The Art of Ruining a Rake (34 page)

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he’d learned such kindness from
Celeste
. Somehow, she managed to keep her bitterness to herself. She shouldn’t act like a feral cat over him. Even if she
did
want to hiss and yowl and scratch out his beautiful blue eyes when she remembered what he’d told her not an hour before.

She’d been so stupid. So very, very stupid.

He seemed to realize she was reliving their argument. Bleakness passed over his face. The unfettered emotion caused her heart to squeeze in response. He did care about her, in his misguided way. She believed him when he said he wanted to make her happy.

It was better, then, to think of him as a friend. As she’d tried to do ever since she’d first recognized his potential as an ally. As she’d failed to do miserably, over and over.

“This way,” she said, brushing past him.

Friends had brandy.

Friends had privacy.

He followed her into the breakfast nook. Mr. Gordo had already sent in a maid to light a fire, and a candelabra on the table burned healthily. Not brightly enough to chase out every shadow, but enough so Roman’s locks danced and his eyes shone like stars.

Feeling self-conscious, she pulled out a chair and seated herself. Roman went to the sideboard where, instead of eggs and kippers, a decanter of brandy and two glasses had been set out. He poured both too full, then brought them to the table.

She took the proffered snifter and raised it to her lips. Only the barest amount singed her tongue; she didn’t trust herself to drink it all. Not tonight. Not with him being so protective and considerate. Even if it
was
because he wanted to make up for the two terrible frights he’d given her.

“Do sit,” she implored him. He was making her nervous.

“I’d rather not,” he said, going to the open door, peeking out, then striding back inside. He moved gracefully, like a cat.

Like a tomcat.

“I was a bit shaken, too, if you must know,” he said, loping to the window. It faced a courtyard shared by the nearest town houses, though she doubted he could see much beyond the wooden bench outside of their door. Still, it was easier for her to sit calmly if he didn’t look at her.
 

Especially when he continued, “I never took to sporting of any kind, certainly not ones that require practice. As a lad I preferred to read quietly, or to walk the moors with my own thoughts. It’s why Ashlin and I became friends. Your brother isn’t much for strenuous exercise, either. Or gambling. Or risking his life, as one does when one rides horses for sport.”

She remembered Roman had been thrown from a horse just before the start of her Season. And he was right; Trestin had never been one to stick out his neck, at least not until recently.
 

“He’s taken up pugilism,” she noted, feigning another sip of brandy. She watched Roman lean against the window frame, his insouciance natural rather than practiced.

Over the last few weeks, he’d shown her a substance she hadn’t expected of him. Tonight he was being especially disarming. It ought to frighten her, but she was coming to accept that he would always make her feel punched in the solar plexus. That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy their repartee, or the view.

He wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t notice her admiring the long, straight lines of his evening clothes, or the simple V of his ivory waistcoat where it opened just below the neck.

He laughed quietly. “Your brother’s changed.”

A stabbing reminder of their awkward triangles. Celeste, Roman, Ashlin. Roman, Lucy, Celeste. Her good feelings diminished.

“I’m a crack shot,” she said after a time. If she didn’t fill the silence, Roman would reveal something else about himself and she’d forget again why he must only be admired from a distance. “My father taught me. And I can sit a horse very well. I wasn’t as skilled at archery, nor did I enjoy the embroidery lessons my grandmama insisted upon. And my French is abysmal.”

He pivoted to look at her, half of his frame cloaked in shadows, half golden and warm. His body rested against the wall, but she wasn’t fooled.

He was keeping his distance.

“My French is rather good,” he told her without affectation, “though I often claim otherwise. I spent some time on the Continent when I was younger. I’m too much of a natterbox to let myself be left out of a conversation.”

“Who were you with?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He didn’t break their gaze. He remained at ease, as if she hadn’t asked the most invasive question. “We were friends, Lucy. Never anything more.”

She squeezed her hands tightly around her snifter. Again the ache in her chest. Again the anger that he had kept this from her—might
still
have left her oblivious, if he hadn’t feared one of his baconbrained friends would tell her—consumed her.
He’d been in love with Celeste while he’d been courting her.
She should want to stab him in his treacherous, fickle heart.

All she could do was fight the urge to weep.

“That’s not what I meant.” They both knew she lied, but he didn’t embarrass her by controverting her. “Trestin never went on a grand tour. I thought you might have gone with someone else, perhaps one of your brothers.”

“Tony, actually. We met others there.” Roman rested his empty glass on the window-box. He crossed his arms and gave her a wolfish grin. “Tony does not agree with France.”

“Too republican?” she asked, glad of a new topic.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Too lusty.”

“Oh.”

“Lucy.”

“Yes?” Her word was a single breath.

“I like it here.”

“P-pardon me?”

He raked her from head to toe with that starlight gaze. “Longing is its own form of deliciousness. Don’t come closer. Don’t let me come closer. I want to see how you grow. Live. Laugh. I didn’t mean to ruin you, but I can’t help but be glad—just a little bit—that I did. Look at you. Stay right there, where I can admire you.”

Her chest was so tight. If it were bottled up in the tiniest container possible, it couldn’t have left her more out of breath. His words were not flattery. Had he wanted to flatter her, he would have complimented her hair or her gown.

“Friends don’t say such things,” she managed.

Hunger smoldered in his eyes. He blinked and looked away. “Friends may say whatever they wish. You don’t have to like my opinion. You are, however, required to listen.”

“Am I to pat your shoulder when you’re done?”

He looked askance at her. A small smile tilted his lips. “Don’t come near me, Lucy.”

She inhaled sharply. That full bottle inside her chest was going to burst at any moment. He was doing—
this
—on purpose. Making her want. Making her desire.

“You can’t seduce me into loving you,” she said calmly. Far, far calmer than her racing heart would have her think.

“I wouldn’t try.”

“But you couldn’t. Even if you wanted to.”

“I know,” he said with another quiet laugh.

“You do?” She was surprised to hear him say it.

“Oh, yes,” he said in a quiet voice, his gaze fixed beyond the windowpane. “Because it’s
all
I’ve wanted for some time.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“It’s much better this way,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you every last sinful thing I’ve done and you don’t have to care. We can just enjoy each other’s company.”

Every last sinful thing I’ve done.
She would die if she didn’t know what delectable evils he’d experienced. Perish if he didn’t show her.

“Roman.” It was her turn to use his name.

He drew his eyes back to her slowly. She was glad he hadn’t been facing her. She was sure he could see straight inside her soul.

“Come to my room,” she said. “I’m in need of comforting.”

His pupils dilated as if he could devour her with just one look. He held her gaze for what felt like an eternity.

 
Almost imperceptibly, she leaned toward him. Her lips formed around a single word. “Please.”

“Lucy… We can’t.”

But the way he pushed from the wall, the sure strides he took to stand before her, told her they very much could.

Surely she was already damned. Making love to him again couldn’t change that.
 

Not
making love to him hadn’t changed anything.

Suddenly, they were both standing. Their shoulders rose and fell with the same barely contained awareness. He reached for her hand, then hauled her through the first floor labyrinth and up the staircase. He didn’t pause at the door where Trestin’s candlelight outlined the threshold. By the time they reached her landing there was no one to see him stop, turn, and take her into his arms.

She squeaked and draped her arms about his shoulders. His forearm hooked under her legs. When he came to her door, he pounded until it opened, then growled at Carson, “Leave us.”

Lucy buried her face against his chest as her lady’s maid ducked out through the narrow doorway.

Roman kicked the door closed behind them. He strode directly to the bed and dumped Lucy unceremoniously onto it. Within seconds, he’d peeled off his superfine coat and tossed it at the foot of her bed. His cravat followed in a flutter of silk. “Lucy,” he said in a voice that pooled between her legs, “tell me this is no time for an attack of conscience.”

“Great Zeus, I hope not.” She shifted onto her knees so that she was face-to-chest with him. She raised her hands to tug the buttons of his waistcoat, but he caught her hands.

“Tell me,” he said again, “you want this.”

“I do.”

“Say you’ll not regret it.”

She raised her chin. “I won’t.” Then, without waiting for him to insist again, she loosened the buttons of his gold-threaded waistcoat and pushed it from his shoulders.

While he pulled his shirtsleeves off, she worked at the buttons of his fall. Her eyes fixed on the bulge beneath it. Her mouth went dry. She remembered all too clearly what pleasures he could bring her with that part of his body. Fascinated by the way his manhood begged to be freed, she touched the cloth-covered ridge tentatively. It jumped beneath her fingers and she jerked her hand away.

His large hand covered hers. He pushed her hand against his breeches and pressed the shaft into her palm. “Oh, Lord,” he said, his voice as rough as her breathing, “that feels so good.”

Answering pleasure shot through her. She squeezed her legs together and concentrated on him. He groaned when she rubbed her flat hand more certainly against him. A dark, wet spot formed on his buff breeches.

His voice fairly broke. “Lucy, what are you doing to me? Your touch…”

She grasped the back of his thigh and held him more firmly to her. With the other, she continued her assault. Without warning, he slipped the buttons of his fall and presented her with the object of her attention. His member sprang forth, startling her at first, but he reached for her hand again and folded her fingers around the thick shaft.

For years she’d struggled to imagine what intimacies he’d shared with his many mistresses. Finally, she’d experienced a night in his bed and
known.
He was a lover in every sense of the word. A consummate one. A professional. He’d even acted, at the time, as though he were
in
love with her. But he hadn’t been. He hadn’t shown himself to her at all. She could see the difference now.

Tonight he was seeking pleasure from her, not giving it. He was revealing himself to her, teaching her how to satiate him, exposing how much he needed her to want him, too. She wasn’t the one crazed with desire. She was clearheaded. He was the one grasping her jaw and bringing her lips toward…

Oh.

Tentatively, she touched her lips to the rounded head. He sucked air through his teeth and she started to pull away, but he gritted,
“Please,”
and tangled his hands further into her hair. The pins holding her coiffure in place tugged against her scalp. “It’s so good, Lucy, my love. Damned good.”

A sense of power shot through her. He needed her. Just as badly, if not more, than she needed him. Emboldened, she kissed the swollen head again.

She parted her lips so she could dart the tip of her tongue out to lick the velvety head, and moaned with him. The thought of bringing him to his knees intoxicated her. She licked him again, then instinctively slid her tongue along his length.

It was all him. Purely him. His hands fisted in her hair, pulling her closer. His primal response touched something deep inside her.

She imagined his thick shaft sliding into her and moaned again. Wanting to feel all of him, she took him in her mouth fully.

“Lucy,” he gasped as she sucked ever so gently.

His fingertips pressed harder into her scalp. She relished the proof of his pleasure, of what she was doing to him. She looked up at him, fascinated by the pure, carnal need in his face as she worked him with her tongue. His breath was uneven, his large body shaking from the effort required not to give in and spill his seed against her tongue.

A slow smile made its way across those full, masculine lips. His eyes opened. His hands held her tighter still, pushing her away this time, until she couldn’t tease him with her tongue anymore. “That’s enough of that,” he said in a voice roughened by lust. “I don’t want to come just yet.”