Enticing the Earl (12 page)

It might be best if she ended this whole arrangement. He was not a cruel man; she did not think he would try to hold her to their agreement if she wished to leave. Yet the thought of walking away made her ache with need for him. The only direction she wished to go was toward his arms—

As if guessing her thoughts, the earl was rising from the table. “Shall we retire? I will have the table cleared away, then the servants will leave us.”

She looked up at him in surprise, and he explained, “The housekeeper and footman have cottages on the grounds, and the maids and other servants live in the village, a mile down the road.”

She raised her brows. So they would be quite alone in this small, elegant house. He had meant what he said about providing privacy. Yet, how lovely it would be not to have so many people around them.

He did not bother with sitting alone at the dinner table, having, as he told Lauryn, no interest in any solitary absorption in his port. Or perhaps he was more interested in other—not solitary—pursuits, Lauryn thought, taking out her fan to cover her grin.

While the dining room was given over to the servants, she and the earl ascended the stairs. The maids had left ewers of warm water in the bedrooms.

“Since we have sent the maids away, before I leave you,” Sutton told her, “allow me to undo the buttons, so you can easily get out of your traveling costume.”

“That would be helpful,” Lauryn agreed. She slipped off her cape and turned so that he could reach the line of buttons that stretched down her back. She tried not to think about the feel of his strong fingers—later, she would enjoy his touch, very soon, very soon—no need to get goose bumps already!

Did he know that she was reacting to his nearness? As he unfastened the pesky buttons, he leaned closer to kiss her neck very lightly. Yes, he could tell, how could he not? She sighed in pleasure as she pushed down the skirt and tossed the bodice aside, allowing them to fall unnoticed to the floor.

“Now I will unlace your corset and make myself scarce, or your bathing water will grow cold,” he pointed out, although his hands seemed to want to linger. Since she enjoyed having them explore their way over her body, she had no complaint. They continued to stroke her skin, smoothing her as if she were a cat, and if she were feline, she would purr with contentment, Lauryn thought, and stretch and ripple her muscles just as cats were wont to do.

Not having so supple a body, she had to contend herself with a telling glance and a smile. Still he ran his hands over her shoulders, lightly massaging muscles sore from the ride, then abruptly reached down to pull her shift over her head. She threw her arms about his neck while he bent, putting his mouth to her neck and allowing his lips to linger, as if tasting her skin.

She felt a shiver of response. But after a long delightful moment, he raised his head again.

“But as I said, your bathwater will grow cold.”

“I suppose so,” she said, hearing the huskiness in her voice and knowing how reluctant she was to let him leave her side.

“Of course”—he glanced back—they had shut the bedroom door behind them, and surely the servants had left by now, as ordered—“perhaps I can render you some small assistance?”

While she shivered again in delicious anticipation, Lauryn was still not totally sure what he intended. But if the earl had a hand in it, she was sure it would be pleasurable. So with his assistance, she pushed off the rest of her clothing as quickly as possible, and he lifted her easily into his arms, with three easy strides carrying her to the dressing table where the china bowl and ewer of warm water, the lavender-scented soap, and bathing sponge had been set out for her use.

He draped a large linen towel over the stool and lowered her carefully down, then, grinning, shed his own clothes.

Watching him with appreciation, she did what she could to help, pushing his jacket back off his shoulders and tugging at the tight-fitting riding boots when they proved hard to remove.

“Boxel warned me of dire consequences when I told him he would be left behind,” the earl confided. “But this shooting box is so small, I told him I would make do with the footman to help me, if I needed aid. My poor valet may never recover from the slight, of course.”

She grinned.

When he, too, was naked, he turned to the large silver ewer and poured warm water into the clean china bowl, taking her sponge and dipping it into the water.

“Now, where do you prefer to start?” he asked, his tone polite.

“I suppose one should start at the top and work one's way down?” she suggested, just as gravely.

“A logical progression,” he agreed. He brushed her face very gently with the soft sponge, the warm water teasing her cheeks, dripping a little as it ran down her neck, tickling as it continued over her naked breasts…

He leaned to kiss away one of the drops. “I fear I have not yet perfected my technique,” he noted.

Lauryn tried not to giggle, wishing he would put his whole mouth there, but then again, this was too exciting, waiting to see what he would do next. “Then continue, my lord,” she commanded. “I have never been bathed by anyone so high born or so exquisitely male.”

“Yes, my dear,” he agreed meekly. He picked up the scented soap and worked up a slight lather, rubbing the soapy bubbles over her neck and chest with his bare hands, easing down over her breasts and under her arms till she giggled, then back down her breasts till she gasped from an entirely different sensation.

“Do you think we have covered this ground sufficiently?” he murmured into her ear.

“Perhaps,” she whispered back. “We can't be too careful.” He nibbled on one earlobe, then wrung out the sponge and dipped it again into the warm water and followed the path of his soapy hands. The touch of the soft, warm sponge was incredibly provocative when he held it against her skin—and when he followed its sleek touch with kisses pressed against her damp flesh, she gasped again and raised her body to push more closely against him.

He repeated the process, warm water, soap, damp sponge, kisses, his lips and his tongue against her skin, her breasts, the tender and so sensitive nipples—she might be the cleanest lady in the kingdom, Lauryn thought, and certainly the most distracted! The delightful waves of sensation ran over her skin and through her whole body—she felt overcome with rippling tides of pleasure that only made her ache for more.

The earl put both his hands to hold her by the waist, then he took the soap and repeated the exercise on her thighs and calves, which created more elegant torture. Lauryn tried to sit still on the delicate stool, tried not to moan deep in her throat, barely holding herself still as he laved her with the warm sponge. His hands were so strong and felt so delightful as they grasped her legs, holding them, lifting them as he wielded the sponge, running his hands along their length.

“No one will hear, sweetling,” he reminded her. “You may make any noise you wish!”

She nodded, almost beyond words already, reveling in the sensations that he flooded her with, over and over.

And next he stretched her feet and massaged her toes as he washed them—it was total hedonism, she thought, sighing. It was so relaxing that she thought she might fall off the damned stool—at least until he ran the sponge, still warm and soft, lightly between her legs.

This time she did jump. His eyes were wicked in their inner laughter.

“Did I startle you, my dear Mrs. Smith?”

She found she was breathing quickly. “I think I deserve equal time, my lord.”

“If you wish.”

Despite her rapidly rising desire, she reached for the sponge and, pushing the stool away, dropped to her knees and pushed him back so that he sat easily on the rug, as well. Now she could dip the sponge into the basin and try her hand at washing his incredibly muscled and well-made body.

It was as if she had at last taken a long-desired toy down from a shelf. She could run her hands along his solidly built shoulders and down his strong arms, enjoying the feel of the finely made male animal. She dipped the sponge into the water and scrubbed his arms and chest, rinsed and then reached farther down for his hard stomach and firm thighs, hearing him gasp as she reached closer and closer to the dark curling hair—and as for the rest—she smiled and allowed her fingers to wander teasingly close, then retreat, from the potency where her final delight awaited.

She grasped his firm shaft, touching it and marveling at the firmness, running the sponge lightly over it, then stroking it lightly, then more firmly with both her hands until he groaned.

But she had not the patience to make him wait with the same infinite care as he had tantalized her. No, her hunger was too overpowering…she leaned closer to feel the slight scratchy touch of his chin, to kiss his lips, and allowed him to pull her into his arms, not caring how or in what manner they came together, as long as this fever was soothed.

“I want you!” she muttered, without trying to disguise her hunger.

He did not seem to be shocked. He pulled her down with him, stretched her body out on the thick rug, and, holding her lightly, arms out from her body, kissed her open lips, his own mouth firm and as hungry as her own, his tongue probing.

From her mouth, he lowered himself far enough to kiss her breasts, and she groaned with pleasure, gripping his dark hair with both her hands and pulling him even closer.

Moaning again, she arched against him, and when he pushed himself inside her, she allowed herself to fall at once into his rhythm. Already, they seemed to know how to fit their bodies together, how to reach for the best positions. He knew to touch her
there
, and
there
, where the most delicate spots sent exquisite circles of pleasure flowing up through her whole body while she exclaimed with soft sounds of pleasure.

And as he rose and fell above her, she moved with him, meeting him as he pushed, pulling back as he did, and when he moved faster and faster, his breath coming quickly, she was ready with him, till he pulled her so close that their low sounds of passion mingled, and she felt his heartbeat thunder against her own and his hips spasm as she pushed with all her might, delighting in his strength and his passion.

Then when they reached the height of passion together, he wrapped his arms about her and held her tightly, and only later did Lauryn realize that he had effectively prevented her usual retirement from the bedroom. Tonight it was her bedroom and not even her bed. The floor was hard beneath the rug, but she felt too limp and replete to consider complaining, and it was too easy to lie inside his arms to contemplate withdrawal.

And her usual ration of guilt—well, it hovered outside the circle of the earl's embrace, waiting to descend upon her. Just for a few moments, she shut her eyes and enjoyed the illusion of closeness that this posture allowed her, as if Sutton might care for her, as if they might really share feelings, emotions, love—if she dared say the name.

And it did not occur to her to open her eyes and observe the expression upon the earl's face. Perhaps she was afraid to.

Only after she felt his heartbeat slow to normal, and she could feel him lift his head to gaze at her face, did she school her features into a civil banality that she hoped gave nothing away. Then, only, did she open her eyes.

But the earl was frowning, and she felt her heart drop. Had she still not pleased him?

“What is his name?” he demanded.

“W
hat?” Lauryn stared at him.

“You still do not give yourself to me, your whole self,” the earl told her, his tone accusing. “Who is the other man you think of, Mrs. Smith, when we lie together?”

She could not think what to answer. They lay so close, and yet there seemed to be an immense chasm separating them. She felt as if a cold wind swept through the room, howling through the gulf between them, and she shivered.

Feeling suddenly abashed to be lying here naked, she sat up. For an instant, she thought he would reach to pull her back—he half extended his hand—but he lowered his arm instead. She turned and reached for a blanket lying across the end of the bed and wrapped it around her.

His lips were pressed together in a tight line. “I am being nonsensical.” He stood up in one economical movement, ignoring his nakedness and walking across to a table on the far wall where a silver tray held a carafe of wine and several glasses. He poured two goblets of wine and offered her one.

She started to shake her head, then realized how dry her mouth was. She accepted the wine with a murmur of thanks. After taking a sip, Lauryn drew a calming breath and said, “What do you mean, my lord?”

What had she done, or not done, that he objected to? She had armored herself to undertake this role of lover for hire. She had tried to bring him pleasure. He had forbidden her to speak of love. Had he changed his mind? Surely not!

What did he want from her now—perhaps it was simply true that she had not been, would never be good enough at the art of love for such a practiced lover? Lauryn hugged the blanket closer to hide her naked body and looked away, refusing to meet the earl's stare…. She should have known she would never be able to pull off such a charade.

Marcus gulped his wine, a sad abuse of a good vintage. He was acting like a fool. He had asked—made a business arrangement—for her company, for the pleasure of her beautiful body. When had he ever before expected a lady of the evening to offer him her total devotion? Oh, they pretended, of course; his mistresses often spouted words of extravagant affection, but it was only a token display, and both parties knew it. He would be only asking for trouble.

Except that nothing about this pairing was as usual; for one thing, she was not really a woman of the evening, and he had known that from the beginning, although she still did not know that he knew. And she did seem starved for physical affection, and he had almost at once come to crave her touch. The delicate beauty of her face, her body, her fair hair and unusual green eyes which revealed so much intelligence and spirit and sensitivity—and so much emotion that she couldn't seem to completely hide…it awoke an answering hunger inside him, and he wanted to see her respond fully, he wanted to see her smile, dammit, and allow her eyes to open candidly to his, not slide away from his gaze to veil themselves beneath lowered lids.

Yet, he knew had no right to ask it—how could he?

But he did.

Anger simmered inside him at the injustice. He knew he was behaving irrationally—he had not contracted for her total devotion—he had no right to expect it. He wanted so much that made no real sense.

'
Ware your heart, Marcus
, he told himself, swallowing the rest of the wine with one gulp. You are no green lad to wear it on your sleeve. Recollect the last “lady” you tossed back into the street—she was greedy and lascivious enough to please a king's regiment.

And just to consider his former mistress and Mrs. Smith—he wished to hell he knew her real name—in the same breath was to do the latter an enormous injustice!

But nonetheless, he glanced at her—still curled up on the rug, pulling the blanket around her, as she watched him uncertainly. Had he frightened her? No, she met his glance with her chin up; she had courage enough. Her gaze was wary, however, and he tried to soften his expression. The smooth white shoulder with its lack of covering, the wisp of red gold hair that fell over her bare neck—already desire was rising once more inside him. Damn, the effect this lady had on him was unparalleled.

She was like the drug that kept a opium-crazed man asleep for days in an opium den, lost to the world. He couldn't get enough of her. Almost despite himself, he moved closer, bent to kiss that soft, tender skin, and he felt her shiver with response.

But to his surprise, she stood and drew her blanket around her, unsmiling as she met his eyes. “If I am not satisfying you, my lord, perhaps we should reconsider our arrangement.”

Let her go? When adders sang and pigs could fly!

He put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Do I satisfy you, my dear Mrs. Smith?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Of course.”

“Then why should you suppose that you should not satisfy me?”

“I—” She flushed. “I–I suspect I lack your experience in the art of lovemaking, your lordship.”

“You have a natural zest that makes up for any possible deficit of well-practiced technique, not that I find you in any way lacking. If I did, that is an expertise we should devise together,” he told her, allowing his hand to slide beneath her cloaking blanket and cup the soft skin of her breast. She quivered with response, and he felt his body react to hers with a hunger that surged through his whole consciousness. He held himself in check, careful not to reveal the effort his self-control demanded. “And besides, perhaps I simply prefer you the way you are.”

Blinking in apparent surprise, she looked up into his eyes.

“There is no one else I would rather have in my bed tonight,” he told her, his tone very gentle.

Her lovely green eyes widened, and then for the barest moment, he saw it—that shadow that passed across her face at inauspicious times. Then she looked away again. And this time he could not leave it alone.

“And who do you think of now?” he said, almost gritting his teeth, steeling himself to hear the answer. “Who is the man you would prefer to me? Who is it that comes between us?”

“No, no,” she protested. “You misunderstand, my lord.”

“Tell me who you are thinking of!” he demanded, his hands moving to grip her by the shoulders, his voice suddenly stern.

She gazed at him in alarm, but there was no denying that at this moment he had her undivided attention.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“My husband,” she said faintly.

A long moment of silence, and he felt his jaw go stiff. “You are not a widow?” Had he been taken in by a more clever ploy than he had suspected? Had he been completely mistaken in her? The hurt implicit in that thought sent cold icing through his whole being.

She paled. “No, no, my lord. I am indeed a widow,” she protested. “That is the truth, I swear on my sacred oath!”

His relief was palpable, and it took several moments—and the look of pain in her face—before he realized he was gripping her shoulders much too tightly. He loosened his grip, though he did not let her go completely—
he could not let her go
! Something inside him echoed the words again and again.

This woman was meant to be his. She belonged to him, whatever her name, whatever her marital status; but thank all the gods she did not have a living husband. And yet, still—

He tried to think what this complication meant to him, to them both.

“So I must compete with a dead man,” he said, his voice low.

Eyes wide, she chewed on her lower lip and did not answer.

Of course she was not experienced, or she would have better hidden the truth, he thought. She would not have allowed him to glimpse her abstraction. And he was a madman that he cared. Her husband was buried, dust, fed to the worms; why should it concern him if her thoughts still turned to her late spouse?

Because it did. Because her heart must still be there. Because he wanted her heart, dammit.

He wanted her attention, her total concentration. Perhaps it made no sense, what he felt about this woman who had walked into his life, but that hardly mattered. He desired her beautiful body, but it was so much more than that; he discovered that with every passing day he wanted more and more from her—far more than their “business arrangement.” He did—he would not, could not let her go.

And he did not dare tell her so now. He feared he would frighten her away.

So he pressed his lips together and reined in his regenerating passion. She watched him with a touch of distrust that he could not allow to build.

“You must be tired,” he said instead. “Would you like more wine?” He held out the carafe, but she shook her head. Her goblet was still half full.

“Shall I leave you to your rest?”

He hoped she would refuse and offer to share her bed with him instead, even if they did not make love again. Lately, he had been too aware of how empty his own bed was when she left it. He had never had that feeling before, when his mistress of the moment had turned away. In fact, he had usually been ready to be alone.

To his disappointment, she smiled at him, but did not dispute his suggestion.

“I am weary,” she agreed. “And you are a most considerate lover, my lord.”

Keeping his expression courteous, refusing to reveal any negative emotion, he stood and bowed as gravely as if he were fully dressed.

“I shall see you in the morning,” he told her. “The servants will return to see to our breakfast. Then we shall ride into the harbor town to see what I can learn about the
Brave Lassie
's cargo.”

Lauryn nodded, remembering the real reason they had come to the area. It was not, of course, just to make love in the privacy of this lovely little hunting box. When the earl had shut the bedroom door behind him, she rose and put on a nightgown and finished making herself ready for the night.

She really was tired, and the jumble of emotions inside her made her feel even more drained.

Why had the earl demanded to know about her husband? Why did he want to know her private feelings—why on earth did he care?

She'd never heard that a courtesan was supposed to have emotions—oh, just say it—was supposed to love the man she served. And he had said there was to be no thought of emotions between them. She must have misunderstood his meaning tonight.

Snuffing the candle beside her bed, Lauryn pulled the covers up and lay back, trying to still the thoughts tumbling around in her mind so that she could sleep. Tonight, even past the usual guilt that dogged her, she was puzzled by the earl's behavior. It would not help that she did not understand his reactions—she didn't even understand her own! Sighing, she changed position again as she tried to push the mishmash in her mind aside. Eventually, she slept.

When she woke to hear the first birds singing outside her window, she blinked and yawned and found herself little refreshed. When she rose and glanced in the looking glass, she saw she had dark circles under her eyes, the sign of a restless night.

A maidservant soon brought up a tray and warm water and was there to help her dress.

Lauryn was glad to sip the hot tea and sample the fresh-made bread, still warm from the oven, and the other equally tasty foodstuffs that filled the tray. Shaking her head at her reflection, she washed and dressed and did what she could to disguise her wan complexion. When the earl sent word, she was ready to join him downstairs.

She found him pacing restlessly in the hall. He was dressed for riding. Expecting to once again be left alone in the carriage, she was startled by his first words.

“I should have asked earlier, but do you ride, Mrs. Smith?”

He saw the answering flicker of anticipation that lit up her eyes before she mastered her expression.

“After I married, I learned to ride and enjoy it very much,” she said slowly. “But I'm afraid I do not have any riding clothes with me.”

He could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“We will not be stopped by such a small thing as that,” he said, smiling. “It's a beautiful day, and I have a nice little mare in my stable here that I think you would enjoy. There are several riding habits upstairs in the clothespress.” He did not have to look at her hips and waist and the sweet curves of her breasts to judge their size—he remembered them well from having them encased delightfully inside his palms. “I'm sure you can find something that fits well enough.”

She brightened at once. “I will be swift,” she promised, turning to ascend the stairs.

She was true to her word, and when she returned, he escorted her outside, where the groom had brought two horses to await them. One was the earl's usual steed, the other a mare of medium height, an attractive chestnut with bright eyes and long mane.

Lauryn exclaimed, “Oh, what a beauty!”

Marcus smiled. It pleased him to see her excitement about her chance to ride. He motioned the groom away and helped her up into the saddle himself, watching her settle herself easily into place.

He mounted his own horse, and nodded to his companion. “The harbor is not far; we will have only a short ride.”