plump flesh to tremble. One more tug, and her breast popped free.

   Simon groaned and waited a moment simply to feast upon the sight of her. Her pert breast, round and full, was topped by a perfectly peaked nipple. He looked into her face as he touched it with his tongue. Her eyes closed briefly.

   "Open your eyes, Lily, and see what a happy man I am," he said quietly. She did and touched her hand to his hair to hold his head in place as she arched her back.

   "Again?" she asked quietly.

   He laughed as he took the peak fully into his mouth. She squirmed against him. He used his free hand to uncover her other breast, where he began to wreak similar havoc with no more than his fingertips.

   Lily began to purr like a kitten beneath him. Her hips rose to press against him. "I'll take care of that for you, Lily. I promise," he whispered as he bunched her skirts in his hand. They rose higher and higher until he felt the silken smoothness of her stockings. Then he walked his fingers slowly up to touch her bare skin.

   She stilled as he ran his thumb along the crease between her thigh and stomach, following it to rest his hand against her drawers. They were already wet with the dew of her passion.

   Without even looking beneath her skirts, he let his instincts guide him as he found the ribbons that held her drawers. He quickly untied them and slid his hand inside. All the while, his lips continued to play relentlessly with her breasts.

   Her legs spread of their own accord when he touched her. He trailed one finger through her slit, feeling how wet she was. He groaned, "So sweet, Lily."

   She laid her head back against the ground as he slid one finger inside her. He would allow her to close her eyes this time, wanting her to give in to the sensations, to realize how wonderful it could be between them.

   She arched her hips toward him when he pressed deeper. She closed around him like a silken glove.

"Simon," she cried softly. "Please."

   She probably had no idea what she was even asking for, but even an innocent knew there had to be some release from the sweet torment he was trying to inflict upon her.

   His thumb rubbed once across her nub, and she arched toward him, pressing his finger deeper. He wanted to be inside her but not until he'd given her pleasure. Then he would do it again.

   He stroked across her center again and took up a rhythm of small circles. He reveled in the fact that she responded to him so beautifully. She rocked against his hand, her cries soft and mewling.

   And he knew when it was about to happen, when she was about to topple over. She closed her eyes tightly and threw her head back and forth, the pins falling from her hair across the ground. Then she pressed against his hand one more time and exploded. Her body pulsed, milking his finger as he swiped across her heat time and again, wringing the last bit of pleasure from her center. She cried out, clutching his arm. And she said his name. He felt immense satisfaction when she cried, "Simon!"

   She stilled beneath him, slowly coming back to reality. Her eyes opened apprehensively, as though she was afraid of what she'd see when she opened them.

   "How was that, love?" He couldn't help but smile at her.

   Her breaths returned to normal. Her pulse began to quiet. But that was all right. He could bring her back up. But then she began to tug at her bodice, covering her breasts before she rolled away from him. She quickly stood up, smoothing down her skirts. Her hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders, the pins long since forgotten. Then she looked down at him, confusion clouding her pretty face.

   "That's not all there is, love," he said, tugging her hand to bring her back down.

   "Are you happy, Simon?" she asked quietly. Before he could even answer, she said, "You certainly should be. Because, despite my desire
not
to be your mistress, you made me your whore instead."

What had she done?

   Lily clutched her skirts in her hand and ran back down the darkened path toward the assembly hall. Simon called after her, but she paid him no attention. Tears began to stream down her face. He'd never marry her now.

   She found Emory Hawthorne on the bench where he had left her, a cup of punch in his hand. When he noticed her tears, he dropped the cup and raced toward her. "My God, Lily, are you all right?"

   She doubted she'd ever be right again. Lily managed to shake her head.

   Emory pulled her into his arms, and she cried even harder. Why couldn't she feel something for this man or one of the others? Why was Simon Westfield the only man who had ever made her pulse race?

   "I'd like to go home," she whispered.

   Emory nodded. "Of course, Lily."

   "Hawthorne!" Simon's voice boomed from the darkened path. "You won't take Miss Rutledge anywhere."

   Emory stared into the darkness. "Blackmoor?"

   Simon emerged from the shadows, looking darker and more menacing than Lily could remember, even more so than when he saved her from the awful men at the coaching inn. She shivered.

   "Lily is staying at Westfield Hall, and I'll take her home. Your services aren't required."

   "Now see here, Simon," Emory began, puffing up like a peacock. "Lily can stay wherever she wants. I'm sure Prisca would enjoy her company again."

   Simon chuckled darkly. "Good luck with that, Hawthorne. She'll never leave her beloved nephew. Not for you or anyone else."

   Oliver. Somehow she'd lost sight of him. Simon was right. She'd never leave Oliver, not if she had a say in it. Lily brushed her cheeks and stepped away from Emory. "Excuse me."

   "Lily." Simon started toward her.

   She shook her head. She didn't have a choice. She'd go back to Westfield Hall, but not without Will. Simon wouldn't do or say anything untoward with his brother nearby.

Lily dropped onto her own bed at Westfield Hall, after turning the lock in her door. She was of no temper to entertain guests in the middle of the night.

   Simon had fumed the entire way back from the assembly room, and Will hadn't been in the mood to use his charm to make the ride more palatable for anyone. Lily was more lost than ever.

   She had never felt so connected with another soul as she had in the garden with Simon. Then the interlude had ended and reality came crashing back around her. No matter how deeply she had fallen for him, Simon didn't love her and he wouldn't offer what she truly needed.

   It was time to leave.

   She'd say good-bye to Oliver in the morning and start back to Maberley Hall. In a few months, he'd head off to Harrow and wouldn't need her as much as he had up until this point. No matter that Simon couldn't be what she needed, she didn't believe he'd let any harm come to Oliver.

   Her decision made, she snuggled under the counterpane and cried herself to sleep.

"You should know," Will began, as he slumped in an overstuffed leather chair in Simon's private suite of rooms. "True to form, Prisca has stirred up a bit of trouble for you."

   Simon shrugged out of his coat and threw it across the room to land on a slight Chippendale chair. "What's she done?" He couldn't possibly have more trouble than he'd made for himself. Lily wouldn't even look at him, and his heart had ached when he heard her turn the key in her lock and start to cry. Perhaps she would see reason in the light of day.

   "Got Mrs. Bostic all worked up that Lily's been living here without a chaperone." Will threw back a whisky and closed his eyes.

   The vicar's wife? Simon grunted. He couldn't care less what the old bat thought. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd stepped foot in a church. He was many things, but hypocritical wasn't one of them. He picked up the decanter of whisky and started to pour.

   "I know you don't play by the rules," Will continued. "Well, not their rules, anyway; but this is bad for Lily. She's ruined, Simon. Living with two bachelors, neither of whom have pristine reputations, and with no one watching out for her virtue. No chaperone. Her name will be dragged through the mud tomorrow morning."

   Simon crushed the whisky bottle in his hands. Shards of glass penetrated his skin, while blood and drink pooled on the floor at his feet. Will didn't even look surprised or pull himself out of his seat. "Damned Hawthornes." Simon dropped what was left of the bottle to the floor and pulled a piece of glass from his palm. "That woman is a menace. Why would she hurt Lily like that?"

   Will scoffed. "Prisca is calling your bluff. She doesn't think you'll let Lily be called a whore, that you'll marry her instead."

   God! Simon winced. She'd called herself a whore, which wasn't even close to the truth. He'd spent many a night with women who were, but Lily Rutledge couldn't be counted in their number. He'd kill anyone with his bare hands who would speak out against her. "I'd like to get my hands around her neck."

   Will growled. "You stay away from Prisca. She's only trying to help Lily, as unorthodox as it seems."

   Simon pulled the last piece of glass from his hand and wrapped his once snowy white cravat around his wound. He shouldn't bother ruining the cloth; he'd heal in no time, but he was at a loss for what to do, what to say.

   "What are you going to do?" Will finally asked.

   Simon didn't have a clue. "I can't marry her, Will. She doesn't want to know about all of this." He moved his injured hand about, gesturing to both of them. "I can't ask that of her."

   Will shook his head. "You'd rather she be branded a whore?"

   "Don't you ever say that again," Simon snarled.

   "I won't need to. Everyone else will."

   There had to be a way around the situation. He could send her back to Maberley Hall. He could send her to his family's old estate in Scotland. "She wants to go back to Essex."