Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (32 page)

But first he needed to free her from hers.

She was spread out before him like a luscious feast, her trim, stocking-clad legs converging in a shadowy valley of bare skin and dark curls and intoxicating feminine musk. He removed her left slipper and let it fall to the floor, skimming his hand up the enticing curves of her leg—from the high arch of her instep, to the gentle curve of her calf, over the knob of her knee, and further.

“Julian,” she said frantically, as he yanked at her garter. “We can’t do this. Not here.”

“Why not here? It’s our house.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh. Did you prefer one of the other homes we toured?” He pulled the garter loose, then deftly rolled the stocking down her leg.

“No, you impossible man. You know I want this house, but—”

He shucked her other slipper. It hit the floor with a softly echoing thud. Then he ceased his attentions, momentarily devoting his whole body to communication. “You want this house, and you shall have it. I want you, and I shall have you. Right here. Right now. There will be no further discussion.”

Then he went back to removing her other garter and sliding her leg free of its delicate silk sheath. Once he’d pulled the garment free and exposed her dainty, wriggling toes, he kissed his way up her leg, tracing every smooth ivory contour with lips and tongue. As he reached the quivering slope of her inner thigh, her foot slipped to the keyboard in disharmonious protest.

“Be still,” he told her, shushing against her skin. He picked up her foot and braced it on his shoulder. Pushing aside the white, gauzy folds of her chemise and petticoat, he bared her most intimate places to his view. The petals of her sex were flushed deep red and dewy with excitement, and the sight alone drove him to a new peak of arousal.

Rather then dipping to taste her directly, he schooled himself to be patient. Instead, he licked a winding path up her inner thigh, giving her time to grow accustomed to the idea. Even so, her hips bucked with surprise when he made that first teasing pass with his tongue.

He kept a firm grip on her ankle, holding her bare foot braced against his shoulder. With his other hand, he clutched her hip. She wasn’t getting away from him. Oh, no.

He pressed his open mouth to her sex, just lightly. No kisses or fancy work with his tongue. He merely settled there, hovering near. Feeling her maidenhair tickle at his freshly shaven cheek, letting his ragged breath warm her aroused flesh. With devilish intent, he lifted his gaze and made eye contact with her over the heaving horizon of her bosom. Her brown eyes were glazed, her lips dusky and flushed.

He licked, once. In a reflexive move, her leg tensed against his shoulder, as if she would push him away.

He licked again, this time making a long, slow slide along her cleft, parting her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped back with a moan.

Eye contact ended. Her leg relaxed. Now he could tend to business.

He slid his hands up to frame her hips. She was so slender, he could curl his fingers over her waist and still reach toward her center with his thumbs, spreading her open for his pleasure and hers.

Damn, but he loved this. The teasing, the tasting, the tonguing of her every delicate contour and crest. Having explored every secret part of her, he swept his tongue to the pinnacle of her cleft and found her swollen bud.

Above him, she gasped and moaned. Her hand tangled in his hair, twisting and grasping. But she made no effort to wrench him away.

Needing to get closer, he lifted one knee to the piano keyboard. The incidental chord faded as he slid one hand up to knead her breast, tweaking her hardened nipple through the fabric. She inched closer to him, splaying her legs with shameless abandon and pressing her heat against his mouth. He began a swift series of experiments, running through his repertoire of kisses, nibbles, and licks until he found just the precise flicker of his tongue that set her thigh aquiver.

There
, her body told him.
Just like that
.

So he did it again. And again. And again, refusing to slow or stop until she cried out in ecstasy, arching off the pianoforte with the force of her climax.

And still he did not relent.

Her fingers relaxed their grip on his hair, and she stroked him instead, raking her fingernails lightly over his scalp. A little sound escaped her throat. He doubted she was even aware of making it. A whimper, raw-edged with yearning. It was a sound of sensual satisfaction, and yet—it was an unmistakable plea for more.

Something in him snapped. She’d wanted a return to the wicked Julian, and she was going to have her wish. Turning his head, he kissed her inner thigh. Then he bit it, drawing on the fragile skin with firm suction until he pulled from her a sharp hiss of pain.

Widening his stance to brace his lust-weakened knees, he stood, pulling at the buttons of his trousers with desperate fingers. Within moments, he’d freed his rampant erection. He stroked himself a few times, gazing hungrily upon the plump, rosy display of passion so conveniently positioned at eye level. Staring at the way he’d marked her with that bite just at the top of her thigh. The tiny bruise was a violet petal fallen on fresh snow.

She was wet and hot and glistening. She was
his
.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, giving his aching arousal one last squeeze. “So damned beautiful.”

From the pianoforte, she rose up on her elbows. She gave him a sleepy smile, looking drugged with satisfaction. She would not wear that look for long. He was determined to rouse her, in more ways than one.

Grasping her by the hips, he dragged her down from atop the pianoforte. Her backside landed on the keyboard with a discordant crash, her legs on either side of his. Giving her no chance to prepare or protest, Julian guided himself to her entrance and thrust deep, encasing himself in bliss.

Sweet … 
heaven
.

“Your legs,” he demanded, “wrap them over my hips.” He demonstrated his wish, lifting her thigh to aid her in compliance. Soon her ankles were linked at the small of his back.

“Arms, too,” he said.

She laced them tight around his neck.

With her clinging to him, he slid one arm around her waist. He braced his other hand against the pianoforte, to protect her from taking the brunt of his thrusts.

He worked her hard and fast, and beneath them, frenzied music played in an ungodly key, building to a quick crescendo. This was not tender lovemaking, but a claiming. This was
his
beautiful wife. This was
his
beautiful house. And this bright, elegant, glittering future … all of it, his for the taking.

She felt so good against him, under him, surrounding him. He threw back his head, and she chased him, pressing her lips to his throat. His whole body hummed with anticipation as he raced toward completion. She beat him to the finish, seizing around him in a second climax. He heard himself making harsh, guttural noises—shouting, almost. And why shouldn’t he shout? This was his house, his wife. No need to hold back.

So he didn’t. He came into her, losing himself in a clamor of bucking hips and strange, groaning piano chords, and clashing, open-mouthed kisses.

And life was very, very good.

For now.

Chapter Twenty

“Well, it appears someone’s feeding the beast. Grooming him, too.” Rhys St. Maur, Lord Ashworth gave the stallion’s withers a brisk rub. “Osiris, you look a damn sight better than when I saw you last.” The former warrior looked to Julian. “For that matter, so do you. Marriage must be suiting you.”

Julian shrugged. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? Where’s Lady Ashworth?”

“Merry?” Ashworth’s eyebrow lifted, splitting in the middle where a thick scar divided it. “Left her at the hotel. She’s fatigued from the journey, or so she says. Too enamored with the scented soaps and bed hangings, is more like it. But she sends her regards.”

“Bring her by Harcliffe House later, if you will. My wife will be glad to make her acquaintance.”

“Your wife.” Ashworth chuckled. “And just think, six months ago you were so determined to marry Lily off to some other man.”

Julian knew he was being ribbed, but he didn’t take offense. These days, so little seemed worth getting upset about. “I was only following the code, you know. A member of the Stud Club needed to marry her. Once you and Morland married elsewhere, the duty fell to me.”

“Duty, my arse. You’ve been in love with that woman from the start. Don’t try to deny it.”

Very well. Julian wouldn’t. He pulled a stub of carrot from his pocket and offered it to the horse.

Ashworth scratched the stallion behind his ear. “What would Leo think, if he could see the remaining members of his fast, subversive club? We’re all old married men now, settled and sedate.”

Osiris snorted, sending a little cloud of vapor into the brisk December morning.

“This stallion’s none too youthful, either.”

Ashworth asked, “You think Morland will agree to your plan?”

Julian nodded. “I have my ways of convincing him.”

The duke himself arrived at that moment, approaching the mews astride a stately bay gelding. He dismounted smoothly and handed his reins to a waiting groom.

“Ashworth,” he said, catching his breath as he removed his gloves. “This is a surprise. When did you arrive in Town?”

“Just now.”

“I hear you’ve married.”

“Aye. My lady’s resting at our lodgings. But I hope to introduce her to you and Her Grace while we’re in London. She and Amelia will get on well, I think.”

“We’d be delighted. Where are you staying in Town?”

“At the Pulteney.”

“You’re at a hotel?” The duke’s brow wrinkled with disdain. Odd, how Morland’s superior expressions used to enrage Julian. Now he just found them mildly irritating. Not nearly worthy of a punch to the jaw, at any rate.

“Don’t stay at a hotel,” the duke continued. “You’re more than welcome at Morland House. We’ve plenty of rooms, and Amelia loves nothing more than guests.”

“That’s generous of you, but Merry had her heart set on the Pulteney.”

“Trade research,” Julian explained to the duke. “The new Lady Ashworth is the proprietor of Devonshire’s finest coaching inn. Only natural she’d want to investigate the London hotels. Anyway, Morland, you’ll be needing your guest rooms for someone else.”

“Who?”

Ashworth took his cue and went over to his waiting coach, opening the door and reaching inside to help Peter Faraday down. Yet another man Julian had once been desperate to pummel. Christ, had he truly walked around irate for so much of his adult life? It all felt so foreign and far away now.

Faraday slowly advanced, unaided by Ashworth but relying heavily on the assistance of a walking stick. The man looked to be in better health than he had in Cornwall, but that wasn’t saying much. He was still pale, still obviously in a great deal of pain. If he hadn’t healed after six months’ time, it was unlikely he’d ever walk unaided again.

“Mr. Bellamy. Your Grace.” Faraday inclined his head. “Forgive me if I don’t bow.”

“Peter Faraday,” Morland said, returning the man’s nod of greeting. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Last time we met, your attention was on the cards.”

“What are you doing here now?”

“Let me explain,” Julian said. He summarized the progress—or lack thereof—of his investigation into Leo’s death. Then explained how last month, the idea had finally occurred to him to check the prison and court records. “My investigator explored that angle in the first weeks after Leo’s death, but at that time we had no real description. A few weeks ago I received these names. Angus Macleod and Horace Stone. They match Cora Dunn’s physical description of the men. They were jailed the morning after Leo’s death, apprehended not a mile away from the scene of his beating. Sentenced to six months’ hard labor for breaking and entering.”

Ashworth whistled low. “Has to be them. Too many coincidences not to be.”

Julian nodded. “They’re serving on a prison hulk, due to be released in just over a week. We’ll ride out that morning and meet them on the docks. As lords, either one of you”—he indicated Morland and Ashworth—“can easily have them rearrested. With Faraday’s testimony, they’ll swing by the turn of the New Year.”

Faraday gave a heavy sigh. “I told you in Cornwall, I don’t recall a thing about the attack itself. I don’t know that I’ll be able to identify them.”

Julian said tightly, “Well, I’m positive that seeing them will jog your memory. If not, we’ll send for Cora.”

“Sorry I couldn’t bring her along,” Ashworth said. “But someone has to mind the inn. Besides, it felt cruel to pull the girl away from her honeymoon.”

“The comely Miss Dunn’s married, too?” Faraday gripped his walking stick. “What a shame. It’s a veritable plague of matrimony. Stay far clear of me, all three of you.”

With that, he hobbled to the side and lowered his weight onto a bench. Julian sensed the man’s loud decrial of marriage was merely an excuse to take a much-needed rest. After the exertion of standing upright all of five minutes, the poor soul needed a rest. Julian almost felt bad for him.