Read My Lady, My Lord Online

Authors: Katharine Ashe

Tags: #Earl, #historical romance, #novel, #England, #Bluestocking, #Rake, #Paranormal, #fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Rogue, #london, #sexy, #sensual, #Regency

My Lady, My Lord (20 page)

BOOK: My Lady, My Lord
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Ian conjured her black gowns in his imagination, the severe arrangement of her hair, and her subdued demeanor in public. Pelley should be hanged. To refuse to sell his company on the basis of her femininity to a woman who did nearly everything in her power to differentiate herself from typical women of her status was criminal. Pelley must recognize how hard she worked to affect serious sobriety despite her natural beauty. Instead, he’d sneered at Ian down his aristocratic nose and withheld the one thing Corinna wished for above all else.

Ian looked at the other players. There was no joy here, and little amusement. These people were here of necessity born of unrelenting desire. Stoopie’s party at the hotel looked damn appealing in contrast. Nothing held Ian in this house except asinine ruminations. But he needn’t prove himself to anyone, least of all himself, and certainly not to a woman with more brains than sense.

He moved through the crowded drawing room toward the foyer to gather his greatcoat. A group of young men were clustered by the door around a lady. Laughter arose from them and one admirer shifted, allowing Ian a glimpse of the center of attention.

His breaths stalled.

Back turned to him, her golden-brown hair was swept into a loose arrangement studded with glimmering bejeweled combs. The creamy column of her neck and her graceful shoulders emphasized a gown of deep red that caressed her curves lovingly. She gestured with a fan and tilted her head, tendrils of satiny hair curling along her back. Her face remained averted from him. But he didn’t need to see her face to know it was lovely, her eyes to know that gold flecked the green, or her lips to know their dusky pink color. He had long since memorized the shape of her body. He had lived in it, for God’s sake.

His pulse pounded. With each phrase the men surrounding her uttered, his collar tightened further.

Taking leave of her admirers, she swiveled about and met his gaze. Her lashes flicked wide in surprise and Ian’s throat closed. She had not expected to see him here. The gown, her hair, the intoxicating expanse of her exposed skin was not intended for him.

Then who in the damn blast was it intended for?

He moved forward. She darted a glance to either side, as though seeking an escape route. Then she lifted her chin and walked toward him.

Defiant baggage.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good evening to you, too, my lord,” she said in dulcet tones, curtsying. But Ian wasn’t fooled. He had used those dulcet tones himself a time or two.

“You’ve arrived rather late, my lady. The program ended some time ago.”

“Are you offering me instruction on proper manners?” Her arched brows rose. “How positively diverting. What are
you
doing here, rather? Haven’t you an orgy to attend right now, or some such thing?”

Ian choked. She wasn’t very far off the mark.

“Corinna,” he warned.

“Don’t
Corinna
me. I did not walk around in that”—she gestured contemptuously toward his body, certainly the first time a woman had ever done so—”for over a sennight without learning a thing or two about your lifestyle. Your hedonistic friend Stoopie spoke nearly every day of his horrid plans for tonight’s festival of depravity at the Grand Mastif.” Red satin pulled across her breasts as she spoke, the creamy mounds swelling above the fabric. Pressure gathered in Ian’s groin, fast and directed. He spoke to distract himself.

“For a woman so intent on prim propriety, you’re attracting the attention of at least a dozen married men at this moment.”

Her eyes flashed. “You have absolutely no moral high ground upon which to stand, Ian Chance. Back with Amabel Weston again, are you? Did Marquess Drake invite her to the party, too, or must she wait out the night alone in hopes of tomorrow?” But she sounded more curious than disgusted. Ian had never noticed before how anger emphasized the gold flecks in her eyes, deepening the green. Beautiful, wide eyes, alight with feeling.

“No, he didn’t invite Amabel. And I am not with her again, although that’s certainly none of your business.”

“Not any longer, thank God.” Her voice seemed unsteady.

“You didn’t tell me she sent notes. How many?”

“Two or three. Ridiculous things. She ought to be ashamed.
You
ought to be ashamed.”

“What else did you withhold from me?”

“What else? Nothing. What sort of person do you think I am?”

Every man beneath the age of seventy in the place was staring at her, and Ian didn’t blame them. With her eyes flashing and her cheeks glowing, she was exquisite. He had to get her out of here. He didn’t spare the leisure to question precisely why, or whether he had the right to insist on it. He moved close, steeling his senses against her honeysuckle fragrance, and spoke in a low voice.

“Come to the terrace with me now, Corinna, and we can continue this conversation without so many watchful eyes upon us.”

“No. Are you still ashamed to be seen with me? How positively beastly you are.”

“Come with me now, Corinna, or I will make you sorry you refused.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she took his arm and went with him. Ian had no idea what he wished to say to her, but holding her even like this brought every part of him to life. He wanted more. If this was his test—the real test—then he was failing dismally.

For the first time in his life he welcomed failure with enthusiasm.

Chapter Twenty-Five

C
ORINNA WANTED TO CRY
. She hadn’t thought through this evening well. She had only ached, knowing where Ian would be tonight, every night, in a hotel or in some seductive widow’s boudoir, and needing desperately to distract herself from it.

But something inside her, something dishonest and hopeful, had nevertheless dressed for him. Something that longed to accidentally encounter him one night in society and see his crystal blue eyes light with appreciation when he looked at her.

She never imagined it would be tonight, with Marquess Drake’s party at the Grand Mastif, but she still had her speech prepared. For three days since he sent the books and she tumbled into folly she had practiced the words before her mirror each evening.

In the foolish first flush of her infatuation, however, she had conveniently forgotten how absolutely horrid he always was. Never mind what they’d gone through together, what he’d done for her, and those strange, stomach-clenching moments when something passed between them. Nothing had changed but their outward forms. His condemning expression now proved it.

But heaven help her, he was gorgeous, and so familiar. She drew in his scent of ease and strength, and realized she’d known it for ages—not only since last week, but since years earlier when a young gentleman had asked a sixteen-year-old girl to dance, told her she was deuced pretty, and unwittingly she began the slow descent into madness.

She pulled away from him and stepped back.

“What is this?” His gestured to her body. The night air was cool and damp, auguring rain momentarily. Corinna’s skin tingled where his gaze rested.

“A new gown. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

He scowled. “It isn’t you.”

“It is now,” she shot back, her stomach tightening. He didn’t want her. She had dressed to please him, and he didn’t like it. But she loved the gown, and she loved the way she felt in it, beautiful and desirable, even if he would never see her that way. Good heavens, this hurt much more than she had imagined it could.

She turned her back on him and moved toward the doors.

“Pelley is in there.”

She halted and looked over her shoulder. He stood in partial shadow, his long legs and handsome face slanted with light.

“He is?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I thought that might stop you.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“I never lie.”

She bit her lower lip. “I did not consider the possibility of his presence here.”

He frowned, his gaze slipping along her bodice to her hips. “Apparently.”

“Don’t look at me with such disapproval,” she snapped. “Your doxies wear much less than this.” How on earth had she gotten herself into this? What had she been thinking? He was right: this was not she. She was trying to be something she was not and making a fool of herself. And now Lord Pelley would see her and any last shred of hope she might still have of convincing him she was a serious, sensible woman would be lost.

“I don’t disapprove,” Ian said. “Quite the contrary. I am merely curious as to your motive.”

The words that were so easy to practice alone in her dressing chamber now clogged her throat. His gaze sharpened. For a moment that seemed like forever, neither of them spoke.

He strode forward and grasped her arm. Raindrops pattered on the shoulders of his dark coat and her lashes.

“I’m taking you home.”

She resisted. “What if I don’t want you to?”

“Oh, you want me to.” He tugged harder and she gave way. He pulled her hand through his arm and moved into the crowded drawing room and across it. He paused only long enough to bid their hosts good evening. In the foyer he released her to command her cloak from a footman, then took hold of her again to go out into the night.

Rain fell steadily, splattering off the sparkling pavement like a million tiny stars falling to earth, filling the street with fresh, cool scent. Corinna didn’t bother complaining that he ought to have borrowed an umbrella and that her gown would be ruined. It was better this way. She shouldn’t be wearing it, just as she shouldn’t want Ian Chance. It had been a colossal mistake from the moment it all began.

They walked swiftly along the queue of parked vehicles to the carriage with the Chance crest on the door. Ian gestured to the coachman huddled beneath a tree with the others, and crossed with her in front of the horses to the street side of the carriage. Confused, she looked about.

Ian pulled her around, wrapped his hands about her waist and the back of her neck, and brought his mouth down upon hers.

She melted. Everything inside her surged toward him, rain sliding down her cheeks like tears of relief as she tilted her face to meet his kiss. His mouth was hot and wonderful, just as she remembered but even hungrier, instantly demanding, forcing her lips apart. She opened to him and his hand moved down her back, filling her with aching, flattening her to his body. She clung to his shoulders, clutching the damp fabric over hard muscle she knew so well but in truth not at all. Not with her own hands.

She broke away. “Ian, I want you to take me to bed.”

He swallowed visibly and shook his head once, as though disbelieving. His clear eyes seemed to flash like the shimmering raindrops.

“Please, take me to bed,” she repeated and went up onto her toes to press a kiss onto his jaw, then beside his sculpted mouth. “You have already seen everything. You have been inside my body. Now I want your body inside mine.”

He pulled back, his gaze searching. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

She tried to laugh, but he looked so strange, so intense. “You are asking me if I know what I’m
saying
? You’ve been telling me for years that words are all I know.” She slid her hand to his neck, her fingertips twining into his short locks. Her breaths came fast. “I want you to teach me something else,” she whispered. “Teach me actions. Teach me to feel.”

He gripped her hand, jerking it away from his skin, and dragged her behind him to the other side of the carriage. The coachman stood beside the open door, umbrella aloft, apparently oblivious to everything.

Corinna could not feel embarrassed. She had asked a man to make love to her, a man who had despised her for decades. And it looked as though he was not taking her up on her request. Nothing could embarrass her now or ever again.

The ride lasted forever. She refused to allow him to see her misery, keeping her shoulders square beneath her sodden cloak and her face averted. She could cry all she liked in her own house, in her bed, alone. Now she would not give him the satisfaction of it.

The carriage jolted to a halt and Ian didn’t wait for the groom but jumped out instantly. Humiliation swamping her, she extended her hand but he grasped her waist and lifted her down, set her on her feet, and took her arm firmly. She bit back the hurt-filled words springing to her tongue, accusations about his lifestyle that he was too much of a hypocrite to extend to her, and let him lead her through the downpour. She prayed the rain would obscure the real tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

A glow of light leaped from a doorway. She stared. This was not her door, or even her house. Still, she knew it well. She had lived here for almost a fortnight.

Ian closed the door behind her and drew off her cloak.

“You are bringing me in through the servants’ entrance? Now, after all your visits last week?” She trembled, from cold or the sudden shock of exhilaration rushing through her.

“Not at night. Now be quiet,” he whispered and slid his hands to either side of her face, then into her wet hair. “Servants have sharp ears.” He bent his head to her, and his kiss robbed her of objections, breath, thought, everything but the sensation of him. She let herself feel, not caring whether he was protecting her reputation or his. As long as he never stopped kissing her she would be content.

Happy.

In ecstasy
.

He tilted her face up and tasted her lips, first the top, then the bottom, caressing a line of delicious fire along the seam of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. He urged her open, gently, her jaw cupped in his big palms as he explored the tender flesh inside and her bones turned to liquid. How could a mere kiss be like this, complete and all-encompassing, yet making her yearn for more?

His hand slipped along her neck to her shoulder, his sure, strong fingers dipping beneath the tiny sleeve and pulling it down. Her breasts ached, needing him to touch her as he had before but more, as much as he wished, as much as she wanted.

Ian pushed aside the gauzy fabric of her bodice, and beneath her corset and thin shift the pad of his thumb stroked across her nipple. Pleasure rocked through her. She clung to his shoulders and he drew her tongue into his mouth, caressing her breast with tender strokes that drove her need higher, harder. She sighed her pleasure.

“Corinna,” he murmured, his husky voice a caress. His palm cupped her breast, fingertips circling the nipple and passing over it. Hot desire spread from his touch, swirling in her belly, then lower. Between her legs, in her body, something seemed to open, to seek.

She gripped his neck and moaned softly, pushing into him.

The kiss exploded. He delved into her mouth with his tongue, hot and hard, pushing her knees apart with his and pressing between her legs. His arousal came full flush against her thigh and her heart thundered.
He wanted her
. She sank against him, shifting her hips as pleasure jolted through her, lifting her knee to bring them closer.

He groaned, slid his palm over her buttocks and pushed her into the wall. She gasped in pleasure and his hard body stroked her between her legs through the fabric of their clothing. She whimpered, molding to him, feeling him so intimately, so delectably, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Perfect and wicked and rhythmic, making her delirious for more.

“Oh,” she breathed.
“Yes
.

He crushed her mouth beneath his, touching her everywhere, her behind, her throat, his fingers on the throbbing peak of her breast making her want to shout.

“Corinna, this is only tonight.” His voice was rough, delectably close and deep.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Her words hitched high. Pleasure surged inside her, reaching, stretching, dangerous, the friction of clothing and heat overpowering.

He kissed her neck, thrusting her harder against the wall, onto her toes. “A single night.”

“One night.” Inside, in her very core she tightened, her breath caught. “Oh, Ian, don’t stop. I feel so— so close t— to—
ohh
!”

It broke open, deep, hot, astounding. He covered her lips as she shuddered against him, moaning her shocked pleasure into his mouth, her lashes fluttering as her body convulsed in a sweet, taut wave of relief. She quivered and gulped air, her breasts straining against his chest.

Her eyes snapped wide. “What happened?”

He smiled slowly. “You have never experienced that before?”

Everywhere she was hot and aching. “I haven’t been with another man like this.”

His eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Then not by yourself?”

“Not like
that
. What did you do?”

“Very little, but I will soon remedy that. Corinna, you were made for pleasure.”

“What do you mean by that?” She chewed on her lower lip. It felt raw.

A hint of strain played about Ian’s mouth. He bent and kissed beneath her ear, her neck and throat. His hands held her waist tight, her body trapped between his and the wall so deliciously. She felt afire, satisfied yet not satiated.

He murmured, “Your body wants a man’s hand. You have waited too long to be touched.”

Corinna looked into his beautiful eyes, dark with desire, and her breaths failed. As usual, he was wrong about her. She had waited just long enough.

~o0o~

He took her hand and led her along corridors lit only by infrequent lamps, and Corinna saw the inside of Ian’s house as though she knew it from a dream. Her memories seemed thin, the sensation of his hand around hers now so much more familiar than his strength in her own limbs.

He drew her into his bedchamber and locked the door. Before she had time to take in the familiar dark-painted walls, the big bed draped with midnight curtains and snowy linens, he grasped her beneath the arms, pulled her to him, and kissed her. His touch consumed, drawing her into him, nothing gentle or hesitant but urgent again, wanting her, wonderful. She wrapped her arms around his neck, sinking her fingers into his satiny hair, and gave him everything she knew, everything she had.

She had already left her wet cloak and slippers in the vestibule. Now his hands moved to her back and loosened her soggy gown. He drew her sleeves forward along her arms. Hands shaking, she made to pull it off, but he held her wrists.

“Allow me,” he said, and she obeyed. He drew the gown down slowly, following the edge of the bodice with his lips as it descended. Her breasts swelled above the corset, quivering from the heat of his mouth as his tongue traced the lace-edged silk to the red satin rose in the center.

He pushed the gown and petticoat down over her hips, his hands lingering, and she stepped out of them. His gaze covered her from brow to toe. “Behold Corinna comes,” he said quietly, “hidden by her loose slip, scattered hair covering her white throat.”

Her heart did a sideways leap. “But— But that is from Ovid’s
Amores
. You— You truly knew it!”

The laces of her stays slid free between his fingers. “What do you suppose schoolboys spend their study hours memorizing? Political tracts?” He smiled wickedly. He disposed of the corset, gathered her shift, and tugged it over her head. Hands coming free from the fabric, she brushed a lock of damp hair from her face.

He scanned her stripped of all but stockings, the crystal blue of his eyes lit with fire. “When she stood before my eyes, the clothing set aside,” he recited in a low rumble, “there was never a flaw in all her body.”

Corinna had the urge to cover herself, which was beyond ridiculous given from whom she wished to hide. Instead she reached for his coat and unbuttoned it. “I fear I have no lines of ancient poetry to amuse you in turn.”

BOOK: My Lady, My Lord
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