Seducing the Viscount (19 page)

She frowned in puzzlement. Good heavens, if she was any more eager she would melt into a puddle at his feet. Parting her lips to assure him she was ready and willing for whatever was to come next, she gave a small scream when his finger slid into the damp heat between her thighs.

Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she arched upward. Around her the night air was filled with the scent of spring flowers and the rasp of Ian's heavy breath, but her world had narrowed to his expert caresses.

Nothing mattered but the sensation of his finger slowly slipping into her body, his thumb discovering the hidden nub of pleasure.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Oh . . . heavens.”

“Are you ready for me, Mercy?” he demanded as he stroked with a steady rhythm.

Mercy struggled to breathe as a relentless tension coiled in the pit of her stomach.

“Yes, yes.”

“Tell me, Mercy. Tell me you want me,” he commanded as her head twisted on the pillow.

“I want you,” she moaned.

“Yes.”

Continuing to stroke deep into her body, Ian carefully slipped in a second finger. Mercy gasped as she felt herself being stretched.

“Ian?”

He met her bemused gaze, his features tight with retrained need.

“Trust me, Mercy,” he husked. “Can you do that?”

She gave a slow nod. It went against all logic, all common sense. But she did trust him.

As if her heart already understood far more than her mind.

“Come to me, Ian,” she urged softly.

For a moment he stilled, his smoldering gaze drinking in her welcoming expression with a strange intensity.

“Christ, Mercy, what have you done to me?”

Before she could respond, he gave a low, wrenching groan and rolled on top of her willing body.

Mercy sighed in pure pleasure. Yes, this was what she needed. The solid weight pressing her into the cushions. His heated flesh melding with her own.

Following age-old instincts, she parted her legs to allow his hips to cradle between her thighs. She shivered at the sensation of his hard arousal wedged against her damp heat, his chest brushing her sensitive nipples.

This is what she imagined in her deepest fantasies. The heat and scent and sheer intimacy of their bare skin rubbing together.

She hungrily explored the hard muscles of his back, savoring the feel of his male body. This night would have to last her an eternity, and she intended to enjoy every single moment.

On impulse she allowed her nails to scrape against his lower back, a smile curving her lips as gave a jerk and muttered a low curse.

It was incredibly satisfying to know she was not alone in this mindless need.

Resting on his elbows, Ian regarded her with a glittering gaze.

“I can wait no longer, my sweet.”

She reached up to frame his face in her hands. “Neither can I.”

An unexpectedly tender regret rippled over his face. “I have never been with a virgin, but I fear it might hurt.”

“Ian, I want this,” she swore. “I want you.”

He groaned softly, lowering his head to scatter impatient kisses over her flushed countenance.

“Hold on tightly then,” he murmured against her mouth. “There is no going back for either of us.”

He claimed her lips in a possessive kiss as he poised his hips and settled the tip of his erection at her entrance. Mercy caught her breath, her arms wrapping about his neck as he began to merge their bodies.

She had known he was large, but knowing his girth and having it pressing into her with a relentless force were two different things entirely. She was stretched to the limit, so full that it was a breath from genuine pain.

“Ian?” she breathed.

His lips moved to close her eyes with light kisses. “Just try to relax, my sweet, I promise all will be well.”

Sucking in a deep breath, she concentrated on her stiffening muscles, forcing them to ease as he shifted deeper into her damp heat. He was trembling against her, a thin sheen of sweat coating his body as he reached the barrier of her innocence.

“Hold on tightly, Mercy,” he commanded.

She tightened her arms about his neck, more frustrated than frightened by the momentous moment.

“Now.”

The word had barely whispered through the air when he murmured an apology and with one smooth thrust buried himself deep inside her.

There was a flare of pain, enough to make her give a small yelp, but there was also an astonishing sense of completion as he buried his face in the curve of her neck with a low, wrenching groan. For a moment she stilled, simply absorbing the astonishing sensations.

“Mercy, are you hurt?” he rasped, his voice thick with concern.

“I am . . . perfect,” she murmured.

He gave a low moan of relief, his lips nibbling at the curve of her throat to stir the smoldering embers of her desire.

“Yes, you are,” he whispered, shifting to capture her lips in a kiss of sheer possession. “And you are mine.”

Mercy might have been disturbed by his stark claim if he had not chosen that moment to slowly rock his hips forward, his sheathed erection creating a pleasurable friction that swiftly had a sweet tension building deep inside her.

Mercy instinctively arched upward, meeting each thrust. She had never dreamed she could feel so intimately entwined with another. Not just physically, but in the passion that bound them together.

In this moment they were one.

Her fingers restlessly skimmed down his back, gripping his hips as he pulled to her very entrance before plunging back within. Her legs shifted wider, accommodating his quickening pace.

“This must be paradise,” he muttered against her lips. “Never have I felt anything so sweet.”

Mercy did not feel sweet. She felt deliciously wicked. A woman of passion and heat and life. Not an aging spinster at all.

Her nails dug into his skin. His every thrust was rubbing against her pleasure point, the tension within her reaching a critical peak.

“Ian, you must do something,” she moaned.

He chuckled softly, pleased by her impatience. “I told you to trust me, Mercy,” he murmured, his hands shifting beneath her hips to angle her upward.

With swift, relentless strokes he urged Mercy toward that perilous edge, his breath rasping through the air. Her eyes squeezed closed, her body clenched so tight that she was certain she would splinter into a thousand pieces. Then, just when she was certain she could bear no more, he gave one last surge, tumbling her into a maelstrom of exploding bliss.

He swallowed her scream of pleasure with a branding kiss, continuing to pump into her shuddering body until he abruptly wrenched himself from her womb to allow his seed to spill over her stomach in a flood of warmth.

Time seemed to come to a halt as they both floated in the golden aftermath, the silence that settled around the gazebo making it seem as if they were alone in the world.

At last Ian shifted to his side and pulled her into his arms. With a sigh, Mercy snuggled against his side, her mind clouded with wonderment.

She had known that Ian would be a skillful lover. He was, after all, the infamous Casanova. But she could never have suspected just how . . . moving the experience would be.

“Did I please you, sweet Mercy?” he whispered close to her ear.

She hid a sudden urge to smile. Good heavens, could Ian actually fear that his legendary reputation was in danger?

“I am more than pleased, Ian,” she murmured softly, innately sensing that he was in no mood to be teased. “It was everything I dreamed it would be.”

“No regrets?”

Her fingers skimmed across his chest, savoring the feel of his warm male skin.

“No, no regrets,” she assured him, ignoring the tiny ache deep in her heart that warned she was not being entirely honest.

Ian had never been a patient man. For the most part, he allowed instinct and raw impulse to guide him. An advantageous trait for a gambler, but decidedly uncomfortable for a stymied lover.

Pacing the balcony that offered a perfect view of the gardens below, Ian gnashed his teeth and glared at Mercy as she scurried from the house with a heavy tray that she set before her parents, who were settled beneath an ornamental tree.

During the past hour she had arranged and then rearranged her parents' chairs until they were satisfied that no stray sunlight might disturb them. She had fetched half a dozen cushions, her mother's needlepoint, her father's book, shawls, glasses, and endless handkerchiefs. Now she poured her father a large glass of the lemonade she had just brought from the kitchens.

The devil take it. He wanted to rush down there and shake some sense into the aggravating minx. Or better yet, to toss her childish, petulant, demanding parents into the nearest carriage and have them hauled back to their distant cottage.

Over the past two days he had not been allowed so much as a moment alone with Mercy. If she were not being pestered to death by her parents, then she was running some errand or another for his aunt. And while he had made a point of spending his nights in the gazebo with the hope that Mercy would eventually join him, it had proven to be a futile waste of time.

Was it any wonder that he was a tad grumpy to have been offered a taste of paradise only to have it snatched away?

A part of him, however, understood it was not just frustrated desire that was making his teeth clench and his chest so tight that he could barely breathe.

Oh no. The violent fury pounding through his blood was a direct result of watching the beautiful young maiden being treated with such selfish disregard.

By God, she should be drenched in luxury, not grubbing after her parents like an unwanted orphan. She should be surrounded by her beloved books and waited upon by a dozen servants. She should spend her night in the arms of a lover who would treat her with exquisite care....

“Ian. Good heavens, I did not expect to find you here.”

Ian muttered a low curse at the sound of Ella's voice floating from the French doors behind him. As much as he adored his aunt, he did not want to be interrupted in this moment. Not when he was busily convincing himself to charge into the garden and toss Mercy over his shoulder.

A beautiful fantasy that Ella was certain to nip in the bud.

Slowly turning, Ian watched as the older woman stepped onto the balcony.

“Where did you expect to find me?” He forced a stiff smile to his lips as he leaned against the stone balustrade.

“Norry mentioned at luncheon that you intended to spend the afternoon in the village,” Ella murmured, moving forward.

“I have changed my mind.”

“So I see.” With a deliberate motion, Ella leaned over the railing to regard Mercy as she fussed over her father's cushions. “You appeared disturbed when I first arrived. Is there something wrong?”

Realizing that there was no means to hide the fact he had been spying upon Mercy like a loose screw, Ian allowed his smoldering anger to harden his expression.

“Yes, there bloody well is something wrong,” he growled, jerking his head toward the small group below. “Why do you allow those intruders to treat Miss Simpson as a servant? She has been waiting upon them hand and foot for the past two days.”

“It is a pity, but those intruders are her parents, Ian, and I have no right to interfere.” Ella turned back to meet his accusing glare with a grimace. “As much as I might wish.”

“They are not parents, they are a menace,” he muttered.

“Perhaps, but what can I do?”

“You are the hostess of Rosehill. Send them packing.”

“I could, but Mercy would no doubt feel obliged to leave with them.” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “I do not believe that either of us is willing to lose her companionship yet, are we?”

Ian was not stupid. Well, not as a rule. He understood that Ella's seemingly simple question held a quagmire of implications that a wise man would avoid like the plague.

He was just too damned angry to care.

“No.” His gaze narrowed. “I have no intention of losing Miss Simpson's companionship.”

Ella wrinkled her nose as Mr. Simpson's voice boomed through the garden, sending his daughter scurrying to refill his glass.

“What Mercy truly needs is a champion,” she said with a sigh.

“A what?”

“A knight in shining armor who will whisk her away from her personal dragons,” the older woman clarified.

For a moment Ian was infuriated by the mere suggestion that some heroic, chivalrous knight might come charging to Mercy's rescue. He'd slay the bastard on the spot.

Then, realizing his aunt was regarding him with an expectant expression, Ian gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Christ, Ella, you cannot possibly believe that I could ever pose as St. George?”

“Why not?” She gave a wave of her plump hand. “I know you have come to care for Mercy.”

“Whatever my feelings for Miss Simpson, I am no knight in shining armor.” His lips twisted at the unwelcome knowledge of his sordid past. “An innocent would be better served to remain in the hands of her dragons than to be rescued by a man like me.”

“Nonsense. You are not nearly so wicked as you would have others believe, Ian.”

Ian rolled his eyes at his aunt's stout defense. The woman would claim the Marquis de Sade was merely misunderstood.

“You only say that because you want to see the best in everyone, my dear,” he said dryly. “There are any number of people who would share with you the tales of my evil existence.”

Something flickered over Ella's plump countenance before she was sternly giving a shake of her head.

“No, I have known truly wicked men, and you are not one of them,” she said with utter confidence. “You have a good and generous heart, Ian.”

Ian was briefly reminded of Mercy's suspicion that Ella had endured a disappointment in her youth. Perhaps it was not simply a matter of unrequited love. Perhaps it was something more sinister.

Certainly the gentlemen in his aunt's past must have been appalling if she considered Ian a worthy knight in shining armor.

“I am a hardened gamester and a debauched seducer who long ago traded my soul to the devil, Aunt Ella. Precisely the sort of gentleman most women are wise enough to avoid.”

“You have no further need to gamble. Norry has told me you possess an uncanny talent for business. I have not seen him so excited about anything in years.” She offered a sweet smile. “And, of course, every woman knows that a reformed rake makes the best husband.”

“Husband?” Ian jerked as if he had been kicked in the stomach. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Why not?”

There were a dozen reasons why not. A hundred. The fact that he could not seem to recall any one them as he gazed down at the delicate woman with her hair shimmering like the finest gold in the sunlight and her every movement as elegant as a wood sprite's meant nothing.

“I . . .”

“Well, Ian?” Ella prompted, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

His jaw clenched as a raw pain jolted through his heart. Dammit, what was the matter with his aunt? Not even her love for him could make her blind to his numerous faults.

“Not only would a woman have to be demented to desire me as a husband, but the last thing in the world I want is to be tied down to one woman.” He hunched his shoulders. “I would be bored within a week.”

“Not if she were the right woman,” the older woman murmured softly.

“Enough, Ella.” His voice was harsh with warning. “I will not discuss such foolishness.”

“Then you will lose her, my dear. In a few days at most she will be forced to return to her home and beyond your reach.” Ella reached up to lightly pat his cheek. “Consider that before it is too late.”

Ella gave his cheek another pat before turning to leave the balcony. Ian watched her retreat with a deepening scowl.

Lose Mercy?

That was ridiculous.

To lose something you first had to claim it. And he would never be idiotic enough to think the woman could ever be more than just a passing fancy.

Would he?

That unexpected pain once again ravaged through his chest, making Ian grasp the stone railing. Damn. As much as he might want to deny the truth, there was a very large part of him that realized the inevitable.

He could not bear the thought of allowing Mercy to simply disappear. Not from Rosehill, and most certainly not from his life.

Not yet.

Not until he understood the strange compulsion that held him in its grip. A compulsion that would drive him mad if she were to slip away.

Sucking in a deep breath, Ian was abruptly distracted from his disturbing thoughts by the sight of a lone rider entering the stable yard.

Reaver.

There could be no mistaking his massive size or the reaction of the servants who scurried out of his relentless path.

The question was what the devil he was doing back so soon.

Ignoring the fierce need to remain on the balcony and keep a watch upon Mercy, Ian forced his reluctant feet to carry him back into the parlor and toward the hallway. He was the one who had sent Reaver to London. It was not the servant's fault that his mind was too consumed with thoughts of Miss Mercy Simpson to recall his reason for coming to Rosehill.

Reaching his private chambers at the same moment as Reaver, Ian clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“I did not expect you back so swiftly.”

The large man ran a weary hand through his hair. “I have the information you desire.”

“Come, we will be more comfortable in my chambers.”

“Aye.” Reaver readily followed Ian into the elegant sitting room, dropping his large body onto a settee with a deep sigh. “I could use a drink.”

Ian poured them both a large shot of his private whiskey, crossing the room to press one of the glasses into Reaver's hand.

“Here.”

“Ah.” Sipping the fine spirit, Reaver heaved a sigh of appreciation. “You shall be forced to pay for the hideous swill I was forced to endure on the road.”

Ian chuckled. “I am under no illusion that it is my fine whiskey that holds your loyalty, Reaver, not my exceptional character.”

“A man must have standards.”

“Indeed.” Leaning against the sideboard, Ian attempted to concentrate upon his companion. A task that would be a great deal easier if his bloody mind wasn't consumed with thoughts of Mercy. “So tell me, how did you manage to so swiftly track down your prey?”

“It wasn't particularly difficult.” Reaver polished off his whiskey with a grimace. “This prey left a trail that even a lobcock could follow.”

“He was in London?”

“Nay. From all I could gather, he left England near a decade ago and has never returned.”

Ian folded his arms across his chest, only vaguely disappointed. Suddenly the past was not nearly so intriguing as the present.

Or the future.

“Do you know where he went?” he demanded, absently.

A slow smile curved the man's lips. “No, but I do know why he went.”

Ian stiffened. “Scandal?”

“A rather nasty one.”

Barely aware he was moving, Ian turned to replenish his glass, draining the whiskey with one long swallow.

Just a few days ago the news of a nasty scandal would have been precisely the information he desired. He was here, after all, to discover the reason his father had handed twenty thousand pounds to Mr. Dunnington. Now he could not deny a vague reluctance to pry into matters that were long forgotten.

“If he felt compelled to flee England, then I can only presume he was caught cheating at cards, or his debt was so great he could no longer avoid his creditors,” he at last managed to mutter.

Reaver's smile widened. “Actually, it was an affair that was his undoing.”

Ian did not have to feign his puzzlement. “You must be jesting. What gentleman has not indulged in an affair? Even if the woman were wed—”

“Man.”

Ian blinked at the succinct word. “I beg your pardon?”

“The affair Summerville indulged in was with Lord Hinton,” Reaver smoothly explained. “They were caught together by Lady Hinton, who was furious enough to reveal her husband's naughty little secret to anyone who would listen.”

“Good God.” Ian gave a slow nod of his head, considering the various implications of Reaver's information. It was common knowledge that many gentlemen of the
ton
possessed sexual fetishes. Some more exotic than others. It was expected, however, that those gentlemen would keep such fetishes discretely hidden behind closed doors. “I suppose that would cause a scandal.”

“Precisely.”

Ian paced the room, attempting to envision a young Summerville visiting Rosehill. It was not impossible he had given some hint to his unusual preferences.

“And it would certainly be a reason for my grandfather to forbid his presence at Rosehill if he somehow discovered Summerville's secret.”

“Aye.” Reaver rose to his feet with a shrug. “Such men will always be treated as lepers.”

A faint smile curved Ian's lips at the man's stoic indifference. “You do not seem particularly shocked, Reaver.”

The servant snorted. “Where I come from, there are few things I haven't seen. Some things no man should see.”

Ian did not doubt that for a moment. A sexual preference for men could not compare with the evils to be discovered in the stews of London.

“Thank you for your efforts, my friend.”

Heading toward the door, Reaver paused to glance over his shoulder. “Is that the information you desired?”

“I really have no notion,” he confessed with blunt honesty. It might be a titillating scandal, but it had nothing to do with Viscount Norrington. Ian heaved an exasperated sigh. “In truth, I am not entirely certain what I am doing here. If I had the least amount of sense, I would pack my bags and return to London.”