One Night of Sin (11 page)

“I can’t stay, Alec.”

“Of course you can. You must,” he purred. “Think about it.”

When she realized that after this night she could never see him again, she suddenly wanted to cry. She could never let Mikhail find out that Alec Knight had been the one. She held him harder, clutching him with a new and private desperation.

“Oh, God, you’re delectable, Becky,” he breathed a few minutes later, his muscled chest damp and heated against hers. “It’s heaven inside you.” She sensed his taut control beginning to fray, but he fought to hold back, letting her take her pleasure of him. “Look into my eyes when you let go. I want to feel it with you. I want to watch you come. That’s right, Becky. Just let it happen.”

All of this was miraculously unexpected, but she only then began to realize that the best part lay ahead as pleasure turned to bliss, and bliss to ecstasy.

Her cries climbed in volume and in pitch. Their pace slowed; his strokes deepened. Her body felt made of pure light, pure love, as she held Alec’s sweetly tortured stare.

“Oh, Becky. I need you.”

“Alec.”

“Yes,” he panted, half a growl. He swooped down fiercely and claimed her mouth in a wild and fevered kiss, his arms locked tight around her body. He thrust into her like the end of the world was upon them, again and again, his own violent climax prolonging the exquisite shudders that racked her body. His gasps raged, hot and jagged by her ear, until he collapsed atop her, breathing hard.

Becky was out somewhere in the universe. A million tiny stars twinkled in her blood; in the silken darkness, she floated on the night’s tranquil hush.

Alec turned his head on their shared pillow and gave her a tousled, heartbreaking smile, one she knew she’d remember for the rest of her life. He just shook his head and pulled her closer.

Spent and still breathing heavily herself, Becky’s arm felt like lead as she lifted her fingers and dragged a weary caress down the side of his sweat-dampened face. Alec captured her hand and pressed an ardent kiss into her palm. Then he took a deep, cozy breath and hugged her with a lazy trace of a smile, pressing her head against his chest.

Becky accepted his possessive embrace with quiet joy, and soon drifted off to sleep, listening to the slow, strong beat of his knightly heart.

She did not know how she would leave on the morrow. She only knew she would not risk this man.

Not for all the world.

CHAPTER

FOUR

F
iltered sunlight and summer breezes wafted into the peaceful bedchamber the next morning. As Becky drifted back to awareness from a deep and restful slumber blissfully devoid of frightening dreams, the first thing she noticed was that the rain had stopped.

Then she listened to the lulling rhythm of soft, deep breathing nearby and turned her head on the pillow, gazing for a long moment at the beautiful man sleeping beside her.

Alec.

His name alone, two soft sensuous syllables, flooded her body with remembered pleasure. She lay quite still, simply enjoying the contentment that filled her, and the rich newfound sense of connection to him, and indeed, to herself.

Now, why did it not surprise her that the scoundrel hogged the bed? A fond, private, highly satisfied smile played at her lips as she studied him, curbing the urge to caress him.
So sweet.

Alec slept on his stomach hugging a luxurious swans-down pillow, the sheets tangled loosely around his long, muscular legs, his blond hair fanned across his angular cheekbone. The flowing, fluid lines of his bare back and big, loose shoulders made a wistful sigh escape her.

It was hard not to touch him when she knew the velvet warmth of his skin and the safety of his embrace—and harder still to know she must leave him. It would be so easy to snuggle into his arms and laze the day away, but she knew she mustn’t wake him.

He would ask too many questions. He might even try to stop her. There was no point in making this any harder than it already was. Her village was still under Mikhail’s iron fist, and she did not want Alec Knight involved.

No sense dawdling,
she thought, staring sorrowfully at her sleeping prince. The longer she lingered, the better the chances he would wake. Pressing up gingerly from the mattress to avoid disturbing him, she only moved about four inches before her hair snagged on something, stopping her. She winced and looked over to find that his fingers were wrapped in her long hair.

The tug on her scalp pained her but she found a certain humor in her predicament as she carefully disentangled her tresses from around his strong, lax hand. She had to free a few strands from the signet ring that he wore on his left pinky, but soon managed to untie herself from his unconsciously possessive hold.

Brushing the gold sheets off of her hips and legs, she silently slipped out of his bed and crossed, nude, to the dressing room, the blue dressing gown abandoned, still entwined amid the sheets. Walking caused her a bit of soreness south of her navel, but overall, she felt wonderful, strong. Renewed, refreshed, ready to fight another day.

The water now lay cold and sluggish in the marble bathing tub. She cleaned away the small streaks of dried blood that remained from her initiation and then got dressed. She was a little surprised that she felt no regret whatsoever for her exploration into passion the previous night. It was not as though a child might result—she had finally divined the purpose of Alec’s condom.

Her clothes were still a bit damp after their soaking in last night’s storm, but at least the good rinsing had left them cleaner. In between putting on articles of clothing, she helped herself to half of the remaining peach tart, eating with her fingers, and devised her plan of attack. Today, come what may, she would find her way to St. James’s Square and tell the mighty Duke of Westland all that she had witnessed on that horrible night when she had been forced to flee.

Becky had met the stately and quite handsome middle-aged duke on two occasions in the past, for he owned a palatial hunting lodge several miles away from Talbot Old Hall. All the same, she doubted he’d remember her. Westland and his entourage only visited during grouse-shooting season, but when he came, he sometimes hosted musical evenings or afternoon teas, where he and his terrifyingly elegant daughter, Lady Parthenia Westland, received the local gentry like proper aristocrats.

As token lady of the slightly ramshackle manor nearby, Becky had been invited, too. When in Yorkshire, the Westlands sometimes condescended to attend the occasional country assembly ball, as well, though Becky had thought the glamorous Londoners seemed to be holding back yawns, despite their efforts to be gracious. Thanks to the local gossip at those balls, she had learned about His Grace’s town house in St. James’s Square. Today all she had to do was find the place, then muster the nerve to go knocking on the Westlands’ door.

Dressed at last, her hair combed and pinned up as neatly as possible given her haste, she glanced cautiously into the bedroom and made sure Alec was still sleeping soundly. Then she tiptoed over to the mahogany chest of drawers and opened the bottom one without a sound.

Reaching in past his neatly folded stack of snowy white cravats, she felt around until her fingers closed around the Rose of Indra in its little leather pouch. She withdrew the ruby from its hiding place and then tied it securely around her garter once more.

When her sole inheritance had been retrieved, she stood up, smoothed her skirts, and pulled on her knee-length pelisse. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she shook her head. She couldn’t believe she had to face Parthenia Westland looking like this. She had done her best, but still looked like some sort of wayward servant girl.

The duke’s daughter, white-blond, sharp-featured, and entirely blue-blooded, was everything Becky was not—everything Grandfather had wanted her to be, but impetuous Mama had run away with her sailor man, and Becky had been the result.

Ah, well. At least her hair was clean. Even Mrs. Whithorn grudgingly acknowledged that it was her best feature. Giving her reflection a resolute nod, Becky pivoted and marched herself out of the dressing room, knowing she must be on her way.

Passing through the bedroom, Becky knew it was risky, but she could not help returning to Alec’s side. She went silently into the alcove, squeezing herself up the narrow space between his giant bed and the wall. She just wanted to take one last tender look at him.

She stood over him, staring at him in lonely sorrow.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again.
She ached as she gazed at him. Perhaps there was some way she could contact him once Mikhail had been brought to justice. On the other hand, she was not sure if Alec would want that. He was, after all, a bona fide London rakehell.

With a pensive half smile, she recalled his roguish taunting last night under that awning when she had threatened him with the candlesnuffer.
What are you going to do with that thing, put my lights out?
It was terrible to leave him without saying good-bye, but she dared not linger. She was not sure she could withstand the temptation of those deep blue eyes. Her hand moved forward to caress his golden hair, but she stopped herself, her eyes misting.
Good-bye, angel man,
her heart whispered.

Then she slipped out quietly.

Alec awoke at the sound of the closing door. He lifted his head from the pillow and squinted against the light in the direction of the entrance hall.

“Beck?” he called in a scratchy voice, but there was no answer.

For a few seconds it didn’t quite sink in—then he saw her place beside him empty and let out a shocked expletive. He jumped out of bed, hastily yanking the sheet around his waist. Racing into the entrance hall, he threw the front door open.

“Becky!”

She was on the stairs, having just reached the landing down the hallway. She glanced back in guilty shock, then ran, disappearing from his view.

“Becky—come back!” He rushed out of his apartment into the carpeted mezzanine hallway. “Where are you going?”

She ran, not looking back.

Standing there, staring after her, Alec was so stunned by her desertion that it took his breath away.

And then he was furious.

He would not stand for it—being left behind like he mattered not a whit. By God, nobody made love to him like that and then went sneaking off without so much as a by-your-leave! It was one thing for him to do it—how many mornings, after all, had he tiptoed out of London’s various luxuriant boudoirs, slipping out on his drowsing ladies to avoid any weepy good-byes? He would not tolerate it being done to him!

He was utterly confused, only half awake, and left to wonder what he had done wrong to make her go. He had treated her like a princess last night! For God’s sake, he, Alec Knight, had actually offered to make her his mistress. How could she just leave him without a word?

Was the beautiful but tenuous bond he had felt between them nothing but a figment of his imagination?

Well, she was not getting rid of him so easily. He thrust out his jaw in angry determination.
I’m going after her.

Since he could hardly rush out into the courtyard of the Althorpe wearing nothing but a bedsheet and a scowl, he stomped back into his apartment, when a thought struck him.
Blazes, I hope she didn’t rob me.
The Disciples of Venus had a certain reputation for thieving, and he had not yet paid her. He yanked open the drawer of the console table where he usually kept small sums of money for convenience’s sake. Maybe she had finally started acting like a proper whore—

The money was still there.

The sight of it jarred Alec and completed his confoundment. What kind of harlot ran off without collecting her pay? Something strange was going on here. Was it her pride that had made her go? Her way of acknowledging that what they had shared last night was more than commerce? But if she felt it, too, then why wouldn’t she stay? And more important, where was she off to?

A fresh wave of that same baffling protectiveness he had felt toward her last night rushed through him when he thought of her venturing into any of the Town’s various brothels for work.

“Damn it,” he whispered, unable to stomach the thought. There were decent establishments that treated their girls fairly, but there were horrible places, as well, where the girls were drugged, beaten, and barely fed. Becky was too new to London to know the difference.

If she didn’t want him as her protector, fine, he thought, bristling, but he had to make sure she arrived in safe conditions. She was getting his help whether she liked it or not.

He slammed the front door, rushed into his dressing room, and began hastily throwing on his clothes.
Perdition!
he thought as he pulled on his boots.
Reckless chit!
Perhaps she thought her winsome smile and those magical eyes were enough to snare her a high-ranking peer with deep pockets, like his brother. Why should a girl like Becky make do with a mere younger son?

He marched out of the dressing room, but knowing the cutthroat regions of London where some of those seedy brothels lurked, he grabbed his sword and pistols from the fanciful half-moon commode in his bedchamber. Pausing to buckle the holster on around his waist, he paused, gazing at the bed as he adjusted his weapons at his hip.

Becky.

The very thought of her made him ache and throb and yearn for he knew not what. Scanning the bed where she had surrendered so sweetly, his gaze landed on the blue dressing gown, unfurled in the place where she had slept. He recalled it staying beneath her there when he had taken her on the bed, and now a dark blotch in the middle of the blue silk captured his full attention.

What the devil?

He went closer, reached down warily and grasped the robe. Holding it up, he stared at it for a long moment without comprehension, thunderstruck.

In the middle of the field of royal blue silk there was an unmistakable crimson stain. The sight of it nearly knocked the wind out of him. His jaw hung slack. Blood.

No.

His first thought was that he’d hurt her. She had asked him to be gentle but he’d been too rough. But that was impossible. He had taken pains—

No, no, no, no, no.

Not a—

The pieces slammed together in his mind.

Her trusting gaze. Her innocent laughter. Her shy kisses.

No. I didn’t. I wouldn’t!

Be gentle with me, Alec.
His own instinctive tenderness with her, as if his body sensed a truth hidden to his jaded mind’s assumptions.