A Rogue by Any Other Name #5

 

She woke in the dim light of the fire with an unbearably cold nose and an unbearably warm everything else.

Disoriented, she blinked several times, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings before the glowing embers in the fireplace and the rose-colored walls brought clarity.

She was lying on her back in the nest of blankets she had arranged before she’d fallen asleep, and she was covered with a large and warm one that smelled wonderful. She buried her frigid nose in the fabric and inhaled deeply, trying to place the smell—a blend of bergamot and tobacco flower.

She turned her head.

Michael.

Shock flared, then panic.

Michael was asleep next to her.

Well, not exactly next to her. Against her, more like.

But it felt like he was all around her.

He was turned on his side, head on one bent arm, his other arm draped across her, hand firmly clasping the far side of her person. She inhaled abruptly as she realized just how close his arm was to certain . . . parts of her . . . that were not to be touched.

Not that there were many parts of her that were open for reasonable touching, but that was not the point.

His arm was not the only problem. He was pressed to her quite thoroughly, his chest, his arm, his legs . . . and other parts as well. She couldn’t decide if she should be horrified or utterly thrilled.

Both?

It was best that she not explore the question too thoroughly.

She turned toward him, trying to avoid unnecessary movement or sound and unable to ignore the feel of his arm stroking across her midsection in a steady caress as she rotated beneath it. When she faced him, she let out a long, careful breath and considered her next course of action.

It was not, after all, every day that she awoke in the arms of—well, under the arm of—a gentleman.

Not much of a gentleman anymore, was he?

While awake, he was all angles and tension—the muscles of his jaw were strung tight as a bow, as though he were in a perpetual state of holding himself back. But now, in slumber, in the glow of the fire, he was . . .

Beautiful.

The angles were still there, sharp and perfect, as though a master sculptor had had a hand in creating him—the tilt of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, his long, straight nose, the perfect curve of his brows, and those eyelashes, just as they were when he was a boy, unbelievably long and lush, a black, sooty caress against his cheeks.

And his lips. Not pressed in a firm, grim line at the moment, instead lovely and full. They had once been so quick to smile, but . . . they had become dangerous and tempting in a way they’d never been when he was a boy. She traced the peak and valleys of his upper lip with her gaze, wondering how many women had kissed him. Wondering what his mouth would feel like—soft or firm, light or dark.

She exhaled, temptation making the breath long and heavy.

She wanted to touch him.

She stilled at the thought, the idea so foreign and still so true.

She shouldn’t want to touch him. He was a beast. Cold and rude and selfish and absolutely nothing like the boy she’d once known. Like the husband whom she’d imagined. Her thoughts flickered back to earlier in the evening, to imagining her plain, boring old husband.

No.

Michael was nothing like that man.

Perhaps that was why she wanted to touch him.

Her gaze lingered at his mouth. Maybe not there, on his tempting, terrifying lips . . . maybe she wanted to touch his hair, dark and curly the way it had always been, but devoid of its youthful unruliness. The curls behaved now, even as they brushed against his ears and fell against his brow, even as they recovered from a day of travel and snow and caps.

They knew better than to rebel.

Yes. She wanted to touch his hair.

The hair of the man she would marry.

Her hand was moving of its own volition, heading for those dark curls. “Michael,” she whispered, as her fingertips touched the silken strands, before she could think better of it.

His eyes snapped open, as though he had been waiting for her to speak, and he moved like lightning, capturing her wrist in one strong, steel hand.

She gasped at the movement. “I beg your pardon . . . I did not mean . . .” She tugged at her hand once, twice, and he let her go.

He returned his arm to where it had been quite inappropriately draped across her midsection, and the movement reminded her of every place where they touched—his leg pressed distractingly against her own, his gaze, a mosaic of color that hid his thoughts so very well.

She swallowed, hesitated, then said the only thing she could think to say. “You’re in my bed.”

He did not reply.

She pressed on. “It’s not . . .” She searched for the word.

“Done?” Sleep made his voice rough and soft, and she could not stop the shiver of excitement that coursed through her at the word.

She nodded once.

He slid his arm away from her, all too slowly, and she ignored the pang of regret that flared at the loss of the weight. “What are you doing here?”

“I was sleeping.

”“I mean, why are you in my bed?”

“It’s not your bed, Penelope. It’s mine.”

Silence fell, and a shiver of nervousness slipped down Penelope’s spine. What did she say to that? It did not seem at all appropriate to discuss his bed in detail. Nor hers, for that matter.

He rolled to his back, unfolding the long arm that had been under his cheek and stretching long and luxurious before he turned away from her.

She tried to sleep. Really, she did.

She took a deep breath, studying the way his shoulders curved, pulling the linen of his shirt taut. She was in a bed. With a man. A man who, though he would soon be her husband, did not yet hold the title. The situation should have been devastatingly scandalous. Wickedly exciting. And yet . . . no matter what her mother would think when she heard of it, the situation did not seem at all scandalous.

Which was a bit of a disappointment, really. It seemed that even when she was face-to-face with the prospect of adventure, she couldn’t get it right.

It did not matter how scandalous her future husband was . . . she was not the kind of woman who compelled him to scandal. That much had been made clear.

Even now, alone in an abandoned manor house, she wasn’t enough to capture a gentleman’s attention.

She exhaled audibly, and he turned his head toward her, giving her a view of one perfectly curled ear.

She’d never noticed anyone’s ears before.

“What is it?” he said, his voice a low gravel.

“ ‘It’?” she asked.

He rolled to his back again, jostling the blanket and baring one of her arms to the cold air in the room. When he replied, it was to the ceiling. “I know enough about women to know that sighs are never simply sighs. They indicate one of two things. That particular sigh represents feminine displeasure.”

“I am not surprised that you recognize the sound.” Penelope could not resist. “What does the other indicate?”

He pinned her with his beautiful hazel gaze. “Feminine pleasure.”

Heat flared on her cheeks. She supposed he would easily recognize that, too. “Oh.”

He returned his attention to the ceiling. “Would you care to tell me what it is, precisely, that has made you unhappy?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“No.” The blankets beneath her provided ample padding against the wooden floor.“Are you frightened?”

She considered the question. “No. Should I be?”

He slid her a look. “I don’t hurt women.”

“You draw the line at abducting and spanking them?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He turned his back to her once more, through with the conversation, and she watched the back of him for long moments before, whether from exhaustion or exasperation, she blurted, “It’s just that when a woman is kidnapped and forced into agreeing to marriage, she hopes for a bit more . . . excitement. Than this.”

He rolled slowly—maddeningly—to face her, the air between them thickened, and Penelope was instantly aware of their position, scant inches apart, on a warm pallet in a small room in an empty house, beneath the same blanket—which happened to be his greatcoat. And she realized that perhaps she should not have implied that the evening was unexciting.

Because she was not at all certain that she was prepared for it to become any more exciting. “I didn’t mean—” She rushed to correct herself.

“Oh, I think you did an excellent job of meaning.” The words were low and dark, and suddenly she was not so very sure that she wasn’t afraid after all. “I am not stimulating enough for you?”

“Not you . . .” she was quick to reply. “The whole . . .” She waved one hand, lifting the greatcoat as she thought better of finishing. “Never mind.”

His gaze was on her, intent and unmoving and, while he had not moved, it seemed as though he had grown larger, more looming. As though he had sucked a great deal of air from the room. “How can I make this night more satisfying for you, my lady?”

The soft question sent a thrum of feeling through her . . . the way the word—satisfying—rolled languid from his tongue set her heart racing and her stomach turning.

It seemed the night was becoming very exciting very quickly.

And everything was moving much too quickly for Penelope’s tastes. “No need,” she said, at an alarmingly high pitch. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” The word rolled lazily from his tongue.

“Quite thrilling.” She nodded, bringing one hand to her mouth to feign a yawn. “So thrilling, in fact, that I find myself unbearably exhausted.” She made to turn her back to him. “I think I shall bid you good night.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, the soft words as loud as a gunshot in the tiny space between them.

And then he touched her.

He clasped her wrist, staying her movement, turning her to face him, to meet his unflinching gaze. “I would hate for the evening to leave you so . . . unfulfilled.”

Unfulfilled.

The word unfurled deep in her stomach, and Penelope took a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions.

It did not work.

He moved then, his hand sliding away from her wrist, settling on her hip instead, and in that moment, all of her awareness was focused on that spot, beneath skirts and petticoat and cloak, where she was certain she could feel the searing heat of his massive hand. He did not tighten his grip, did nothing to bring her closer, nothing to move her in one way or another. She knew she could pull away . . . knew she should pull away . . . and yet . . .

She didn’t want to.

Instead, she hovered there, on the brink of something new and different and altogether exciting.

She met his eyes, dark in the firelight, and begged him silently to do something.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Play your card, Penelope.”Her mouth dropped open at the words, at the way he gave her power over the moment, and she realized that it was the first time in her entire life that a man had actually given her the opportunity to make a choice for herself.

Ironic, wasn’t it, that it was this man. This man who had taken all choice from her in the span of mere hours.

But now, there it was, the freedom of which he’d spoken. The adventure he’d promised. The power was heady. Irresistible.

Dangerous.

But she did not care, because it was that wicked, wonderful power that propelled her to speech.

“Kiss me.”

He was already moving, his lips capturing the words.

 

* * *

Dear M—

 It’s utter misery here—hot as Hades even now, in the dead of night. I’m sure I’m the only one awake, but who can sleep in the worst of a Surrey summer? If you were here, I’m sure we would be mischief-making at the lake.

I confess, I’d like to take a walk . . . but I suppose that’s something young ladies should not do, isn’t it?

Warmly—P

Needham Manor, July 1815

 

* * *

 

Dear P—

Nonsense. If I were there,  I  would be mischief-making. You would be enumerating all the ways that we would soon be caught and scolded for our transgressions.

I’m not entirely sure what young ladies should or should not do, but your secrets are safe with me, even if your governess does not approve. Especially so.

—M

Eton College, July 1815

 

It should be said that Penelope Marbury had a secret.

It wasn’t a very big secret, nothing that would bring down Parliament or dethrone the King . . . nothing that would destroy her family or anyone else’s . . . but it was a rather devastating secret personally—one she tried very hard to forget whenever she could.

It should not be a surprise, as, until that evening, Penelope had led a model life—entirely decorous. Her childhood of good behavior had aged into an adulthood of modeling excellent behavior for her younger sisters and behaving in precisely the manner that young women of good breeding were expected to behave.

Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.

Until then.

It really was ridiculous. She knew that.

It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.

Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.

This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.

This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.

Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”

How did he know?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.

So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”

She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.

Was that his tongue?

It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.

Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.

He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”

She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.

“Then I am not doing it correctly.”

Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.

Perhaps it already was.

She really, honestly didn’t care.

Just as long as he kept at it.

Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up, stroking through his hair, pulling him closer, until his lips were on hers again, and this time . . . this time, she let herself go.

And kissed him back, reveling in the deep, graveled sound that rose from the back of his throat—the sound that spiraled straight to the core of her and told her, without words, that for all her lack of experience, she’d done something right.

His hands were moving then, up, up until she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her . . . there, on the curve of her breast, sliding wickedly into the torn cloth of her dress, the cloth he’d ripped to save himself the trouble of seducing her.

Not that it seemed as though he would have had any trouble at all.

She stroked one hand down his arm until she was pressing his hand to her, stronger, more firmly, sighing his name into his mouth.

He pulled away at the sound, throwing his greatcoat back to reveal them to the waning firelight, pushing the cloth aside, baring her to his gaze, returning his hand to her, stroking, lifting until she arched toward him.

“Do you like that?” She heard the answer in the question. He knew she’d never in her life felt anything so powerful. So tempting.

“I shouldn’t.” Her hand returned to his, holding him there, against her.

“But you do.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the base of her neck as his expert fingers found the place where she strained for his touch. She gasped his name. He scraped his teeth across the soft lobe of one ear until she shivered in his arms. “Talk to me.”

“It’s incredible,” she said, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to stop.

“Keep talking,” he whispered, peeling the fabric back as he pressed her breast up, baring one aching nipple to the cool room.

He stared at her then, watching the tip pucker at the air or his gaze or both, and Penelope was suddenly horribly embarrassed, hating her imperfections, wishing she was anywhere but there, with him, this perfect specimen of man.

She moved to grasp the greatcoat, afraid that he would see her. That he would judge her. That he would change his mind.

He was faster, clasping her wrists in his hands, staying her movement. “Don’t,” he growled, force in the words. “Never hide yourself from me.”

“I cannot help it. I don’t want . . . you should not look.”

“If you think I’m going to avoid looking at you, you’re mad.” He shifted then, throwing the greatcoat back, out of her reach, making quick work of her destroyed dress, brushing the torn edges away.

He stared at her then, for long moments, until she couldn’t bear watching him anymore for the fear that he might reject her. For it was rejection that she was most used to when it came to his sex. Rejection and refusal and disinterest. And she didn’t think she could bear those things now. From him. Tonight.

She closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath, preparing for him to turn away at her plainness. Her imperfections. She was sure he would turn away.

When his lips settled on hers, she thought she might cry.

And then he was taking her mouth in one long kiss, stroking deep until all thought of embarrassment was chased away by desire. Only when she was clinging to the lapels of his coat did he release her from the devastating caress.

One wicked finger circled the tip of her breast lazily, as if they had all the time in the world, and she watched the movement, barely visible in the deep orange glow of the dying fire. Pleasure pooled there, at the tight, puckered tip . . . and in other scandalous places at the sensation.

“Do you like that?” he asked, low and dark. Penelope bit her lip and nodded. “Tell me.”

“Yes . . . yes it’s splendid.” She knew it made her sound simple and unsophisticated, but she could not keep the wonder from her voice.

His fingers did not stop. “It should all feel splendid. You tell me if it doesn’t, and I shall rectify the situation.”

He kissed her neck, running his teeth across the soft skin there. He looked up. “Does that feel splendid?”

“Yes.”

He rewarded her by pressing kisses down her neck, sucking at the delicate skin of her shoulder, licking down the slope of one breast before circling the hard, peaked tip, nipping and caressing—the whole time avoiding the place where she wanted him most. “I’m going to corrupt you,” he promised her skin, one hand sliding down the swell of her stomach, feeling the way the muscles there tensed and quivered at his touch. “I’m going to turn you from light to dark, from good to bad. I’m going to ruin you.” She didn’t care. She was his. He owned her in this moment, with this touch. “And do you know how it will feel?”

She sighed the word this time. “Splendid.”

More than that.

More than she’d ever imagined.

He met her eyes and, without breaking their gaze, he took the tip of one breast deep into his warm mouth, worrying the flesh with tongue and teeth before pulling in lush tugs that had her moaning his name and plunging her fingers into his hair.

“Michael . . .” she whispered, afraid that she might break the spell of pleasure. She closed her eyes.

He lifted his head, and she hated him for stopping. “Look at me.” The words were a demand. When she met his gaze once more, his hand slid beneath the pooled fabric of her dress, fingers brushing against curls, and she snapped her thighs shut with a little cry of dismay. He couldn’t possibly . . . not there . . .

But he returned his attention to her breast, kissing and sucking until her inhibitions were lost and her thighs parted, allowing him to slide his fingers between them, resting softly against her but not moving—a wicked, wonderful temptation. She stiffened again but did not refuse him access this time.

“I promise you shall like this. Trust me.”

She gave a shaky laugh as his fingers moved, widening her thighs, gaining access to her core. “Said the lion to the lamb.”

He tongued the soft skin at the underside of her breast before turning to the other, lavishing the same attention there as she writhed beneath him and sighed his name. His fingers were wicked, separating her secret folds with one finger and stroking gently, slowly, until he found the warm, wet entrance to her.

He lifted his head, finding her gaze as he slid one long finger slowly into the heart of her, sending a bolt of unexpected pleasure through her. He pressed a kiss to the skin between her breasts, repeating the motion with his finger before whispering, “You’re already wet for me. Gloriously wet.”

It was impossible to stem her embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”He kissed her long and slow, sliding his tongue deep in her mouth as his finger mirrored the action below, before he pulled back, placed his forehead to hers, and said, “It means you want me. It means that, even after all these years, after everything I’ve done, after everything I am, I can make you want me.”

Later, she would reflect on the words, wish that she’d said something to him, but she couldn’t, not when he slid a second finger in with the first, his thumb circling as he whispered at her ear. “I am going to explore you . . . to discover your heat and softness, every bit of your decadence.” He stroked against her, feeling the way she pulsed around him, loving the way she rocked her hips against him as his thumb worked a tight circle at the straining nub of pleasure he had uncovered. “You make my mouth water.”

Her eyes went wide at the words, but he did not give her time to consider them as he moved his hand again, lifting her hips and sliding her gown down, over her legs and off until she was utterly bare, and he was between her legs, parting them slowly, saying the most wicked things as his hands slid along her legs. He stalked her on his knees as he parted them, pressing long, soft, lush kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs just above her stockings. “In fact . . .” He paused, swirling his tongue in a slow, stunning circle. “ . . . I don’t think I can go another moment . . .” Again, on the opposite thigh. “ . . . Without . . .” Slightly higher, closer to the ache. “ . . . Tasting you.”

And then his mouth was on her, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling almost unbearably at the place where pleasure pooled and strained and begged for release. She cried out, sitting up straight before he lifted his head and pressed one large hand to her soft stomach. “Lie back . . . let me taste you. Let me show you how good it can be. Watch. Tell me what you like. What you need.”

And she did, God help her. As he licked and sucked with his perfect tongue and his wicked lips, she whispered her encouragement, learning what she wanted even as she was not sure of the end result.

More, Michael . . .

Her hands slid into his curls, holding him close to her.

Michael, again . . .

Her thighs widened, willing and wanton.

There, Michael . . .Michael . . .

He was her world. There was nothing beyond this moment.

And then his fingers joined his tongue, and she thought she might die as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything for which she did not know to ask. Her eyes flew open, his name on a gasp.

His tongue moved faster, circling at the place where she needed him, and she moved, all inhibition gone, lost to the rising, cresting pleasure . . . wanting nothing more than to know what lay beyond.

“Please, don’t stop,” she whispered.

He didn’t.With his name on her lips, she threw herself over the edge, rocking against him, pressing to him, begging for more even as he gave it to her with tongue and lips and fingers until she lost awareness of everything but the bold, brilliant pleasure he gave her.

As she floated back from her climax, he pressed long, lovely kisses to the inside of her thighs until she sighed his name and reached for his soft mahogany curls, wanting nothing more than to lie next to him for an hour . . . a day . . . a lifetime.

He stilled at her touch as her fingers sifted through his hair, and they remained that way for long moments. She was limp with pleasure, her whole world in the feel of his silken curls in her hands, in the scrape of his beard at the soft skin of her thigh.

Michael.

She stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to say what she was thinking . . . that the experience had been truly remarkable, and that if this evening was any indication, their marriage would be far more than he’d ever imagined it could be.

All would be well. It had to be. Experiences like this one did not come along every day.

He finally shifted, and she sensed the unwillingness in the movement as he pulled the greatcoat up around her, surrounding her in the scent and heat of him before he rolled away and came to his feet in a single, fluid movement, lifting his wool frock coat from where he must have placed it, carefully folded, earlier in the evening.

He pulled it on, quick as lightning. “You’re well and truly ruined now,” he said, the words cold.

She sat up, clutching his greatcoat to her as he opened the door and turned back to her, his wide shoulders fading into the blackness beyond. “Our marriage is no longer a question.”

He left then, the door closing firmly behind him, punctuating his words, leaving Penelope seated in a pool of fabric, staring at the door, sure that he would return, that she had misheard him, that she had mistaken his meaning.

That all would be well.

After long minutes, Penelope pulled on her dress, her fingers shaking at the feel of the torn fabric. She returned to her pallet, refusing to allow tears to come.