Mad About the Earl (16 page)

*   *   *

Rosamund let herself out of the house, easing the French window of the conservatory until it was almost shut, but not quite.

Expectation danced along her nerves while the cool night air played over her skin. With a glance over her shoulder and a small, voluptuous shiver, she fled down the steps toward the small summerhouse that stood at the edge of the fountain.

The evening had seemed to stretch into eternity. Montford had escorted her to a dull musicale that necessitated sitting still for hours feigning interest in the sedate strains of a string quartet when she itched to be gone. Even worse, the principal entertainment of the night was canceled due to the soprano’s indisposition.

The hostess threw her thin-voiced daughter into the breach, and sad work the girl had made of the program. Most of the audience chattered through the dismal performance. Montford had remained silent, contemplating the molded ceiling with an expression of pained endurance, but Rosamund felt so sorry for the poor young lady that she listened attentively and applauded at the end.

All the while, her nerves had screamed at her to flee.

Finally, they’d returned home. Rosamund had allowed Meg to undress her and brush out her hair and put her to bed, only to throw back the bedclothes and scramble out of bed again as soon as Meg left the room. Dressing herself hadn’t been easy. Abandoning all hope of lacing a corset, she donned a chemise and chose a simple blue round gown and some dancing slippers and sat by her window to wait for the household to settle.

Andrew hadn’t come in yet, and neither had Xavier, but they might not be back until daylight. She’d have to take the risk of one of them spotting her as she crept out to keep her tryst with Griffin.

He was her affianced husband, so she wasn’t too concerned that her behavior would rate serious censure. She simply didn’t want to share what they did this night with anyone. Particularly not with her male cousins.

Now, finally, the moment had arrived. She hurried along the path, skirting the fountain and continuing on until she came to the place she’d proposed to meet him.

He loomed in the doorway of the summerhouse, a massive, muscled form in trousers and a loose white shirt. A frisson of fear shot through her, raising her senses to a pitch of heightened awareness. Every sight, every scent, every touch, every sound intensified to an almost unbearable degree.

The summerhouse dripped with wisteria and honeysuckle. Their delicate blooms shivered in the breeze, wafting a scent as wild and heady as her mood. The only sound was the gentle rush of soft night air whispering through the trees.

That, and the rasp of her quickened breathing.

“You came,” he said.

His voice seemed to resonate deep inside her. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

His shoulders raised in a shrug. “I wondered if your scruples might overbear your courage. I’m glad they didn’t.”

Pleasurable anticipation had almost made her forget she’d protested vehemently against this rendezvous. She hardly knew why she continued the charade of reluctance. Some deeply feminine instinct seemed to dictate that she should.

She’d follow that instinct and see where it led her. It had brought her this far, after all.

“I honor my bargains, my lord,” she said, making her voice prim.

“Is that so?” He reached out and touched her upturned face, feathering his knuckles gently down her cheek. “I trust you won’t find this obligation too onerous.”

The most onerous part was continuing to stand when her knees had softened to jelly.

“Come,” he said, and led her into the darkness.

Inside the glass walls, the warmth of the day still lingered. A lantern burned low in the corner. He’d lit a few candles here and there to give the place ambient light. Ranged along one wall was a banquette covered in silk cushions. A wrought-iron table and chairs stood in the center of the room, and pot plants and hanging baskets dotted about gave the impression of the outdoors.

She’d been here countless times, yet now the place was an enchanted bower, full of moonlight and shadows and scents that were piercingly sweet.

But all she could focus on was Griffin and how much she longed for his kiss.

He turned and stood there, watching her, a bright-eyed predator of the night.

Seconds ticked by, and he did not move or speak. The tension built inside her until she could bear it no longer.

To goad him, she said, “We ought to set rules before we start.”

He blinked. Then a muscle jumped in his jaw. “You’re not serious.”

“Of course,” she said. “This is a bargain, is it not? Intimacies in exchange for social interaction. But I am not experienced in intimacies. I want to know what you mean to do.”

Rosamund eyed him with the unnerving sensation that she’d just poked a tiger with a stick. His body seemed coiled, bunched with tension, as if at any moment he might spring.

She sucked in a breath, her hesitancy no longer feigned. “I don’t wish to be taken by surprise.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing left to agree upon. The intimacies are whatever I want them to be.” Then he tilted his head. “Unless,” he purred, “you have suggestions.”

Oh, Lord.
She swallowed hard. “Not suggestions, no. But surely I have the power of veto.”

He moved toward her. “You surrendered all power to me when you walked through that door.”

His gaze ranged over her, lingering here and there, as if he were calculating which part of her to devour first. Suddenly, she was afraid she’d granted him license to do far more than she ever imagined he might.

When he looked at her like that, she felt as if a giant hand picked her up and shook her until her defenses fell away, leaving her vulnerable, exposed to the caress of his gaze.

Where had her courage gone? She’d expected to be more than a match for him, even in this arena. Too late to discover she’d been wrong.

Griffin’s manner was intent and assured. He knew exactly what he was doing. She knew only what she’d been able to glean from snippets of conversation, hushed whispers about her mother, and the gems of information Jane had been willing to impart.

In other words, a mélange of theory and no practical experience at all.

Instinctively, Rosamund retreated. He followed, until the edge of a table stopped her and there were mere inches between them.

He smiled with a flash of white teeth, then closed in and planted his hands on the table on either side of her, caging her body with his.

She leaned back as far as she could, but there was no escape. He loomed over her, his ruined face stark in the moonlight.

Her breathing quickened, and she inhaled his scent. He smelled like a forest, mysterious and dark. Something inside her craved his touch, but she did not want to be overwhelmed by his darkness. She did not wish to lose herself in him and leave her heart behind.

“Frightened?” His tone mocked her. His breath held the faint sweet scent of wine.

“You are no gentleman, sir,” she whispered.

“Just discovered that now, have you?” he murmured. Then his mouth descended to hers.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

To Rosamund’s shock, his lips were gentle. They brushed against her mouth, caressing, teasing.

Once. Twice. She lost count of the times as their breaths mingled and their lips clung and molded and moved in opposition yet completely in concert. And she was falling, losing her grip on fear, abandoning herself to the darkness.

Tentative, but eager, she opened her mouth to the insistent press of his tongue. With a rumble of approval in his throat, he slid his arm around her waist, drawing her up against his big body. Her feet left the floor and she felt weightless, helpless, as he swung her into his arms.

He walked to the wide banquette and sat down with her draped over his lap. His strength surrounded her, and the renewed force of his kisses set her senses on fire.

Rosamund stroked her hands along his massive shoulders, exploring their contours, the great muscled expanse of his chest.

She needed to get closer still. She wanted more. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through his crisp dark hair and urged his mouth harder against hers.

That seemed to snap the last tether of his restraint. With a groan, he caught her against him and plundered her, slanting his mouth over hers, delving into her with firm, suggestive strokes. She met him with all the passion and desperation he’d aroused in her.

As if spurred on by her response, he nipped her bottom lip and she shuddered at the welcome violence of it. How could she have known that sharp instant of pain would feel so sinfully pleasurable?

His mouth slid down to her neck, sending new thrills of sensation through her. She gasped and squirmed against him, gasped again when he grazed his teeth against the tender skin at her throat.

With a low hum of satisfaction, he raised his head and watched as he stroked a fingertip along her clavicle, then dipped beneath the gathered neckline of the gown. Ignoring her shocked denial, he slid the material away to bare her shoulder and the top of one breast.

His fingers delved lower. She gave a halfhearted whimper of protest, but he silenced it with his kiss and boldly tugged her bodice down. The cool night air tingled deliciously at her exposed nipple. The sensation was so illicit and thrilling, she could not bring herself to care about modesty anymore.

When he bit down on a sensitive tendon in her shoulder, she cried out and arched and melted against him; any vague notion that she should resist went up in flames.

His deep voice was hot in her ear. “I need to see the rest of you. Show me.”

Moved by some wanton compulsion she didn’t understand, she put a hand up to the side of her bodice that still covered her. With shaking fingers, she slid the capped sleeve from her shoulder, then hesitated.

“More.”

Wicked with need, Rosamund slid her thumb between the layer of her chemise and her skin and slowly, slowly drew the material down. She reveled in the rasp of his breathing as she bared herself, inch by inch. The gathers of her bodice cinched the gown around her torso while the top hung down, leaving her breasts bare.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Now stand up.”

His awed approval made her bold. She did as he asked, though her knees shook. Her heart gave a sharp pound when she understood the reason for his demand. His head was now level with her naked breasts. From this position, he could look his fill.

The thought did not seem abhorrent or embarrassing as it might have before all this began. She was flooded with excitement. The vague, nagging sense that she might regret this loss of control later drowned in a king tide of passion.

Griffin settled back against the cushions, his eyes glittering. His gravel-rough voice abraded her nerves. “Cup your hands beneath them,” he ordered. “Lift them up.”

One part of her mind couldn’t believe she was doing this, but all sense of shame and restraint had fled. She was a sensual, desirable creature, and Griffin would be her husband soon. He ordered and she must obey. She took the weight of her breasts in her hands and presented them to him.

Hunger ignited his eyes to a blaze. She didn’t need to hear his hoarse murmur of approval to know that he was as aroused as she.

Leaning forward, he bent his head to one hard, puckered nipple and feasted. She threw her head back and swayed into him, relishing the rapturous torture. He set his hands to her waist to steady her against the workings of his mouth and lips and tongue, trapping her in an upward spiral of bliss.

His hand lifted her skirts. His quick fingers grazed her thigh, then touched her in the place between her legs in delicious, sinful ways.

The shuddering sensations took her unawares. With a broken cry, she let her mind spin away as she surrendered to pleasure.

Wave after wave of rapture pounded through her until she felt wrung out with it. When she could stand it no longer, she drove her fingers through his hair and lifted his head so that he had to look up at her.

Tenderness welled inside her. “Griffin,” she said. “Oh, Griffin, I—”

But there were no words, or at least she could not find them just then.

Instead, she bent to kiss him on the mouth.

*   *   *

The innocence of that kiss after the depravity he’d inflicted on her person threw Griffin off balance. His scattered wits slowly picked up and dusted themselves off and returned to assume their duties in his brain.

What had he been thinking?

The truth: After drawing her into the intimate ambience of the summerhouse, he had not been thinking at all. He’d challenged her, he’d aroused, worshipped, loved her … in a purely carnal way, of course.

This
kiss was no prelude to ravishment but an end in itself, a burst of pure sweetness, like the heavenly rush of flavor from a ripe, warm strawberry that exploded on the tongue. That kiss aimed to seduce his heart even as he seduced her body.

He didn’t mean to let it.