As Rich as a Rogue (16 page)

The Wild One. “Does she know?”

“She said it's wonderful.”

“But she didn't tell you how?”

“No.”

“Shall I show you?”

She glanced to the closed doorway, and he answered her unspoken question.

“Lady Illston is away on calls. We are entirely private here.”

“But the servants—”

“Will stay away. I promise.”

She shook her head. “You cannot know that.”

“I do know that.”

“How?”

He shifted his hand, letting his thumb roll over her breast where the nipple would be beneath corset and shift. It was a small thing, done light enough that she might not even feel it. Except he watched her lips part on a gasp and knew that she was as excited as he. And while she was distracted, he made his confession.

“I bribed the butler to keep away. He will be sure of the rest of the staff.”

Her eyes widened. “You what? When?”

“Weeks ago. And every time I think you might be here with me.”

She shook her head, clearly surprised by his foresight. “But why, when…” Her voice trailed away. It took him a moment to understand what she hadn't said. To realize that what he valued most was the very thing she decried.

“I'm fascinated by wayward,” he said honestly.

Then he pulled her to her feet. She was pliable in his arms, loose-limbed despite her hesitancy. He tugged her close, letting himself feel the fullness of her breasts against his chest, the sweet scent of her hair, and the heat of her breath against his neck.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. “I swear I will not cause you any harm. No one will know.”

“I will know,” she answered.

“That is the best part.”

He felt her smile against his neck, and again, he took that as consent. He was pushing the bounds of propriety, but he knew to the depths of his soul how desperately she needed the touch of another person. Someone who cared for her. Someone who could show her that wildness didn't have to cost anything.

He gently urged her to lean back against the table. It was high enough that it would brace her perfectly, if she allowed it. Then with a quiet prayer that she remain, he moved quickly to the door and twisted the key in the lock, just to be sure they would not be interrupted. Then he returned to her.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said as he stroked across her cheeks and admired the sweet openness of her face. “It destroys me to know you hate the best part of yourself.”

Her lips tilted up. “The part that forgets to guard her tongue? Who insults wealthy, powerful men?”

He smiled. “Exactly so.” He kissed her again. Slow and sweet, letting her get used to the taste of him while he reveled in the sweetness of her. And soon she was gripping his shoulders, pulling herself toward him.

He broke the kiss. His breath was short, but hers was stuttering, lifting her breasts in tiny jerks as she struggled to restrain the feelings coursing through her.

“Let yourself feel everything,” he said. Then he took her hands and guided them to the table. He wrapped her fingers around the edge and squeezed slightly, so she knew to hold on. “Don't do anything but feel.”

Then he began to rain tiny kisses all over her. Her cheeks, her neck, the curve of her shoulder. He felt her shudder beneath his lips, and when she moaned softly, he fought to keep himself from taking her in the most primal way.

It took a moment for him to control himself. Long enough for her to focus on him, a question in her eyes. He held her gaze and answered.

“I will stop if you want. Just say the word.” He began to stroke her legs. Hard muscles, long flanks, trim calves as he gently stroked her skirt up. “Do you know how your body can feel? Or have you been so busy fighting yourself that you never even allowed yourself to ask?”

She bit her lip, telling him her answer. She had spent six years—probably many more—fighting her nature. He nuzzled his head down to her neck, grazing her flesh with his teeth before biting softly. Just a pinch before soothing it with his tongue.

“Jo told me of such things,” she murmured. “But I didn't understand it.”

“And you want to know.”

“Yes.”

He wondered if this was part of her drive to get married, even to someone as far beneath her as Mr. Camden. Did she hope finally to express her passions in her marriage bed? Oh, he prayed so.

And while his balls tightened high and hard, he slipped his fingers beneath her skirt. How many times had he imagined just this event? The sweet length of her legs, her parted lips, the tight buds of her nipples barely noticeable beneath her gown.

“Close your eyes,” he urged. Her lids flickered closed, and he leaned forward to kiss her as a reward, though whether it was for her or him he didn't know. And as he moved, his hands naturally slid up her legs.

She was wearing stockings. Practical cotton, and at the top, a ribbon tied tight enough it cut into her leg. Smooth fabric, hot woman quivering as he touched her, and then he tugged the ribbon tie undone.

“This is very wicked,” she murmured.

Her eyes were open again. And below her waist, her legs were tightening. So he stopped his progress, gently caressing. He flashed a dark grin. “I mean to show you that wayward can be very good. Did you want me to stop?” She had to agree, or it would not work. “Mari,” he said gently, “tell me what you feel.”

She licked her lips, the pink dart of her tongue making his cock surge, but he held himself still. “I feel hot,” she said. “I cannot catch my breath.”

He waited, knowing there was more but needing her to find the words.

“My…chest is full and…” She swallowed. “And tight.”

“Your breasts, you mean.” His gaze went to the full, lush mounds.

“Y-yes.”

“And here,” he said, squeezing her thigh slightly. “What do you feel here?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but then shook her head.

“Are you wet?” he coaxed.

She nodded.

“That is very good. Do you know how the act is done?”

Again she nodded. “But you said—”

“I won't take your virginity, Mari. I swore that to you.”

“Yes,” she said, as if reassuring herself.

“But there is a pleasure that can be had without that.” Again he squeezed, daring to creep his hands higher. A bit more. An inch. Then he held still. “Say you want this, Mari. You have to tell me that you—”

“Yes. Please…” She swallowed. “Please show me.”

He wanted to crow aloud in pure masculine pride, but he held it in check. He would not startle her. And while he waited, her thighs relaxed, and he slid up the last inch. He felt her curls against the tip of his fingers. She jolted when he connected, but then quickly stilled. Her buttocks were tight, lifting her high, but not away from him. Not if he kept still and waited for her.

A moment.

A bit.

She eased back down, and this time her legs were spread a little farther. Enough for him to crook a finger and slide between her petals. She gasped, and her eyelids fluttered.

“How does that feel?”

“So…so…” She opened her eyes, and there was humor lighting the amber depths. “Wild.”

He grinned in response. Then he held her gaze, locking his eyes with hers as his fingers began to play. Strokes, pushes, swirls. He learned the curve and the wetness of her. The plump center and the welcoming depths. And while her eyes became dazed and her mouth opened on a slight gasp, he reminded himself that he could not take her. It was immoral. He would lose her forever. Then those words fell away.

Nothing held his attention as she did. Her moan as he pushed against her clit. Her gasp as he penetrated her with two fingers. Or her cry as he began to speed up his pace. Tighter. Harder. He pushed against her bud while her skin flushed and her eyes grew wide. She thrust against him as he pushed a third finger inside her. And when he drew his thumb up, long and slow against her nub, she keened with hunger.

He knew when she was close. Her breath became nothing but a hitch, and she arched up to his hand while her legs spread wide for his plunder. Then her belly went rigid, and he knew he had no more time.

Abruptly, he straightened while still keeping her aroused. With his free hand he pulled her sideways then caught her, so she fell into the crook of his arm while his mouth slammed down on hers. Her arms had flown up in surprise, gripping his shoulders while he pushed hard against her nub. Quick circles, faster. Tighter. Harder.

Detonation.

Her body went wild, and he caught her scream in his mouth.

Amazing.

He kept her riding that excitement as long as he could. He held her while she bucked in his arms, and then waited until she eased before stroking her again. He let her feel the bliss forever while he kept her cries of delight to himself. And he thanked God in Heaven that she had gifted him with her first experience. God, how beautiful she was. And how perfect he wanted this to be for her.

But it could not last forever. In time, she jerked her hips away from him. Too much, he realized. And so he slowly took his hand from between her thighs. When she released a tremulous laugh into his mouth, he knew it was safe to rise up from her lips. He still lingered, nipping along the edges of her mouth, pressing tiny kisses along her cheek, and then simply holding her, his lips pressed to her temple.

He could spend an age like this and be content. She was languid in his arms. His body clamored to possess her, but he would not disturb her lingering pleasure.

With that thought in mind, he looked up at the mantel clock. Hell, Mari's hour with Greenie was almost up. Which meant the butler would be returning soon. The man was honor bound to prevent her from staying beyond the allotted time.

Peter had to get her presentable soon. He looked back down to her face, seeing the light catch her amber eyes, making them warm with sun even as she blinked herself back to awareness.

“You should allow yourself to be wayward more often, Mari,” he said.

She smiled and spoke in teasing accents. “I have not given you leave to use my Christian name, Lord Whitly.”

“I am taking that leave.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. “But only in private.”

“I suppose I am wayward enough to allow it.” Then she stirred. Their embrace was done, and so he helped her to stand, though she still leaned heavily against the table. Her legs were weak, but she put strength into them quickly. Too quickly, in his mind. He would rather lift her into his arms and carry her to bed.

Instead, he took a wicked pleasure in watching her fingers fumble as she retied her stocking. He couldn't stop himself from caressing the length of her thigh, though she blushed furiously at his boldness and quickly dropped her skirt back down. Much too soon her dress was back in order. He flatly refused to allow her to return to her severe hairstyle, so he secreted half her pins in his pocket. He mourned even the few locks she pressed in place with the remaining pins. Then he looked at the mantel clock and knew he had to leave.

“I will slip out without the butler noticing. You remain with Greenie until the butler comes to retrieve you.”

“How can you go without someone seeing?”

“I can do it,” he said. There were any number of ways to slip through a household unseen. Then he touched her cheek. “Pull at your hair while you are trying to train Greenie. That will explain your lack of pins.”

“I need those back, you know,” she said. “I'll be a ragged mess in the first wind.”

“I would buy all the pins in England if I could keep your hair tumbling about your ears.”

“That would make for a very untidy England.”

He looked at her then as she smoothed down more unruly curls. She had such fire inside her, if only she would let it out. The lure of tempting her to wild abandon had hooked deep into his soul, and he knew he would continue to poke at her until he had seduced her completely.

With or without marriage, he would have her. It was a sobering thought to a man who believed himself a moral creature. Then that knowledge brought something deeper and darker to his mind.

If he could not stop himself, if nothing would prevent him from exposing her every wayward desire, then he had to tell her all. About himself. If she were exposed, then he would need to be as well. Not just the pieces he'd meant to show her tonight. Not the half measures meant to placate her, but
everything
.

That was hard. That was a terrifying thing, but he would do it if it meant winning her to his side.

“Tomorrow night,” he rasped before he could change his mind. “I cannot manage it tonight, but tomorrow. I will find you at the ball. Bring a dark cloak if you have one.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded. No hesitation, no regret, just a solemn trust that he would keep her safe. Which was all the more damning, because he knew he was the rake here. His every intention was to seduce her to his side.

Mari watched Peter slip out of the room. She hadn't been given leave to use his Christian name, but in her thoughts he would forever be Peter.

Peter the handsome.

Peter the strong.

Peter the man who showed her why every woman worked so feverishly to get married.

It was for that feeling. For that explosion of pleasure. For that amazing experience of joy that sang through her heart and mind long after he'd left.

“Greenie,” she whispered, “I didn't know. Heavens, why didn't I know?”

“Happy sodding day!” the bird chirped, and Mari was so happy she didn't even remonstrate with the creature. But she didn't feed the bird either.

“Happy day,” she said firmly as she held up the bit of apple. “Oh, Greenie, it is such a happy day.” Then she fed it to him.

She remained in that state of bliss for a minute more. Maybe as many as two, but before long, doubts began to creep in. Had it truly felt as wonderful as she remembered?

Her belly still quivered when she thought of it. Her breasts were heavy, and the memory of his face as he whispered that she was safe—well, that set her to wetting her lips and wondering when she could be wayward with him again.

“Happy day,” she said as she fed Greenie a bit of apple. “Happy day.”

Then her gaze happened to land on her reticule. Inside it was her neat list of requirements in a husband. She certainly had an item to add now, didn't she? Though God only knew how she'd phrase it.

Waywardness in bed?

Waywardness in the afternoon?

Waywardness often.

She giggled and fed Greenie another bit of apple without remembering to speak the phrase. It was some moments later when she thought of something else. Something that horrified her down to her toes.

What if waywardness wasn't always this much fun? What if it only occurred with certain gentlemen?

How horrible to be trapped for the rest of your life doing that with a man who didn't make it wonderful. She now knew how amazing it could be, but what if Mr. Camden, for example, made it dull? She might be an unmarried virgin, but she'd overheard enough to know that men weren't always good in bed.

She shuddered in horror. Worse, the more she thought of it, the more frightened she became. Mr. Camden didn't like her being wayward. He'd remonstrated with her on that very thing any number of times. What if he made this thing as restricted and sedate as he liked everything else?

But that made no sense. The very nature of what they'd done was to be unrestrained. She couldn't imagine doing it while still being tied into a corset and with her hair gripped into a fist-like bun. That would be horrible.

She had to know. She couldn't possibly marry a man who didn't enjoy this.

The mantel clock chimed the hour, but instead of looking at it, her gaze went to the table and the place where her fingers had gripped the wood. Her face heated, and her legs shifted with a secret thrill. What a difference a single hour had made. Now she had a whole new requirement in a husband, and nothing would satisfy her but to know if Mr. Camden could make her feel like that as well. She didn't even know if the gentleman still wished to marry her, but she could not have an answer for him until she'd learned the truth of this.

So it was that when Lady Illston's butler knocked quietly on the door, she was already reaching for her reticule. A moment later, she'd collected her maid and climbed into her carriage. How easy it was to be wicked, she realized. Here she had just had the most scandalous experience imaginable as an unwed woman, and yet she had adhered to the proprieties. Or at least the appearance of them. And better yet, with her maid in the carriage with her, she had someone here to help her adjust her hair to a less flyaway style.

The trip through London was tedious as always, but it was necessary. Indeed, the urgency to answer her question was building to the point that she feared she would do something extremely improper. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. So when the carriage stopped in front of Mr. Camden's office building, she went in with her head held high.

It wasn't proper for her to be here. Ladies, especially unwed ones, didn't enter such places of business, even with a maid in tow. She did it anyway and barely even blinked at the shocked expressions of the men toiling in wretched darkness at their desks. At least her father's place of business let the secretaries sit by windows.

“Wait here,” she instructed her maid. Then she turned to the nearest secretary and spoke with an imperious accent. “Please show me to Mr. Camden's office.”

“Er, um, is Mr. Camden expecting you?”

She didn't want to be mean to the man, but a certain level of boldness was required. “If he were expecting me, he would be waiting out here.”

“Oh. Of course.” To which the man glanced awkwardly at his fellow workers, as if to say
what should I do?
Mari didn't allow them to answer.

“Direct me to his office now.”

Her tone was enough to make him leap out from behind his desk with a “Yes, miss.” A few moments later, he led her to an unimposing door in a row of unimposing doors. How disappointing for Mr. Camden, she thought.

“I'll announce myself,” she said before her escort could knock. “Good day, sir.”

He flushed at being so clearly dismissed. Meanwhile, she turned her back on him, rapped loudly on the door, and turned the knob.

She sailed through the room as if she had a right to enter like this, only to be stopped short at the cluttered disaster that was this tiny space. Books, papers, and ink bottles choked every surface. Or at least what she could see from the fitful light that made it through the very dirty window. And in the middle of it all, behind a small desk, sat Mr. Camden, hunched in obvious misery, one hand wrapped around a bottle of gin.

“I said no one—” His words cut off as his red-rimmed eyes caught sight of her. “Miss Powel?”

“Oh goodness.” She glanced behind her. Yes, the secretary was still standing there, his mouth even more gaping than before. “I believe you have work to occupy yourself?” she said tartly.

The man flushed a dark red. She shut the door on him. Then she turned to face Mr. Camden, who was scrambling to his feet, knocking over a stack of papers as he did so.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, then cursed again as he tripped over another stack. He righted himself quickly enough, though his expression was particularly florid, before giving her a critical frown. “Ladies do not visit a gentleman's place of business.”

“Gentlemen do not become gin-soaked in their offices in the middle of the afternoon,” she responded.

He pushed out his lower lip and managed to look like a particularly stubborn boy. “What a man does is his own affair.”

She was about to say something churlish in response, but she held her tongue. Obviously the man was a great deal more upset by Lord Rossgrove's defection than he'd let on before. In one light, it might seem almost chivalrous that he'd pretended not to care that she'd mucked up his chances. Now, of course, she saw that he was deeply affected and it was all her fault.

Given that, she was predisposed to forgive him an afternoon's inebriation. So she felt very warm toward Mr. Camden as she stepped carefully over a pile of books and took hold of his hands.

“I am terribly sorry about earlier today. I came to…to find out how you fared.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but an especially noxious burp came out instead. He flushed crimson then covered his lips. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered behind his hand.

“It's all right. I do that sometimes as well,” she offered.

He reached beside him and grabbed a jug of water hidden behind a tall bookcase. He quickly poured himself a drink then swallowed the liquid in loud, steady gulps. Mari waited patiently, wondering how she could turn the conversation to where she wanted. Also, she wondered where exactly she could sit among the stacks of books. Meanwhile, Mr. Camden finished his glass, set it down with a click, and then turned to her with a compressed smile.

“That should do it,” he said overly loud. “I'm fit to be seen.” He straightened his waistcoat then gave her a cheerful smile. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss Powel?”

How to answer that? She reached for his hands again. She wanted him to caress her like Peter had so she could compare the two experiences. She wanted a kiss, but it would be too bold to ask for that. So instead, she smiled at him and stayed with her first lie.

“I came to see how you fared.”

“I've been laid low, as you see.” He gestured wanly toward the bottle of gin. “Even tea taken with my mum failed to cheer me up.”

“Oh dear.” She knew that tea with his mother was one of his most cherished rituals. “Was she horribly disappointed?”

“She was. She took to her smelling salts three times, I'm afraid. Seeing her set so low was what brought me back here and…” Again he gestured to the bottle. Or he might have been reaching for it and checked the motion. It was hard to tell.

“My. Three times,” she echoed feebly. “But do you forgive me?” she asked. “After all, I've heard it said that Lord Rossgrove is…well, somewhat of an ass.”

His eyes widened, and he drew back. “You must not say such things! Not of so great a man!”

“Oh,” she said, dismay pooling in her belly. This was not going at all as she'd planned. “But surely if he doesn't see how perfect you are for his plans, if he doesn't recognize—”

“All is not lost yet.” He grabbed her hand and patted it overly hard. “Never fear, he may still come around. Women say such silly things sometimes. Surely he understands not to listen. He'll realize that soon enough. I shall write him a letter tomorrow. Something that apologizes for you. Love is such an unpredictable thing, you know. Sometimes a man cannot control whom he marries.”

There was her opening. There was the question she longed to answer, and she voiced it without checking her words. “So is that it, Mr. Camden?” she asked. “Do you…do you love me?”

He looked at her, his eyes widening to the point where she could see every reddened vein, even in this dim light. “Well, Miss Powel, um, I mean… I'm not one who speaks well on these things.”

She blew out a breath, feeling her head start to ache. “Just a yes or no, if you please. It would make things so much clearer.”

“Oh. Oh yes, I see.” He paused and looked at her, obviously waiting.

She returned his stare, her own eyebrows rising in anticipation. “Mr. Camden?”

“Yes.”

Her insides tightened, but not in a pleasant way. “Yes?”

He blinked. “Yes?”

Was he echoing her question or answering it? “Mr. Camden!” she cried. “I don't understand your meaning.”

And then it happened, nearly as she'd hoped. He leaped forward and took her head between his hands. He wasn't as large as Lord Whitly, and his aim was off, so one of his fingers landed painfully in her ear. But the intent was the same, and that was what she focused on. Better yet, his mouth was headed toward hers, and she obediently closed her eyes in anticipation. After all, the view of the man's pointed nose was not all that appealing.

Then their mouths met.

His was wet and tasted of acid. She pulled back in shock, even though she had been the one to create the situation. But as she gasped, his tongue invaded her mouth.

Oh. Oh my. She hadn't remembered this being so very wet before. And his tongue was forceful, nearly gagging her.

She tried to enjoy it. She really did. She did not want to think that she could only enjoy waywardness with Lord Whitly. But…oh, this was getting very slobbery.

She coughed and wrenched backward, breaking the seal of their mouths. She tried to step back, but there was little room, and he was holding her tightly, kissing a wet trail along her cheek. In her mind, she just kept thinking
No, no, no. This is not how it is supposed to go!
But he obviously couldn't hear her, and his hands now slid down her back to grip her bottom.

That was wrong, she decided, as panic began to tighten her throat. She was shoving at him now, pushing against his chest and trying to squirm away. He must have misunderstood, because he gasped out a fevered, “Miss Powel!”

Which was when she lost her temper. Thankfully, she had a brother who had taught her a few things. She was in her strong half boots, and while Mr. Camden was busy trying to angle his face back to hers, she lifted her foot and slammed it down hard onto his.

He leapt back with a howl, only to trip over a stack of books and tumble to the ground. The sound was deafening, but no louder than the rapid pound of fury in her ears.

She knew she was being irrational. She had instigated this particular encounter, but it was supposed to be pleasurable. It was not meant to leave her face slimy and a feeling of nausea in her gut.

Mr. Camden was righting himself while she busily fished out a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her face. Meanwhile, a sudden pounding on the door had her cursing under her breath.

“Mr. Camden! Is everything all right?” called the secretary.

She looked to Mr. Camden, who was red-faced as he pushed himself to his feet. “I'm fine,” he snapped. “Just tripped over the books, is all.”

“But—”

He stomped over to the doorway and wrenched it open. As Mari was still patting her hair back into place, she found this to be particularly alarming. Hopefully the young man didn't see anything. Although one look at his wide eyes had her cursing anew. Just how discomposed did she look? Was
wayward
now emblazoned across her forehead? Or perhaps it was written in her wild hair.

“Go back to work,” Mr. Camden snarled in a darker voice than she'd ever heard before. Apparently it was a shock to the young man as well, who jumped as if poked. Then he nodded and scrambled away without so much as a peep.