When Tempting a Rogue (12 page)

“You are right, sir. But then, you usually are. I should expect no less.”

“I was wrong to let you leave me.”

Her heart came to a sharp halt before quickly coming to life once more. “You couldn’t have stopped me.”

“No?” He eyed her intently. It seemed he could strip the layers of fear and artifice from her with frightening ease. “I think I might have, had I not been too wounded to try.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yes. You did.” This was said without malice. “How else could you make certain you were rid of me?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

“It’s all right,” he informed her. “I understand it so much better now.”

“You do?”

He twirled her again. “I do. I’ve enjoyed working with you, Vienne. Perhaps we can do it again sometime.”

Why did she feel as though he was talking about more than the emporium? “We’re not done yet, sir.”

He smiled—lips in a slow, seductive curve that unfurled a sweet ache deep inside her. “No, we are not. Not at all.”

T
he only thing Trystan despised more than having to dance with every debutante his mother tossed at him was watching Vienne dance with other men.

After his waltz with Vienne, Trystan wanted her for his partner the rest of the evening—an impossibility in many ways. It would bring scandalous whispers down upon both of them, make him look rude to other ladies, and make her appear loose. Still, he wished for it.

Every time he saw her with another man, or his partner trod on his toes, Trystan’s ill temper increased. When supper was announced it was a welcome reprieve—except that he saw Vienne being led into the supper room by a widowed viscount who was said to be trolling for a new mistress. Trystan himself was stuck escorting a lovely young woman whose name he could not remember. She was a sweet girl, but had so little experience with the world that conversation was torture.

After supper he danced with two more similar girls before finally breaking and informing his mother he was done. She was to introduce no one else to him.

She merely smiled. “There is no one else, darling. Now, who are you going to ask for a second dance?”

He might have snarled at her then, before turning his back on her and walking away. He made it to one of the small retiring rooms—a comfortable space where partygoers might take a break from the festivities—and fell into one of the overstuffed leather armchairs.

“You look completely done in,” came a familiar, French-kissed voice.

Trystan smiled, but he did not open his eyes. “Madame La Rieux, are you following me?”

“But of course,” came the sarcasm-laden reply. “I used my powers of mind reading to determine where you would go, and conspired to be here before you.”

He opened his eyes and saw her sitting in a chair similar to his near the window. He hadn’t heard her walk by, so it made sense that she had already been sitting there, in the shadows, when he came in.

“Which means I essentially am following you.”

She smiled, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “I would have it no other way,
n’est-ce pas
?”

He had to grin. “No, I don’t imagine you would. Tell me, why are you in here? You seem to have been very popular this evening.”

“Ugh,” she replied in a most unladylike and endearing fashion. “Do you know I have been propositioned three times this evening?
Three!
Two were by married men. Degenerates.”

“Who were they?” he asked with false breeziness. He would like to have a private word with each of them.

“Bah, they are of no importance. I told them I was not looking for a new association, and one of them accused me—”

She didn’t continue, and he turned toward her, lifting his head from the back of the chair, saying,
“Of what?”

She looked away. He couldn’t see if she was flushed or not. “Of being involved with you. Romantically.”

Romantically
had not been the word used by said gentlemen, Trystan would bet on it. “Let them think what they want, if it means they will leave you alone.”

She smiled faintly. “Too bad we cannot do the same with your debutantes, no? We could hide behind each other for a little while.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide, Vienne. Stars are so much more brilliant when they are allowed to shine. Just like gemstones.”

He thought he heard her breath catch, but the orchestra started up a lively tune at the same moment in the ballroom and he couldn’t be certain.

Silence fell. There was nothing but muted music and chatter and the sound of their breathing.

“Since we’re here, shall we play a game of something?” he asked. “I’m not ready to return to the party just yet. There should be a pack of cards in the drawer in front of you.” He rose from his chair and approached her, bringing the lamp with him rather than bothering to ignite any of the wall sconces.

It was strangely intimate, sitting with her at this little table amid so little lamplight. It was as though they were in their own little corner of the world, far away from civilization.

“I meant to tell you how lovely you look this evening,” he commented lightly as he shuffled the cards.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m certain you already know how very dashing you are.”

Trystan chuckled. “Of course, but I thank you all the same. Piquet?”

It was a game for two players with the winner being the first to get to a hundred points. When Vienne nodded in agreement, he set out removing the unnecessary cards from the deck until they were left with the required thirty-two.

“Should we make a wager?” he inquired.

“What sort?” she asked warily. “The last person to gamble with you ended up getting me a new partner.”

He grinned. “Aren’t you glad for it?” Her reply was a lopsided smile that made his chest feel tight. “Nothing too dear,” Trystan replied. “If I win, you will let me name our venture.”

She considered it. “All right. And if I win . . . I want a kiss.”

Trystan started, dropping the cards and scrambling to collect them. “Vienne . . .”

“I’m not attempting to seduce you, Trystan. I made a fool of myself by kissing you. The only way I will feel as though we are on an equal footing is if you kiss me.”

He wasn’t quite certain what she was playing at. Part of him suspected this might be another ploy to give her dominance over him, but to be honest he didn’t really care. He was an excellent card player and intended to win, but losing would not be so awful if kissing Vienne was his punishment.

In fact, staring at her in this light, seeing that determined yet uncertain expression on her pale face, in her bright eyes, he very much wanted to kiss.

“Agreed.” He dealt the cards.

They played mostly in silence, breaking it occasionally to taunt one another. He had forgotten what an aggressive player she was—and skilled. But he was skilled as well; and kiss or no, he didn’t relish losing.

“Consider this your Waterloo, La Rieux,” he taunted as his tally approached a hundred points.

“Are you comparing me to Napoleon?”

“Of course not. You’re not quite as pretty as he was.” Thankfully she laughed at that. But Trystan’s bravado was short-lived.

“I am afraid you will not be Wellington tonight, my dear sir,” she crowed when she beat him to the hundred-point mark. “How does defeat taste anyway? I’m told it’s bitter.”

Trystan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Such indelicate talk for a lady.” He gathered up the cards. “Perhaps I let you win.”

She snorted. “I could have offered you fellatio and you would not have
let
me win.”

Warmth filled his cheeks and he laughed a little harder. “No. I just might have considered it for that.” When he looked up, she was watching him with a warm smile. “What?”

“You don’t find me shocking at all, do you?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I like that you say whatever is on your mind. I think you try to shock people to keep them from getting too close.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply terribly shy and try to overcompensate with outrageous behavior.”

“Mm. Yes, you are terribly shy. Regardless, I have lost and I am prepared to pay my debt. When shall you collect?”

“I think now,” she shocked him by replying.

“Now?” He glanced toward the door. “We might be seen.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “So the gossips will think we’re lovers—they already do.”

Suddenly anxious, Trystan rose to his feet. “All right. Stand up.”

She arched a brow. “No wonder you turn all the ladies’ heads.”

He grimaced. “My apologies.” He offered her his hand, still eager but able to be a bit more polite about it. He wanted this over with.

Vienne placed her hand in his and rose to her feet. She was so tall. He wouldn’t have to bend his neck much at all to kiss her, wouldn’t get a crick from simply looking at her.

He lowered his head. She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Is this how you kiss ladies now, Trystan? I remember you being a bit more . . . affectionate.”

He gritted his teeth. Wanted affection did she? She had to be playing games with his mind, trying to throw him off kilter. Why? Just because she had to be the one in control? Disappointment dissolved bitterly on his tongue. He had hoped they were beyond this, that she might actually be seeing him as her equal.

That disillusionment pushed him to action. If she wanted affection, or a bit of seduction, that’s what he would give her.

He slid one hand behind her back, just above the small bustle of her gown, and pulled her toward him. His other hand—he’d removed his gloves before their card game—came up to cup the silken jut of her jaw. He caressed her flushed cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Her full lips parted on a sharp intake of breath that brought a smile to his face. At least she wasn’t immune to him. At least he was man enough to excite her.

“You are very beautiful, Vienne,” he murmured. “I find I don’t mind losing to you—once.”

She smiled at that, blue-green eyes brightening. “That sounds like a challenge, Lord Trystan.”

“I suppose it is.” He lowered his head. “I’m going to kiss you now, so I expect you to claim your prize with decorum.”

Trystan’s mouth touched hers, softly at first, but the moment her lips parted some of his control slipped . . . and she tasted of champagne and seduction. Her tongue met his inside. There was nothing hurried about the act. She simply tasted him as leisurely as he tasted her.

His fingers traced the line of her neck down to her shoulder. She was so warm and soft, just as he remembered. She had the most incredible skin—like silk beneath his hand. She shivered gently against him. He would have smiled, but then he would have to stop kissing her.

One of her arms came up around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair. Her other arm went around his waist, her slender hand stroking slowly over his back. Trystan silently groaned and pulled her closer. Damn all the layers of skirts women wore. He wanted to press the hardness of his erection against her, but there was so much fabric between them.

He moved her back in a kind of dance, still kissing her. They were in the shadows, partially illuminated by the lamp on the table, and he had her against the wall. The hand that had been at her back was now at her hip, sliding upward to cup the swell of her breast as it threatened to spill from the neckline of her gown. Corsets might be damnable contraptions at times, but they did offer up breasts in the most tantalizing way. She fit perfectly in his hand—and when he brushed his thumb over the little nipple pressing against the silk of her gown, she moaned.

This kiss was quickly spiraling into something else. He knew he should stop, that he was probably doing exactly as she wanted, but he wanted it as well. She pushed herself against his hand, and he obliged her by toying with her nipple some more. He could push the neckline aside and touch her naked flesh, but teasing her—both of them—was so good.

Her teeth caught his lower lip in a playful bite that struck him like a fist to the chest. He was hard, practically aching to have her; and when her hand slid from his back around to his front and down between them, he couldn’t stop his hips from arching. Her fingers cupped the length of him through his trousers, squeezed and rubbed. He groaned into her mouth.
Christ.
She was going to drive him over the edge.

He tugged on her gown, pulling the fabric aside. His fingers slid inside, dipping into the top of her corset to lift her right breast out. He tore his lips from hers, kissing a hot damp trail along her jaw and down her neck. When he closed his mouth over her nipple, he was rewarded with the sweetest moan he’d ever heard. She was pebble hard against his tongue, warm and tight. The fingers in his hair tightened, holding his head so he couldn’t stop. As if he would.

Trystan ran his hands down her sides, over the curve of her hips. His fingers clutched the thick layers of skirts and began pulling them up, bunching them and pushing them aside until he could slide one hand beneath.