Shameless (10 page)

But she didn’t trust him. He was necessary—he knew more about the current workings of society than she did, and she couldn’t do it without him. She would survive being around him.

He was stroking her hand again, clearly an absent gesture, and she felt the surface beneath her shift as he leaned back, her hand still clasped in his. “I’ll have my cook prepare a picnic lunch,” he said lazily. “What would you like besides sugar cakes?”

She gave full rein to her annoyance in the darkness, sticking her tongue out at him like a fractious child. She heard a low rumble of laughter, and she had the sudden thought that he’d seen her. Impossible.

“Stick out your tongue at me, my sweet,” he said in a low, charming voice, “and you might find…”

“Stop it!” she said, her temper finally frayed. Anger filled her. But she was made of sterner stuff
than that. “I’m tired of your innuendos, Lord Rohan,” she said in a steadier voice.

“And you might find I treat you like the infant you’re emulating,” he continued over her protest. She had no idea whether that was what he’d originally meant to say, and she didn’t care. For the moment, just for the moment, she gave up the fight. He was too good at this. He could dance rings around her, in more ways than one. He had an answer for everything, annoying creature that he was, and she was feeling demoralized. If he hadn’t kissed her, put his hands on her, she wouldn’t be in such a mess.

But he had.

He moved suddenly, and she braced herself, but he had released her hand, and his voice was all efficiency. “Just to further your sexual education, Lady Carstairs, there is such a thing as a quick shag. Usually done up against a wall, it’s more along the lines of your experience, simply adding actual pleasure into the mix. The guests can assume that’s what we’ve done if you wish to return to the party.”

“I do.”

“But I’ll need a piece of your clothing,” he said, his voice languid. “I’m assuming you won’t relinquish your drawers, but I imagine one of your garters might do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Granted. It’s customary in the Elsmeres’ set to provide a trophy. Lord Elsmere probably fondles whatever gets left behind in the privacy of his rooms,
where I doubt Lady Elsmere ever ventures. Your garter.”

“You can’t have one of my garters!” she protested, scandalized. “My stocking will fall down.”

“Even better. I’ll take one of your stockings.”

“No!” she said, but he managed to catch her ankle and pull it into his lap. She kicked at him with the other one, but he clamped his own foot down on it, immobilizing her.

“I’m getting quite tired of being kicked, Melisande,” he said in a low voice, pulling off her soft dance slipper, his hands sliding up her silk-covered leg.

But she fought back, shoving at him, and a moment later she found herself lying down, his body covering her completely, holding her there.

They had been sitting on a bed, she realized belatedly. And now she was lying on it, with a very large, very annoyed, very aroused man on top of her. She kept hitting at him, but he simply caught her wrists in one hand and hauled them over her head, while his hips pinned her, the hard ridge of desire full against her as he pushed between her legs.

“Stop fighting me,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “I’m not about to rape you. And you can just ignore my cock. Anytime I wrestle with a beautiful woman I get an erection—it’s simply nature taking its course.”

She froze, his matter-of-fact language shocking her. He was lying with that part of his body, his cock, pressed against her, and she could feel a strange,
heated response. Heat, and dampness, and it shocked her. Simply nature taking its course, he said. It had nothing to do with her.

“I can do this by force, or you can behave yourself,” he continued. “Either way, it’s going to happen.” And for a moment she thought he meant sex. Sexual congress between them, his cock pushing inside her. And then she realized he was talking about her stocking.

His hand had slid up, under her skirt. Her garters were beautiful ones, made of pale green ribbon with pastel-colored rosettes, and she felt his hand untie one, his long fingers way too close to parts that needed to be ignored. And then he moved his hand beneath the silk stocking, pulling it down her leg, the removal of it almost a caress, and she held her breath, closing her eyes in the darkness as his hand brushed against her skin.

What was she doing? Was she totally shameless, enjoying the touch of this man, this scion of degenerates, as he stroked her leg, all the way down to her ankle, cradling her foot as he slipped the stocking off?

He was so close. So hot, so hard, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her. Her breasts felt strange, tight, tingling, and she wondered what would happen if she arched against him, as her body was telling her to do, if she raised her hips up and pushed against that hard part of him. What would he do?

He released her wrists, but she didn’t hit him. An
odd stillness had crept over her limbs, and it seemed to be affecting him, as well. She could see the glitter of his eyes in the darkness, but she couldn’t see his expression.

“Lady Carstairs,” he said in a soft voice after a long moment, “I’m beginning to believe you might be a very dangerous woman.”

She swallowed, uncertain what to say. She wondered what would happen if she slid her arms around his shoulders. If she pulled him down to kiss her. What would he do?

He rolled off her, standing up in one fluid movement, and for a moment she lay still, trying to sort out her feelings. He’d put her slipper back on her one bare foot, and a moment later he’d pulled her to her feet, holding her arms for a moment until she steadied.

“Remember. Languid. Dazed.” His voice was low in her ear as a sliver of light entered the room.

“I shouldn’t have any trouble with that,” she muttered.

I
t was a good thing he needed very little sleep, Benedick Rohan thought the next morning, or he would be in very deep trouble. The previous night had been hellacious. First, he’d had to trot Sweet Charity out among the Elsmeres’ guests like a shy mare successfully covered by a prize stallion, her silk stocking draped across the door handle leading to their little rendezvous. The garter he’d pocketed himself, though he had no idea why. He also had no intention of looking into the matter too closely. He had her pretty little garter with him, and he’d be damned if he’d give it back.

They’d left as soon as they could, giving a reasonable simulation of a couple who couldn’t wait to get back in bed. At least, he did. She’d been unnaturally quiet, simply letting him lead her around. She’d been silent in the carriage as well, and he hoped she’d forgotten about her plans to join him on his ride to Kersley Hall, but as he’d accompanied her to
her door, his hand hovering near her elbow, ready to touch her if he had half an excuse, she’d turned and said, “And what time shall we meet, Lord Rohan?” in a creditable approximation of her normal voice.

He hadn’t been able to sleep. All he’d done was kiss her, most thoroughly and most enjoyably, but in the end it was simply a kiss. True, he’d lain on top of her, feeling the softness of her curves, the tenderness of her breasts, the sweetness of her parted thighs. He’d felt the smooth skin of her leg, the crook of her knee, and it would have been so easy to pull that knee up, around his hips. She was no virgin, after all.

But he hadn’t. And she was still as rattled as if he’d done exactly what he’d been thinking about doing in the past few hours. The past few days. He lusted after the sober little crusader—the saint of King Street, the savior of soiled doves—impossible as it seemed. He wanted her naked beneath him, he wanted to wipe that cool, distant smile off her face and have her hot and sweaty, weeping with her release. He wanted to take her, and take her hard. And there were so many reasons why he shouldn’t. Mostly because, despite her widowed state, she wasn’t the kind of woman to bed and then discard. She was someone who played the game seriously. If she thought it a game at all.

He’d finally dragged himself out of bed when he heard the clock chiming three, taking himself in search of a brandy and something to read, when he heard a crashing in the hallway below.

He caught his robe in one hand and strode out onto
the landing, about to demand who the hell was there, when his angry voice died away, and he looked at his brother trying to make his way up the stairs with the help of Richmond.

He had blood on his head. He was singing softly, a ditty of such obscenity that even Benedick was impressed. He was very drunk, but he was more than drunk. His eyes glittered, the pupils tiny pinpricks in the shadow as he looked up and saw Benedick.

“M’brother,” Brandon announced to Richmond. “Not a bad fellow, but completely conventional. Wouldn’t approve.”

Benedick had already started down the stairs, reaching them midway and taking his brother’s other arm. There was a sweet smell clinging to him, mixing with the unmistakable smell of alcohol, and he wondered what the hell his baby brother had gotten into. “Wouldn’t approve of what, old boy?” he asked easily, looking at the blood. It was dried, and there was no head wound, which was a relief. And then he looked down at Brandon’s hand, the one which had seen war and despair, that had meted out death with grim certainty. There was a deep gash in his palm, still oozing blood.

Brandon followed his gaze, oddly alert despite the whiskey he could smell on him. “Don’t look so worried,” he said in an irritable voice. “Did it myself.”

“Why?”

“None of your damned business, that’s why,” Brandon replied. He paused, looking around him,
his eyes going out of focus. “I need my room,” he said abruptly.

“Are you going to be unwell, sir?” Richmond inquired anxiously. “I could bring you a basin.”

“No Rohan would cast up his accounts—we come from a long line of degenerates—” And then he’d proceeded to get violently ill all over Benedick.

Which was enough to put anyone off the idea of sleeping. They’d managed to get Brandon’s nearly unconscious form into his bedroom, and he’d left him in Richmond’s care, not bothering with instructions to clean him up and bandage the hand. Richmond had taken care of him very well over the years—he didn’t need his master telling him his business.

Fortunately the noise had already roused a number of the staff, and it didn’t take long to get a hot bath to wash off Brandon’s excesses. By the time he’d finished it was already growing light outside, and he gave up the thought of sleep entirely.

It was just as well. Lack of sleep sharpened his intellect and destroyed any semblance of courtesy. He’d doubtless be such a bear that sweet Charity would develop a total disgust of him, and look elsewhere for a confederate. He would be better off investigating Brandon’s possible connection to the Heavenly Host on his own, without having to worry about anyone else.

Not that it was in his nature to worry about anyone, with the possible exception of his siblings. And Brandon had managed to get himself into a totally disreputable state while he was nowhere near the
Elsmeres or any of the other possible members he’d talked with the night before, which made the connection less likely.

Today should put an end to any speculation. He would give Lady Carstairs such a disgust of him that she would refuse to even speak to him in the future, which would be better for both of them. Because she’d kissed him back. Inexpertly, to be sure, but she’d responded, and the sweetness of her momentary, unexpected response had been…distracting. And he’d already been distracted enough from his main goal.

No, today would put an end to it. Thank God.

It was a good thing she managed very well on only a few hours of sleep, Melisande thought over her second cup of strong tea. Because last night had been distressing, indeed.

It had started with Viscount Rohan, of course. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his body pressed against hers, between her legs, the same and yet so different from the two other men who had once lain there. Of course last night they’d both been fully clothed, so she’d been able to notice things without being in a high state of anxiety over the indignities that were about to follow. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, the heavy rhythm of his heart. The hand that had held her wrists over her head, the other hand sliding up her leg, unfastening her garter with the practiced ease of a rake.

She hadn’t wanted him to stop. That was the miserable, unacceptable truth, but she’d always prided herself on facing it, no matter how unpleasant. If they’d been somewhere else, if he’d been someone else, she would have succumbed faster than a leaf falls from a tree in autumn. His kiss, his vile, tonguing kiss, had been revelatory. Because she’d liked it. She could have gone on kissing him all night.

Not that he would have kissed her all night. She knew perfectly well that men kissed simply in order to inflict more indignities upon a woman, and that once they were done the best one could hope for was an affectionate pat on the cheek before the sod would roll over and fall asleep, dismissing her and her feelings from his consciousness….

She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. If she liked his kisses, more than she’d ever liked kisses before, did that mean she would also like what normally followed? She had the horrid suspicion that she might.

Which led her to an obvious conclusion. Celibacy might not be the best answer for every woman.

Oh, to be sure, someone like Benedick Rohan was the worst kind of choice a woman could make. Fortunately he was totally beyond her touch if she had any illusions in that direction. Her background was respectable but undistinguished, he was the scion of an old, if notorious, family. He would be a marquess eventually, and he would choose a very young virgin to be his marchioness, not a widow who was long in the tooth and most likely barren. Viscount
Rohan was busy looking among the most beautiful of this year’s crop of marriageable ladies, and he didn’t have to consider fortune among his requirements. He could simply take the prettiest, most amenable one with a snap of the fingers, and she, and her parents, would come willingly. If she hadn’t distracted him with her charges’ problems, he probably would have already announced his engagement.

But she was hardly going to settle for a fortune hunter like Wilfred, if she did decide to marry again. Nor an old man like Thomas, no matter how dearly he’d loved her. No, she would want someone strong and young and yes, handsome. Someone to adore her, to devote himself to bringing her pleasure with the same kind of dedication Rohan brought to kissing. Was it too much to ask for?

Of course, men, even charming men, could turn into brutes. But surely not all of them? She needed to keep an open mind. She might have been hasty in dismissing the entire male gender. Perhaps there might be children in her future after all.

Emma Cadbury appeared in the door, worry creasing her beautiful face. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Melisande, managing a distracted smile. “That’s a very pretty riding habit,” she observed.

“It’s seven years out-of-date,” Melisande said, kicking at the long skirt. “Which is one reason why it’s a little too…a little too…”

“Attractive? Flattering?” Emma supplied dryly. “I don’t understand why you refuse to wear clothes that
show your figure. The habit looks lovely on you—it brings out the blue in your eyes. There’s no reason why you can’t enjoy pretty clothes, Melisande.”

“I don’t want to attract unwanted male attention.”

“What about wanted male attention?”

Melisande flushed, hoping Emma couldn’t read her recent thoughts. “Is there such a thing?”

“Yes,” Emma said firmly. “And I suspect you’re beginning to realize it. You still haven’t told me how last evening went.”

She would have given anything to have poured out what had happened in that little closet off the Elsmeres’ ballroom, but something stopped her. She wasn’t sure whether it was embarrassment or something else, but she wasn’t ready to share.

“I’m more interested in how Maudie is.” She’d just managed to drift off to sleep when Maudie had showed up, covered in blood, with bruises on her throat, wrists and ankles, another victim of the Heavenly Host’s brutal games. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d managed to clean her up and bandage her, but her blackened eyes were filled with suffering, a suffering that should only have increased Melisande’s disgust for all mankind. Unfortunately it only increased her disgust with the base aristocrats responsible and the worthless examples of human-kind who found pleasure in hurting the helpless.

And Benedick, Viscount Rohan, was her ally in stopping them. She had no choice—she couldn’t do it on her own. At least she was secure in the knowledge that without good reason he would have no interest in
touching her. And when she survived without sleep she became, as Emma had frankly informed her, a captious shrew. She would give Viscount Rohan such a disgust of her that he wouldn’t want to venture any closer than strictly necessary.

“Maudie’s sleeping,” Emma said. “She’s lost a bit of blood, but she doesn’t seem to have suffered any permanent injury.”

“With any luck this might work out for the best.” Melisande roused herself. “She’s come and gone from here three times already, each time drifting back into the life of a whore. This time she may have finally had enough.”

“Perhaps,” Emma said doubtfully. “But there are some who never learn. And God knows, it’s easier work than hauling coal to an upstairs bedroom and working in a dressmaker’s shop. You’re off your feet and it’s all over and done with quick enough.”

Melisande frowned. “That reminds me. Lord Rohan said that…that physical encounters can take an hour or longer. I presume he was lying, but…”

“What were you doing discussing lovemaking with Viscount Rohan?”

Melisande picked up the newspaper, endeavoring to look matter-of-fact. “It was an intellectual discussion.”

“Hmmph,” said Emma, clearly not convinced. “If you want to have intellectual discussions about lovemaking then you should come to us. If you put all our years of experience together our wealth of knowledge rivals that contained in the British Museum.”

“Does the British Museum contain knowledge of lovemaking?” she asked. “I’ll have to go in search of it instead of wasting my time learning from the gaggle.”

“Don’t try to distract me. You know I worry about you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said in a meek voice. “Then is it true? Does it take longer than five or ten minutes?”

Emma surveyed her judiciously. “It all depends. With experienced lovers it can last the entire night. When money changes hands it’s usually over quickly. The provider of the service wishes to end it quickly, and, being a professional skilled in her craft, she can do any number of things to speed the process along. The purchaser usually wants it over quickly as well, since he’s more than likely ashamed of needing to pay money for it in the first place or concerned that he might be discovered by a wife or friend.

“Among lovers it’s a different matter. In that case the longer it takes the more exquisite the pleasure. There are any number of tricks for prolonging things, bringing someone to the very edge of climax and then falling back, only to approach it again.”

“Climax?”

Emma’s smile was rueful. “Clearly we haven’t been nearly instructive enough. I’m talking about that moment of exquisite bliss that occasionally blesses women. For men it’s simple enough—a matter of biology, and almost any aperture will do for them. For a woman it requires care and skill from
the man, and usually deep feeling from the woman, or so I’ve been told.”

Melisande stared at her, momentarily confused. “So you’ve been told?” she repeated. “But you were the most notorious madam in the city, as well as the youngest. How could you not know…?”

“Prolonging a man’s pleasure is a fairly simple matter. Prolonging a female’s release is, for my part, merely theoretical. There are very few men who specialize in providing pleasure for females, and I have never been troubled by tender feelings about anyone. Most of the men who worked for me were there for other men to enjoy. Yes, I know, you don’t want to hear about it, and you don’t need to, though I assure you most of those young men are in as great a need as the women who live here. But as it is, even professionally speaking, a woman’s pleasure is of little value. Occasionally a really good lover can make it last for his partner, but I gather either such men are very rare or, once discovered by wife or partner, they’re never given the chance to stray. So Lord Rohan estimates that his usual lovemaking takes an hour?”