The Art of Sinning (19 page)

“And been miserable for it.”

“No doubt.” She scowled. “But as you say, he must have known that an investigation would turn up something to scotch any wedding, because my pleas only made him protest his great love for me and hold fast to his plans. So when I couldn't convince him to relent, I went to Samuel with my plight. The lieutenant was his friend, after all.”

“Ah, yes.” Once again, Jeremy wondered about Samuel's motives for bringing home such a snake in the grass. But perhaps Samuel
hadn't
known what his friend was capable of.

Right. And pebbles turned into pearls when the moon was high, too. “So Samuel saved you. How, exactly?”

“At first he said he didn't think it could be done. He had no idea where his friend might keep the garter, or if the footman could be silenced.” She shook her head. “It was a hopeless case.”

“Yet he somehow managed it,” Jeremy said dryly.

She flashed him a bright smile. “He did. Shortly before the time I was to meet with the lieutenant or else be humiliated before my brother, Samuel turned up in my bedchamber with the garter in hand and a promise he'd extracted from the footman not to say anything to anyone.”

“Did your brother say how he accomplished this miracle?” The story grew more suspicious by the moment. Jeremy was almost certain something else had occurred to put an end to Ruston's scheme.

“He told me he had prevailed upon Ruston to behave like a gentleman, and that the man had come to his senses and given back the garter before Samuel sent him packing.”

“And you believed that?”

Her face clouded over. “Well, no. Especially not after I heard through gossip a short while later that the lieutenant had eloped with some other heiress. Clearly he was a rogue through and through. And to my knowledge, fortune-hunting rogues don't have consciences.”

“Not generally, no.”

“But I never heard a word about it, so Samuel must have done something. I suspect he threatened to call the man out.”

Jeremy suspected something else. “How do you know Blakeborough had no hand in it?”

“Edwin? He would have said something to me, I'm sure. At the very least, he would have plagued me about it for all eternity.”

“Perhaps.” It was odd, though. Something rang false in her recitation of events, and given that Sam
uel's heroic act was the basis for her risking her reputation looking for the man's by-blow, it would be good to know the truth.

But he could think of no way to find it out without damaging her reputation.

There was something else he wanted to know, too. “Tell me, Yvette, if Samuel hadn't successfully interceded on your behalf, what decision would you have made? Would you have eloped? Or taken your chances with your father?”

“I certainly wouldn't have eloped. At least if I called the lieutenant's bluff and he went to Edwin first, there was
some
hope that Edwin might find a way out of it, be able to meet the man's price or something before Papa heard of it. By that point, I would have taken any chance to prevent having to join myself forever to a man who I began to fear only wanted me for my money.”

“You can't be sure that was the only reason Ruston wanted you.”

She eyed him askance. “I haven't had any better offers of marriage in my nearly seven years on the marriage mart. There's been lots of flirting, but very little courting by respectable gentlemen who weren't after my fortune. It doesn't exactly speak well for my ability to attract suitors. Why, even you would rather run off than risk being trapped in a marriage with me.”

His throat tightened. “It's not like that.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down. “Then why are you packing a trunk and fleeing in the dead of night?”

“I'm trying to protect you.”

“From what? A life of ruin?”

“Or marriage to a selfish fellow who can't be what you need.”

She stared mulishly at him. “It couldn't be worse than a life of lonely spinsterhood.”

“You'd be surprised.” He stayed rooted in place, afraid that if he walked any closer, he would abandon all caution and seize her as his. “You
will
find someone one day, and you'll be glad that I left.”

“No. I shall never be glad of that.”

The husky denial pierced his chest. “Ah, but you will. Just as you eventually came to be relieved that you didn't find yourself trapped in a marriage with Ruston.”

Anger flushed her cheeks as she closed the distance between them, coming near enough that he could smell her sweet scent and see the trembling of her throat.

She thrust her face up to his. “Don't compare yourself to him. You aren't remotely alike.”

“No? I took advantage of you, as he did.”

“Hardly. I made my choice at every juncture. You gave me full warning of your intentions, and I accepted your advances. And whenever I protested, you let me go. You didn't try to wheedle further or come back later to blackmail me with my own wantonness.” She grabbed his arms. “So don't tell me you and he are the same. You are
nothing
like him. He wanted only my money, whereas you—”

“Want only your body.” If it took being cruel to make her stop this madness while he could still think, then he would be cruel.

But his words didn't have the intended effect.
“Really?” Her eyes gleamed at him in the lamplight. “Then why are you running away to avoid sharing a bed with me?”

With
sharing a bed
ringing in his ears, he scowled at her. “Damn it, you have no idea what you're about.”

“I know that you desire me for my body
and
more, which isn't something I've had with any other man.” Her breathing quickened. “Do you realize how rare it is for a woman to find someone who understands her, who accepts her as she is?” With a heartbreaking catch in her voice, she murmured, “Don't leave. I can't bear it.”

Neither could he. “It doesn't matter.” He pulled free of her grip. “Without me, you have a future.”

“As what? Edwin's hostess? Clarissa's friend?”

“You're young still.”

“As are you!” She fisted her hands at her sides. “Do you really expect me to believe that you're perfectly happy being alone, flitting from place to place, never settling, never knowing the joy of steady companionship?”

That she had delved beneath everything to find the hard knot of loneliness inside him struck terror in his soul. “Not happy, no, but content. It's better than making another wife miserable.”

Frustration lit her features. “Then don't marry me. Give me what we both want. You want me in your bed, and I want one blessed night with a man who likes what he sees when he looks at me, who doesn't think me shrewish or ungainly or too bold.”

Thunderation. “You're being too bold now,” he pointed out, though it fired his blood as nothing else could.

She moved so close that her mouth was a breath from his. “That's what happens when a woman craves fire and life and the thrill of the night for too long. She gets tired of waiting for it to come to her, and she goes out to grab it for herself. I've followed the rules my whole life, and what has it gained me? For once, I want to know what I'm missing. And you're the only man I want to show me.”

The words stiffened his prick to pain. “If I show you any more than I have, I'll ruin you.”

“I know. And I don't care.”

He caught her head in his hands, needing to touch her, if only to shake some sense into her. “You'll care a great deal if you find yourself big with my child.”

Though that seemed to give her pause, she didn't pull away. “It's a risk I'm willing to take.”

“But not one
I'm
willing to take. I won't leave you with a babe on the way. Which means I'll have to marry you, and I—”

“Don't want to marry, yes, I know.” She raised an eyebrow. “So much for your claim to selfishness. A selfish man wouldn't care if he ruined me. A selfish man wouldn't care if I were left enceinte.”

“You don't know a damned thing about what a selfish man wants.”

It was time to demonstrate exactly how unwise this was. He hauled her against his fully aroused body. “You want to see what a selfish man does when confronted with a woman he desires? Fine. I'll show you.” Then he took her mouth with all the savage hunger roiling up inside him.

He wasn't gentle or tender or kind. He manacled
her to him with one arm while gripping her chin with the other, so he could plunder and devour to his heart's content. He gave her no time to breathe, allowed her no space to retreat.

But she didn't seem to want to retreat. She rose to his rough kiss like an eagle to the sky. It was heaven.

It was hell.

He told himself that once she saw the fierceness of his need, she would balk. Then when she withdrew, he'd finally be able to let her go, before he took what he wanted.

The trouble was, he wanted so very much. He wanted her mouth opening and her clothes opening and her lush body opening to let his raging prick inside . . .

With a growl, he tore off her wrapper and tossed it aside, then filled his hands with her breasts. As long as she kept her night rail on, he might be safe. And he could touch and caress and still enjoy some part of her.

But then she uttered a soft mew of satisfaction that sent his blood into wild riot, and she began working to loosen
his
clothes, too. God help him. He would destroy every painting he'd ever created just to have her hands on his naked body.

Before he could even make a conscious choice, he was shedding his coat and waistcoat and helping her untie his cravat.

Angry with himself for his easy acquiescence, he stopped her when she reached for the buttons of his shirt. “You first,” he ordered. “Take off your night rail.”

If there was one thing his Juno didn't like, it was being ordered about.

So the minute she began to unbutton her frilly linen gown, he groaned. She wasn't retreating or balking, damn it.

At least he would get to see those lovely full breasts hanging free, so one day he could paint them from memory and have them forever, just for him. Besides, surely she still had on her drawers and he would still be safe.

Although
she
wouldn't, if anyone stumbled in on them.

Keeping his eyes on her shaky fingers and the flesh exposed with each undone button, he strode to the main door into the hall and latched it, then leaned back against it to watch her. And to steady himself. Because just the sight of her unfastening her clothing was getting him hard as a pike.

By the time she finished, her cheeks were the pink of peonies. But being the stubborn minx she was, she soldiered on, pulling the night rail off over her head and dropping it on the floor.

She wore no drawers beneath it. She wore nothing at all.

His pulse jumped into a stampede.

Almighty God in heaven, never had he seen a woman with such curves. It wasn't just her ample breasts with their velvety, carmine-tinged nipples, though he did enjoy those. It was also the lush hips that he couldn't wait to grab hold of and the creamy thighs that would put Titian's Venuses to shame. It was the thick thatch of umber curls that hid the delicate flesh he'd tasted only nights ago.

When he saw the beauty of her nude form, more enticing than that of any model he'd ever painted, he grew even more desperate to show her how dangerous this was, how dangerous
he
was. He had to bring her to her senses before he lost control entirely. He must drag her down into the depths with him, as he'd nearly done at the brothel, and show her just how coarse he could be. That ought to send her running for the door before she lost her virtue.

And if it didn't?

Then God help them both.

Nineteen

If there'd been any doubt in Yvette's mind that Jeremy wanted her in his bed, it was laid to rest. His eyes smoldered with an unholy heat that made her yearn and burn and want things she'd never dreamed she could have.

She'd expected to feel shy in front of him, even embarrassed. But what woman in her right mind could feel ashamed when the man whose touch she craved was looking at her like
that
?

And sporting such a large bulge in his trousers. She'd heard it was considered good for a man to be . . . prominent there. Though she didn't understand why, she was certainly willing to find out.

“I had it wrong,” he said in a low growl, his gaze eating her alive. “You're not Juno—you're Circe, the witch who turns men into beasts.”

Circe, the seductress. Yvette rather liked that.

Trying out her seduction skills, she cast him what she hoped was an alluring smile. “Are you turning into a beast?”

“See for yourself.” Pushing away from the door, he unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it off. As he went to work on his trouser buttons, she let her eyes feast on the glory of his bare chest.

As with every other aspect of his appearance, it would put a Greek god's to shame. It was chiseled and broad, with a dusting of dark blond hair that tempted her gaze lower to where his lean stomach looked firm enough to sustain a pile of bricks, and his hips . . .

Well. No woman in her right mind would complain about that man's hips.

Then he slid off his trousers and drawers in one fluid motion, and her every sense went on high alert.

Oh my word.

The rod of flesh rising from a bed of bronze curls was monstrous. No wonder the slang dictionaries jocularly called it a “yard”; it was massive. She couldn't
imagine
taking it inside her, no matter how long it actually measured.

Fighting for calm, she said, “I assume that sculptors are terrible students of anatomy.”

“What?” he asked, clearly startled.

“On statues, the men's privates are . . . well . . . small and demure.”

“Demure.” He uttered a choked laugh. “That's because the men aren't aroused, sweetheart. An aroused man looks very different from a man with his prick at rest.”

Prick
. Such a vulgar word. Even Grose's entry for it spelled it with dashes.

“Your . . . er . . .”

“Prick,” he supplied in a coarse voice. “Surely that
shows up in your cant dictionaries. You can't even say the word, can you?”

He was daring her, and she never backed away from a dare. “Of course I can say it.” She tore her gaze from its impressive size to look him in the eye. “Your
prick
is clearly not at rest.”

Somehow, just speaking the naughty word aloud excited her, made her want to be wicked and wanton and all the things a lady should never be.

As if he could tell, his face grew shadowed, and he said, with a hitch in his voice, “Come here, Circe. I'm eager to feel your hands on my prick.”

She moved closer. “I can see how eager you are.”

Both of his eyebrows shot high. “Clearly you spent entirely too much time at the brothel the other night.”

“I didn't spend enough, or I'd know where exactly to put my hands.”

Fire leapt in his features. “Anywhere you damned well please. Because I intend to do the same.”

But when he reached for her, she stepped back. “Not yet. You've had several chances to caress me already, and I've had none, so I need a few moments to explore before—”

“I start mauling you?” he finished, his guttural tone thrumming her senses.

“You start turning me into mush. You owe me that.”

Some unreadable emotion gleamed in the gaze that bore into hers. “I suppose I do.” He let his arms fall to his sides. “Go ahead then, if you feel you have to . . . have to . . .”

He stuttered to a halt as she put her hands on his
chest, eager to touch, stroke . . . enjoy. He was so firm, so supple. So deliciously hers. She thumbed the flat nipples, echoes of her own, and was delighted by his sharp, indrawn breath. It encouraged her to investigate further, to sweep her fingers over his flexing muscles, to slide her hands over his abdomen.

“Yes,” he hissed, “lower. Touch my prick, damn it.”

The harsh command made something carnal un­­curl in her belly. Any other man telling her what to do would have sparked her ire, but this was Jeremy. Everything he said or did seemed to arouse her.

She closed her hand about his jutting flesh.

“Oh, God,” he breathed, then barked, “Grip it tight. Stroke it up and down.” When she did as he bade, he growled, “Like that, yes.” Then he caught her about the waist. “I've waited long enough for my turn.”

That was all the warning she got before he slid a hand between her thighs. She let out a squeak of surprise, then a moan as his fingers delved through her damp curls to find the tight kernel of flesh that was so eager for his caress. And when he began to rub it, deftly, roughly, she shuddered with the thrill of it.

Oh my
Lord.
He did that quite well. It was so sensual, so . . . oh, heavenly day!

“God, you feel like silk,” he said, as if the words were torn from him. “I can never show in a painting how something feels. I'd give anything to capture the slick velvet of your skin. Nothing is as soft as you are here.”

Breathing heavily now, she gave his prick a long, sensuous pull. “And nothing is as hard as you are here.”

Heat flared in his face. “Not for long, if you keep doing that.”

Before she could wonder what he meant he was pulling her toward the bed, where he tumbled her down upon it with little ceremony. As she rolled onto her back, he stretched out beside her and threw one leg over hers as if to trap her.

He braced himself up on one elbow, his eyes raking her body shamelessly. “You would drive a man into Bedlam.” He cupped a breast, then pinched the nipple erect. “These lovelies of yours make me insane.”

The compliment made her arch them up toward him, which had him sliding down to take them in his mouth in turn. As he sucked and teased, she drank up every sensation his lashing tongue sent through her body. Who was being driven to Bedlam now?

He smoothed his hand down her abdomen, past her navel, and then settled it between her thighs. Craving a firmer touch, she squirmed against it. But when he thrust a finger deep inside her it startled her, and instinctively she jerked her legs together.

He withdrew his finger at once and lifted his head from her breasts. “Having second thoughts, are you?”

Triumph sounded in his voice. But why? Then it dawned on her. The devil was deliberately trying to demonstrate how “selfish” he was.

She wouldn't let him get away with that. “No second thoughts.” Forcing herself to relax, she let her legs fall open. “Just taken by surprise.”

He stared at her. “You really are a wanton, aren't you?”

If he'd intended to wound her with the words, he shouldn't have said them in such a husky voice. Determined to make her point, she seized his rampant prick. “And you really are a scoundrel
.
What of it?”

With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, though he didn't pull his prick from her hand. “Damn it, Yvette, you know this is wrong.”

She took that for an admission of what he'd been trying to do. “It doesn't feel wrong to me.” She drew his hand back to the spot between her legs that ached for him. “It feels marvelous, actually.”

His eyes shot open, hot and hungry. “I give up.” This time when he slid his finger inside her, it was slow and smooth and utterly delicious. “You win.”

“Oh?” She shimmied beneath the clever stroking of his finger. “What do I . . . win?”

“Probably a lifetime of misery.” He nipped her earlobe. “But I don't care anymore. I need to be inside you . . . I need . . . I need . . .”

“I know.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “So do I.”

He uttered a choked laugh. And that's when the seduction truly began. His hands were all over her; her mouth was all over him. She wanted to taste him, smell him, absorb him into her skin. She'd never imagined it could be like this with a man, so profound, so exhilarating.

She no longer even cared if he married her. She just wanted to experience him in all his glory. Just once.

Then, with a shock, she realized that his . . . prick . . . was pressing inside her. Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he drew back with a
hooded expression. “I can stop if you want. Even now.”

She stared into his eyes and saw beneath the carefully manufactured exterior to the suffering man. The one who didn't believe he had anything to offer. She knew better.

Brushing her lips over his, she whispered, “Don't stop. Never stop.”

And with a groan of pure relief, he buried himself inside her.

She tensed. There was a burning sensation and a feeling of fullness that wasn't exactly pleasant. He hesitated, breathing hard, his eyes dark and fathomless in the dim light of the dying fire as he waited. For what, she wasn't sure.

Until he murmured, “Relax. It will be all right if you relax.”

That remained to be seen. “Have you ever deflowered a virgin?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Wonderful,” she grumbled. “My innocence is being taken by a novice.”

With a fractured laugh, he nuzzled her forehead. “A bit better than a novice, I should hope. And regardless of your state of innocence, relaxing always improves matters.”

No harm in trying. She forced herself to loosen her muscles and allow him to seat himself more fully inside her.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little.” A very little. The pressure was uncomfortable and the position awkward. But at least it hadn't hurt as much as she'd been told to expect.

“I'll make it better. I swear it, my Juno.”

“I thought I was Circe now.”

One corner of his mouth curved up. “You're both.” His gaze bored into her. “And both are mine.”

She might have protested the sheer possessiveness of that statement if he hadn't begun to move, in and out, with stealthy strokes that made her squirm beneath him, wanting to find some more comfortable position.

This was so very . . . personal. His skin rubbed hers everywhere. His harsh breaths surrounded her. His mouth played with her ear. “My sweet . . . tight . . . Circe . . .” he whispered as he slid into her like a bold Odysseus. “You are . . . you are my . . .”

“Ladybird?” she prodded, to take her mind off the intrusion of his flesh into a place it should never have gone.

“My muse.” Sweat beaded up on his forehead. “My muse and thus my soul.”

The words, so close to a declaration of love, melted her, making her cling to him and press a kiss into his shoulder. Then he tugged her knees up about those masterful hips of his, and the shift in position made him thrum the part of her that had only somewhat been engaged up till now, and she forgot what he'd said.

She forgot her name, her place, her rank. All she knew was the thundering glory of Jeremy driving in and out of her in the most intimate act she could have imagined. The burning became a lovely warmth, and the pressure became wonderful, and her heart began to pound in time to his thrusts.

His body took command of hers like a general
stealing a march on Napoleon, and she was truly conquered. He made her feel like a woman.
His
woman.

“Ah, sweetheart,” he choked out, “my fantasies of you . . . fell short of the . . . mark. You feel like . . . This feels like . . .”

“A dream,” she whispered.

“Yes. A dream.”

One where he was hers forever. Where they could do this forever. Where he could love her forever.

Love her? She feared that would never be. If he'd balked at marrying her unless he was forced into it, then . . .

No, she wouldn't dwell on that. For the moment, she would live in this dream of having him over her, around her,
with
her. Besides, he'd called her his “soul.” That meant something, didn't it?

Now the pleasure humming down low had started to keen, then wail inside her, echoing through the hall of her body, which had felt silent and lonely for so . . . very . . . long. A decadent music now filled her, spurred her, made her reach for something just . . . beyond . . .

Yes!
There!

An ecstatic cry tore from her, provoking him into a lunge so deep, she fancied she could feel it in
her
soul. And as he gave a throttled groan and spilled himself inside her, she held him fiercely close and prayed to never wake up.

Because once the dream ended, she feared what might happen to her heart.