Cheryl Holt (7 page)

Abruptly, it ended. He pulled away, concluding the embrace before she’d had occasion to shut her eyes.

Their gazes linked, and the strangest sensation of connection and affinity leapt between them. He’d noted the sweetness, too, and he was bewildered and confused.

Hastily masking his perplexity, he cleared his throat. “I trust that wasn’t too . . .
repugnant
?”

“No,” she tartly replied, “just disappointing.”

“Disappointing!”

“You seem like such a virile fellow.” She let her assessing regard meander down his torso, then back up. “I’d imagined you might imbue it with a little more . . .
passion
. . . I guess.”

Why did she persist with baiting him? Wasn’t it enough that she’d triumphed in every instance? She’d already garnered most of what she’d hoped to gain and they hadn’t even begun their struggle toward a resolution.

The knave made her willing to do or say any crazed thing, merely to see the rise she could get out of him. Absurdly, she felt a burning desire to provoke a response, as if the Good Lord had specifically sent her to shake him awake after a lengthy slumber. Yet, her prodding was very much like nudging at a sleeping giant.

He was glaring at her with such cool, controlled fury that she grew apprehensive. Behind her, Mr. Clayton was guffawing jovially, making veiled, sarcastic observations about Wakefield’s sexual prowess, but Emma couldn’t decipher them. The intimidating strength of Wakefield’s concentration was deluging her, and it was like being sucked into a whirlpool.

“Ian,” he said quietly, not bothering to turn about, his tone brooking no argument. “Leave us be.”

“I really can’t bear to.” Mr. Clayton was still chuckling. “This is more fun than I’ve had in an eternity.”

“Go!” Wakefield commanded softly, but the vehemence with which he’d pronounced the word was so fierce that it reverberated off the walls like a shout.

The room grew silent, and Mr. Clayton pushed back his chair and stood. Emma could hear nothing but the tick of the clock over the mantel, and the thudding of her pulse in her ears. Mr. Clayton passed by them and
he paused, bothered by the level to which she’d elevated Wakefield’s ire.

“If you need me, Miss Fitzgerald—” Mr. Clayton gallantly proclaimed, fretting about her being alone with the angry nobleman.

“I won’t,” she confidently retorted. “I’m not afraid of Viscount Wakefield. He’d never hurt me.”

He might grumble and roar, but he’d lash out with no more than his caustic tongue, and she’d beheld how verbally vicious he could be: not very.

Mr. Clayton looked from one to the other, then strolled out.

They were caught in a mind-boggling staring match, until the door latch clicked after him, and the second it did, Wakefield swaggered in, his body impacting with hers all the way down. Chests, stomachs, thighs, feet, they were tangled together, and the surge of stimulation that erupted from their anatomical attachment was so powerful that she flinched, only to find her rear planted on the edge of the desk.

Wakefield pressed his advantage, hovering over her and tilting in, so that he had her off balance and plunging backward. Before she could sink onto the desktop, he arrested her descent with the palm of his hand between her shoulder blades. He held her just there, examining her features, and totally unsure of what to make of her.

“Never let it be said”—he moved even nearer, with a subtle shift of his hips, insinuating himself between her legs—“that John Clayton left a lady
disappointed
.”

Nervously, she licked her bottom lip, instantly capturing his undivided attention. “Perhaps
disappointed
was a tad strong.”

“Shut up, woman! You plague me with your ceaseless chatter!”

Deliberately, tantalizingly, he lowered her down, until
her back reached the expanse of polished oak. He came with her, stretching out, his immense chest flattened to her breasts, his private parts positioned against her own.

He was hard! His erection was heavy and huge, and she inhaled sharply at detecting the massive bulge.

With his arms braced on either side of her, she was efficiently trapped, but she wasn’t fearful. She was ablaze, titillated, fascinated. She didn’t know what he intended, and she didn’t care. It felt incredible to have him situated so familiarly, and she hooked her feet behind his thighs, urging him on.

He was excited by the small encouragement, his eyes widening, his nostrils flaring. “Whatever I might decide to do to you now, you’d deserve it. You realize that, don’t you, you silly strumpet?”

“You don’t scare me, so stop trying. And I’m not a
strumpet
!”

But then he proceeded to show her that she probably was.

He mumbled something she couldn’t interpret, then he kissed her, his lips settling on hers. The action was impulsive, swift. With no warning, his tongue entered her, and she stiffened, then relaxed, her hands cradling his neck, to tug him closer.

His mouth molded perfectly with her own, as if it had been sculpted for kissing her and no other purpose at all. Her eyelids fluttered down, and she let herself be swept away.

As she’d suspected, he was an ardent man when he chose to be. There was a fire and intensity simmering beneath the surface that was carefully banked. The aloofness and detachment she’d perceived when he’d made love to his paramour were absent.

Teeming with suppressed ardor, his arousal was blatant
and evident against her loins. Unashamed of his condition, he brazenly let her feel his splendid cockstand, so ready, and she smiled, celebrating their naughty indiscretion.

He tasted so fine, like brandy and mint, and she moaned with delight. The sound rumbled into his being, seeming to rush down to his phallus, and he began to flex and thrust at her, through her skirts, the rhythm corresponding with that of his tongue.

Her body was ripe, she was wet at her womanly core, stirred with longing and craving his touch, but maddeningly, he wouldn’t advance, not allowing his hands to stray, and keeping them firmly anchored on the desktop.

Past any sensible limit, he continued on, until his cock was unrelenting in its need for completion, until her torso was rigid, and she was insanely wishing that he’d do something much more abandoned than this turbulent kissing, which neither of them seemed disposed to halt. It was too delicious, too decadent, taking her into an entirely new realm that was far beyond any possibilities she’d ever imagined.

Finally—finally!—he broke away. Their respirations were laborious, their bodies primed for mating, and it occurred to her that, if he but asked, she might commit any reckless act. Nothing prior had prepared her for this urgent, unremitting combustion that had her zealously wild to ruin herself.

He peered down at her, mere inches separating their mouths, his breath coursing over her face, his eyes penetrating, and she was ecstatic.

The lust that had engulfed her had been as potent for him.

Arrogantly, he inquired, “Have you—on this occasion—found my kiss to be more than sufficient?”

“I’d say it was . . .”—she delayed for maximum effect—“
adequate
.”

He barked out a laugh. “Sassy wench.”

Transferring his weight to his feet, he stood, but not before resting his palms on her shoulders and stroking them down in a lazy, languid path, tracing over her collarbone, her breasts, her ribs, her crotch and thighs. Then he straightened, adjusting his clothes and composing himself.

“Go home, Miss Fitzgerald, and don’t come back,” he cautioned. “Because if you are idiotic enough to provoke a subsequent confrontation, I can’t guarantee that I will stop.”

With that, he spun around and marched out, closing the door behind. Left by herself, she loitered, obscenely draped across the desk, and gazing up at the ceiling. Her skirt was rucked up, her legs bared and dangling over the edge, her bodice askew, her hair falling down. She was a sight, and she needed to stand and right herself before anyone else could wander in, but disgustingly, her knees were weak, and she slid to the floor, huddled on the rug in a pile of skirt and petticoat.

The man was a sorcerer! With no more than a kiss, he crushed her defenses, fractured her restraint, wreaked havoc on her common sense, making her eager to acquiesce in any depravity.

For the first time since meeting him, she was frightened. Not of him. But of herself, and of what she might be capable at his instigation and direction.

What had she set in motion?

She stumbled to her feet and, without encountering another soul, she sneaked out of the manor and headed for home, her signed pact discreetly tucked away in her chemise.

“Y
OU’RE
not planning to go through with it?”

John glared at Ian over the rim of his whisky glass. “What do you think?”

“Considering how you act, anymore, who could say?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It
means
that you might do any reckless thing. What possessed you to initiate such a foolish stunt?”

Ah, a question he’d asked himself a few dozen times since their auspicious rendezvous with the indomitable Miss Fitzgerald the day before.

What had possessed him?

During the appointment, he’d had a valid motive for the ruse, though now he couldn’t remember what it had been. He’d wanted to rid himself of the bothersome female in a fashion that would ensure she wouldn’t return, but the subterfuge hadn’t proceeded as he’d intended.

How had the diminutive shrew so deftly turned the tables on him? He was bloody glad she didn’t gamble! The hellcat was so shrewd! So sly! Had they been betting against one another, he’d likely have lost everything he owned. She kept a man off balance, prevented him from choosing the wiser course, from staying on the proper path.

Why . . . he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’d had training as a witch!

His eyes stung from his blasted insomnia, from cigar
smoke and too much liquor, his head throbbed, his body ached, and he wished he’d been discerning enough—as had been his guests—to fall into bed before dawn.

The house was quiet, himself and Ian the only ones roaming about the cavernous, hollow rooms that he hated.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I took care of Miss Fitzgerald. She won’t be back.”

“Hah!” Ian snorted. “If that’s what you believe, you’ve become an absolute dunce.”

“I scared the living daylights out of her.”

“How?”

“I kissed her to the point of ravishment.”

Even to his own ears, his actions sounded stupid. How was it exactly that his lips had come to be joined with hers? How had he gotten provoked to where he’d had her flat on the desk, her legs wrapped around him, his cockstand urgent and pulsating against her loins?

This unpalatable sojourn to the country was driving him mad! It was the only explanation.

“Oh, I’m sure that struck the fear of God into her.” Incredulous, Ian rolled his eyes. “For a man who purportedly knows all there is to know about women, you can really be an idiot.”

“Trust me. She won’t show her face here again.”

“No,
trust
me. She’ll arrive in about fifteen minutes.”

“Why fifteen?”

“Because it will be one o’clock.”

“So?”

“You agreed to meet with her at one.”

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Well, unfortunately, Miss Fitzgerald was.”

Ian strolled over to the window and gazed out at the rolling lawns behind the manor.

With each passing year, his brother’s disposition changed so that, frequently, he appeared downright sanctimonious in his renunciation of vice and revelry. The more John indulged, the less Ian seemed to, although he usually kept his opinions to himself over John’s penchant for excess. Apparently, with Miss Fitzgerald front and center, Ian felt it was his duty to ingratiate himself, convinced that the tiny termagant needed a champion.

As if Miss Fitzgerald required any help at handling herself!

The woman was a harridan, a viper, with claws like a big cat that sank in and latched on. Refusing to give in or relent, she was like a starving dog at a bone, her teeth clamped around what she wanted. He shuddered just from recollecting how voraciously the little harper had dug in and wouldn’t let go.

She scarcely needed Ian’s intrepid aid!

John stared at Ian’s stiff shoulders. Lately, he’d been so morose, so discontented and out of sorts. John was curious as to why and was about to inquire, when Ian emitted an eerie laugh that made the hair rise up on John’s neck.

“What is it?” John queried.

“Not only is our formidable Miss Fitzgerald tenacious”—he whipped around and leveled a virulent look that spoke volumes—“but she’s early.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. She’s traipsing across the yard even as we speak.”

“Bloody hell.” John leapt to his feet and stumbled over to the window.

There she was! Bold as brass! Didn’t the female have any sense?

In a taut silence, they watched her draw nigh, and John experienced the oddest sensation that his destiny
was approaching—much like Death knocking on his door. Once she entered the house, he would never be the same, and he fleetingly pondered whether he should hide so that she couldn’t find him.

“Told you so,” Ian aggravatingly remarked.

“What is it with her?” John didn’t expect a reply. Ian didn’t comprehend the fairer sex any better than did John.

“All of this matters to her, you dolt. These people, this place.” Ian made a wide gesture, indicating everything in sight. “But I doubt you could understand.”

“Go intercept her. Don’t let her in.”

John pronounced the order in his customary authoritative manner, temporarily forgetting that Ian never heeded his commands, nor did John issue them to his brother. Though their birth statuses were completely divergent, Ian was one of the few people John respected as an equal, and the instant the dictate left his mouth, he regretted uttering it.

A flash of ire simmered across Ian’s face but was quickly masked.

“No. You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out of it. For once.” He started toward the door, but stopped at the threshold. “Don’t you hurt her.”