London's Most Wanted Rake (10 page)

She met his thrusts, arching into him, their cries mingling until they were both lost in the other. She was aware in an abstract sense of consciousness that his hair had fallen over his face, that his head was buried at her shoulder. She was aware, too, that she was no longer in charge, that Channing had taken over the interaction entirely and was directing it, driving them with each thrust to an explosive conclusion. She was consumed entirely with the act as he pumped furiously into her one last time.

He held her to him, letting the power of the climax consume them both. He was her anchor in these precious moments where her mind was blank, empty of everything but the enormity of what they had wrought between them. Surely this was the eighth wonder of the world? She did not want to let go. She was content to stay wrapped in his arms, his phallus still inside her as it recovered, their breathing beginning to slow, his heart beating against hers, skin to skin in an ever-steadying rhythm. Then came the moment he withdrew from her and rolled to his side. She felt strangely bereft except for the connection of his gaze, binding them, connected as if this was more than sex, as if it mattered. No wonder he was London’s finest.

‘Do you look at all the women you bed like this?’ Alina asked drowsily. She felt him tense momentarily and winced. In her current state, she had not thought that last question out.

But Channing played along as if nothing were amiss. He drew a circle around the aureole of her breast and smiled. ‘And how is that exactly?’ It was a heart-stoppingly sincere smile that would have melted her had she not already been a pile of useless, disconnected bones.

‘As if I am your rapture,’ Alina ventured.

Channing gave a laugh. ‘Oh, that way. Then the answer is no. Only you. I look at only you that way.’

‘I suppose you say that to all the girls,’ she flirted a little.

‘No, not all of them.’ He favoured the side of her neck with a kiss. ‘Just the ones who serve me champagne naked.’

He was teasing her now and she was more awake, her senses recovered. She propped herself up on an arm and reached for him. ‘You’re a wicked tease, Channing Deveril, and for that you should be punished.’ He was stirring against her hand already.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I suggest this.’ She kissed him hard on the mouth and rolled on top of him. ‘I get to ride you in revenge.’ She put her hands behind her head so that her breasts were in full relief and rose up over him, coming down to take him inside, feeling him harden within her as she slid down his length.

‘Ah, this is why they say revenge is sweet.’ Channing grinned.

Chapter Ten

C
hanning’s internal clock, the one every gentleman of a certain repute carried within him to urge him out of bed before the house roused, nudged him awake around five in the morning. But that healthy dose of self-preservation, the one that had rolled him out of Marianne Bixley’s lavender-scented bed and encouraged him to leave immediately failed him. The sight of Alina asleep beside him, her hair spread on the pillow like a pale fan, created a powerful argument to stay. Her maid, Celeste, wouldn’t mind if she came in and found her mistress abed with him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Channing stifled a groan. This was where it got complicated, the game within the game—was it real or did it just
seem
real? Last night, she’d seduced him like the best of Venetian courtesans, everything carefully, artfully choreographed for maximum effect and yet executed so effortlessly that it appeared natural and one soon forgot that perhaps it wasn’t.

It was the ‘perhaps’ that bothered him the most. Like himself, she was a sensual, sexual creature at heart. In the bedroom arts, she matched him pleasure for pleasure, fantasy for fantasy. But how much of it meant something? Any of it? None of it? Was she playing with him the way he’d played with so many women who’d come to the League over the years, looking for something temporarily satisfying in their mundane lives?

Why did he do this to himself? His logical mind knew these answers and it was laughing at his less-logical self that insisted on taking these questions out yet again and exploring them. First, he knew empirically she had the capacity to play with him. She’d shunned him brutally in Paris after he’d offered her the world, traded his offering for satins and jewels. Second, she’d been attempting to distract him since he arrived. She’d made it clear she didn’t want him probing into her business too closely. Last night might have been fun, but the more fool he was if he didn’t acknowledge it was also just another level of distraction. He wasn’t the only one playing a game within a game here.

But he was also a fool if he didn’t acknowledge how it had made him feel. Being with Alina could not be compared to any of his other assignments. Those were mere exercises in the physical. This was something
more.
Which was likely why he kept revisiting the same old question: did this mean anything? Could he let it mean anything? Even though he knew the risks and had done all he could to protect himself from hurt.

He knew his rules: seduce the information and nothing else. She could not be trusted with anything else. She’d broken his young man’s heart once upon a time. He should know better. Yet he couldn’t say he was making much headway there. He was no closer to knowing what she wanted with Seymour than before the summerhouse. He gave a little laugh. He hadn’t meant to do it out loud. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Well, that was certainly an adage he wouldn’t mind employing with Alina.

‘You’re thinking too much,’ Alina murmured beside him, snuggling into the notch of his shoulder.

‘I was thinking about you.’

‘That gives us something in common. I was thinking about
you
.’ Her hand disappeared beneath the sheets. A moment later he felt it close around his cock, warm and sure.

‘What about your maid?’ Channing asked, but it was pro forma. At the moment, he could not care less if the whole house party walked in on them.

‘Don’t worry—’ Alina smiled ‘—she likes you.’

‘And you?’ Channing was fishing in deep waters now, but he’d been lucky so far. ‘Do you like me?’

Alina leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, her thumb running over the head of his penis in a delicious caress. ‘What do you think?’

It was not an answer, but he was too smart to press his advantage. He’d let her be in charge for the moment. He’d have his chance later. He had a little game of seductive Q and A in mind that would help further his cause. The competitive part of him felt as if he was running in second place. She had what she wanted—he’d got the introduction for her—
and
she had the pleasure of his company in bed to boot. What did he have? Certainly nothing he’d thought to use the latter to acquire. Was she using him again? Was he letting her?

He gave a gasp as her thumb hit a sensitive spot. He didn’t mind right now, but he was going to. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let her use him again

* * *

The lack of an explicit response from her had nagged at him the rest of the day. It had nagged him throughout the picnic to yet another nearby set of Roman ruins and it was nagging him still by the time he returned to his room to dress for dinner and the ball that was to follow. The house party would end the day after next, giving the guests time to recoup after the late evening of dancing tonight.

Technically, his obligation to Alina ended then, too. Amery’s contract would be fulfilled. He should feel relief, but he didn’t. After having reconnected with her, he felt nothing but loose ends at the prospect of leaving her. In part, those loose ends were the situation with Seymour. But also, the loose ends stemmed from things done but never spoken of in their past. Did they dare address Paris? Did they dare address the Christmas party? They would quarrel certainly, which was no doubt why they’d not brought either episode up. And what would it solve?

Channing dismissed his valet and headed downstairs, tucking a sapphire stick pin in the snowy folds of his cravat as he went. Still, he could tie up some of those loose ends tonight in regards to Seymour.

By his estimate, he was a little early. Alina would not be down yet. She would make her entrance as always right before the dinner bell. But when he entered the drawing room, he found he was absolutely mistaken.

Alina was present early and she was already engaged in conversation with none other than Roland Seymour. A spear of intense dislike stabbed through him. He was seldom a jealous man. Women came and went through his life and he spared them little covetous thought once their time together had passed. It was the nature of his business. But this—watching Alina focus all the attention of her blue eyes on the undeserving Seymour, knowing she stood close enough that Seymour could smell the delicate floral scent of her, that he could even drop his eyes a shade lower and glimpse a peek at her exquisite cleavage—this was torture.

Seymour leaned close. Alina laughed up at him and Channing knew raw envy. It was primal and poorly done for a man of his sophistication and experience. She couldn’t possibly be interested in the likes of Seymour, not when she had had him in her bed. He’d given her pleasure last night, she’d gifted him with pleasure as well. One didn’t go to such lengths for a man who meant nothing: the Moët, the intimate caress of mouth and hands on him by the fire. It would be a long time before the memory of her naked body silhouetted by the flame, the Moët in her hand as she poured for him, would fade to respectable proportions. A man could die happy after a night like that.

And yet she had come down early and sought out the questionable Roland Seymour, who, even at this late date in the house party, remained on the fringes, having failed to penetrate the inner circle of the more elite guests like Durham and Barrett. Even the host spared only the required amount of time politeness demanded with Seymour. So what did Alina mean by it?

It seemed he was asking that question about a lot of things she did, yet clearly Seymour meant something to her. She needed him for something, something important enough to drag her to this house party, which, aside from its inspired egg hunt, was not so special in its location or guest list. The Comtesse de Charentes surely had better choices for how she spent the short break before the Season began and for how she dared to risk her reputation.

‘You’re staring.’ Elliott Priest came up beside him, a friend from the London clubs who’d been invited, too. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever seen you stare before. But then, there aren’t many women like her. I can’t blame you. I’d stare, too.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I wonder what she sees in him?’

Channing gave a short laugh. ‘I was wondering the same thing myself.’ Elliott provided an excellent diversion. It would serve him far better to pass the time before dinner chatting with Elliott than it would to be caught staring at Alina. So for the sake of appearances he applied himself to Elliott’s conversation, letting his gaze drift only occasionally to the corner of the room Alina occupied with Seymour.

* * *

He was watching her. Alina could feel the intensity of his gaze even at a distance, as brief as it was. Thank goodness Channing had stopped staring outright. It had been difficult to pretend she wasn’t aware, difficult to give Seymour all of her simpering attentions. Play the game, she’d admonished herself. But it was hard to keep all the games straight. Only the first one was going well. She had Seymour right where she wanted him. She had Channing right where she wanted him, too—in her bed, but that game was becoming murky, probably because it had ceased to be one. She knew better. The last thing she needed was Channing around to poke his nose into her business with Seymour. It was bad enough he was staring daggers across the room at her and he didn’t even know exactly what she was up to. He would certainly not like it any better when he heard the particulars. ‘Do you think Mr Deveril will be a problem?’ Seymour’s comment forced her to focus.

‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s not a man of business, after all,’ Alina said dismissively, implying that Channing’s pursuits were more leisurely in nature.

Seymour cocked a knowing eyebrow in her direction. ‘I don’t doubt that at all—one hears things, you know.’

Alina fought the urge to bristle. It was one thing to be dismissive; it was another to be derisive. A man like Roland Seymour had no right to sit in judgement on the son of a peer. But she hated herself for the quick defence. This was the problem with Channing, he was so likeable even when she knew better. It was his
job
to be likeable. He’d made likeability into an art form and into a fortune as the head of the League of Discreet Gentlemen, something most of London had yet to empirically verify.

She put a hand on Seymour’s sleeve. ‘Thank you for signing the contracts before dinner. I will be able to enjoy my evening now, knowing that everything is in your capable hands.’

The dinner bell rang and the gentleman she was supposed to walk in with came to claim her. Alina felt a sense of relief. In England, a decent woman didn’t leave one man to seek the company of another, but she hated being trapped with Seymour now that her business was conducted. There was nothing more to do on that end but wait and watch. He would reveal himself soon enough and she would be there to ensure he never took advantage of another woman again.

* * *

Dinner was festive. Everyone was in high spirits from the picnic and the anticipation of the dancing to come. She made conversation with the married gentleman on her left and the single gentleman on her right, miles down the table from Channing, which suited her purposes at the moment. She wanted to avoid his questions about Seymour. It was temporary relief only. She couldn’t avoid them for ever.

Everyone had worn their ball attire to dinner and adjourned to the drawing room for dancing. Immediately after the meal, local guests had begun to arrive and the women had been given darling little dance cards done up in pale-pink card stock and embossed in gold trim to dangle from their wrists. It didn’t take long for Channing to materialise at her side and claim two dances.

‘I should like to claim more than two,’ he drawled pleasantly, picking up the pencil and signing the card with a bold C.D. in the third and last slots. ‘He returned the card to her. ‘However, I realise we can’t have anyone from the party carrying tales to London.’ She understood he was daring her to a public breaking of the rules.

Alina lowered her voice to a seductive pitch. ‘Does that mean I’ll be drinking Moët in my room alone?’

Channing flashed her a quick smile. ‘Absolutely not. It’s only necessary to be discreet if there’s something to hide. One implies the other, you see.’

Alina dropped her eyes in a demure pose. ‘I must thank you for the clarification, Mr Deveril.’ There were others beginning to approach. Channing couldn’t overstay his welcome.

He laughed and raised her hand to his lips in a showy gesture. ‘You don’t fool me for a moment. Until then.’

Until then.
When was that? Until the third dance when he brought up Seymour? Until the last dance when he’d bring up Seymour? She’d fully expected he’d take the first chance to ask her what she and Seymour had been discussing so avidly before dinner. But he hadn’t. He’d merely signed her dance card, flirted a bit and moved on to sign other dance cards. Which he was expected to do—it was his job as a party guest to see that all the ladies were accommodated with all the dancing they desired.

She ought to take his coming to her first as a private sign of his esteem, a sign that he’d built his evening around her dance schedule, but she couldn’t. She knew too much. They were playing a game, although it was hard to tell which one. Had this been about Seymour or had it been about the other game? Why hadn’t he asked about Seymour? Or maybe it was just about getting even because now all she wanted to do was run across the drawing room and shake him and shout, ‘Why won’t you ask me about Seymour!’

Alina tried to set such thoughts from her mind and enjoy the dancing. He would ask her when he asked her and there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

The thought was there at the back of her mind the whole evening, creating a layer of tension. The third dance, a waltz, came and she fully expected Channing to mention it. A waltz was the perfect time to ask since there were no partners to move between. But all he did was flirt with his eyes and make love to her with the fluid movements of his body. She doubted anyone danced the waltz as well as Channing Deveril.

It was empirically true. The unbidden memory surfaced as he swept her through the steps. It had been at the ill-fated Christmas party, their last engagement before the contract officially ended. There had been dancing and Channing had been a most sought-after partner. She’d watched him dance with all the young ladies, each of them feeling like a queen when he was with them, the way she felt when she was with him. They were all just another job to him, even her, no matter what she wanted to believe.