The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (6 page)

Each touch, each caress was intended to awaken her passions. His mouth on her neck, the scrape of his teeth, the rough glide of a whiskered cheek over delicate skin—all were alien sensations to her. Every surprised gasp that softened into a sigh, every tensing of her muscles that gave way to languorous relaxation spurred him on. It wasn’t until he felt her shiver that he claimed her mouth. His tongue stole boldly inside, tangling with hers, sliding sensually between her lips, mimicking the act that he hoped would follow.

He could feel some of the tension draining from her, but her hands remained clasped together. Gently he pried them apart and placed her arms around his neck, bringing them closer together. Her palms flattened on his shoulders, her breasts crushed against his chest. The reduced distance between them allowed him to deepen the kiss further.

He threaded his fingers into her hair, loosening pins and pulling the ropes of braids free as he angled her head to take her mouth more fully. She moaned, and he knew it to be a sound of pleasure.

Inspiration struck him as he imagined that the weight of her hair had to bring some discomfort. With his hands buried in the silken strands, he began to gently massage her scalp and the back of her neck. Any remaining tension in her body fled. She became boneless and pliant in his arms. Her guard was down, and he seized the opportunity to increase the level of intimacy. He closed his hand over her breast, kneading gently, lifting the generous globe and teasing the nipple until it pebbled beneath his questing fingers. He treated the other breast to the same tantalizing touch, before tugging the bodice down and baring her to his gaze.

At the rush of cool air on her naked breasts, Abbi started. She didn’t even know how they had gotten to that point. She only knew that she felt languid, her body warming from the inside out. The tension that had settled in her neck and shoulders had migrated to a place deep inside her. Her body was coiled tightly, waiting for something. Menace. He was truly a menace; she thought. Those words were becoming a near constant refrain for her.

She wasn’t entirely ignorant of the process. Having grown up in the countryside, it was impossible not to understand the mating process. Living with Lavinia, even for the short time that she had, had provided quite the education, as well. She knew the words, even if she didn’t know precisely how it all worked.

Nervous, because he had managed to rattle her so already, she glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He’d left her mindless and half naked in only two minutes, which meant he had six more to go.

Michael turned her face away from the clock, kissed her again, before dipping his head to take one tightly furled nipple into his mouth. A soft whimper escaped her. The sensation was too intense. The damp heat of his mouth ignited a fire in her. She could feel the tell-tale moisture at the juncture of her thighs, the ratcheting of the tension inside her. Her mind fogged again, falling prey to his sensual onslaught. She was under siege and losing ground rapidly.

Abbi felt the overwhelming urge to move her hips, to press herself against the hardness of his thigh, but she didn’t. She forced herself to remain still, to be as passive a participant as possible. It was the only way she would walk out of that room tonight without giving up more of her pride than she was willing to, and other things, she thought grimly. Another glance at the clock and she nearly wept. Four minutes in and an eternity to go.

Abbi steeled herself against her own traitorous urges. It wasn't simply the heat and the coiling need. Even innocent as she was, she could acknowledge the true nature of her feelings. It was also the curiosity. A little voice whispered in her mind, beguiling her. If ever a man could show her the nature of desire, it was Michael.

She was not as passive in the experience as she wanted to be. He touched her, and her body strained toward him. Blood rushed in her veins, flowing hotter and thicker beneath every sweep of his hand. He made her burn and no matter how much she resisted, they both knew it.

Clenching her fists at her sides, Abbi ignored the yearning, the ache building inside her. She forced herself to lie there, accepting his attentions, but never returning them, never assuaging her curiosity about the silken texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle or the heat that emanated from him.

Michael felt the slight withdrawal. He knew, at some point, her infernal brain had begun to work again telling her the million and one reasons that existed for her to deny him. He reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it until he could see her stocking clad legs. Her legs were long and shapely, her rounded thighs tapering to firm calves and narrow ankles. He reached down and removed her shoes, before drawing her knees up. He lifted her right leg gently, drawing it up until he could clasp her foot in his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he stroked firmly from the arch of her foot up to her toes and back. He massaged her foot with firm but gentle pressure, all the while he played at the bounty of her breasts with his lips and tongue.

Her breathing became progressively more labored. Whether she relented or not, he knew that she craved him, even if her reason bid her to deny him. A small, doubting part of him thought that might have to be enough to sustain him. He moved his hand from her foot to her ankle, still using soft, gentle strokes.

Gradually, he worked his way up her calf and then her thigh. His own breathing had become ragged by then. His erection had progressed to the point of agony. He was so hard that he ached. The lush, silken heat of her body called to him. He longed to sink into her, to ease them both, in the same way that he longed for breath. It was simply necessary. As his hand brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she placed her hand over his, halting his progress.

“Your eight minutes have run out,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly, and there was a breathlessness to it that only added to his misery.

“You’re really going to stop now?” he asked, incredulously. While he’d acknowledged the possibility that it might happen, he couldn’t quite fathom the reality of it. Of course, the truth of how little blood was actually flowing to his addled brain was undeniable. Thinking was not a priority at the moment. He knew that she wanted him that she had enjoyed every touch.

“Yes, I really am,” she said, and extricated herself from his arms. That her knees trembled slightly as she rose did not offer any appeasement.

“Good night, my lord,” she said, moving towards the door without sparing him a backward glance.

In his bed, his body aching and needy; Michael stared at the door in utter dismay. The possibility of it had existed for him, but the reality was unfathomable. She had truly walked away. It should have hurt his pride or at the very least nicked his ego. He was still too dumbfounded to process it fully.

Angry, frustrated, and randier than an adolescent boy, he glared at the clock on the bedside table before hurling it across the room. Though it smashed against the hearth, the destruction did nothing to ease his misery. There was only one thing to do. Like any untried youth, he faced the less than satisfying prospect of seeing to his own sexual satisfaction.

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his body on fire and his mind numb. A line from the Merchant of Venice entered his mind then, ‘Lovers ever run before the clock’. It was shockingly apropos considering that his wedding night had turned into a farce.

Chapter Seven

The following morning, Michael was still in a foul mood. That his new wife appeared quite chipper as she went about her daily chores only aggravated him further. When he saw her carrying clothes down to wash,, his temper got the better of him. “We have servants for that!” he snapped.

Abbi glanced over her shoulder at him, “We do not, my lord.”

“Michael,” he corrected through clenched teeth, “And we bloody well do. Mrs. Wolcot is one of them.”

“Mrs. Wolcot is our housekeeper, and she has been with the family for ages. She has also not been paid in ages. She only remained at Blagdon Hall because she has no other family to go to! Also, because Lord Allerton refused to provide a reference for her to go elsewhere,” Abbi explained, her tone patient, as if speaking to a child, or perhaps a lackwit. “I won't even mention the fact that she's at least a score beyond our combined ages, and should not be toting baskets of clothes larger than she is!”

“You have just mentioned it!” His tone was biting. “Her wages have been paid by me…And I will see that she receives the back wages as well, now that I am aware they are owed to her. Now, you are a viscountess and not a bloody laundress! I will not have you carting clothes back and forth to the wash.”

Abbi smiled at him the same way one would smile at a petulant, but still adorable child. “That is all well and good, my lor—Michael. But you cannot hire people from the village. They will not work at the hall as most of them are petrified of our resident spirit… and as your valet has not yet arrived with all your belongings, the wash will not wait until you can obtain someone from an agency in London. So, in short, this particular viscountess will also be your laundress, at least for today.”

He watched her sail from the room, impervious to his protests and every societal edict she had just violated. The basket of dirty clothes balanced against her hip and the door banged shut behind her. He swore violently. If Allerton weren’t already dead, he would have called the blackguard out. There was no excuse for having left her to eke out such a mean existence. She should have been given a season in London, along with a dowry and the opportunity to have the genteel life that was due her by virtue of her station. Instead, she’d been subsisting in a rundown hovel of a ramshackle keep on a pauper’s portion.

The front door opened behind him, and he heard a feminine voice calling out a greeting from the great hall. He turned and headed in that direction, only to find himself face to face with Lady Lavinia Whitby. His morning had gone from bad to worse.

Lady Whitby smiled warmly at him, rather like a crocodile before it devoured its prey. “Good morning, Lord Ellersleigh, my new brother in law! How exciting to have my dear stepsister married, at last.”

More disturbed by her abrupt turn of mind than her presence,, Michael raised an eyebrow. “Your excitement appears to be a recent development and quite a departure from your attitude the night of our engagement.”

Lavinia laughed, a musical sound that was, nonetheless, chilling. “Well, of course, I was less than thrilled that night, my lord. I was quite overset by the horrible circumstances… Poor, dear Allerton! What a pity that was!” She moved closer to him, laying her hand on his arm and staring up at him with an expression that contained more sincerity than she was capable of. “Surely, you can see that my reception of the news was marred by my shock at discovering him so... You must understand!”

“Must understand what?”

Michael turned to see Abbi walking in from the kitchen. Her face was flushed as if she’d hurried in from outside. Her question had been posed in a serene voice, but there was murder in her eyes. Perhaps she was feeling protective, he thought, considering that sharing a room with Lavinia was like walking into a darkened pit filled with vipers. The strikes would come, but who knew from where?

“Your sister was just correcting me on a misunderstanding,” he said, his tone light and yet infused with sarcasm. “It appears she is quite pleased about our marriage, and that her reaction, only three short days ago, was prompted by her shock over Lord Allerton’s untimely death.”

Abbi met Lavinia’s gaze with a direct one of her own; one eyebrow arched imperiously. “I was under the impression it had more to do with the fact that she had attempted to seduce you and failed miserably.”

Lavinia’s lips firmed into a hard line, the harsh expression revealing some of the damage from her dissolute lifestyle. “Always so judgmental, Abigail! But if you insist, then the answer is no, I am not pleased with the situation. In part because I had made other plans for Lord Ellersleigh, but also because of the scandal. There is no need to air our family differences for public consumption.”

Abbi turned to Michael, whose only response was a familiar shrug. “What did you have in mind, Lavinia?”

With a smirk, Lavinia explained, “We’re having another house party. Not our normal sort, mind you. We’ll save those entertainments for later. No, we’ll be having a formal house party with very respectable guests. Naturally, living as close as you do, you need not stay for the entirety of the party, but certainly coming for a few days should shelve most of the gossip.”

Michael didn't wait for Abigail to respond. He knew, unequivocally that she would refuse. But if he wanted to get to the bottom of the torchlit, midnight gatherings in the woods, then getting back into Whitby Hall was a necessary evil. “We will attend,” Michael said. Instantly, he felt Abigail's censorious gaze settle upon him. Ignoring her chilling glare, he continued with an admonishment, “But, if there is even a hint of impropriety, you will rue the day you hatched any such scheme.”

Lavinia laughed again, the sound no less chilling than before. “La, so suspicious! Guests should begin arriving within the next day or so…You will come to dinner on Friday. Most everyone should be there by then,” she called over her shoulder, as she breezed out into the bright morning sunshine.

Quietly fuming, Abigail waited until Lavinia had cleared the door, her elegant gown sweeping behind her as she made a grand exit. With her scheming stepsister out of sight and hopefully out of earshot, she turned on Michael. How dare he make such decisions without even consulting her?

“I have no desire to step foot in Whitby Hall ever again,” Abbi said. Livid at his high-handedness, she wondered what would come of Lavinia's poisoned olive branch. Crafting the misery of others was all that ever brought a smile to her stepsister’s lips.

Michael sighed, “I've no wish to argue about this. I need to get into Whitby Hall, and this is the only opportunity we’ll have.”

Abbi eyed him suspiciously. Whatever he was about, she had a sinking feeling that she would not care for it.. “Why? Why do you need to get into Whitby Hall?”

He was silent for a long moment, one in which his internal debate over what to share was plainly written upon his too-handsome face. Abbi tapped her foot impatiently before finally saying, “Tell me, or I simply won't go!”

He sighed heavily, resigned. “I can’t help but think there are no coincidences. Lord Allerton sought me out to play, and then played poorly even for him. I think your stepsister was behind it all… I think he intentionally lost Blagdon Hall to me so that you would be forced to seek sanctuary at Whitby Hall. I also believe that your sister murdered him, because he was too vocal in his disappointment at having to give up the house.”

It made a convoluted sense, and if Lavinia was anything, it was convoluted. “And you believe that can be proven by visiting Whitby Hall?”

“I think we should keep our friends close, and our enemies closer. It's all conjecture at this point. Until I know what Lavinia's and Rupert's ultimate goal is, which I do believe will be found at Whitby Hall, the other pieces of the puzzle will not make sense. I don’t like not knowing what your stepsister is up to.”

A cold feeling of dread swept through her. Foreboding and dark, she had the overwhelming sense of impending doom. Abbi couldn’t believe she was saying it, but the words spilled out, tumbling over top of one another in her haste. “Let’s just leave. We can go to London and stay far away from Lavinia!”

He shook his head. “No.” In a more gentle tone, he added, “We can’t. It won’t be long before the gossip rags are publishing wild stories about our engagement and marriage. It will alternately be a love match and a piece of the criminal mastery, depending on which sells more papers. I've been the subject of enough rumors, but for you—You've no idea how vicious society can be, and Lavinia will never forgive you for being the more infamous sister.”

“She won’t forgive you for rejecting her either,” Abbi replied. It terrified her to think of what her sister might do. Lavinia was ruthless in ways she'd only just begun to realize. There would be no hiding from Lavinia. They would spend their lives looking over their shoulders.

The question rose, unbidden, to her mind. It pained her to ask it, but the wondering would only be worse. On a deep shuddering, exhale, she asked, “Why did you reject, Lavinia? Whatever else she is, she’s impossibly beautiful.”

Michael glanced at Abigail then, noting the uncertainty of her expression, the vulnerability in the slight tremor of her voice. Did she not know how beautiful she was? He supposed it was possible. Abigail's brand of loveliness was more quiet than her sister's, less overt, but all the sweeter for it. While Lavinia was a classic beauty, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, her angelic appearance disguised a dark heart. “Lavinia is a beautiful woman on the surface, but she is cold inside—hard and perhaps even vicious. I’ve made it a point in my life to never bed a woman I would be afraid to turn my back on…Of course, there was also you.”

“Me?”

He smiled at her, just a slight quirking of his perfectly sculpted lips. “Yes, you. Whether scolding a recalcitrant feline or dodging your overly amorous brother in law, I found you far more entrancing than Lavinia could ever hope to be.”

A derisive snort had accompanied her eye rolling before she responded. “I'm in no need of your flattery, my lord! When I asked about your rejection of Lavinia, I wasn’t fishing for empty compliments for myself.”

Michael shrugged, the easy gesture belying the anger that burned in him—anger on her behalf. Had no one ever told her how lovely she was? Finally, he said, “I wasn’t offering them. You asked, and I answered. I only accepted her invitation to dinner because it would offer me a chance to see you. My reasons were two-fold, the first of which was guilt. I worried that I’d sent a seemingly innocent young woman into what I knew would be a den of iniquity.”

“And your second reason?” she asked, her brows rising in disbelief.

Michael answered with complete sincerity, his eyes never leaving her. “I couldn’t stop thinking of how lovely you are... Your hair, your skin, your perfectly shaped bottom which had been so prominently displayed when first we met. You have many charming traits to recommend you, Abigail. If you'd but let me, I could demonstrate my devotion to your many lovely attributes.””

Though his words were perfectly innocent, or at least most of them were, the hidden meaning was more than apparent. That she understood, his meaning was clear from the panic in her gaze. She stuttered a bit, as she said, “I need to help, Mrs. Wolcot.” Immediately, she began to beat a hasty retreat.

Michael lunged forward, not willing to let her go so easily. She doubted his attraction to her, and in his somewhat self-serving viewpoint, there was only one way to disabuse her of such notions. He caught her around the waist, his arm snaking around her, hauling her back against him. His arms closed around her, pulling her close, feeling the softness and the warmth of her generously curved body pressing against him. The scent of her hair wafted seductively beneath his nose, and he inhaled deeply, savoring it.

“I thought of you all of last night. I lay awake and thought of you,” he said, speaking low, his voice pitched seductively as he whispered the words against her ear. She shuddered in his grasp, and he smiled.

In spite of her obvious response to his nearness, her tone was sharp when she replied. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

“It’s a transgression easily forgiven,” he said, his teeth scraping her earlobe gently. In spite of the abrupt end to their sensual exploration, and the frustration that had remained in its wake, the thrill of touching her, of learning her exquisite body, had been well worth it. “You have only to tell me that sleep evaded you, as well—that you lay in your virginal bed thinking of my hands and my mouth on your body.”

She was silent for a moment, considering. When she spoke, the question was asked in a soft voice. “If I admit it, will you let me go?”

“Yes.” It would be the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life, but he would abide by his word.

Exhaling harshly, she offered up her reluctant confession. “Yes, I thought of you.”

Michael groaned, the agony of his desire for her rekindled to a fever pitch. Stepping back, he let her go, every fiber of his being protesting that he should simply take what he wanted, what she'd just admitted that she wanted. But he'd never forced a woman in his life, and if he couldn't bloody well seduce her then he didn't deserve to have her. With a muttered curse, he strode from the room swiftly and didn’t look back.

~*~*~

Abby had avoided Michael for the better part of the day. Following their discussion that morning, she simply felt off balance with him. He could be the dangerous and seductive rogue one minute and a charming, strangely vulnerable man the next. Perhaps more frightening was her response to him. He made her yearn for things that simply terrified her. It wasn't the physical intimacy of marriage that she feared so much; it was all that followed. She understood only too well that for most women, giving their bodies ultimately preceded or followed giving their hearts. Her heart was not something she wished to trust him with.