Invitation to Ruin (24 page)

“It seems rather stuffy in here.” Carthors was not as stupid as he first appeared. “Please excuse me, Lady Wickham. I feel in need of some fresh air.” He bowed. After a nod of her head, Lord Carthors disappeared faster than a rabbit down a rabbit hole.

With one glowering look from Anthony, the small gathering of men slinked off into the crowd leaving the two of them quite alone.

“Thank goodness he’s gone.”

Anthony stared at her. “It appears by neglecting my wife, every rake in town is setting their sights on bedding her.”

“Every one of them, except my husband.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “That does not give you leave to bait other men.”

She gasped. He was accusing her of behaving like a jezebel. No wonder he’d looked like thunderclouds about to burst. She pulled her hand off his arm. “I assure you, my lord, I have no intention of bedding any other man. And you can believe that or not.”

Anthony moved in close; his body’s leanness and hardness had her skipping without moving. He trailed a finger down her arm. “That’s the opening bars of a waltz. Dance with me.”

It was a command, one her traitorous body instantly recognized. It wanted to seize the opportunity to feel his arms hold her and mold her to him.

Heart pounding in her chest, she tried to gauge what he was up to by his expression, but his features gave nothing away.
Calm yourself, don’t let him see you’re rattled
.

The music floated over the surrounding conversations. “How can I refuse such an—offer?”

One dark brow quirked. “It is customary for one to dance with one’s wife on occasion.” He studied her eyes. “As I recall you love to dance.”

Inside, her nerves were all aflutter. She eyed him warily. “I do love to dance. From our conversation this afternoon, I just didn’t think you were desirous of my company.”

His black eyes swept her from head to foot, resting scandalously on her breasts and hips, scorching every inch until she thought she’d swoon from the heat. “There is much I find desirous about you, my sweet.”

Drawing in a slow breath, past the constriction fast forming in her throat, she steeled her senses and let him guide her onto the dance floor.

He expertly twirled her around the floor; she prayed he wouldn’t guess his touch was scrambling her wits and defrosting her anger at his previous behavior.

“You dance very well. Who taught you?”

Was it her imagination or had his arms closed more firmly around her? Her senses quaked—he had! The cheek of the man. He’d yet to apologize for his atrocious behavior on
their wedding night. If she was to have any sway in this marriage, then he had to learn she was not a silly airhead whom he could abuse at will and then the next minute expect to fall willingly into his arms—or his bed.

She closed her eyes. Why had she thought the word “bed”? Heat pooled in her stomach and an ache blossomed and grew deep inside.

“I was taught to dance by the local vicar’s son. In the wilds of Derbyshire there was no one else.”

His gray eyes, warm in the candlelight, searched her face. “What of your brother? Did he not teach you?”

“He is eight years older than me and had left home by the time I wanted to learn how to dance. He showed no interest in me until he needed money.” The reminder of her brother’s debts had her face heating in shame.

Anthony pulled her deeper into the circle of his wonderful arms. She gave herself a moment to enjoy the sensation of floating around the floor, of strong thighs brushing her skirts as they whirled. His deep resonating voice whispered into her ear, his head so close she caught the masculine scent of cheroots and brandy. “Was it your brother’s plan to plow you through the marriage mart and find a husband suitable … to fill Christopher’s pockets?”

Her gaze locked on his enigmatic face and tried to think what the meaning behind his question might be. Did he still think she had played into Richard’s game for his money? Was he hunting information in which to damn her and their marriage?

It was difficult to keep her thoughts in order. It wasn’t simply the ease with which he moved her—she was slight enough that most gentlemen managed that—but the sense of power, of control, of leashed energy he brought to the simple joy of dancing.

She glanced swiftly at the couples surrounding them. Keeping her voice low she said, “Like most men, my brother underestimated my desires. I was not opposed to taking a
husband, but my husband would be of my choosing and selected for my own reasons—money not being one of them.”

“I remember. You wished to marry for love. Before my heavenly mistake, how was that theory advancing? How would you know if a man loved you? Men use words of love when it is convenient, and they soon forget that vocabulary once they’ve grown tired of that they so falsely coveted.”

She blinked back her surprise and calmly stated her rationale. “I would know. Why else would a man wish to marry me? I have no dowry to speak of. I have a brother who is one foot from the poorhouse. Any man who offered for me would have to love me.”

He gave a smirk. “Like Lord Dashell? Did you think he was in love with you?”

He held her tighter. If she wasn’t in the middle of the ballroom, she would have squirmed under his probing gaze. “I hadn’t made up my mind what to think of Lord Dashell.” Damned if she’d let him know how close to the mark he was. She had thought Lord Dashell was pursuing her hand. She had thought it must have been for love.

He gave a satisfied smile. “Lord Dashell was not in love with you.”

She eyed him wearily knowing her next words would probably obliterate their night of truce. “We will never know. You destroyed any chance of me finding out.”

His eyes narrowed and darkened to the color of burned ash. “Dashell gave you up without a fight. If I wanted you, I would not let another man steal you away.”

   He looked down at her shocked face as he swirled her to a halt—at those ruby lips slightly parted, at her normally calm eyes now a storm of emotion. It was best she put all silly notions of love from her mind. “Wealthy men aren’t always drawn by large dowries.” He pictured her naked. He let his gaze trail slowly up from her slippered feet, up her long slender legs, halting briefly at the junction of her thighs, on up
over her flat stomach to rest longingly on her rapidly rising and falling breasts before meeting her wide eyes. Her breath was coming in soft pants. “They are also not drawn by love. They want a beautiful woman for a wife, so that the prospect of getting her with child, to produce necessary heirs, won’t seem so onerous. You, my dear, are a beauty any man would want on his arm, as his wife, and in his bed.”

He could see the storm brewing in her eyes, but she calmly stated, “Since I love children and want at least a dozen, it would seem I have the necessary prerequisite for my current role. I am so glad I do not disappoint.”

The matter-of-fact statement annoyed Anthony. Why couldn’t she react like most women and become a screaming shrew. Anthony immediately ran his finger around his cravat; Thompson seemed to have tied it extremely tight.

His words were meant to warn her and to make her understand gentlemen rarely took a wife for love. Their marriage was a marriage of convenience—his convenience. There would be no children.

   Melissa watched his broad shoulders until he passed out of sight. Only then did she begin to breathe normally again and marshal her wits and try to understand what had just happened.

She bristled at his outright lack of apology for last night’s behavior. Nevertheless, the tension that had been marking her body since this morning eased slightly due to his somewhat convoluted attempt at peace.

She tried to remember every word, analyzing their meanings. There appeared to be a lot of mumbling about love. Anthony seemed fixated on the topic.

He was clearly warning her that she must abuse herself of the notion theirs would be a love match. He must think her an idiot. She knew damn well he did not love her, or come to think of it, even like her.

She tapped the end of her fan against her chin. Nonetheless,
his eyes declared he desired her. She wasn’t vain, but she understood her features were pleasing to the eye. Men had always showered her with attention, that is, until they realized she was nothing like her cousin—rich and easy. She did not engage in flirtations. She was not interested in illicit assignations.

She thought back to Richard’s words in the Cavendish garden.
“If you make him desire you, want you, it is a beginning.”

They did say gentlemen fell in love with their mistresses more often than their wives.

So, Anthony Craven, the Lord of Wicked, did not want her thinking of love. She knew he would not be an easy man to love, but as she’d set her heart on a love match she was even more determined to put him in his place. It was now patently clear to her that the way to Anthony’s heart was through the appendage hanging between his legs.

With his notorious reputation for unending sexual prowess Melissa had her work cut out for her. It was either become more skilled in the arts of seduction than the highest paid courtesan, or simply become his broodmare, a woman he did not value above providing his much-needed heir.

The latter wasn’t an option. He needed her love. And if she was to accomplish the former, she would have to study the book until she knew it cover to cover. Clearly without some help she was going to be unable to stir his interest in pleasuring her, let alone opening his heart to her.

   Reading by candlelight hurt her eyes. Melissa welcomed the pain; it distracted her from the words and pictures she was reading. For one brief moment, she waved the book in front of her face to cool her ardor.

If Madame du Barry was as good at seduction as she was with words, she could have been a most popular authoress.
“This position is one of my favourites for it allows for mutual satisfaction. A man’s tongue can make a woman faint,
driving her to orgasm after orgasm. While a woman’s lips and mouth can literally bring a man to his knees, sucking him dry. The power over him a potent aphrodisiac.”

Melissa turned the book sideways to better study the graphic picture. The man was lying on his back. The woman was on her hands and knees hanging over the top of him, but her head was facing his groin and her bottom was inches from his face.

The naked intimacy displayed within the picture had her face heating. She closed her eyes and gulped. Would she ever be brave enough to sit naked on Anthony’s face so he could pleasure her with his tongue, while at the same time using her mouth to pleasure him?

She thought of Anthony’s hard, lean body. She craved his touch. If her mouth could bring him to his knees and make him want her, she could do anything. The images and sensations Madame du Barry invoked tempted Melissa to barge into her husband’s adjoining bedchamber and ravish him!

If Anthony was home, she would be ravishing him this very minute. Unfortunately, after the ball he saw her home, and before he left, he said,
“Don’t wait up, sweetheart. I shall be at my club until very late.”

How stupid did he think she was? He was at a club all right, but it wasn’t White’s.

Anthony was like a slippery eel. The minute he sensed her presence, he slid away. Nothing she did convinced him to spend any degree of time in her company, especially if they were alone.

Well, he couldn’t escape her forever. She would make sure of it.

O
ne lamp drew shadows inside the carriage. Sitting across from him, Cassandra hissed like a barnyard cat, all claws and ruffled fur. What fun. Rothsay longed to feel her claws dig deep in his flesh.

Her face reddened, brighter than the scarlet of her low-cut gown. “You gave me to believe you’d help me. How is Melissa being married to Lord Wickham helping me? Why did you not take your revenge before they married?”

“I made no such promise if I recall.” He grinned, taking perverse pleasure in thwarting anyone’s plans, especially Cassandra’s. She tried to use him, and he would never allow that to happen. “You simply came to me with valuable information.”

She hissed again. “You know very well what I expected you to do—what I still expect you to do. Why have you waited until they are married?”

“I thought you were clever, but now I realize you have no idea how satisfying the exact kind of revenge can be.” Rothsay drew his leg up between hers and used his boot to lift the hem of her skirt to her hips, baring her silk stocking–clad limbs and creamy thighs. “What was the point in taking that which he had yet to own and did in fact not want?”

Women. They never understood that revenge was sweetest when your enemy had the most to lose. He had waited patiently to find the one thing that would cause Wickham the
most pain. He could have sunk a few of his ships, but the Wickham coffers were full to overflowing, the loss of a small fortune hardly a dent. He’d thought about having Anthony’s brother killed, but he was unsure what their relationship was. Anthony might not mind being rid of a sibling.

But a wife. A woman Anthony owned and who was under his protection. What could be sweeter?

Cassandra’s lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. “You think hurting Melissa will hurt Anthony. You’re a fool. He couldn’t care if she lived or died.”

“Is that so?”

He got down on his knees before Cassandra’s raised skirts. His tongue licked up her leg, and then he buried his teeth deep into the soft flesh of her thigh. Her scream would have been heard above the din of the swift-moving carriage. Rothsay’s staff would not bother with the sound of her distress. They’d learned to stay out of their master’s business.

“Don’t meddle in things you know nothing about, Cassandra. My plan is progressing perfectly. I would hate to think you would do anything to disrupt it.” He raised his eyes to hers as he pinched the skin between her thighs hard. He hardened immediately at the sight of her tears.

“No—no—I would never cross you.” Her voice, lanced with pain, made his breath quicken.

“You wouldn’t like to see what pain I can inflict if you betray me. And you know how much I love pain.” His lips found her womanly folds and licked tantalizingly.