Devil in My Bed (14 page)

She pushed him to a proper distance and continued the dance, her face averted. The shimmering twirling gowns and brilliantly glinting chandeliers blurred to a jeweled smear before her unfocused eyes.

“Very well then,” she said, her breath coming fast. “But only once more.”

He laughed and spun her again in masculine conquest. She was fluid submission in his arms, too achingly aroused to do anything but follow his lead.

Later, in the vast and sumptuous bed—most worthy of an earl—he pulled her naked form beneath the covers to twine hotly with him, skin to skin. “Only once?” His murmur was a hot, deep thrill as he nibbled gently on her earlobe. “Would you care to renegotiate that number?”

She strove to maintain her high and mighty tone. “It is not my duty to do the counting. I am above such things.” She failed completely at such arrogance, for each word was a breathless pant.

His fingers were invading her hottest, wettest places even as his mouth moved down to conquer each nipple in turn. The roughness of his cheeks and the heat of his mouth turned her skin into a single live nerve as he kissed his way down, down . . .

Hot tongue inside her, hard to her softness, wet to her wet. He pushed her thighs apart with his hands and she submitted, no will of her own, no thought but the hunger for his talented tongue to work its magic upon her. She opened to him shamelessly, for what use was shame when such blissful fulfillment was so close for the taking?

Up, down, around . . . flicking over and under, in and out . . .

He pinned her gently when she started to writhe, but there was nothing he could do to stop her rising cries. She buried her hands in his thick hair, urging him onward, greedy . . . oh, so greedy for that moment . . .

Then the tide rose within her, sweeping her thoughts away in rolling waves of pleasure. She gasped his name, calling to him. With the timing of long practice, he rose to lie above her, braced upon his hands.

She reached for him, clung to him. “Now!” she begged him.

He aimed himself deftly and then, just as her orgasm had crested and barely begun to fade, he filled her in a single, long slow thrust.

It worked. It always worked. She was off again, rising like a Chinese rocket flare, this time shuddering in his strong, warm arms again and again as he thrust into her, filling her to almost painful limits, taking her cries into his own mouth as she rode the wave up, higher than before, up and over into the crashing surf of her ecstasy—

Madeleine woke, heated and breathless, her body throbbing from the wicked, wicked dream.

Such dreams had ruled her sleeping hours once upon a night. As the months and years ticked by and she remained alone, they thankfully came less often. And they were so much more than mere dreams.

The ball, that was sheer fantasy. She and Aidan had never gone about in public after that first evening together. She had never danced in his arms or been envied by women of Society. She’d been a hidden mistress, a secret, by necessity.

The rest . . . well, that had not so much been dream as memory. Delicious, wicked memory, to be taken out and reviewed often in the solitude of her own cold bed.

She opened her eyes abruptly. She was not in her own bed!

Ah, yes. She was tucked safely away in Brown’s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, far from Critchley’s reach.

And in Blankenship’s bed.

She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, breathing deeply. The faint woodsy scent of him made her close her eyes in mingled pleasure and pain. How could one man smell so good when all the others merely smelled like . . . well, men?

She stayed that way, shutting out the world until her body ceased its high, edgy humming and the heat seeped from her blood. She’d made it through one day so far. She could make it until the next ship left for Jamaica.

From the next room came a masculine voice and a high, piping childish voice muffled by the intervening door. Melody was up and about.

Madeleine sat up and looked about the room. Melody’s nightgown was tossed negligently on the other side of the bed, the washbowl had been used, and the smudged toweling, stained with a last bit of soot from the ash broom, hung haphazardly from the hook on the washstand.

Someone had washed and dressed Melody in the room while she’d been asleep? Pulling the sheet higher over her bosom in alarm, Madeleine decided not to think on that one too closely.

Hurriedly, she rose and dressed in her oldest gown, pulling her hair back into a simple braid to fall down her back. After all, she wasn’t going anywhere, she thought with a rueful smile.

As the hours chimed by that morning, Aidan found himself reluctant to leave the cozy rooms. After they had shared out his breakfast tray, the three of them fell into a relaxed mood that felt suspiciously like . .

. well, family.

Melody lay upon her belly on the floor with a pencil and some of Aidan’s discarded estate papers, drawing “kitties” that looked rather more like potatoes with whiskers and tails. He praised each one warmly as she offered them.

Madeleine presented a particularly charming picture of domesticity as she sat by the window sewing—

at least until he realized she was slicing up one of his shirts with abandon!

“Er—”

“Melody needs a few more underthings.” She shot him a slit-eyed smile. “Unless you feel up to shopping for them?”

He swallowed. “Ah, no. That’s quite all right.” There were some worlds into which even the bravest of men did not advance. The world of little girls’ underpinnings existed somewhat even beyond that.

She turned back to her work, smiling to herself. He heard something that sounded like “Thought not, you great pansy,” but decided it must have been the wind.

He leaned back in his chair by the fire with his newssheet and reached for another piece of toast from the plate nearby. There was nothing left but crumbs.

He blinked sadly at them, his stomach growling.

“You’ll get no pity from me,” Madeleine said without looking up. “I only had one bite of the eggs.” She bit off a thread and then smiled at him. “Go and drum up some biscuits or something, will you please?”

He brightened. “I’ll steal Colin’s breakfast, shall I?”

“Too late,” said a voice from the doorway. Colin sauntered in, chewing on a triangle of toast. “This is the last of it.”

Aidan nearly whimpered. “I’ll give you a hundred pounds for that toast.”

Colin grinned and tossed the last nibble into his mouth with satisfaction. “I should say not. I’m a growing boy.”

“Growing closer to an early grave,” Aidan muttered resentfully. There was no hope for it. He was going to have to bestir himself and seek out the steely-eyed Wilberforce, keeper of the keys to the kitchens.

As soon as Aidan stood, Colin took Aidan’s chair and snapped open Aidan’s newssheet.

Aidan opened his mouth to protest. Oy, move your arse! This is my domestic bliss! But it wasn’t yet, was it? He couldn’t claim his family until he worked up his courage—er, made the logic-based decision to propose to Madeleine again.

I am a great pansy.

At that moment, she glanced up and smiled at him, a brief and happy smile that made him think of the thousands of fireside mornings before him if she actually said yes this time.

What of all your hurt and betrayal? What of all those things you think she is?

He could have been wrong. He’d been wrong once or twice in his life. He was sure he could remember some occasion if he truly thought upon it.

What of all the secrets she still keeps?

Ah, yes. There were still those, simmering in the air about her, like heat waves rippling from the desert sands.

And what if, like the desert sands, this sweet, laughing, warm Madeleine was nothing more than a mirage?

What purpose would that serve her? What reason could she possibly have to carry on so? None that he could conceive of.

Another mystery or a reason to trust her further?

She glanced up at him again, this time with a playful scowl. “Go, mighty hunter. Kill a teacake and drag it back for me before I take a bite out of Sir Colin.”

Colin bowed flirtatiously from a seated position. “You may nibble on whatever you like, my lady.”

Aidan narrowed his eyes. Colin had better keep his buttered buns and sausage to himself, by God!

“Hmph.” Turning, he pulled on his coat and tugged his sleeves straight. “I’ll be right back.”

Wilberforce was in the dining room, supervising the laying of the linens for the coming evening. Two young footmen fluffed the tablecloth high, letting it fall over the table while the head of staff watched with a critical eye.

When Aidan entered, Wilberforce turned to him immediately, though he’d made no noise. “May I be of service, my lord?”

The two footmen froze instantly, the cloth still hovering somewhat heavenward. Aidan looked askance at the tableau. Were they truly so terrified of Wilberforce that they would not let the linen touch the rosewood tabletop until the butler turned to watch them once more?

One of the footmen shot him a wild-eyed pleading glance, clearly beseeching him to hurry it up. Right.

“Yes, Wilberforce . . . I, ah, find myself a bit, ah, more peckish of late . . .”

“Of course, my lord. I shall take care of it by the noon meal.”

“Hmm. Yes . . . well . . . what I really mean to say is . . .” He was a terrible liar. He’d had no practice at it, dammit! He was a peer, a wealthy man, all he needed to do was order something and it appeared before him! He cleared his throat. “I’ll need another breakfast immediately.”

Although he’d scarcely had a taste of the first meal, he found himself sucking in his belly when one of the footmen glanced in that general direction. Wilberforce was far more self-disciplined. He didn’t so much as flicker his eyes from Aidan’s face. “Of course, my lord. Is there anything particular you would prefer this time?”

“Toast.” His stomach growled. “A great deal of toast. And a teacake. And . . . ah . . . a bit of . . . milk.”

Grown men did not drink milk. God, everyone was going to know he had a child sequestered in his chambers!

Wilberforce didn’t blink. His eyelids didn’t even shiver. “Of course, my lord. I shall have it brought up immediately.” He folded his hands before him. “If I may ask, my lord . . . ?”

Here it came. They were truly pinched now. “Yes?”

Wilberforce did not break his eternal blandness. “Is there something amiss with the bell pull in your chambers, my lord, that you needed to seek me out yourself?”

You mean besides the fact that I had to tie it up to keep it from curious, sticky little fingers and the fact that I don’t want anyone coming to my rooms to answer it?

“Ah, no . . . I simply . . . ah . . . felt the need for a bit of a walk.” Ridiculous statement, but he forced himself to stare Wilberforce down as if he were making perfect sense.

Perhaps the butler was used to bizarre requests from the crotchety fossils at Brown’s, for Wilberforce only bowed easily. “Of course, my lord. May I assist you in any other way?”

The tablecloth still hovered, but it was beginning to quiver in the air. The rigid footmen begged him with their eyes. Aidan waved a hand as he backed from the dining room. “No, thank you, Wilberforce. Please, carry on.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Wilberforce turned back to the footmen, and the tablecloth sailed with stately grace onto the table as if the scene had never been interrupted.

With the oddest feeling that he’d not gotten away with a thing, Aidan made his way back to his chambers.

When the Earl of Blankenship left the room, Wilberforce gazed into space for a long moment. The two footmen fidgeted worriedly for a long moment.

Finally young Bailiwick found the courage—or possibly he simply couldn’t bear the suspense any longer—to ask. “Sir? Is there something wrong with the tablecloth, Mr. Wilberforce?”

Wilberforce dropped his thoughtful expression and fixed young Bailiwick with a freezing stare.

“Monkeys.”

Bailiwick swallowed in alarm. His gaze flickered about the room but there were no monkeys to be seen.

“Sir?”

But Wilberforce had already dismissed him from his attention and was gazing after the earl. “Monkeys, indeed,” he murmured.

When Aidan made his way back to his rooms, he found Melody was now perched on Colin’s knee, listening to some story—which apparently left Madeleine wide-eyed with dismay, for she sat with her sewing clutched forgotten in her lap as she listened.

He sat next to her on the sofa. “What is it?” he whispered.

She turned to him, her brow furrowed. “I believe we’ve just had our second beheading, our third keelhauling and if I’m not mistaken, we’re about to have another garroting—yes, I was right. There he goes again!”

Aidan brightened. “Ah, pirates!” He settled down to listen.

Madeleine blinked at him. “But Aidan, do you think that’s appropriate for a baby’s ears?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. She seems to be enjoying it.”

Melody was, indeed, completely engrossed in the bloodthirsty tale. In fact, as he listened, it seemed to be little more than violence and gore. Aidan enjoyed it immensely.

When Colin wound down with a final violent battle—that left Madeleine with one hand covering her mouth in horror and had a body count so high Aidan was beginning to wonder where the extra pirates had come from—Aidan applauded with great enthusiasm.

“You ought to write that down,” he urged Colin. “You’d sell a thousand copies!”

Colin let Melody slide back down to her paper and pencil, where she immediately began to draw potatoes with sword hilts sticking from them. Colin scoffed openly at Aidan’s suggestion. “Nonsense. It would hardly aid my reputation as a scholar. No one would ever take my papers seriously again.”

Madeleine leaned forward. “You’re a scholar, Sir Colin? What do you study?”

Colin leaned back, happy to have another audience. Aidan prepared to drift off into a doze now, as he usually did when trapped into listening to one of Colin’s dreary lectures.

“I’m working on a formula to calculate the population growth of the next century, based on life expectancy, birth rate, declining social values, median temperatures, and the evolution of the gin mill.”