Master of Love (29 page)

“I don't believe I'm quite through with your punishment,” he said. “I like seeing you squirm, tied up and hostage to the pleasure I give you.”

“But, I . . . I . . .”—she didn't quite know how to put it—“want more.”

“Today's lesson is patience, beauty, and submitting to the will and punishment of your master,” he drawled, with arched brow and roguish grin.

It was so over-the-top, she couldn't work up too great an outrage. But still—what words! To her surprise, they stirred an answering thrill within her.

“If I were to consent to this game, what would be your will?” she asked, curious.

He teased her slick flesh again with the lightest brush of a finger. “It's rather sweet revenge to bring you close to your peak but delay your release. To make you writhe and pant in a most gratifying manner.”

She considered this. “You don't plan to refuse release, though, do you?”

“Oh, there's no fun in that. Not when you arch and scream so deliciously at a moment like that.”

“I do
not
scream,” she said, blushing. “But I suppose I can survive such punishment. You may try your worst.” She tried for a flippant and worldly tone, as if she played bedroom games with gentlemen like a hand of whist with her evening tea, but she feared her breathy gasp gave away how moved she was by his erotic words.

By the end of his revenge, Callista was no longer sure she'd survive. Sweat drenched her body, and her muscles ached from the clench of tension and hovering release. His own control never wavered as he used fingers and hand and the teasing tip of his magnificent shaft to bring her within inches of climax more times than she could count. He read her responses unerringly, even when she tried to deliberately hold herself still and fool him about how close she was to her peak.

“Never lie to me with your body, Callista,” he commanded. “You can't hide from me.” And then he spanked her again. But each swat ended with a caress across her pinkened buttocks that had her squirming anew. The whole of her private parts glowed with heat and crying need and pulsating pleasure.

“Dominick,” she moaned his name, lost to time and place, lost to all but him. “Please, I'm sorry, please,” she entreated, “enough, come to me, let me come to you.” She craved her release, thought she would die from need of it, but craved with it him, needed to dig her fingers into him and to drink in his male glory.

He finally seemed to have enough. “At your command, beauty.” He tugged loose her bindings, flipped her over, and pulled her up higher on the bed, then prowled toward her on all fours like the lion she always imagined him to be.

When he settled his weight over her, she sighed out her bliss. She looped her arms over his shoulders and her legs around his thighs and nudged at him with her hips. How did one get that
thing
inside one? Was it too bold to simply reach down and guide it in? She urgently,
desperately,
wanted to draw him inside her, to take and claim him for her own, and to claim her pleasure with him. With one hand fisted in his curls—
that thick golden silk!
—her other hand slipped between their bodies and took hold of his length. Pleasure rumbled deep in his throat. He pushed himself into her thigh, and she edged her hips to the side, trying to capture his motion. As he eased up, she guided him to her curls, determined to sheath him with his next thrust. But, to her frustration, he held himself still and raised his head to smile down at her.

“I've never made love to you in a bed, Callista. It's a novel experience—quite intoxicating.”

“Could we make it a little more intoxicating, perhaps?” She moved in need beneath him.

“So impatient,” he teased. “What's your rush?”

“Well, it's just that . . . We are going to, aren't we?

His gaze suddenly turned serious. “Do you plan to toy with me forever, Callista, using me for your pleasure whenever the inclination takes you?”

“Dominick . . .” She didn't know how to answer him, wasn't even sure what he wanted from her. Was this more of his flirtatious teasing? “Dominick, I . . . I lo—”

She almost bit her tongue when she realized, to her horror, the only thing she could think to answer—the words that rose unbidden and naturally to her lips—were “I love you.” Sweet Jesus, she loved him? When had that happened?

She ducked her head into the crook of his neck and raised her hips to him on a whimper, taking refuge in the simpler world of bed play. Thankfully, he took mercy on her and finally glided inside in one smooth motion.

The breath caught in her throat on a deep gasp of pleasure, and she arched up to meet him with her own answering thrust. Yes,
yes
—he, this, they, felt so
right
. Her last coherent thought before the swirl of passion rose up to claim her was the sure and terrifying knowledge that she did indeed love this man. She was his. Like the roses in her back garden, she had opened to full glorious bloom under his hand. She was a different woman now—more knowing, more confident, aware of new contours of power and possibility. Her fledgling self was liberated and on the wing, and there was no going back.

Lord have mercy—he held her heart. She loved him: completely, passionately, foolishly.

And then her body clenched, and she thought no more.

Chapter 19

D
om let her sleep into the afternoon.

Once he made his arrangements with the innkeeper, he sat in the chamber's lone chair and watched her. To his surprise, he didn't mind that his great secret was out. It was a relief, actually, not to hide anymore who he was. Nor would he miss his act of lover extraordinaire, scandalously flirting his way through the ballrooms and drawing rooms of polite London—God, was he ready to give that false face up as well. Come what may, starting now, he was shedding the mask of Master of Love and stepping out from behind the pen name Amator Philosophiae. He was simply who he was: Dominick Avery.

The man who loved Callista.

It was all because of her. She gave him the reason and the courage to be his true self, so he could offer that self to her, with the same brave honesty she presented to the world.

He didn't even mind that she'd betrayed his secret to the scholars from whom he'd kept it so long. His anger was spent—although as he watched her slumber naked, wantonly spread out across his bed, her fire still smoldering, his passion did begin to stir again. No doubt she thought she was protecting someone, perhaps even him somehow, with her harebrained scheme. No matter; she'd tell him eventually. It was typical of her, fiercely loyal and protective of those she cared about, always rushing in to save them, but leaving herself so dangerously vulnerable and exposed. The woman needed someone to act as a keeper to ensure she stayed safe and out of trouble.

Whether she was ready to admit it or not, that someone was him.

When she stirred and opened a bleary eye, he walked over to brush that flaming hair off her face. “There's fresh water in the basin; cold roast chicken, bread, and cheese on the table. That dress”—he pointed to the serviceable blue woolen with chemise, petticoats, and bonnet provided by the innkeeper's wife—“should get you home. We've got tickets on a late-afternoon train to Carlisle and then back to London.”

“My boy's clothing is perfectly fine,” she muttered, pushing herself up.

He was ready for a fight. He flipped her onto her back and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “My reputation has suffered enough because of you. I will not be branded a pederast coming out of my room from an afternoon romp with a street boy. And they don't let ruffians into the first-class coaches.”

A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “All right—you needn't be so bossy about it.”

He'd been prepared to wait until their return to London to broach again the issue of marriage, but, as it turned out, fate intervened most fortuitously. Just as he was bundling Callista out of his room after checking that the hallway was clear, none other than Mr. Claremont and Mr. Plumptre came up the narrow inn stairs. There was no way to avoid them; the two men saw them right away.

Thinking fast, Dom seized on the only possible way to save Callista's reputation—and achieve his goal.

“Gentlemen, you may congratulate me,” he boomed, waving them over. “Miss Higginbotham has just done me the great honor of consenting to become my wife.”

At the speechless look of both Callista and the two men, he plunged on. “I've been courting her for quite some time. The dear sweet thing missed me so much”—he ignored the murderous look she shot at him—“she came up to Edinburgh to surprise me. I've finally convinced her I'll make her a worthy husband.”

Mr. Claremont recovered his power of speech first. “I wish you every happiness, my lord, Miss Higginbotham!” He shook their hands heartily. “And may I add how proud we are to have as patron of the Philosophical Society a scholar of your status. I always thought there was more to you”—he waggled a finger at Dom—“than you let on! Everyone at the conference is talking about you as the next great British philosopher—well, except for Professor Jamieson,” he added with a grin.

“Congratulations, and very best wishes on your upcoming nuptials,” said Mr. Plumptre, shaking their hands in turn. “Lord Rexton, did you find out from the newsboy how the London reporters discovered the truth?”

“That dirty little bugger?” Dom scoffed, enjoying himself immensely, despite Callista's growing death grip on his arm. “He knew nothing. I let him go.”

“May I ask why, my lord, you chose to hide your identity for so long?” Mr. Claremont asked.

Dom pulled a boyish, self-deprecating smile and shrugged. “I suppose I needed the love of a good woman to show me the foolishness of my ways.” He left Callista for a moment and pulled the two gentlemen aside. “I'm sure I can count on your discretion in not mentioning the circumstances”—he pointed to his chamber door—“under which you learned of our engagement. I needed a brief moment of privacy to make my proposal of marriage. I wouldn't want Miss Higginbotham's reputation damaged by my rash lapse of good judgment.”

The two men's earnest promises secured, Dom brought them back to Callista's side to launch his parting shot. “Please share our good news right away with the rest of the conference-goers—much more interesting, I think, than any tale about authorship of some dry essays. And do make my excuses. I'm taking my betrothed back to London to plan our wedding.”

Callista was sputtering with indignation by the time they got down to the taproom. “What, pray tell, was all that show?”

“That, my dear,” he laughed, ignoring the curious stares of the drinkers, “is what you get for seducing an honorable gentleman in his room. Saucy wench that you are, you'll have to pay the piper now. You're a wedded woman to be.”

“I haven't agreed to anything!”

“Oh, you don't have a choice—no choice at all, I'm afraid.” His self-satisfied grin might last all day. He'd managed to outmaneuver Callista—never an easy task—and had made the step to take her to wife. He was getting married! “We have to wed—I've already seduced you twice and now people have seen you coming out of my room.”

“You did
not
seduce me! I was quite aware of what I was doing.”

“Yes, you were waving your lovely nakedness at me like a most delightful minx. So now it's time to settle down and mend your ways. You're marrying me.” He dragged her out into the bright afternoon sunshine and down the street. He'd paid up the bill and left instructions for the innkeeper to send his bags back to London; his priority was getting Callista home. “We can get a license and be married tomorrow.”

“Oh, no!” She pulled to a stop. “If we must wed, I want the banns read at Saint George's. I've attended services there all my life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You're stalling. You haven't even lived in London all your life.”

“I'm not stalling.” Her thin voice sounded unconvincing.

“All right—Saint George's it is in three weeks, but we're getting married. I'm writing a notice for
The Times
tomorrow, and I'll have my sister and mother plan an engagement ball at Rexton House to welcome you to the family. You understand there's no getting out of this, Callista?”

She licked her lips nervously. “I don't want you to regret it someday.”

“Regret it? I expect you'll drive me crazy.” He took her in his arms, broad daylight and the good churchgoers of Edinburgh be damned. “But we're getting married, one way or the other.”

“Callista, hold still!” Marie chided her. “I have to finish this hem before the ball tonight.
Mon Dieu,
why that man insists on only three weeks for an engagement, I don't know! It's
romantique,
for sure, but how am I to sew a worthy ball gown, wedding costume, and trousseau in so short a period of time? If he's impatient for the marriage bed, there's always a closed carriage ride about the park, but good couture—that should never be rushed!”

Callista tried to calm herself and lifted her arms out of Marie's way, barely listening to her friend's muttering as Marie knelt on her workshop floor amidst the yards of Callista's ice-blue silk skirts. The seamstress's hand flashed with the needle as she put the final touches to a ball gown so beautiful and grandiose it shredded the last of Callista's already desperately rattled nerves. Marie had been going on along these lines for two weeks now, sewing furiously and of no help at all when Callista tried to explain her worries.

“You shouldn't be making me wear a gown like this!” Callista fretted, looking down at Marie. “And I shouldn't be allowing this engagement ball tonight, or even the wedding! He doesn't love me, and I don't . . . I don't . . .”

“Don't you dare tell me you don't love that man, Callista! I know you too well for that lie. You love him; you should marry him!”

She was
not
going to discuss the leanings of her stupid treacherous heart. And only a Frenchwoman could think life was that simple, anyway. “But it can't possibly work out!”

“Don't touch your hair! I spent two hours on that coiffure.” Marie pulled down Callista's arm. “
Chérie,
he's a good man and he cares for you. Look how little fuss he made about you exposing his writings, even though it's turned him into the talk of the town! Bah, you should've seen the story
The Tatler
ran when they reprinted your broadside! You said he hasn't even made you explain why you did it. If he's forgiven you this scandal, he'll make a good husband.”

Callista groaned. “Don't remind me about that fiasco!” She still wasn't sure whether she'd done the right thing and whether Thompson had been plotting murder, although the tutor had dropped strangely out of sight since the Edinburgh conference. Her one consolation in this mess was the pleasure of the members of the Philosophical Society on learning of Rexton's true identity and the upcoming wedding.
They,
for some reason, seemed to think she and their patron made a good match.

“And,” said Marie, launching her final salvo, “it doesn't hurt that your viscount is
riche
!” As if that settled everything.

Callista seemed alone in her fear that marriage to Dominick would be a disastrous and heartbreaking mistake. A newly energized Great-Aunt Mildred had led the charge these past two weeks in planning an intimate morning wedding at Saint George's. The lady was glorying in her great-niece's return to her rightful place in society. Her now-inseparable companion Sir George positively triumphed over his role in bringing together what he insisted on calling “the two lovebirds.” Daphne was skipping with joy and plotting with her soon-to-be big brother about their move to Rexton House, when Callista proved too terrified to even think about
that
consequence of the nuptials. Beatrice seemed beside herself with delight; Callista had no doubt it was her strong-willed friend rallying her society connections that had produced the steady stream of ladies leaving calling cards in Bloomsbury to pay their respects to the bride-to-be.
No doubt also the ladies want to see for themselves the odd mouse that has caught the golden lion,
Callista thought glumly. Not that she'd been home to receive them—she'd worked round the clock this fortnight past to finish the library. Despite her exhaustion, anxiety preyed on her daily, and she had serious misgivings she'd survive the coming week.

The deepest truth she could admit to no one but herself: she feared she hadn't the courage to risk so much for love. This peacock of a man was so far outside her orbit, their worlds and backgrounds so different. She couldn't stop herself from loving him, but to trust him with that love, to open her heart to the ridicule and vulnerability and loss that love could entail—she quaked at the thought. So much could go wrong with love. Far safer and easier not to risk such perils in the first place.

And yet she
had
agreed to marry him. Sort of.

Marie was rising from her knees, eying the skirts critically, when Billy knocked and entered the dress shop. “There's a message come for you, Miss H.”

Callista took the note and frowned as she read it over. She was surprised to see it was from none other than Mr. Thompson, with an equally surprising request. She tapped the paper against her palm. His appeal might be exactly what she needed to resolve her qualms.

“Marie, please help me out of this dress. There's something I must do.”