My Surrender (11 page)

“But now…”

“ ‘Now’ what?” she demanded.

“I am mortified that my gender has given such a poor account of itself, the evidence being that your previous experiences have been so obviously brief and forgettable.”

“They weren’t forgettable,” she denied hotly. “They were very nice.”

“Nice.” He gave a delicate shudder—putting her much in mind of her brother-in-law Ram when he was most disgusted with something. “ ‘Nice’ isn’t the experience one is striving for when engaged in a passionate embrace. In fact, in the lexicon of passion ‘nice’ is a condemnation, an embarrassment. In short, a failure.”

He was regarding her like a kindly tutor. A light breeze ruffled his freshly shorn hair. His razor had scraped the side of his throat. The raw mark made him look both vulnerable and strong, a contradiction that caused all sorts of odd, sensual bursts to go off in her stomach.

“There is
nothing
wrong with ‘nice,’ ” she declared firmly. “One doesn’t have to abandon oneself to one’s baser nature, to feel agitated and harassed and fraught with unseemly sensations in order to declare a kiss a triumph.”

He grinned wickedly. “Well, yes, actually one does.”

She turned away. “It is no use discussing this with you. You clearly have a completely different perspective than I. One taken from a very low angle, I might add.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the little bonuses we at the lower end of the social spectrum enjoy. Alas, it’s not a clean profession you’ve chosen to simulate, Lottie, me luv. And a kiss, a proper kiss, is a wet and heated, straining and urgent, affair.”

“It sounds exhausting,” she intoned coolly before adding the ultimate condemnation. “And messy.”

“Aye, that it is.” His burr, notably absent during his impersonation of her French lover, had returned, whiskey smooth and velvety soft. “A successful kiss clouds the thoughts of the clearest mind, makes fools of principles, wreaks havoc with intention, destroys all sense of self-preservation and substitutes yearning in its stead.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would fancy such a thing,” she said primly. He answered with a wolfish smile.

“That is what I was afraid of. You’ll have to trust me in this, Lottie. There is something wondrous in being held captive by sensation, in losing control and giving rein to passion and instinct. In passionate surrender, one finds the ultimate freedom.”

His words awoke a surge of longing and teased the adventuress in her soul into breathless anticipation.

He tapped her playfully on the nose, breaking the hypnotic spell his words had cast over her. “Now, despite your personal preferences in the matter, your current attitude will never do. You simply don’t have the aura of a woman in the midst of a dangerous liaison. Luckily, we can remedy that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.

“What your former partners failed to supply, I can provide.”

“And what would that be?” she asked tartly.

“Experience. An experience that will decidedly not be ‘nice.’ ”

Her breath caught in her throat.

The corner of his mouth rose in a lopsided smile and he lifted the hand lying along the back of the carriage, his thumb skating just above the corner of her mouth. “What about it, Lottie? Ready to get a little messy?” His voice was low, suggestive, and irresistible.

“No.”

“What? Not even for God and country? Where is the tough, worldly temptress you claimed to be?” He was laughing at her. Charlotte hated being laughed at. No, that was not entirely correct. She was generally accounted a woman well able to laugh at her own follies. It was having Dand Ross laugh at her that she hated.

She hesitated. Perhaps she did need a patina of…whatever it was Dand thought she so sorely lacked. Perhaps…for the right reason…

“All right.”

She’d surprised him. It was clear he hadn’t expected her to acquiesce.

A thought occurred to her. It was as tempting as Dand’s wicked suggestion.
She might teach Dand a thing or two, too.

“What would you like me to do?” she asked serenely.

“Relax.” His thumb swept gently along her lower lip. “This isn’t the Inquisition, you know. And just because we are aiming for something other than ‘nice,’ doesn’t mean it will be unpleasant.”

“Promises, promises,” she murmured, eyeing him from beneath her lashes while remarking with satisfaction the tiniest start in his expression.

For a short while there she’d forgotten who she was: Charlotte Nash, Society’s most coming chit, as fly to the time of day as a woman twice her age, a fluent temptress, a naughty wench, and an acknowledged heartbreaker. But now she’d remembered and she would make Dand remember, too, and if he hadn’t ever known her reputation was warranted, well, he would soon enough.

He leaned forward and brushed his mouth gently over hers. It was a kiss quite unlike last night’s fevered entanglement, so soft a bit of down might have imparted as much pressure, so brief, a whispered word lingered longer. Yet, for all its brevity and lightness, it instantly teased to life a thousand rich sensations along the curve of her lip.

Oh, my.

He drew back and looked down. He smiled.

“I don’t believe I have ever kissed a sacrificial virgin before. Will you require oil afterward, do you think, for the pyre?”

She followed his gaze. Her hands were clamped tightly in her lap. This would never do. She had been about to reestablish her reputation as a hoyden and a romp, not dissolve into breathless anticipation after one little kiss.
He
was the one who was supposed to dissolve.

“I am being tepid again.” She managed to say with nothing more than mild regret. “Please. Let me have another go. I swear I will muster some enthusiasm.” She brightened at his look of amazement. “I am by all accounts a fine actress. But tell me,” she furrowed her brow in consternation, “just how much appreciation ought one evince for a gentleman’s efforts?”

His look of surprise disappeared. Whatever momentary advantage she’d gained, vanished. He sank back against the carriage seat, seeming to give her query all due consideration. She couldn’t completely refrain from smiling.

Lud, but she adored playing with Dand Ross! There was no more worthy an opponent.

He scratched his chin with the edge of his thumb, squinting up at the sky. “As loath as I am to admit it,” he finally said, “we males are deplorably easy to control. Our self-esteem is transported or destroyed with the tiniest gesture. A well-timed sigh will make a man your slave, while a frown can cast him into an inferno of self-doubt.”

“I rather fancy making you my slave, Dand,” she said in a husky undertone.

He bent his head modestly. “Well, I was speaking more or less in general. Not all men are so predisposed.”

“You, for instance? Being a superior specimen?” she asked.

Again the modest smile. “Superior? Perhaps less susceptible. But, by all means, if you wish to test your skills, do have a go.”

“I believe I shall.”

With a confidence she was far from feeling, she leaned toward him and reached up, cupping his hard jaw in her palm. He hadn’t shaved since the morning and the stubble of his beard against her soft palm was uniquely, distinctly, and potently masculine.

“I prefer a freshly shaven man,” she lied, fanning her fingers lightly open over his scarred cheek, her fingertips playing delicately over the silky sandpaper. He turned his head, deliberately rubbing his cheek into her hand, like a great tawny cat. “Smooth and civilized. But I approve the scent of your cologne. Sandalwood is my favorite of those gentlemen use.”

With a little thrill she realized that in spite of the amiable expression frozen on his face, his eyes had darkened and his breathing had grown a little
too
even.

He shook his head and she noted for the first time, more by touch than sight, the slight cleft in his chin. “A mistake, that. No man wants to be told his lady has been in close enough proximity to another to note and approve his scent. No matter how innocent the reason.”

“Oh,” she said naughtily, “there is nothing all that innocent about it. My brother-in-law is a most handsome man.”

“Damn his pretty face anyway,” Dand said, and in spite of the smooth smile, there was a little tightness around his eyes. “Do you think you might get on with the kissing and enslaving bit? I have a lunch appointment.”

She laughed. He could say what he liked, she’d seen the little flare of hunger in his gaze. He was not, after all, unsusceptible.

“As you wish,” she purred. She shifted closer, closer…Her eyes locked on his. No sound but the susurration of their mingled breath disturbed the air. Boldly, she swept her index finger against his lower lip. Again. This time running the tip along the sleek inner lining.

He caught it between his teeth and wet the sensitive tip with his tongue.

She shivered. No one had ever done such a thing to her! ’Twas beyond bold. Beyond imagining. Sensation shot straight from that touch to the core of her, flooding her body with electrifying awareness, filling her low in the loins with a liquid fire.

His eyes narrowed, the lids partially shielding his rich, brown eyes, shadowing them with a thicket of gold-tipped lash, making them darker and more luminous. Like a night predator’s. An amused night predator.

He released her fingertip.
“Breathe,
Lottie, m’love! We haven’t even gotten to the kiss, yet! Perhaps we should postpone this little contest for some later time, when you have had a chance to study the field and can bring a bit more artillery to the battlegrounds, as it were?”

More artillery?
With an effort she swallowed the heated retort rising to her lips, but then his words sparked an association in her thoughts: battles, weaponry, her brother-in-law trying to teach her a few of the more rudimentary skills of swordsmanship one dreary afternoon.

She raised one brow. “On the contrary. I haven’t even entered the field yet.”

“Really?” His smile was onerously self-satisfied. He thought he’d chased away her confidence.

She leaned forward, spreading her hands flat against his chest and resting her weight against him. She tilted her face up to his and had the satisfaction of feeling his muscles contract beneath her palm.

“Whatever you do, let it always be done…calmly,”
she silently recited Ram’s first lesson. Dand’s gaze rested watchfully on her.

“And without Precipitation.”
Her lips touched his.

“But still with all Vigor—”
She pressed her mouth more fully over his, tilting her head to make a seamless contact, canting forward so that her breasts, tingling with expectancy, cushioned themselves against him.

Her hands slid down the hard contours of his chest and slipped beneath his open jacket. The silk waistcoat could not mask the rigid corrugation of rib, the taut waist, the flat belly. He was so tight, she thought breathlessly, all of him as solid as stone.

He smelled of sandalwood soap and sun-heated starched linen, and he tasted of coffee and his lips were warm and firm. She deepened the kiss, wrapping her arms about his waist beneath his jacket, willing him to react, to demonstrate some evidence that the sensations rippling through her were shared.

He
was
reacting. She felt his body grow harder, his muscles straining, a thick new presence urgent against her hip.

“Breathe,”
she murmured his own words against his mouth in a triumphant haze of sensuality. She uncoiled her arms from around him.

She thought he would surely end their kiss now, shown up, beaten at the game he’d challenged her to play. She should have known better. He obliged, pulling her back into his embrace, stealing her breath back from her, drawing it in as though trying to winnow her very spirit away.

She turned her head, but he caught her face between his hands. His tongue reached into her mouth, not quickly, like a thief, but slowly. His palm eased round the back of her head and his other arm dipped low and circled around her back.

She should never have accepted the challenge…She should…

Heat flushes rippled through her, tingling in the fingers clinging desperately to the edge of his jacket, mounting in her cheeks, swelling her breasts with a heaviness she didn’t recognize.

Without warning, he dragged her onto his lap, his tongue languidly exploring the heated recesses of her mouth, taunting her to taste him, feel him,
engage
him. She surrendered with a rush of longing that made her head swim.

Her tongue found his, tangling wet and urgent in an open-mouthed kiss. Her hand pushed beneath his jacket and climbed his broad back until she found his muscle-capped shoulders. She clung to him, absorbing the heat of him. He shifted her unresistingly on his lap, tipping her until she lay back. He bent over her, her head cradled against his shoulder. She could feel that most alien part of him even more distinctly now, a demanding masculine reminder of where this sport led, how it must end.

“Dear God,” she thought she heard him mutter. “Not much more, Lottie. I beg you.”

She wanted to stay, feasting on the sensations provided by his body and mouth and arms. But his words reminded her of who she was—Charlotte Nash, a coquette of the most notable degree—and who he was—Dand Ross, not her suitor. Not her lover. They were playing a game and another game within that one and both of them knew it.

She broke away from the kiss, searching for the right tone, the perfect degree of casualness, the lilt of triumph, the sardonic flavor of mockery so he would not know how much she was affected.

“ ‘Beg,’ Dand? Then I may enlist you on the spot as my newest slave?” she demanded, wanting all the while to throw herself back into his arms.

His expression showed no emotion. Without a word, he scooped her up and deposited her lightly back on the passenger side of the carriage before unwrapping the reins from around the brake post.

Only then did she notice the other carriages, moving with suspect leisure away from where they’d parked, their owners either red-faced and avoiding her glance or meeting it with a satyrlike interest.