One Night of Sin (6 page)

She moaned.
“Alec.”
Remembering abruptly to breathe, she gasped in delight, and when her lips parted, he stole his chance with smooth expertise, moving more intently into her mouth, and as before, when he had kissed her brow, she melted.

As the hungry moments passed, his skilled hands roamed up and down her sides in searing caresses. She groaned, giving way in her amazement and yielding as he kissed her more deeply. The slow, luscious licks as his tongue stroked hers sent joy arrowing down her spine until her very toes curled. God, who was this man? she wondered as her world spun.
Delectable creature.

He had the body of a god, the soul of a satyr, but the kiss he gave her was the work of a virtuoso. Clearly, he had done this before. Many, many times.

She, however, had not.

She clung to him, not a very convincing tart, she feared, for she was weak-limbed and trembling, her heart slamming. Fear infused her passion, lending it a reckless edge as the towering Cossacks rode past slowly on their war-horses.

Their fierce eyes scanned the doorways and dark alleys for a frightened, solitary girl; with barely a glance, she imagined they dismissed the young “unfortunate” plying her trade in the shadows with a dissipated blond nobleman.

Becky doubted she was even recognizable, inflamed with wanton desire for her heavenly fallen angel. Even the pleasant scratchiness of his blond day-beard chafing against her chin filled her with pleasure. All of her discoveries this night had thrown her into a state of astonishment. From the moment she had opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by his smartly dressed friends, it was as if she had awoken in a world about which she had heard rumors, but had never given much thought. A most enticing world of privilege and pleasure, luxury and lust.

Mrs. Whithorn, her housekeeper back home, had been telling her for years that she was a wicked girl, going to hell, just like her mother. Perhaps there was some truth to it, after all. It was all that could explain her ripeness for his temptation.

When Alec put her hands on him, as though he needed her touch just as badly as she had needed his kiss, she obliged with burning eagerness, fondling his sculpted abdomen and stroking his bare neck. She ran her fingers through his rain-dampened hair.

He, too, had abandoned himself to passion’s spell; she could feel it in him, hear it in his needy moan, soft and low. He groaned her name and tilted his head the other way, kissing her again with sweet, drowning depth. He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her closer still.

Long after the Cossacks had ridden past, they remained where they were, their lips joined, their hands all over each other, until Alec suddenly stopped himself, panting roughly. “Ah, God, I’ll die if you don’t let me make love to you.”

She couldn’t answer. She could barely catch her breath.

“Please, Becky, say yes.” He kissed her neck, lighting fires of temptation in the core of her body. “I need you.”

His insistent male whispers roused a soft moan from her lips. Exhaustion had taken its toll, as well, so she knew that perhaps her judgment was a bit skewed, but after yet another close call, her confidence flagged. She knew it was time to be grimly honest with herself. How much longer could she realistically outrun them? It was a miracle she had made it this far, in truth, outnumbered as she was. If, or perhaps more accurately,
when
the Cossacks captured her and dragged her back to Mikhail, she already knew the punishment that awaited her. He had promised her a vicious rape. The great Prince Kurkov had not helped to drive Napoleon from Europe by making idle threats. But, oh, she knew a way now that she could trump him, if disaster struck.

If she failed in her quest and his Cossacks seized her, then let the brute do his worst; if she had the nerve tonight, she could have already robbed him of his prize by giving her innocence away freely to a man of her own choosing.

To Lord Alec.

She barely knew him, but one kiss had shown her he was skillful and gentle, and anything was better than having her body torn asunder by her own cousin’s brute force. Oh, Mikhail would be so furious, she mused in defiant pleasure while Alec kissed her neck and blurred her starved senses with his powerfully potent attentions. It was madness to antagonize Mikhail. He’d probably kill her for it, but better to be dead than to find herself the captured plaything of a murderer.

By God, it would be worth it just to see the look on his face.

Just then, Alec pulled back a small space, flushed and tousled, his cobalt eyes smoldering with passion. “Let’s go,” he whispered urgently.

With a tremor of yearning in the pit of her belly, she closed her eyes.

“Don’t deny me. Come on, Becky. Say yes. You and I have got to finish what we’ve started—”

“Yes.”

He paused, then let out a shaky exhalation like a small laugh. “Praise God.”

She dragged her eyes open and warily beheld his smoldering seductive smile, but she glanced away self-consciously, blushing after what she had just agreed to.

Alec planted a boyish kiss on her flaming cheek. “Such blushes,” he murmured fondly. “You are so adorable.”

She scoffed a little at his sweet words, unused to such flattery. He straightened up again and left her to collect herself for a moment while he did the same, sauntering to the edge of the awning. He rested his hands on his lean waist and looked out at the rain. “Lord, what a mess.”

Becky leaned her head against the locked door behind her, still rather dazed. She glanced down the street again and noted in relief that the Cossacks were nowhere in sight. The weather was still temperamental, however; the wind blew swiftly, and torrents of rain drummed the pavement.

Alec turned to her, his tall, strong silhouette outlined against the downpour. He held out his hand and waited for her to take it.

For a moment she just stared at him in musing fascination, this man she intended to take for her first lover. Surely Mrs. Whithorn was right: She was every bit as impetuous as Mama. This was without a doubt the most reckless thing she had ever done in her life, but events had driven her to it.

Heaving herself upright, she shyly left the safety of the doorway and ventured over to Alec’s side. He gathered her near. Her body still pulsated with mysterious longing for this beautiful stranger, her senses wildly attuned to him. She supposed there were brides who knew their new husbands no better than she knew Alec Knight. Arranged marriages were common—and, apparently, for him, so were reckless trysts with ladies of the night.

Well, she was not her brother’s keeper. In London, she had heard, they liked gossip, but folk from Buckley-on-the-Heath minded their own affairs and thanked others to do the same.

If Lord Alec was a loose-living, pleasure-seeking rogue, that was his business—and quite to her advantage, under the circumstances. Indeed, she very much intended to enjoy herself and to keep her secrets; for as charming as he was, he was obviously a libertine, hardly the sort of man she could confide in. He did not want to know her problems, and that suited her well enough. She much preferred to keep her troubles to herself rather than to learn point-blank that although he would join his body with hers, he didn’t care about her any more than her relatives did.

No matter. She was used to relying on herself alone. This night would be a splendid experience as long as she remembered to guard her heart. He was only in it for himself. And so was she. Well, that was fair, was it not? she thought uneasily.

Alec took off his formal black tailcoat and put it around her shoulders. “Come.” He looked soberly into her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded bravely.

Trusting herself to fate and Alec Knight, she put her hand in his.

They ran.

Alec was thankful for the downpour, cooling the hot, keen edge of his ardor. He could not wait to bed her. Rarely had any girl so captivated him. He had wanted novelty, and God knew he had found it. There was no telling what the chit might do or say next. She was an entrancing blend of courage and vulnerability, and so damned beautiful. He knew it was highly decadent of him, but he adored her inexperience, savoring it as a rare delicacy. He had loved turning her reticence to fire.

It was just like wooing a virgin—with none of the guilt.

But one thing was certain. The chap who had ruined Becky had better pray he never crossed his path, because Alec knew he would not hesitate to thrash him soundly for it. On second thought, perhaps that was a tad hypocritical, since he fully intended to enjoy her himself. Very well, he conceded.
I’ll thank the chap first, and then beat him senseless.

They hurried on, hand in hand.

There was enchantment in the night, in the thunder that rang with their laughter as they dashed through the rain, in the silvery miniature cascades that rolled down their bodies and slicked their skin, in the diamond droplets that adorned their hair and eyelashes and made their lips and faces gleam. They splashed their way through deep puddles, leaving bubbles in their wake.

“Are you holding up all right?” he asked her over the loud ceaseless hiss of the rain slapping the pavement.

She nodded.

Alec frowned, concerned about the effects of the inclement weather on the girl’s health, but it would have taken longer to reach the hackney stand, so they went on foot; it was only a few blocks down Piccadilly to his bachelor rooms at the exclusive Althorpe.

The original Baroque mansion, Althorpe House, had long since been divided into a few bachelor apartments. Behind it, situated around the green pleasant space of the lamplit courtyard, were several long, neat row houses built as luxurious private apartments with all the modern conveniences, eight to a building, four on each floor. Alec, naturally, owned one of the most desirable apartments with the best view.

When Becky and he arrived, the liveried porter at the property gates trudged out of his booth and went to unlock the way for them.

Waiting for him to do so, Alec glanced at Becky in persistent solicitude. She stood shivering beside him, wrapped in his oversize tailcoat like a good little soldier. Not a word of complaint. This girl was tough, he thought admiringly, but he could not stop worrying about her like a blasted mother hen. She was so pale in the darkness.

With that night-dark hair and eyes like amethysts, she possessed a haunting beauty, but her pallor troubled him. He noted the shadows under her eyes, the hollows beneath her elegant cheekbones. She looked very tired, and young, and fragile; and Alec found himself besieged by the most baffling need to take care of her. No, he would not lay a finger on her until he was sure she was all right.

When the porter hauled the creaking gates open to admit them, he gathered her closer with a protective arm around her shoulders. “This way, sweet,” he murmured, escorting her into the courtyard. “We’re almost home.”

Home.

The word pained her, but she hurried to keep up with Alec’s long, brisk strides as he led her to a handsome brick building marked
F.

“My rooms are back this way.”

They tracked wet footprints through the marble-tiled foyer as he led her through it and up the five stairs to a gracious mezzanine level. Here they left the staircase, going down a corridor that led toward the back of the building.

Becky followed with a sense of wonder and taboo, taking in all the strange sounds of rowdy male life going on behind the closed, numbered doors. Bass and tenor voices argued about racehorses and prizefights. Baritone laughter. She smelled smoke from pipes and cheroots.

“I hear music,” she murmured.

“That is the Honorable Roger Manners,” Alec explained in a confidential but humorous tone, glancing at the ceiling. “Practices the pianoforte for two hours every night. Annoys the blazes out of the other chaps, but I am a great lover of music.”

“That is fortunate.”

“Fortunate, indeed, since his chambers are right above mine. If he had taken up the trumpet, I fear I should not be half so accommodating.” He reached into his waistcoat and fished out the key to his rooms. Becky held her breath, her heart pounding as he turned the lock. It clicked back with a low
snick.

Alec glanced at her in question, reading her eyes, as though trying to assess if she was quite sure about this, but in the moment’s somber silence, a sudden, hungry growl from her belly startled them both. Becky clapped her hands to her middle, her eyes widening.

“God’s teeth, was that your stomach?” he exclaimed.

She turned red, mortified. “I—I think it was the thunder.”

“Becky, sweet,” he chided with a pained wince. “You’re starving, aren’t you?”

She bit her lip for a second, then nodded ashamedly. “I haven’t had anything to eat since last night.”

“You should have said something!”

“I don’t wish to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense, you couldn’t be any trouble if you tried.” He shook his head at her, then opened the door to his chambers. “Now, then, what am I going to feed you?” he mused aloud as he led her inside unceremoniously, tossing the key and the other contents of his waistcoat onto a thin-legged Sheraton table by the wall. “I shall send out to Watier’s. We’ll order a feast.”

“Honestly, I’m not that picky.” She walked in cautiously behind him.

“Well, I am. Welcome.”

Their echoing footsteps suggested the spacious dimensions of the hall even before he lit a fine beeswax candle. The flames rose one by one atop the silver candelabra on the table, rolling back the darkness to show her the elegant space he called home.

Goodness, she thought. He claimed he wasn’t rich?

There were gleaming white plaster cornices, a fireplace with a veined marble chimneypiece, and a huge bay window. The crimson walls contained exquisite paintings that hung on little chains from the brass picture rail beneath the gilded frieze. The man had very fine taste, she thought, rather awed. The sophistication of his home made her feel like an utter hayseed.

Small jeweled objets d’art adorned the mantelpiece, but she gasped at the sight of two painted Grecian urns on display inside a pair of recessed statuary alcoves.