Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake (37 page)

“I looked in, and I could see the graceful line of my mother’s back, so straight and unfeeling—the way she always was with Nick and me. She was standing at the center of the room in a perfectly pressed, unwrinkled gown of the palest lavender…” He paused, and spoke the next words with surprise, “It’s amazing how the details come so fresh so long after…” And then the story started up again.

“She was facing my father, who was kneeling at her feet—kneeling—both hands wrapped around one of hers, and he was crying.” The words were coming easier now, and Callie watched as his eyes glazed over, recounting the memory. “The sounds I had heard from above stairs were my father’s sobs. He was keening, begging her to stay. He pressed her cold, passionless hand to his cheek and professed his undying love, telling her that he loved her more than life, more than his sons, more than the world. He begged her to stay, repeating the words again and again, telling her again and again that he loved her, as though the words could stop her dispassionate glances, her cool responses to him, to her sons.

“She was gone the next morning. And so was he, in a sense.” He stopped, his mind stuck in the moment over twenty-five years earlier. “I swore two things that night. First, I would never eavesdrop again. And second, I would never become a victim of love. I started playing the piano that day…it was the only thing that could block out the sound of his sorrow.”

When he looked to Callie again, he noted the tears streaming silently down her cheeks, and his gaze cleared instantly. He reached out and took her face in his hands, brushing away the errant teardrops with his thumbs. “Oh, Callie, don’t cry.” He leaned in and kissed her softly, his lips warm and welcome against hers. Placing his forehead against hers, he smiled. “Don’t cry for me, Empress. I’m not worth it.”

“I’m not crying for you,” she said, placing her hand against his cheek. “I’m crying for that little boy who never had a chance to believe in love. And for your father, who obviously never experienced it either. Because that was infatuation, not love. Love isn’t one-sided and selfish. It is full and generous and life-altering in the best of ways. Love does not destroy, Gabriel. It creates.”

He considered her words and the emotion in them, her vehement belief in the emotion that he had been avoiding for his entire adult life. And he told her the truth. “I cannot promise you love, Callie. The part of me that could have…that might have been…has been closed off for so long. But what I can tell you is this…I will do my damnedest to be a kind and good and generous husband. I will work to give you the life you deserve. And if I have my way, you will never doubt how much I care for you.”

He came off the ottoman, onto his knees, and Callie could not help but see the parallel between that moment and the story he had told about his parents. “Please, Callie. Please, do me the very great honor of becoming my wife.” The words came on a fervent, poignant whisper, and Callie was lost. How could she deny him after all he had confessed? How could she deny herself?

“Yes,” she said, quietly, barely loud enough for him to hear.

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Say it again.”

“Yes,” she said, this time firmer, more certain. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

And then his hands were in her hair, scattering her hairpins, and his lips were on hers, stealing her breath, and she was touching him—this remarkable man whom she’d loved for so long and who was finally, finally hers.

Callie sighed into Ralston’s mouth—noting that he tasted of scotch and something more exotic, more male—and a feeling of complete and utter elation coursed through her. This was Ralston, her future husband, and he was making her feel so warm and wonderful and alive. And then he was kissing down the column of her neck, whispering her name like a litany as he lifted her arms over his shoulders and set his lips to the expanse of white skin above the neck of her gown. Callie gasped as his strong hands spread wide across her torso, stealing up to cup her breasts in a gesture of complete and utter possession.

“This gown,” he said, the words coming thick and liquid, “is sinful.”

Callie couldn’t help her smile as he leaned back to watch her breasts lift against the satin edge of the dress. “Do you think so?”

“Indeed. It is made to drive men crazy…to reveal all your luscious curves”—he ran a finger beneath the satin lazily, just far enough to graze the edge of a nipple—“without showing off anything. It’s a torturous viewing experience,” he added, wickedly, as he pulled the edge of the gown lower, exposing the straining tip of one breast to the cool air and his hot mouth. He suckled briefly, until Callie was writhing against him, then, releasing her, he said, “When we are married, I shall buy you one in every color.”

She giggled at the words, the laughter fading into a sigh, then a low moan as his mouth worked its magic on her tender, sensitive flesh. He drew the sound out for as long as he could before he remembered their location.

“It occurs to me,” Gabriel said, pulling back, “that this is a highly inappropriate place for us to be in such a delicate position, lovely, what with your entire family mere moments away.” He met her gaze, and the liquid heat in her eyes consumed him for a moment and, with a little groan, he took her mouth again in a hot, open, consuming kiss that stole reason and thought for several long minutes. When he pulled away again, leaving them both breathless, he restored her dress to its original position with a soft, nibbling kiss on the delicate skin of her breast.

“I cannot stay, Empress. You are too much temptation, and I am nowhere near strong or good enough to resist you.” He spoke the words quietly at her ear, his nose buried in her hair—hair he no longer considered brown, but a rich myriad of chocolate and mahogany and sable that was fast becoming his favorite of all colors. “I shall return tomorrow. Perhaps we could ride on the Serpentine?”

Callie didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want the night to end. Didn’t want to risk the possibility that this was a very dear, very wonderful, very realistic dream. “Don’t leave,” she whispered, placing one hand boldly at the nape of his neck and turning to capture his lips in a lingering kiss. “Stay.”

He smiled, setting his forehead to hers. “You are very bad for me. I am trying to turn over a new leaf—I am trying to be more gentlemanly.”

“But what if I want you to stay a rake?” she teased, her fingers trailing down his neck and chest, fingering the buttons on his waistcoat. “A libertine, even?” She slipped one fastening from its seat and he grabbed her errant hand, bringing it to his lips for a swift kiss.

“Callie,” he said, his voice thick with warning as she set her free hand to the second button on his coat.

“What if I want the rogue, Gabriel?” The question was soft and sweet.

“What are you saying?”

She kissed across the firm square line of his jaw and whispered to him, shyness in her shaking voice, “Take me to bed, Gabriel. Give me a taste of scandal.”

His breath quickened at the words, and he realized that leaving her would be the noblest thing he had ever done. His reply came deep in his throat, “I think you’ve tasted rather a lot of scandal in the last few weeks, Empress.”

“But, once we’re married, it’s back to plain old Callie. This could be my last chance.”

A shadow of self-doubt crossed her face, and he took her head in both of his hands. “Make no mistake, lovely, there is nothing plain about you.” He kissed her again, stroking until she broke away, panting.

Meeting his gaze with her most smoldering, inviting and irresistible look, she tried again. “Come upstairs, Gabriel.”

There was a long pause, and Callie thought she might have pushed him too far. He stood, reaching down to her and pulling her up to stand in front of him. “You realize that, if we’re caught, we shall have to marry immediately.”

A thrill coursed through her. “I do.”

“And that you shan’t have the enormous wedding of which your mother has no doubt dreamed for ages.”

Callie shook her head. “I never wanted that wedding anyway. Mariana can have it for both of us.” Her hands slid up his arms toward his broad shoulders.

“And that your mother will never forgive me for ruining her elder daughter.” His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer.

“Oh, she shall forgive you. Marquesses rarely receive the full force of a mother’s wrath. And, have you forgotten, good sir, that I am already ruined?”

A dark, wicked grin flashed. “An excellent point.”

“There is a servants’ stairwell that leads straight to my room,” she whispered. “The hinges on the doors are beautifully quiet. I oiled them myself.”

He chuckled. “’Twould be a pity to let such diligence go to waste. By all means, my lady, lead on.”

They crept up the stairs—avoiding the third from the top—and into Callie’s bedchamber. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and the air thickened immediately. Callie was instantly nervous. The siren from earlier was gone, and she was consumed with awareness.

Here she was, in the room where she’d slept for her entire life, with Ralston, who overpowered the space, his strength and maleness so incongruous within the dainty little room. She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly together, and wondered if she would ever be used to him so close in such an intimate place. Surely not.

And then he was touching her—lifting her chin and taking her mouth and pulling her against him in the most complete of ways—and thought was lost.

His hands made quick work of the long line of buttons on her gown. She felt the fabric loosen and the cool air brush against her flushed skin, and she knew that he was staying and that this night would be the most important of her life—the night she accepted Ralston’s suit, the night she professed her love, the first night of the rest of their life together. And she could not deny the remarkable rightness in his being there, his hands and mouth on her as he removed her dress to reveal—

“Oh, my. Empress.”

His words pulled her from her thoughts. His gaze was locked upon her, taking in the beautiful silk lingerie, the delicate fabric that clung to her curves, hinting temptingly at what it hid. He reminded her of a wolf—hungry and eager to snare its prey—and her breath caught as his eyes met hers, desire rife within them.

She blushed. “Madame Hebert told me I needed them.”

His eyes darkened to a rich, midnight blue. “Madame Hebert was right.” He toyed with a little satin ribbon at the edge of her chemise. “How do they make you feel?”

Her eyes fluttered closed as a wave of embarrassment coursed through her. He turned her around, setting his hands to the laces of her stays, his words hot and soft against her ear. “How does it feel to be draped in warm silk?”

She said the first thing that came to her mind. “I feel feminine.”

His hands spread across her hips. “What else?”

She was breathing more heavily than usual, anticipation making her voice breathy with excitement. “I feel…lovely.”

He rewarded her words with a soft kiss on her neck. “Good. Because you are exquisite. And…?”

The word hovered between them as her corset came undone, falling to the floor unheeded. Her eyes opened at the freedom and she noticed that he had turned her to face the mirror in the room. She was unable to stop herself from watching as his hands splayed across her torso and pulled her back against him firmly. They stole upward to cup her breasts, testing their weight, and she gasped, both at the heady combination of his warm skin branding her through the silk and his hands stark against the pale blue of her chemise. She was riveted by their reflection, feeling at once shy and sensual and wondering if she should turn away.

And then she realized that he was watching her—reading the play of emotions across her face in the dim reflection. And his voice was dark and wicked at her ear. “Do they make you feel wanton?”

“Yes,” she confessed. “They make me feel…” She paused, searching for the word. “They make me feel alive.”

He made a small sound of approval deep in his throat. “They make me feel alive as well.” And then he was lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bed and she was naked and the silk was forgotten, replaced by his wonderful heat and mouth and hands.

He kissed across her collarbone and she smiled as he lingered over the faint scar on her arm, where his foil had cut her during their fencing lesson. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, lovely,” he whispered, worshipping the pink line with his lips and tongue.

Her head rolled back and forth on the pillow as his hands stroked down her body, stealing her strength. She opened her eyes and let all her desire show. “Never apologize for that afternoon. I wouldn’t change a moment of it.” She took his face in her hand and pulled him up for a searing kiss.

After several long minutes, he began to kiss down her body, and her hands fell to his shoulders to stay him. She whispered, “Wait.”

His blue gaze captured hers, hot and arresting, and he placed a warm kiss on her soft, rounded belly. “What is it, lovely?”

“I want to touch you this time.”

His teeth flashed, white in the dim light. “If I remember correctly, you touched me last time, and I couldn’t bear it for long.”

“I wonder if you’d be willing to try it again?”

One dark eyebrow rose as he considered the question. There was a pause, before he grinned and stretched out next to her on his back, hands stacked under his head, naked and unabashed. “I’m yours for the taking, Empress.”