Some Like It Wicked (Hellion's Den) (17 page)

She smiled slowly, and then caught her bottom lip between sharp teeth as a moist warmth covered the tip of her nipple. Hellion teased the quivering peak, his tongue flicking softly until she gave an impatient moan, her fingers threading through his satin hair, silently demanding more.

Eagerly he satisfied her plea, sucking gently but insistently as she arched beneath him with a flare of pure pleasure.

She barely noted the hands smoothing her stockings and shoes out of his path, unconsciously kicking them aside to allow his searching fingers an unfettered freedom to explore her thighs, then, shockingly, the warmth between her legs.

Unprepared for the surge of sharp delight, Jane cried out in surprise, a hint of embarrassment touching her cheeks as she felt a wet heat moistening his fingers.

“Oh.”

Lifting himself onto his elbow, Hellion made a soothing sound in his throat, relentlessly stroking that point of intense delight.

“You are so warm, so sweet,” he murmured in soft tones.

“I . . .” It was oddly difficult to keep her eyes open as her entire body focused upon the building pressure deep within. “I do not know what to do.”

His eyes smoldered with a midnight fire. “Shall I show you?”

“Yes.”

With a gentle motion he took her hand and lowered it to the waistband of his breeches. Her breath caught at the feel of his straining bulge, but she did not hesitate as she fumbled to undo the buttons. His erection sprang free as the last button was opened and she gingerly allowed her fingers to test soft skin that sheathed the hardness.

Hellion’s teeth snapped together as he heaved a strained groan, pressing himself against her touch. Then with an awkward motion he was moving to hastily tug off his boots and breeches before returning to cover her body with his own.

“My God . . . you are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

Jane stilled as she absorbed the sensation of bare skin brushing together, the hard urgency of his arousal pressing into her thigh.

Something deep inside her clamored in recognition, her body shifting to accommodate the unfamiliar weight, her legs spreading and encircling his poised hips.

A harsh breath teased her ear as Hellion readied himself, his voice uneven as he attempted to reassure her.

“I do not wish to hurt you, Jane . . .”

“Hellion, do not stop,” she broke in anxiously, her body clenched tightly as if already searching for some unknown goal.

His hands grasped her hips, his lips urging her to relax as he slowly, carefully entered her willing body. There was a flare of discomfort and Jane stiffened as she felt him thrust his way past her maidenhead. Good gads. Just for a moment she was not at all certain that this was going to be possible. Oh the theory was sound enough, no doubt. It had to be for so many couples to procreate. Most more than once. But until this moment she had not precisely considered the vast differences in their respective sizes.

Easily sensing her tension Hellion stilled, then without warning he moved, withdrawing and sliding silently down her body. Jane gasped, her hands clenching in his hair as he kissed her stomach, and then stroked his lips along the inner length of her thighs.

Her breath was oddly labored as his tongue tasted of her skin and then disappeared altogether as he shifted once more and boldly claimed a kiss at the very heart of her pleasure.

Shocked by the sheer intimacy of his mouth, Jane wanted to protest. Or at least she wanted to protest for the merest fraction of a second.

After that she would have considered murder if he halted.

The sensations were so exquisite, so temptingly erotic, that she could only arch her back in mute approval. With a relentless expertise he coaxed her to the point of near insanity, seeming to sense precisely when she was prepared for him to once again cover her body, continuing the rhythmic stroke with firm thrusts that had her soaring to paradise.

She had occasionally thought of this moment, even assumed that she knew how it would feel, but nothing . . . nothing could have prepared her for the heart-stopping pause as she rode on the crest of a wave. A harsh cry wrenched from her throat as she tumbled over the edge and floated in the dark waters of complete satisfaction.

Above her she felt Hellion grow rigid, his countenance tensing with the same stunned wonderment she had experienced before he shuddered and sank onto her shoulder with a slow sigh.

“My shrew,” he whispered against her damp skin, a possessive hand moving to cup her breast. “You are mine.”

 

 

The town house in the aging, but once-elegant London square was the very essence of solid English tradition. The red brick was sturdy without undue pretensions; the wrought-iron fence framed a garden with the proper roses growing in proper rows and a well-polished doorknob that was a mandatory requirement for any establishment in a decent neighborhood.

To most, the home bespoke old money and respectability. To Lord Bidwell it bespoke a tedious predictability that was enough to make him break out in a rash.

Fortunately for his own delicate sensibilities, his business rarely took him among the ghastly prim and proper.

Not so fortunately, however, today he had need of information that only one intimate with the War Department could offer. Not an easy task considering that most of the stodgy lot readily accepted his invaluable services as a spy while thoroughly disdaining his dubious morals.

Wisely coming prepared with a tempting bribe Biddles squashed the urge to slip in through the cellar and properly waited on the porch for the elderly butler to pull open the door. Just as properly he handed the servant his calling card and watched him shuffle toward the back of the house.

He waited only a half a heartbeat before he was in pursuit. His sense of propriety had been strained to the limit and besides which, he was not about to have his morning wasted by being ignored and avoided by a pompous half-wit.

Remaining a step behind the servant Biddles paused in the doorway as the butler crossed the library to hand his card to the gentleman seated behind a large mahogany desk.

Like most of the blooded gentlemen in England, Lord Carson was a large, rawboned man with a paunch growing at the same steady pace that his hair was receding. His countenance was square with a reddish hue that spoke of his love for fine food and finer spirits. Unlike many, however, he did possess an occasional flash of intelligence that Biddles had found useful during his course of work.

Hidden in the shadows Biddles watched Carson briefly glance at the gilded card, his face taking on an additional layer of puce as he abruptly rose to his feet.

“Bidwell,” he growled. “Bloody hell, not that rat-faced demon. Inform him that I am not at home, Potter. Better yet, tell him that I have died and am currently rotting in the family crypt.”

With his lips twitching in amusement Biddles stepped through the doorway to regard his unwilling host with a raise of his brow.

“Ah, Carson, I must say you appear remarkably well for a rotting corpse. Perhaps a bit tattered about the edges, but that is only to be expected, I suppose,” he drawled.

Flicking an annoyed glare over Biddles’s lime-green coat and lemon breeches, Carson pointed a dramatic finger toward the nearby door.

“Out. Out, before I have you tossed out.”

“Now, now, old chap, I come bearing gifts.” Biddles held up a bottle of expensive spirits. “You see, your favorite brandy, aged to perfection.”

Carson gave a loud snort, although he could not prevent his gaze lingering upon the bottle. He possessed a notorious weakness for French brandy.

“Your Trojan horse, I suppose. I am not that much a fool.”

“I have only a few questions.” Biddles smiled with the small bit of innocence he could conjure.

“And that is supposed to reassure me? On the last occasion that you desired to ask me a few questions, I awoke with a pistol pointed at my heart.”

“I did manage to dispatch the villain, Carson, and you were personally thanked by the prince for your service to your country.”

The older gentleman frowned at him in a sour fashion. He clearly still held a grudge over the minor squabble that they had endured with the son of an earl who had been selling troop movements to the French.

“After I spent a fortnight recovering from the shock. No. I am too old for your devious schemes.”

“I assure you that on this occasion there will not be the slightest danger to you.”

“Your notion of danger is considerably different than my own, Bidwell.”

Biddles placed a hand to his heart, the hand that conveniently held the bottle of brandy.

“I swear upon my favorite Weston coat.”

There was a prickling silence before the gentleman at last heaved a frustrated sigh and reached out to pluck the bottle from Biddles’s fingers.

“Oh bloody hell, give me the brandy. I feel I shall have need of it.” With practiced efficiency Carson pulled out the cork and poured himself a generous portion. “What do you desire to know?”

Pacing toward the valuable leather books that lined the room, Biddles shrugged with a seeming nonchalance.

“I need to know what you recall of a Mr. Middleton.”

“Middleton? The name is familiar.”

“He comes from Surrey and managed to marry the daughter of an earl.”

“Ah yes.” Carson frowned as he downed the brandy in one appreciative gulp. “There was something. Damn. It was several years ago.”

“I believe it had to do with uniforms,” Biddles prompted.

“That is it.” Carson set down his glass to promptly refill it. “There were accusations of shoddy workmanship and even rumors of receiving payment for uniforms that were never delivered. Messy business.”

Messy, indeed. Biddles slowly turned, his nose twitching with curiosity.

“And yet, any scandal seems to have been nicely hushed up.”

“Yes.” Carson tossed back another shot of the fiery spirit. “Rather odd.”

“You do not recall how Mr. Middleton escaped justice?”

“I cannot say that I do.” Carson shrugged. “No doubt the Earl managed to soothe over ruffled feathers. Or Middleton was wise enough to share his profits with those men in position to hide his crime.”

They were both perfectly reasonable explanations. Those in power often preferred to cover over unpleasantness rather than seek justice. Especially if there happened to be a profit in it for them.

Unfortunately, such vague rumors and innuendos did nothing to help Biddles’s cause. He needed proof, not gossip.

“Any notion of who those particular gentlemen might be?”

Carson set down his glass with a loud bang. “Absolutely not. You have asked your questions. Now it is time for you to be on your way.”

“What if I were to offer you an entire crate of that most excellent spirit?”

Carson scowled in a fierce manner. “I would drown you in it. Now, toddle off before I recall just how much I dislike you.”

Biddles briefly considered the possibility of ferreting out further information before offering a reluctant bow. Experience had taught him that there was no more stubborn beast than a titled Englishman.

“A pleasure as always, Carson.”

“Do not feel the need to keep in touch, Bidwell,” his host growled.

Straightening, Biddles flashed his most provoking smile. “Ah well, who can say what the future might hold, my lord? Until then.”

With graceful silence Biddles slipped from the room and out the front door. Gathering his horse he set back toward his own house in Mayfair.

It had not been his most productive afternoon. In fact, he had learned precisely nothing he did not already suspect.

Still, he supposed that he had at least confirmed that he was upon the right track, which was something. He had chased enough shadows to possess a genuine dislike for false leads. And with a bit more probing he might very well discover precisely who would have been involved in purchasing uniforms.

Brooding upon whom he might approach next, Biddles paid little heed to the traffic crowding the London streets, or even the passing houses. At least not until he realized that he had taken a wrong turn and had gone several blocks out of his way.

With a frown he slowed his mount to glance about the small square he had just entered. What the devil was the matter with him? He could find his way through London with a blindfold on. Not to mention Paris, Rome, and even Brussels. How could he have become lost less than a mile from his own home?

It was not until he noticed a narrow, shabbily dignified town house set behind high hedges that he suddenly became aware of his precise location.

A chill inched down his spine.

He knew that town house.

He should. He had spent more than one dark night watching it from the hedge, although he had refused to ponder the reason why.

And now it seemed even his subconscious was obsessed with the place.

A far-from-comforting realization, considering that Miss Anna Halifax was currently residing behind the thick walls.

“Blast you,” he muttered, tugging on the reins with far more force than necessary.

He never mooned over well-bred young ladies. Never. They were a plague and a pestilence to confirmed bachelors.

Even if they did possess lips as sweet as summer honey and curves that a man would sell his soul to possess . . .

A shiver raced through his body. “Damn.”

From the diary of Miss Jane Middleton, May 21st, 1814:

Hellion was decidedly . . . perturbed.

Oh, not because he had just taken a young lady’s innocence, although he had never done so before. Or even the realization that the experience had been one of the most exquisitely pleasurable in his life.

It was more the warm sensations that had filled his heart as he had thrust to his release.

He was supposed to feel pleasure. And satisfaction. It was what every gentleman felt when he at last bedded a woman he desired.

But the profound sense of peace that had settled about him was not at all familiar.

How could holding a woman in his arms make him feel complete? As if a part of himself had been missing. A part that had been taken from him years ago.

It was little wonder that he was startled enough by the unexpected sensation to lift himself from Jane’s delicious warmth to struggle into his breeches.

A man needed to pace about when his entire world had just been turned upside down.

Intent upon his own thoughts, Hellion took a moment before he realized that Jane was stirring upon the sofa.

Damn. What was the matter with him?

His only concern should be for this young woman who had just offered him her body, her trust, and her entire future. At a moment such as this Jane needed to be comforted. And more than that she needed to understand he would honor the gifts she had offered, not wonder what the devil he was doing pacing about like a lunatic.

With a pang of annoyance at his decided lack of gentlemanly behavior he hurriedly dampened a cloth from the washstand and returned to the sofa.

“No, do not move,” he murmured softly, pressing the cloth to the faint smear of blood upon her thighs. He knew he should say something. Anything. But for once his glib charm and ready wit did not seem at all appropriate.

This was not a transitory mistress he would be rid of upon a whim. This was the woman he intended to make his wife. It seemed only fitting he should say something extraordinarily romantic. Something that she could hold dear to her heart for the rest of their lives together.

While he was still struggling to conjure the perfect words Jane unexpectedly pushed his hands aside.

“Please, Hellion, that is enough,” she husked, reaching with not-quite-steady hands to retrieve her shift and pull it over her head. Hellion watched her struggle with the ribbons, deciding that she appeared astonishingly adorable with her curls tumbled about her shoulders and her skin still flushed with passion. Adorable enough to make him consider removing the ridiculous shift and reminding himself of just how sweet she tasted. Smiling at the thought Hellion was unprepared when she cleared her throat and abruptly stabbed him with a wary gaze. “It grows late. We should be returning to London.”

He rocked back on his heels. Well. That was certainly not what he had expected from a lady who had just cried out her fulfillment in his arms.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said . . .”

“I bloody well heard what you said,” he growled, rising to his feet to glare down at her.

She frowned at his rough tone. “What is the matter?”

Hellion was not entirely certain.

He had not expected Jane to swoon into his arms, or to proclaim a sudden, undying love. Not precisely, anyway.

But he had expected something more than a bland request to be removed from their romantic interlude as if they had shared no more between them than a bit of trout and roast beef.

Gads, such blithe indifference was more insulting than if she had slapped his face.

“What do you suppose is the matter?” he demanded. A ridiculous question, of course. But at least it was a step above the outraged sputtering that had nearly flown from his lips.

“If I knew I would not be asking.”

“In case you have forgotten you just gave your innocence to me.”

Her cheeks heated at his blunt words. “I am not likely to forget, Hellion.”

“And yet, all you have to say is that it is growing late?”

Jane sucked in a sharp breath as her brows drew together. “Forgive me, but as you have just pointed out I do not have a great deal of experience in these matters. What would you have me say?”

Her calm logic only fueled the flames of his own unreasonable annoyance. Shoving his hands through his hair, he struggled to contain his uncommonly ruffled emotions.

“It is traditional to at least make mention of the intimacy that has just occurred. To immediately demand to be returned to your home rather tarnishes the romance of the moment.”

A stubborn expression settled on her delicate features. “You knew from the beginning that I am a prosaic woman not at all inclined to romance.”

“My dear, you have far surpassed mere prosaic.”

Without warning her lashes lowered to hide her eyes and her hands clenched in her lap.

“What do you want from me?”

His heart gave a sudden twitch of dismay as he realized just how ridiculously he was behaving. Blast, he was making a muck of this. Decidedly odd, and more than a little frustrating, for a gentleman renowned for his skills in seduction.

With a grimace he moved to kneel before her, taking her hands into his own.

“Jane, I merely desire you to tell me what you feel,” he murmured softly. “Do you regret what occurred?”

Her gaze remained firmly veiled as she gave a slow shake of her head. “No.”

“Please, Jane, look at me.”

With obvious reluctance she at last lifted her head to meet his searching gaze.

“Hellion . . .”

Hellion pressed a finger to her lips. “We have just been as close as two people can be; why are you now attempting to hide from me?”

“I am not attempting to hide. It is only . . .” Her words trailed away as she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

“Yes?”

She gave a restless shrug. “I am not entirely comfortable discussing this.”

“You are embarrassed?”

“Is that so shocking?” she demanded in tart tones.

A rush of intense relief flooded through Hellion, making him feel light-headed. So that was it. She was not horrified, nor convinced she had just made the greatest mistake of her life.

She was embarrassed.

Thank God.

“No, of course not.” He lifted her hands to press them to his lips. “Forgive me, my love. I did not intend to be an insensitive brute. It is only that I am more than a bit unnerved and suddenly in need of reassurance.”

She blinked at his sudden bout of honesty. “Whatever do you mean?”

He pressed her fingers to his cheek. “I have never before been with a complete innocent. I need to know that I did not hurt you, or God forbid, give you a disgust for me.”

A flush crept beneath her skin. “You know you did not.”

“How am I to know?” he demanded in low tones. “One moment you were sweet and willing in my arms, and the next you were avoiding my gaze and appearing as if you wished to be anywhere but here with me.”

“Yes, well, you appeared rather distracted yourself,” she accused.

He smiled wryly, unable to deny her allegation. “No, not distracted. Panicked.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hellion battled his instinctive desire to hide his emotions behind a flippant response.

“Unlike you I cannot claim such innocence,” he admitted. “In truth, I would have claimed to know nearly all there is to know of the act of love. But as usual you managed to destroy my arrogant pretensions.”

Her lips gave a grudging twitch of amusement. “A worthy goal even if I do not comprehend what you speak of.”

He turned his head to lightly nip her finger. “I am supposed to be a well-versed rake, not an overeager school lad. I wished to ensure that you found pleasure, but the moment I touched you I was lost. That has never happened to me before.”

As was only to be expected of his imminently practical Jane, she did not flutter or preen at his confession. Instead she regarded him with open suspicion.

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because I am hardly the sort of female to inspire passion in a gentleman.”

Hellion gave a slow shake of his head, his gaze sweeping over her slender curves barely concealed beneath the thin linen shift.

It would no doubt be far preferable to prove his claim with deeds rather than words, but he sensed that at the moment it was best to keep his wits unclouded with passion. Goodness knew he had managed to make enough of a muddle as it was.

“You are wrong, you know,” he said firmly.

Her lips thinned. “Hellion, I know perfectly well . . .”

“Will you please just listen for once?” he interrupted.

The lips thinned even further. “Well?”

“I am beginning to discover that there is a vast difference between lust and passion.” He held her gaze with the sheer force of his will. “A pretty countenance or well-endowed form might turn a gentleman’s thoughts to a pleasurable interlude, but it is a transitory lust that is easily forgotten.”

“And passion?”

He paused for a moment to consider his words. “It has nothing to do with the color of hair or the curve of an ankle. It is a deeper sense of need that makes a gentleman desire to be with a particular woman and no other will do.”

He sensed more than felt her tense at his words. “And yet, it is just as transitory.”

Less than an hour ago Hellion would have secretly agreed with her conclusion. Desire was desire. And like any craving it could be satisfied and then forgotten.

Now he suspected that he had somehow miscalculated badly.

He could not even conceive of his life without this woman at his side. The mere thought was enough to make his chest tighten and his heart feel oddly heavy.

“Who is to say?” he demanded.

“My father, for one.”

Hellion gave a choked cough. “Your father spoke to you of passion?”

Her chin tilted to a defensive angle. “My father spoke to me of many things.”

“Obviously.” Hellion briefly considered the man who had treated his daughter like more of a son. He wondered if Mr. Middleton realized just how rare and unique his efforts had made Jane. “And what did he tell you?”

Without warning she tugged her hands from his grasp, folding them in her lap like a prim governess. Hellion gritted his teeth as he battled not to reclaim his possessive hold.

“He warned me that passion is much like any other force of nature, such as a thunderstorm or flood. It will sweep into a life without warning and cause great excitement, but when it inevitably moves on it leaves behind only destruction. He said that companionship and genuine respect for one another is the foundation of a steady relationship.”

Hellion inwardly cursed. Had Mr. Middleton desired to condemn his poor daughter to a cold, passionless marriage?

Surely she deserved better?

“Rather melodramatic,” he cautiously murmured. If nothing else he had learned that Jane would never concede her beloved father had been mistaken. Not upon any matter. “Although it is hardly surprising. Most fathers do not wish to think of their daughters in regards to passion.”

Jane offered a firm shake of her head. “No, it was not that. He sincerely believed that friendship and caring for one another’s happiness was far more important than . . .”

Her words abruptly trailed away and Hellion gave a lift of his brows.

“Yes?”

She cleared her throat. “Physical pleasure.”

His lips twitched at her obvious difficulty in even mentioning their passionate lovemaking.

“And two people cannot possibly enjoy both physical pleasure and friendship?” he demanded.

There was a long silence before she at last sucked in a deep breath.

“I am not yet certain.”

A stab of fear clenched at Hellion’s heart. Bloody hell. He had been so certain that if he managed to seduce her that all his troubles would be solved. He had taken her innocence; she should be desperate to ensure that they wed with all possible haste. That was the way with most women.

Now he sensed that it might not be quite so simple.

Whatever her feelings for him, Jane was clearly wary of placing her faith in him. A knowledge that he discovered sharply painful.

“I will make you certain,” he said fiercely. “You belong with me.”

“Hellion . . .” With an abrupt motion she was on her feet and scrambling for her gown. “We must return to London.”

His hand reached out to halt her fumbled movements, only to fall when he noted the grim set of her features.

It was obvious that his well-practiced proposal would not be received with the delight he had imagined. In fact, he was not at all certain he desired to hear what she might have to say to a demand that they wed. As much as he cared for this delightful shrew, he knew that her tongue could flay at a hundred paces.