Never Romance a Rake (19 page)

“Camille, you are marrying me because you have no other choice,” he said quietly. “Do you think I don't know that? But before you stand up with me before God, you should know what I expect.”

“Bien sûr.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “What do you expect?”

“Kissing,” he said quietly. “Perhaps a great deal of it.”

“Ah, as you just kissed me a moment ago?” she asked.

“Yes, I daresay.” She meant to make this difficult, he realized. “Camille, this cannot be about having a child and nothing more,” he found himself saying. “You deserve something better than a man who will simply take his pleasure from you.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “You wish to seduce me.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.

She cut her gaze away, a rare show of surrender. “I need a husband, my lord,” she answered, blinking rapidly. “And I have already shown that I am weak. Yes, I desire you. Your touch…it maddens me. Your seduction of me will not present much of a challenge, I fear.”

Rothewell shook his head. He was deeply dissatisfied, and he was not perfectly sure why. It was the same sort of frustration he had felt on the night he'd first met her, when Camille had so dispassionately offered her body to him then and there, in exchange for his promise of marriage. He had been damned tempted, too.

He remembered another such beauty who had needed rescuing, but on that occasion, it had been he who had made the offer. The many pleasures of Annemarie's body in exchange for his undying love and financial support. He was hardly the first man to propose that to her. And she had been glad enough to seal the bargain—in a way he would never forget. After long years in the darkness, his life had suddenly seemed filled with light. Until his brother had chosen to interfere.

But Camille was not Annemarie, no matter what Xanthia believed. Oh, the resemblance was there. Dark hair and flashing eyes. Honeyed skin. That sensuous French accent. And yes, it had been the first thing about Camille that had struck him. Tempted him. But any resurrected fantasies of Annemarie would likely not survive one interlude in Camille Marchand's bed. This woman had a passion and a backbone Annemarie had never possessed.

A woman so rare deserved to be surrounded by joy. To be made love to on a bed of rose petals. To have poetry written in her honor. And none of these things would he ever do for Camille Marchand. It wasn't in his nature. She would have to settle, at least for a while, for a good deal less.

Though he had not spoken in some minutes, Camille had made no effort to step away. Caught in the moment, he lifted his hand and stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek.

Her sweep of black lashes lowered, fanning across her warm skin.

“You were right about one thing,” he finally said. “I desire you. Far more than I would wish.”

She looked up at him, unblinking. “You wish to kiss me again,
n'est-ce pas
?”

He lifted his hands to cradle her face, then stroked his thumb round the corner of her mouth, and then across her sensuous bottom lip. He felt the plump swell of it quiver beneath the pad of his thumb. He drew it down just a fraction, to reveal her small white teeth, and the pink tip of her tongue. He leaned forward, and skimmed his mouth along the shell of her ear. “Yes,” he murmured. “And it is very necessary, Camille.
Absolutely
necessary.”

“Necessary?” Her voice was thready.

“This kissing.” He drew back and smoothed his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “You once asked me…was it necessary? And it is. Like air to my lungs. Kiss me again. Kiss me, Camille.”

She tilted her head and rose onto her toes without opening her eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rothewell lowered his mouth to hers. He wanted to savor each second, tucking it away in the recesses of his memory. Storing it away for a time when, perhaps, he would not have this pleasure.

Their lips touched, hers trembling at first. His were certain. And with a gentleness that amazed even himself, Rothewell molded his mouth softly to hers. After a moment's hesitation, Camille was kissing him back in earnest. Unbidden, she opened beneath him, and drew his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth. It was sweet. So achingly sweet. Something in the pit of his belly seemed to melt.

Her hands came up to hold his face, mirroring his earlier gesture. As if she might control his motions, she held him there, their tongues sinuously entwining, her breath coming more urgently with every moment. He wanted her. Good God, how he wanted her. It was not unbridled lust. It was not Annemarie. He just wanted this woman—Camille—and with an intensity that would have worried him were he not so desperately lost in her kiss.

Somehow, he turned and set her back to the wall below one of the sconces. He wished suddenly that he had lit them all; that he could see the flickering light play over the fine bones of her face, and the silken sweep of her eyelashes. Without taking his mouth from hers, his hands went up to cradle the mounds of her breasts.

Camille gasped faintly at the touch of his hands. When he hooked his thumbs in the laced edge of her bodice, she said nothing, and let her head go back against the wall. She felt enervated, as if she were entirely at his command—and in that moment, she did not care. With a deft tug, he drew the fabric down, taking her chemise with it, until the dusky pink nipples were exposed.

He hesitated as if waiting. For her protest. For the back of her hand. But the dark silence of the library was rent only by the sound of their breathing. She was so tired of fighting her desire for him. Whatever he was, no matter why he wanted her, she ached for him. And when he bent his head to draw her left nipple between his lips, she gasped at the hot ribbon of pleasure it engendered.

He took that as a sound of approval. He drew her breast more fully into the warmth of his mouth, suckling until she began to make small, breathy sounds of pleasure. Then he moved to the other breast, first circling the nipple with his tongue, then sucking at the very tip as he gently nipping with his teeth.

“Ooh,
oui
!” she murmured. Her hands went to his shoulders, restless and urgent.

Gently, he slipped one hand between her shoulder blades. “No, let me, Camille,” he breathed against her ear as the hooks of her gown slipped free. “Let me unfasten this.”

She did not feign innocence, or further protest. Instead, she gave herself up to the skill of his well-tutored touch. And when he returned his attention to her small, perfect breasts, cupping their weight in his hands, she opened her eyes. “
Mon Dieu,
” she murmured dreamily.

He kissed her long and deep. Her head moved restlessly against the wall. “Kieran, I want—” she whispered. “I want—oh, I don't know.”

“Perhaps I can guess.”

But as Kieran cradled one breast and kissed her deeply, and his other hand fisted in her skirts, he realized he should be horsewhipped. He was not so wrapped up in her he could not appreciate the precariousness of their situation. Or the fact that she was a virgin. Instead, he inched her skirts up into his fist, then eased one hand between them, touching her lightly in her most intimate place.

“Camille,” he whispered. “You are going to marry me. In a few days' time. We will be married, yes?”

“Oh,
oui, je suis
…” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I am so…yes.
Yes
.”

With a lifetime of experience in having sex in places he had no business, with women he scarcely knew, Rothewell inched down her drawers until they slithered into a puddle of silk at her feet. Oh, Lord.
Her feet.
He wished desperately they were hooked behind his neck. They looked slender. Like her legs. Exquisite. And then he touched her again, and heard her gasp. All else, even her small, perfect breasts, was forgotten.

He eased two fingers into the tangle of curls, and felt the answering slickness. “Oh,
mon Dieu,
” she murmured.

“Ah, Camille, Camille,” he moaned against her mouth. But this was madness. This was no place to make love to an untutored virgin. But none of this—none of it—reached past his brain to his nether regions. In one smooth motion, he pushed her skirts higher, went down on one knee, and stroked his tongue through the soft curls which guarded her pleasure. This time her gasp verged on something more.

He parted her gently, pressing her thighs wide until his fingers found the soft, warm folds of her flesh. Gingerly he drew a finger through the silken wetness. She gave a little moan of surrender when he eased one finger inside. He wanted to give her pleasure. Exquisite, extraordinary pleasure. The kind of mind-clouding pleasure that might make her go unquestioningly to the altar, and not look back at the truth.

With one hand fisted in her skirts, he plunged his tongue deep. She cried out again, but softly. A withering little sound of surrender. Her breathing slowly grew more raspy. Over and over he drew his tongue through the folds which guarded her pleasure until he could feel the little nub of her arousal, unmistakably firm and trembling.

“
Kieran, Kieran,
” she whispered, her hands coming down to seize his shoulders.

He felt her climax inching near. She was murmuring something over and over in French, he didn't know what. Her head was back, her breath jerking roughly now. She was passion personified. Beautiful. With one finger and his thumb, he opened her wider, teasing her with quick, delicate strokes until he heard her cry out in the darkness. There was a moan. And then she was shaking, her limbs stiffening as she shuddered with the pleasure. He kissed her lightly across the soft, pale flesh of her lower belly as she trembled, then nuzzled her curls one last time. Beautiful. She was so beautiful.

When she had returned to herself, still gasping for breath, he jerked to his feet, his hands going to the fall of his trousers. Quickly he released the buttons, shoving down his drawers and trousers in one motion. “Let me lift you, love,” he rasped. “Put—Put your legs round my waist. Yes. Like that.”

“
Oui,
” she whispered. “Yes. Inside me.”

She felt weightless. Heavenly. He lifted her another inch, and the hot length of his cock slid into the wetness. Carefully, he positioned himself, and pushed gently. He felt her stiffen at the invasion, and then relax again in his embrace.

“Camille, I might hurt you.” He let his eyes roam over her face. “Christ. I don't know.”

She buried her face against his neck. “
N'importe,
” she whispered. “I want this. I want you, Kieran, inside me.”

He knew, vaguely, that he would regret it. That it was tasteless—and probably the worst possible position for a woman of no experience. But he could not wait. His desire for her now blinded him. The scent of her, of him; all of it swirled about them in a sensual heat.

“Ah, Camille,” he said, unable to resist the silken, welcoming warmth. He pushed again, and felt a faint resistance. She sucked in her breath on a gasp of pain.

“Oh, hell,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Don't,” she whispered. “Please. Don't stop.”

He eased himself deeper, and felt Camille relax to take him. To draw him in. Literally. Figuratively. He began to move slowly inside her, savoring the sweetness. She wrapped her arms about him and kissed him deeply. He reveled in her every motion. Cherished her every sound. He was lost to the passion, and yet fully, completely aware. His thrusts came faster.

“Camille,” he groaned, pushing deeper. Her head was back, her eyes closed, her exposed breasts rising tantalizingly with every breath. “Camille, say my name again.”

“Kieran.” The word was a soft sigh.

His climax came upon him with merciful swiftness, and he did not try to hold it back. He thrust. And thrust again, trembling as the warmth of his seed finally spilled inside her. It felt like the end of a perfect dream. A dream which had felt nonetheless inevitable. The release sent relief shuddering through him. And then Camille's slender arms were twined around him, her face buried against his neck as he returned to himself.

It was done. The paper in his pocket had just become a mere formality. They were joined now; joined in a way he would let no man put asunder.

No one looked at Rothewell and Camille—suspiciously or otherwise—upon their awkward return from the library. Indeed, the other guests were so obviously
not
watching them, the omission left Camille a little embarrassed. She joined Lady Phaedra on one of the sofas, and hid her shaking hands. After a few moments of their idle chitchat, Rothewell once again withdrew from the crowd and took up his solitary vigil by the window. He looked strangely distant. Almost pained. Camille's heart sank. Had his seduction been a disappointment to him after all?

The Dowager Lady Nash joined them, and the conversation turned to Parisian fashions. Camille responded to the lady's questions almost mechanically. She watched from one corner of her eye as Xanthia joined her brother by the window and rested her hand upon his arm, her expression concerned. Rothewell appeared strangely pale, and had set one hand almost protectively over his lower ribs.