A Rogue by Any Other Name (12 page)

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.

Chapter Six

Dear M—

You may think that since you’ve returned to school, I’ve been in a constant state of
ennui
(note the use of French), but you would be entirely wrong. The excitement is nearly overwhelming.

The bull got loose from Lord Langford’s pasture two nights ago, and he (the bull, not the viscount) had a fine time knocking down fences and making the acquaintance of the cattle in the area until he was captured this morning, by Mr. Bullworth.

I wager you wish you were home, don’t you?

Always—P

Needham Manor, September 1815

* * *

Dear P—

I believed you until the bit about Bullworth capturing his namesake. Now, I’m convinced you’re merely attempting to lure me home with your extravagant tales of attempted animal husbandry.

Though, I would be lying if I told you it wasn’t working. I wish I’d been there to see the look on Langford’s face. And the smile on yours.

—M

post script—I am happy to see that your governess is teaching you something. Très bon.

Eton College, September 1815

Dawn had barely broken when Bourne paused outside the room where he had left Penelope the night before, the cold and his thoughts joining forces to keep him from rest. He’d paced the house, haunted by the memories of the empty rooms, waiting for the sun to rise on the day when he would see Falconwell restored to its right and proper owner.

There was no doubt in Bourne’s mind that the Marquess of Needham and Dolby would relinquish Falconwell. The man was no fool. He had three unmarried daughters, and the fact that the eldest had spent the evening with a man in an abandoned house—with
Bourne
in an abandoned house—would not endear the remaining unwed ladies Marbury to potential suitors.

The solution was marriage. A quick one.

And with that marriage, the passing of Falconwell.

Falconwell, and Penelope.

A different man would feel remorse at the unfortunate role Penelope was forced to play in this game, but Bourne knew better. Certainly, he was using the lady, but was that not how marriage worked? Were not all marital relations devised on that very premise—mutual benefit?

She would gain access to his money, his freedoms, and anything else she wished.

He would gain Falconwell.

That was that. They were not the first to marry for land, nor would they be the last. It was a remarkable offer, the one he’d made her. He was rich and well connected, and he was offering her a chance to trade her future as a spinster for one as a marchioness. She could have anything she wanted. He’d give it to her with pleasure.

After all, she was giving him the only thing he’d ever really wanted.

Not quite. No one
gave
Bourne anything. He was
taking
it.

Taking her.

A vision flashed, large blue eyes set wide in her plain face, pleasure and something more blazing there. Something too close to emotion. Too close to caring.

That was why he’d left her, strategically. Coolly. Calculatingly.

To prove the marriage would be a business arrangement.

Not because he had wanted to stay.

Not because removing his mouth and hands from her had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Not because he’d been tempted to do just the opposite—to sink into her and revel in her, soft where women were meant to be soft and sweet where they were meant to be sweet. Not because those little sighs that came from the back of her throat while he kissed her were the most erotic things he’d ever heard, or that she tasted like innocence.

He forced himself to move away from her door. There was no reason to knock. He’d be back before she woke, ready to take her to the nearest vicar, present the special license for which he’d paid a handsome sum, and get her married.

Then, they would return to London and live their separate lives.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the crisp morning air in his lungs, satisfied with his plan.

That was when she screamed, the heart-stopping sound punctuated with the sound of shattering glass.

He responded instinctively, unlocking the door and nearly tearing it from its hinges to get it open. He pulled up short just inside the room, heart pounding.

She stood unharmed at the side of the broken window, back against the wall, barefoot, wrapped in his greatcoat, which hung open to reveal her ruined gown, gaping wide, baring an expanse of peach-colored skin.

For one fleeting moment, Bourne was arrested by that skin, by the way a single blond curl cut across it, drawing his attention to the place where a lovely rose-colored nipple stood peaked and proud in the cold room.

His mouth went dry, and he forced himself to return his gaze to her face, where her wide eyes blinked in shock and disbelief as she stared at the great glass window next to her, now missing a pane, shattered by . . .

A bullet.

He was across the tiny room in seconds, shielding her with his body and pushing her from the room into the hallway beyond. “Stay here.”

She nodded, shock apparently making her more agreeable than he would have expected. He returned to the room and the window, but before he could inspect the damage, a second gunshot shattered another pane of glass, missing Bourne by a distance with which he was not at all comfortable.

What in hell?

He swore once, harshly, and pressed himself against the wall of the room, next to the window.

Someone was shooting at him.

The question was,
Who?

“Be careful—”

Penelope stuck her head back into the room, and Bourne was already moving toward her, sending her a look that had sent the worst of London’s underground into retreat. “Get out.”

She did not move. “It is not safe for you to stay in there. You could be—” Another shot sounded from outside, interrupting, and he leapt for her, praying he could get to her before a bullet did. He barreled into her, pushing her back out the door until they were both pressed up against the opposite wall.

They were still for a long minute before she continued, her words muffled by his bulk. “You could be hurt!”

Was she out of her mind?

He grasped her shoulders, not caring that his ordinarily tightly reined temper was beginning to fray. “Idiot woman! What did I say?” He waited for her to answer the question. When she didn’t, he couldn’t help himself. Shaking her once by the shoulders, he repeated, “
What
did I say?”

Her eyes went wide.

Good. She should fear him.

“Answer me, Penelope.” He heard the growl in his voice. Didn’t care.

“You—” The words caught in her throat. “You said I should stay here.”

“And are you somehow unable to understand such a simple direction?”

Her gaze narrowed. “No.”

He’d insulted her. Again, he did not care. “Stay. The bloody hell. Here.” He ignored her wince and returned to the room, inching around toward the window.

He was just about to risk looking out onto the grounds to attempt a glimpse at his would-be assassin when words floated up from below. “Do you surrender?”

Surrender?

Perhaps Penelope had been right. Perhaps there were indeed pirates in Surrey.

He didn’t have much time to consider the question, as Penelope cried out, “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” from the hallway and rushed back into the room, clutching his coat around her and heading straight for the window.

“Stop!” Bourne lunged to block her progress, catching her around the waist and hauling her back. “If you get anywhere near that window, I’ll paddle you. Do you hear me?”

“But . . .”

“No.”

“It’s just—”

“
No.
”

“It’s my father!”

The words coursed through him, remaining hazy for longer than he would care to admit.

She couldn’t be right.

“I came for my daughter, ruffian! And I shall leave with her!”

“How did he know the room at which to shoot?”

“I—I was standing at the window. He must have seen the movement.”

Another bullet sent glass splintering across the room, and Bourne pressed closer to her, shielding her with his body. “Do you think he is aware that he could shoot you?”

“It does not appear to have occurred to him.”

He swore again. “He deserves to be hit in the head with his rifle.”

“I think he might be overcome with the fact that he’s hit his target. Thrice. Of course, considering the target was a
house,
it would have been something of a surprise if he
hadn’t
hit it.”

Was she amused?

She couldn’t be. Another shot rang out, and Bourne felt the final thread of his temper snap. He strode to the window, not caring that he might get shot in the process. “Dammit, Needham! You could kill her!”

The Marquess of Needham and Dolby did not look up from where he was aiming a second rifle, a nearby footman reloading the first. “I could also kill you. I like my odds!”

Penelope came up behind him. “If it’s any consolation, I sincerely doubt that he could kill you. He’s a terrible shot.”

Michael leveled her with a look. “Get away from this window. Now.”

Miracle of miracles, she did.

“I should have known you’d come for her, you ruffian. I should have known you’d do something worthy of your foul reputation.”