The Rogue (24 page)

"Touch
your nipples, my love. Take them between your thumb and forefinger,
yes, just like that. Can you feel how rigid they've become? That
means that you like this. Do you like this, Janet? Do you want more?"

She
could only breathe an aching sound.

"I'll
take that as a yes, Janet. I'll take that as a sign that you want to
roll your nipples between your fingers gently for me. Are they
hardening still more? Can you feel the way the sensation goes
directly through you, to that warm, soft place between your thighs?"

She
could feel that very thing, and she was grateful to him for putting
words to the sensation for she'd forgotten how to speak, how to
think, how to do anything but obey that wicked deep voice that seemed
directly connected to her will.

"Free
your breasts completely, Janet. Pull your pretty little cap sleeves
down to your elbows and set your breasts free. I want to see them
sway with the motion of the carriage."

She
did it gladly, for it was difficult enough to breathe without the
confines of her gown. The sleeves captured her upper arms tightly to
her torso, lending a further helpless element to her dream state. She
was bound, captive, she was not responsible…

"Hold
them high, darling. Cup them in your hands and hold them, feel how
heavy and warm they are. I love your breasts, Janet. Hold them for
me."

She
did so, offering them up for him. Would he never touch her? Would she
never feel his hot hands on her chilled skin—would he never
ease this throbbing ache within her? She squirmed on the seat, unable
to bear the mounting pressure of her own excitement.

"Do
you want more? Let me help you."

Yes,
oh, please yes…

She
waited to feel his hands on her. Instead she felt her skirts rustling
and then the cool evening air was on her thighs above her garters.
She drowsily opened her eyes to find the hem of her gown piled high
in her lap and Mr. Damont back on his side of the carriage, veiled in
darkness as before.

"Let
your breasts down now, my lovely one. Let them move with the motion
of the carriage while the cool air makes your skin crinkle up, just
for me."

Jane
let her hands fall to rest in her lap. Her elbows were still trapped
by her drawn sleeves and she could feel the velvet of the seat
against her bare back, brushing softly with every jolt of the
carriage.

"Let
your knees drop open just a little for me, Janet. Melt for me,
darling…"

Her
thighs opened and she was thankful, for it eased the throbbing just a
little.

"Run
your fingers along the tops of your stockings, pet. Show me how high
they ride above your knees…"

Jane
let her fingers trace the small scalloped edge of the stocking tops
from the top down around the outside of her thighs.

"Now
the other way, darling."

Her
fingers trailed obediently between her thighs. When her wrists made
glancing contact with her center she flinched at the jolt of pleasure
that went through her.

"Slide
your fingers higher, darling. I wish I could stroke your silken
thighs, but I cannot. I can only watch while your hands do what I
cannot. Where would you like my touch, sweeting? Would you like to
move higher?"

Jane
spread her hands flat over the insides of her thighs, wishing they
were his large hot hands instead. He had a delicate touch for such a
big man. If he were stroking her thighs, he would move slowly higher,
moving his fingertips in small circular motions, just like that.

"Higher,
darling… higher. Do you ache for me? Show me where—show
me where you want me to touch you…"

Gasping
with need, Jane pressed her crossed hands against the very center of
herself. A delightful surge of pleasure coursed through her at even
her own touch.

"Your
pantalets are lovely, Janet. I like the old-fashioned ones that hang
separately from the waist. I like the way they part just so…"

She
could hear how breathless he was, how strained his gently commanding
voice had become. He ached as much as she did. The thought fired her
arousal higher.

"Part
them for me, Janet," he whispered, his voice gone quite hoarse.
"Part the cotton with your fingers—"

The
carriage jolted to a stop in the traffic. The bump joggled Jane's
fingertips past the parting of the pantalets, dipping her touch
deeper—

She
gasped in surprise and almost withdrew her hands, almost awoke from
the spell… until Ethan's voice pulled her back.

"Shh.
Don't fret, darling. I want to touch you there. I want to feel your
flesh turn damp on my fingers." His tone was no more than a
hoarse whisper now, a dark, desperate voice putting words to her most
base fantasies. "I wish I could slip into you, past your velvet
mound, past your soft gates, to that secret place… do you know
that place, Janet? Can you find it for me?"

She
did know, for she'd found it before, in the dark, guilty privacy of
night. Yet this was different, better,
more
.
Ethan was with her, watching her, sending her body far beyond her own
previous fumblings with pleasure. The knowledge that he watched her,
aching for her until he could barely speak, owning her with his
erotic commands—this captive performance for him was something
she could never have conceived of alone.

"Touch
yourself there, darling. There, where it has begun to swell and
harden, just like your sweet strawberry nipples—stroke yourself
for me. Let me see you come apart for me…"

She
did it, everything he asked of her and more. She abandoned herself to
the pleasure of her own hand, barely aware of the way her head rolled
on the cushion back, scarcely conscious of the small, hungry cries
coming from her own panting lips.

"Faster,
Janet. Fly for me."

She
could feel herself nearing the edge, so close, so desperately,
achingly close—

"Now,
Janet!" His voice was a searing, feverish growl.

As
if she'd only been waiting for his command, she felt herself flung
from that precipice, flying quivering off into a starry sky, falling,
crying, sobbing… to drift slowly to rest, her heart pounding,
her mouth dry, her thighs still twitching as the last tiny shocks ran
through her body.

She
took a gasping breath, then another, as if only just now remembering
how to breathe… remembering her name, remembering herself…

Remembering
that she rode in a carriage traveling the streets of London with Mr.
Ethan Damont sitting across from her, watching her every move.

«
^
»

Ethan,
sitting in a state of torturous arousal across from her, could see
the moment that Jane came back to being Jane. She inhaled sharply,
released a panicked, humiliated whimper, and began to desperately
wrestle her gown back over her exposed body.

Ethan
watched shamelessly as her crushed skirts were pushed down over her
limbs. He did not even pretend to avert his eyes as she struggled to
pull her bodice up over her bare breasts. No, he deserved every
moment of such agony. He wasn't going to spare himself a moment of
it.

Besides,
he was quite sure he'd never see Jane again after tonight, much less
be privileged to gaze upon her full, pale breasts or soft,
milky-white thighs…

Had
a man ever died from unfulfilled arousal? He deserved to die, he
thought distantly as the pounding in his swollen groin refused to
abate. Jane hated him quite thoroughly now, he had no doubt. He'd
accomplished his mission. She would now be sure to keep her blue
blood far from his bad blood, no matter if he begged her for
forgiveness on his knees—not that he would ever have the heart
to try to reach out to her again.

The
carriage pulled to a stop. Blearily, Ethan realized they had reached
their destination. Had it truly been only a half hour since they'd
left Maywell House? Three quarters of an hour at the most, he
realized. He felt as though he'd lived a lifetime in this carriage
with Jane—the lifetime he'd never be able to have with her,
perhaps. Was that hell? An eternity of not having what you most
wanted in life?

Light
from the house warmed the interior of the carriage. Across from him,
Jane had repaired herself better than Ethan would have believed,
considering her riotous abandon only a few short minutes ago. Aside
from a few loose strands of hair and somewhat crumpled skirts, she
looked much the same as when she'd entered the carriage that long
lifetime ago.

Robert
had scarcely touched the door before Jane bounded from the carriage
and into the waiting doorway of Sir Arthur's house. After handing her
over to the butler waiting there, Robert came back to the still-open
carriage. "Will you be going in, sir?"

"No."
Ethan didn't elaborate. Jane would be inside for hours… hours
that he needed to himself at this moment.

Robert
only blinked, then went to the front of the horses to lead them back
around to where the others waited for the guests inside. Robert and
the driver would join the Boswells' servants for a bite and a pint of
beer, if the hostess was a kindly one.

Left
sitting in the dark, Ethan finally allowed himself a single,
dragging, pained inhalation. Jane had defeated him as well, if she
only knew it.

He'd
always known there was no chance for him to have what Collis had, or
what Etheridge had. He wasn't that sort of man—the sort that
women came back to, at least for more than momentary satisfaction.
None had ever loved him. Why would they?

He
was no more than his father had always said— weak, selfish,
immoral. He'd done his best to live down to that every day of his
life, until he found that it was nothing but the absolute truth.

Then
along came someone… someone like Lady Jane Pennington…
who made him dream of having more, of being more—

Which
was no good for either of them. Sooner or later, he would fail her.
He was quite sure that, sooner or later, she was going to want more
than he had to give. She would come up empty, as had anyone who had
ever depended on him.

So
he'd tried to protect her from that tonight. He'd meant to break her,
to shock her, to push past her limits and offend her so deeply that
she would run from him forever.

Yet
Ethan found himself a broken man as well. God, she'd been so
trusting, so lovely, so openly, wildly responsive…

Nothing
in his wicked and varied past could have possibly prepared him for
the privilege and transcendent honor of guiding Lady Jane Pennington
on her first voyage of sexual discovery. Nothing he ever experienced
in the future could possibly compare.

He
was a ruined man.

Ruined
for any woman but the single one who could never possibly feel for
him again.

"What
have I done?"

Lady
Boswell rushed out to greet Jane as she mounted the front steps and
entered the front hall. The musicale was already in progress, to
judge from the screeching soprano currently sharing her talents.

"I'm
sorry to be so late," Jane blurted. "The traffic—"

"Jane,
dear! Are you unwell?" Lady Boswell blinked at her worriedly.
"You look so feverish!"

Jane
turned to catch a glimpse of herself in the entry hall mirror. Good
heavens, no wonder her hostess was so alarmed. Jane scarcely
recognized the pale reflection with the bright feverish spots burning
in both cheeks. "The carriage jostled so." She pressed her
hands to her face. "I—"

I
don't want to be here, I don't want to be in London, I don't want to
be alone anymore. I want to go home. I want to see my mother and I
will never, ever see her again
.
The tears began to well up inside and Jane was afraid that if she
began to weep, she would never stop. She would turn London into
Venice with her tears.

That
thought brought a bark of wild laughter to her lips. Lady Boswell
looked at her as if she truly were mad. At this moment in time, Jane
could not swear that she was not.