Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (25 page)

Christ.

She shuddered her reaction, collapsing where she gripped his shoulders in anchor and clamped her thighs tight around his hips. Short gasps and moans whispered past his ear, her body jerking away, yet he held her fixed, caressing her through wave after wave of pleasure until she stilled, the only evidence of their passion her damp forehead against his, the soft brush of a misplaced tendril against his jaw as she struggled to reclaim normal breathing.

He buried his face in her hair and inhaled the faint scent of cardamom and sweet cherry. He was drugged. Randy as hell.

The carriage pulled to a stop before they could exchange words. He helped her reassemble her clothing, adjusting her bodice and releasing her skirt from where it had bunched between them, the moment not awkward in the least but rather surprisingly intimate. His driver knew better than to open the door before a signal, so Kell released a long-held exhalation and eyed Angel settled on the opposing seat.

“Join me inside.” His voice sounded gravelly. Damn it to hell, she unraveled him.

“I can't.”

“Of course you can. It's a choice like everything else.” His words regained timbre.

She whispered her response. “I shouldn't be out in the middle of the night.”

“It's a little late for regrets.”

“I've none to speak of, only concerns for my future.” She spoke with unwavering certainty, her reply rejuvenated as well.

“One hour. Give me that much and then I'll promptly see you home.” He wasn't in the habit of entreating female company.

“What time is it?”

She hadn't declined the invitation outright. The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Not as late as you think.” Equivocal answers suited the situation.

“Surely my hour has come and gone.” She returned his ambiguous retort without a missed beat and he realized she reminded him of himself. The notion amused him.

The lantern light flickered to indicate the wick was almost spent. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and her eyes fell closed, the long lashes brushing his skin as they fell. He put his lips against her ear and murmured, “Allow me to make love to you, Angel. All of you. Not like this.”

She trembled against his mouth and fell silent. He took that as assent.

He rapped the carriage roof and the door whipped opened, the steps to follow, then the little mustached driver stepped away, vanishing before he could receive additional orders. Kell stepped aside and clasped Angel's hand to lead her from the coach up the short stone stairway to his apartments, where he retrieved a silver key from his breast pocket and turned it in the lock. He stepped across the threshold with Angel in tow, only releasing her hand when they took the long flight of wooden stairs to the next floor where he hurried them down a dimly lit hallway to a pair of closed doors at the end. He twisted the brass handle and stepped inside with nary a look over his shoulder. She needed to decide this time.

“Don't linger at the door.” He didn't turn, unsure he could accept the emotion on her face were she to change her mind. “Last time I made the decision for you. Step in or out. It's your choice now.”

He held his exhalation and listened for the sound of her slippers on the floorboards. He heard one step, then the click of the door, the turn of the key, and he breathed in relief.

Angelica moved through the doorframe. A makeshift study area comprised the left and a room dedicated to dressing filled the right. A few more steps led her further into the bedchamber. She flicked her eyes in quick surveillance of the main quarters, and though the bed commanded her attention, she deflected her gaze to the other furnishings. A flutter of misplaced nervousness quickened her pulse. She'd never before entered a man's rooms and somehow the realization made her commitment more meaningful.

Draperies in midnight blue velvet flanked rectangular windows, allowing starlight indoors, though two chandeliers laden with a multitude of candles hung overhead casting puddles of light and shadow on the floor. Crown molding in an intricate key design framed the bare walls to accompany a wardrobe and bureau of polished mahogany. At the center of the room atop a lush Axminster carpet, a huge bed dominated, topped with countless pillows in sarsenet and satin. The four-poster with thick lathed-turned arms stood dressed in rich fabrics much like the drapery, although silk and cashmere tempted at comfort and hinted at sin.

How many women had crossed this threshold? The unspoken question burned on her tongue. Here was the room of a wickedly alluring sinner, his decadent bed a symbol of erotic abandon and untamed virility, towering and commanding like the man who slept there, sinful like his acts.

She shook her head to discard the misplaced influence of her childhood. Her father's sanctimonious preaching had no place within these walls.

Across the room, Benedict lit a bedside candle before his eyes found hers. He knew the allure of his body, the impact of his bedchamber, yet seemed absent of the practiced charm of the accomplished rake he showed the world. Time suspended as she stepped nearer, the intensity in his gaze like the north star, and she saw in his eyes the emotions he perceived in hers, the glitter of anticipation and other more vulnerable feelings neither one of them would give voice to.

She'd always behaved with decorum, mustered strength and courage, and obeyed instruction. But this was to be hers to treasure, just like shared intimacy on the beach. She'd struggled through her mother's death, her father's demands and detachment, her sister's misery. She needed to feel again, to experience pleasure instead of despair.

With two more steps, she closed the space between them, her fingers already working the buttons at her collar though she knew he could easily remove the gown with a determined tug. The room crackled with emotion. She stood before him and reached for his hair, missing the lengths that once overlapped his collar, finding the fresh-trimmed silky ends a new sensation to relish and, with insistence, pulled him into a soul-searing kiss.

In less than a tick of the clock, he matched her fervor, though he broke away soon after to rasp against her ear. “I'm not a man fond of restraint. If we begin, we must finish.”

She swallowed any lingering timidity and ran her palm down the placket of his breeches, his ardor evidenced by his firm arousal.

He removed her gown and underclothes with accomplished finesse, depositing her on the bed with care while he stood near the edge. She lay on her back, exposed, and his gaze flowed over her, slow and exact, as if he sought to memorize every curve and angle. She fought hard not pull the coverlet upward or at the least, shield herself from his penetrating inspection—she was no longer hidden by the cover of night or the dark interior of the carriage—but no, she'd committed to this. Wanted this. Needed to affirm the connections she perceived from the first moment they'd spoken.

At last he undressed, their eyes met, daring her to watch his every action. First his boots and socks, pushed aside with a blind kick as if he couldn't bear to break the concentrated lock of their stare. Then his fingers worked the knot of his cravat, though he didn't discard the strip of linen when finally free. Instead a devilish smile lifted his mouth to accompany the spark of sensual challenge aglitter in his eyes. He folded the neckcloth lengthwise and leaned in to wrap it around her ankle, the soft brush sliding elegantly along her sole in bold suggestion. Her heart hurried to beat, her pulse rushed through her veins, and her gaze broke from his, curious and disconcerted he might anchor her to the bed for his unending pleasure. The absurd notion made breathing difficult, though a secret thrill spiraled like a whirlpool in her chest to settle with impact where she grew wet and ready. He looped and knotted the cloth around the wooden post and quirked a grin that communicated he could read her thoughts. He reassured her with a wink that meant to say ‘
just in case you try to get away'
.

While she processed this revelation, he removed his shirt, pulled it over his head in charming masculine fashion to reveal the smooth contours of his muscles highlighted by golden candlelight, the forbidden marking of his tattoo stark and striking. With each discarded piece, there went lingering inhibition, modesty, and indecision. She clenched her fists in the counterpane, her fingertips anxious to coast over his hard physique, trace the lines of the ridges banded across his abdomen, explore his devastating physique.

She knew she was wanton, a female with broken morality, but now was not the time to consider her downfall. Her future loomed like a storm cloud and she wouldn't fault herself for savoring a little heaven, however fleeting the hour she'd promised him.

He worked at the buttons of his breeches and her eyes flared when at last he completed the task. With one sweep, down lean hips and well-defined thighs, he discarded the garments and stood before her, his body ready, his erection causing her breath to hitch.

He may have read her inner hesitation as a half smile curled his lips, but he didn't remark on it. He climbed atop the bed beside her, discarding pillows over the edge of the mattress until he leaned on one elbow as if he had all the time in the world and merely considered where he'd like to begin. The silence of the bedchamber became deafening. She could hear her every breath, sense the heat of his eyes on her skin. She slid her ankle to test the security of the linen bond and he chuckled, low and sensual, as he leaned in and captured her breast in his mouth. His tongue lathed the tip, his teeth teased and her nipple ruched in response, every sensation funneled to one pinnacle, his mouth hot against her skin as he stroked again and again.

She whimpered, aghast at her own reaction and he paused. His lips hovered over her breast, his eyes with the gleam of unfulfilled desire. She released the counterpane, which she had gripped to temper her pleasure, and touched his erection, hot and solid, the satin rim smooth against her fingertip, his sex incredibly hard. His body jerked in reaction to her exploration and he cursed in a guttural tone, then quickly gripped her wrist.

All wait over, with effortless grace he bridged her body, the hard press of his erection burning against her thigh to remind her this was what she asked for, what she yearned for, this sensual communion with a man she would never know beyond the brief past they'd created. This relevating moment composed the memory of her heart.

He claimed her with finesse, coupling with swift need and anxious want, the friction of his body against hers incredible and glorious, and she grew wetter, more anxious, her body adapting to his. Full, so full, and ramped to give pleasure as much as she received. She welled with emotion at this carnal fantasy, and her eyes fell closed, willing her other senses to heightened perception, the musky scent of their joining, the slick smooth press of his muscles against her skin, the brush of his mouth on her neck, the sensitivity of her nipples as they traced against his hard chest.

She matched his rhythm, learning as he moved, understanding their cadence, until she became swept up in sensation, every inch of her body alive and thrumming with awareness. The rough chafe of his whiskers, the soothing swipe of his tongue, the hard bite of his teeth, all the while he filled her hard and tight with an excellent pleasure-pain she'd never be able to describe, so she locked the sentiment inside.

That spiraling need, the intense feeling she now knew led to a shattering of all reality, a blissful glorious communion of emotion and prurient sensuality, built to an excruciating crest. And he experienced it too, his thrusts more forceful, less graceful, his muscles corded with strain and restraint. Across his chest, a sheen of perspiration glistened whenever candlelight caught and she angled her hips in an attempt to satisfy his desire, her ankle held fast, heart racing with an impossible rhythm. He spanned her hip with his hand, pulled her higher, offered torture and pleasure, again and again.

Until nothing else mattered.

She whimpered, suspended in a moment of pure rapture as her body clenched, shuddered, begged. Lost, she grasped his biceps and shoulders to grip tight, surrendering to the storm of passion as he buried deep his full length and cursed a groan, pulling her into his arms as he spilled inside her.

Chapter Twenty

She dressed in silence. The hiss and crackle of the fire in the hearth the only interruption to the sound of her obeisance, the noiseless process of regaining clarity in the wake of their lovemaking empyreal, much the same way a dream dissolves. She blinked back tears and glanced over her shoulder to where Benedict slept in haphazard fashion, bed linens askew, his position in sleep much the same as life: exposed, vulnerable, and devastatingly handsome. She hadn't revealed her identity from the start and now, standing in his opulent apartments, she realized he'd practiced the same deceit. She could not fault him; his secrets were likely as precious as her own, his reasons equal in value.

She gathered her slippers, padding to the door in bare feet, loath to disturb his slumber. How she wished she could stay, but her life was already determined and years ago, before she knew of love and desire, she'd realized the futility of wishing and dreaming…and planning.

The door closed behind her with a definitive click and as she made her way to the front of the house, the tears she'd held at bay spilled over, coasting down her cheeks even though she gritted her teeth and focused on her goal, wiping emotion away with fingers that trembled. She left the apartment and stepped into the waiting carriage, too defeated to question how the little driver knew it was time to leave, too despairing to think beyond the discomposure that voided her heart. But once she settled on the seat, cloaked by darkness and isolated by her decisions, all illusion dissipated and she wept the entire journey home.

St. Monica's Priory in Dorset was two days' travel by carriage if one left London at sunrise. The Earl of Morton awoke before dawn and dedicated an hour to prayer, solemnity, and enriched study of apologetics. He was anxious to fortify his knowledge with reasoned arguments of religious doctrine before breaking his fast. Angelica knew his ecclesiastical habits well and wholly. She stood now at the narrow side window in her bedchamber, contemplating the morning and regretting the birdsong that drifted to her attention from the weeping willow on the front lawn. No one had a right to be cheerful this morning. She'd gained what she'd wanted: a memory to fill her heart, a treasury of them. Alas, she never anticipated the pain.