Too Tempting to Resist (5 page)

“Oh dear, what’s he done now?”

“I’m not rightly sure,” she said darkly. “Wilkins hinted at some hideously obscene item being put in the bedchamber of the new guest.”

“You mean Lord Haddan?” she inquired.

“Aye. That’s the one,” replied the housekeeper. “It’s supposed to be some sort of jest.”

“I see,” said Eliza. Her glance moved to the linens and she heaved a sigh. “Has Harry asked you to do yet more work for his guests?”

“The fancy gentlemen must all have fresh towels by their wash basins tonight—as if they were staying at the palace of Kublai Khan.”

Eliza bit back a smile. She had been reading aloud from
Il Milione
, the exotic travels of Marco Polo, while Mrs. Hillhouse did her sewing, and now the housekeeper was enamored of all things from the Orient.

“Now that you have finished folding them, let me take them up and put them in the rooms,” she offered. “So you don’t have to climb the stairs.”

The other woman looked aghast. “Allow you to near those dens of iniquity? Nay, I won’t hear of it. Wilkins will do it, once he’s returned from carrying wine up from the cellars.”

“Wilkins has worse aches in his knees than you do,” said Eliza gently. “I am going up to my quarters, and it is no great hardship to make a quick visit to the East Wing before returning to the safe haven of the West Wing.”

Mrs. Hillhouse didn’t look convinced. “I’ve seen the way that Mr. Pearce stares at you. And I don’t like it one whit. He’s got a nasty look about him.”

“I am sure that he wouldn’t dare try anything under this roof,” replied Eliza. “There’s nothing to worry about—the men are all at supper, and likely to be there for hours.”

“Aye, but—”

Eliza swept up the linens before the housekeeper could voice further protest. “No buts. I’ll see to it.”

“Promise me that you will bolt your door,” said Mrs. Hillhouse, nervously tucking a lock of silvery hair beneath her mobcap. “A young, virtuous lady isn’t safe with these predators prowling the corridors.”

“Good night, and don’t fret. I can take care of myself.” Eliza refrained from pointing out that she was not young. Nor, for that matter, could she claim to be virtuous. A virtuous lady would not be curious to see what sort of exotic item was sequestered in Lord Haddan’s rooms.

Ducking into the servant stairwell, she hastened up a floor and then tiptoed down the guest room corridor. There was no sign of life in the spreading shadows. The valets were all down in the kitchen having their meal, leaving the wing deserted.

One…two…three…
Eliza quickly distributed the first half-dozen serviettes, saving the marquess’s room for last. Drawing a deep breath, she tapped a light knock on the door.

No answer.

She eased it open, and winced at the sight of the lamp left lit, burning precious oil that they could ill afford. Damn Harry for his profligate parties. Mrs. Hillhouse was right—his brain might as well be halfway around the world, for all the good it was doing any of them.

Looking around, Eliza spotted several books and a portfolio of papers on the escritoire, but hurried into the bedchamber without giving them a second glance. She was already feeling a touch guilty about invading Haddan’s privacy. Her own reaction would be one of outrage were anyone caught poking around in her private things.

I shall simply deliver the towel and have a quick peep at this wicked Implement of Sin
, Eliza assured herself. And then she would take her leave.

A few minutes at most.

The glimmer of her candle showed the washstand in the corner by the dressing screen, a bar of scented bay rum soap set between the pitcher and basin. Unlike her brother, Haddan appeared to be a man of orderly habits. The dressing table was neatly arranged, with the silver-backed brushes and razor case aligned precisely in a row beside the looking glass. A dressing gown fashioned of coal black silk dotted with tiny scarlet dragons lay draped in careful folds over the back of the chair.

Y Ddraig Goch
—the red dragon was the symbol of Wales, recalled Eliza, as she now remembered reading somewhere that his mother was descended from one of the ancient Welsh Kings. That explained his dark, smolderingly sensual looks and beautiful green eyes, not to speak of his unusual name.

Gryffin.

A strong name. Memorable, like the man himself. But from what she had read, it wasn’t the lilt of his Welsh name that had the ladies of the
ton
waxing poetic over the Marquess of Haddan. It was his prowess in bed.

Releasing a soft sigh, Eliza turned to look at the immense tester bed, its carved oak posts age-mellowed to the burnt toffee hue of Highland whisky. She edged a step closer, running her eyes over the thick quilted coverlet and the plumped pillows resting against the headboard. A twinge of disappointment tightened her chest. Whatever the erotic plaything, it was nowhere in evidence. And she was not about to start rooting through the drawers or the dressing room. It was embarrassing enough that she had let vulgar curiosity lead her this far.

She was about to turn away when a whisper of wind from the open window stirred a tiny ringing of metal overhead. Her gaze shot up, followed an instant later by both brows.

“Good Lord,” intoned Eliza, as she rounded the corner of the bed for a better view of the bizarre contraption hanging from the ceiling beam. “Good Lord.”

Heavy brass manacles dangled from the center of a polished length of rosewood. Its dark, satiny surface was inlaid with mother of pearl, the tiny shards setting off winks of silvery light as the rod swayed to and fro.

Fascinated, Eliza took a step closer, and only then noticed the thick silk rope that threaded through the ceiling pulley and attached to a cleat on the head bedpost. As if by its own volition, her hand reached out and undid the knot. She let out the rope slowly, dropping the bar lower, and then snugged it tightly back into place.

Another puff of air brought the scent of jasmine floating in through the casement, and suddenly she could almost imagine that a magic carpet had carried her away to a Turkish harem.

Oh, what harm was there in allowing wild fantasies to fly free for a moment?

Without waiting for an answer, Eliza ruched up her skirts and climbed onto the mattress. Pushing up to her knees, she hitched her body under the manacles and turned to face the foot of the bed.

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” she muttered, reaching up to finger the gleaming brass cuffs. They were cool and smooth to the touch, but as her hands felt inside them, she realized that they were lined with whisper-soft velvet.

Interesting.
That must ensure a comfortable fit.

“This is wicked, this is wanton, this is—”

Click.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

No. No. No.

Eliza twisted her wrists, first to the left and then to the right. No luck. Surely there was a hidden catch—if she simply remained calm and logical, she would figure out a way to spring it.

Think.

Think!

A jiggle, a push. A wiggle, a pull…

And then a prayer. Nothing made any impression on the unyielding jaws of polished metal.

As if to add to her troubles, another little gust blew in from the night, snuffing her candle. Only a faint dribble of moonlight softened the dungeon-like darkness of the room. Steadying her nerves, Eliza redoubled her efforts to release the hidden locks.

Click.

Had the sound been closer, it would have triggered elation. However, as she heard the main door swing open and bootsteps move into the sitting room, Eliza felt panic rise, coiling around her body like a hot, humiliating serpent and squeezing the breath from her lungs.

And then even the low hiss faltered and fell silent as a shadow fell across the bedchamber threshold.

With a wordless growl, Gryff moved to the dressing table and set his candle on the corner. A gloomy silence seemed to hang heavy in the unlit room, though a ruffling breeze from the half-open window brought with it the softening scent of flowers.

He took a small sniff. Jasmine, and some faint perfume that smelled vaguely familiar. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and as he held the air in his lungs, an image suddenly flashed to mind.

A coil of honey-colored hair, long lithe limbs, breasts shaped like perfectly ripe peaches.

Swearing, Gryff released a sigh and put his glass of brandy down beside the wavering flame. He had drunk far more than he had wanted to, his resolve weakened by the banal chatter of Leete and his friends. A boring bunch of young men, with ordinary, uninteresting vices. His jaw ached from clenching back rude retorts. It was his own fault, for he had accepted the invitation, and so he had felt obliged not to be churlish.

But it had been damnably difficult.

Thankfully, he could now enjoy the rest of the night in peaceful solitude. He unknotted his cravat and stripped off his shirt…

An odd little sound seemed to stir within the room. Frowning, Gryff stilled for a moment to listen. Ah, it was just a flutter of the draperies, he decided, as the breeze puffed against the fabric.

He tugged off his boots and set them by the dressing table, ready for Prescott to polish in the morning. Unfastening the fall of his breeches, he brushed at a small smudge before peeling them off and tossing them carelessly onto the seat of the chair.

Another sound, this one more of a tiny squeak.

Gryff cocked an ear. Perhaps there were mice. Leete Abbey looked a little run down.

Whatever the problem, housekeeping was none of his concern. He quickly unknotted the strings of his drawers and let them fall to the floor. A casual kick pushed them aside, and then he took up his candle and swung around for the bed, intent on turning back the counterpane and plumping the pillows before fetching his book.

“What the devil…” The low, licking flame captured the flickering image of frothing skirts and tumbled curls.

“What the devil…” he repeated, letting his gaze move up the long, lithe stretch of female limbs.

“Elf,” squeaked Eliza. “Have you perchance seen my cat anywhere in here?”

A
h.” Gryff slowly set his drink down on the corner of the dressing table. “It appears the little Imp of Satan has been up to mischief again.”

Eliza nodded, her throat too tight with embarrassment to allow further speech.

“Perhaps you should consider a leash for the little demon.”

“F-felines don’t take kindly to such restraints,” she managed to whisper. “They are too…curious.”

“Yes, well there is an old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” he drawled.

“That’s why they have nine lives,” she replied.

Gryff chuckled, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. “An excellent point.” He cocked his head, making a show of studying the swirl of shadows flitting around the ceiling beams. “I wonder how many lives females possess, for it looks like you might be stuck there for some time.”

“That’s
not
humorous, sir,” she said tightly.

“Food, water,” he mused, pretending he hadn’t heard her. “Dear me, that could be a terrible problem.”

Eliza licked her lips.

“Feeling a little thirsty?”

She closed her eyes and exhaled a ragged sigh. “Go ahead and have your fun, sir. I suppose I deserve the ridicule for being so bloody,
bloody
stupid,” she muttered.

Picking up his brandy glass, he took a long swallow of the amber spirits. The candle flame spun a thread of gold through the rippling liquid and suddenly her mouth felt very dry.

“Would you care for a drop?” he asked, raising the cut crystal. Shards of light spilled across his torso, accentuating the chiseled contours of bronzed muscles, the dark peppering of midnight curls, the hard planes of flat belly, the…

Her eyes widened. “Is that…”

“A tattoo?” he finished. “Yes. A rather large one. Would you like a closer look?”

No.
Yes.

He seemed to take her silence as an invitation to come closer.

The feather mattress shivered beneath her knees as he climbed atop the coverlet. A golden glow dipped and danced over the sleek stretch of masculine limbs. How was it that he could look so impossibly graceful? He reminded her of the temple sculptures brought back from Greece by Lord Elgin. Divine visions of Warrior Gods, carved out of smooth, perfect marble.

While in contrast, she had never felt so awkward and ridiculous in her life.

Gryff rose up and slid his knees to a wider stance. “See, it’s a dragon.”

“A-a very large dragon,” she whispered, trying to keep her eyes glued on the tattoo.

“That’s because I was largely unconscious during the process. My friend Cameron paid the artist double the agreed-on price to enlarge the design.” He made a wry face. “So be assured, you are not the only one who has ever done something bloody, bloody stupid.”

Eliza couldn’t help but stare. The intricate pinpricks of ink etched a swirling pattern of dark against the light hue of his skin. The dragon’s scaled tail twirled around his navel, while its lithe body uncoiled downward, the jaws opening wide to reveal curved teeth and a scarlet tongue that pointed…

Eliza jerked her gaze up.

“What do you think?”

Her cheeks turned uncomfortably warm.

“Of the art,” he drawled.

Trying to sound as if admiring a man’s nether region was something she did every day, she replied, “Quite imaginative. Did it hurt?”

“Like the devil. Especially here.” Gryff indicated a spot below his navel. “The skin around the area of the head is particularly sensitive.”

Eliza knew he was being deliberately provocative.
Don’t react
, she told herself. And most certainly don’t look.

But her ears were apparently deaf to all reason, for her eyes followed the waggle of his long, tapered finger.

The dragon’s head really was rendered with great flair. The artist had combined line and detail to create the illusion of both power and delicacy. A curling, fire-tipped tongue seemed almost alive. It wiggled ever so slightly as a muscle twitched under his skin. And then, and then…

A larger movement stirred just below the thatch of coarse dark hair at his groin. His arousal grew more rampant, and as he shifted his weight, the flickering light gilded the jutting outline of his cock.

“Come now, you have had your fun, Lord Haddan,” she rasped. “You’ve displayed your wit, and exposed my stupidity. Now, if you please, it’s time to release these dratted locks.”

His brows arched. “Any idea of how?” he asked.

“No,” she replied through gritted teeth. “You are the expert on sexual peccadilloes, aren’t you? Surely you have some ideas.”

“I’ll have to take a closer look.”

The marquess edged his naked body nearer to her, and Eliza felt as if her gown had been lit afire. Sweat began to trickle down between her shoulder blades, and the stays of her corset pinched like red-hot pokers against her flesh.

“Hmmm.” He reached up with his free hand to examine the rosewood bar, causing his erection to tickle against her belly.

“Lord Haddan!”

“Sorry.” Gryff leaned back a touch. “Look, it would help if you could relax a little,” he murmured. “I can’t feel around the brass cuffs with your wrists so tense.”

“Relax?” A burble of half-hysterical laughter welled up in her throat. “You may be very used to prancing around, flaunting your nakedness, but I am not. This is all very uncomfortable for me.”

He dropped his arm. “First of all, I did not deliberately disrobe to offend you, Lady Brentford.”

“I—I grant you that.”

“Secondly, I am not prancing, I am kneeling. In my own guest bed I might add, where instead of sliding my tired limbs between the sheets, I am trying to aid a lady in distress.”

“It was just a figure of speech.” Brass rattled against wood. Clenching her hands, Eliza arched her back, but the movement only pulled the bodice of her gown tighter over her breasts. “Might I ask you to try again?”

“Relax,” repeated Gryff in a satin-smooth whisper. He lifted the glass to her lips. “Try a sip of this.”

The splash of brandy provoked a sputtering cough. “Arrgh—it burns!” she gasped. “Good Lord, how can you gentlemen drink that vile stuff?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Shadows swirled around his eyes, dark and dangerous. “Here, let’s try it this way.”

Gryff dipped his tongue into the spirits and then touched it lightly to her lower lip. “That should soften the effect,” he murmured.

Eliza hesitated a fraction before taking a tentative taste. Her lashes quivered, stirring a glimmer of gold.

“There, that’s not so bad, is it?”

She blinked.

He wet his tongue again and dabbled a bit more on the rounded swell of flesh.

As she licked off the trace of brandy, savoring the unfamiliar flavors, he watched the play of her mouth, the delicate flick of her tongue showing just a peek of pink. His cock twitched and hardened.

Trouble.

Heat sparked through his blood, its liquid pulse drowning out the low voice of warning.
Beware of the Siren’s song, luring your ship toward the rocks.

Heedless of the danger, Gryff lifted the glass again and filled his mouth with the dark spirits, holding its potent fire for a moment before swallowing.

Trouble, trouble, trouble.

“This seems to be working,” he murmured, teasing his tongue against the inviting little opening. “Shall we try a deeper taste?” He gulped down the last swallow and let the glass slip away.

As he pressed in, urging her lips apart with a probing thrust, Eliza flinched, but only a fraction. Then she drew him inside, enveloping him in a soft, suckling sigh. A dizzying warmth wrapped itself around him, the surge of sweetness far more intoxicating than any wine.

Their tongues teased and twined. She was kissing him—eagerly, exuberantly.

His self-control splintered into a thousand tiny shards.

The
thump
of glass hitting the carpet was lost in the surging
thrum
of his blood as he shifted his position, spreading his knees wider. The night breeze wafted in from the window, its sweet-scented coolness curling against the back of his thighs. The rest of his body was afire.

Dragging his mouth down, down, down, he traced the line of her jaw, the arch of her neck, seeking the pulse point in the hollow of her throat. Her skin was throbbing, each wild little twitch sending fresh heat spiraling to his groin.

She gave a tiny cry, hardly more than a whisper.

In answer, Gryff slid his hands over her hips and crushed her close. God, she felt good.

His lips tingling with the taste of her, he couldn’t help himself. The taut fabric outlined the plump, perfect roundness of her breasts, the tantalizing tips of her nipples.

He lowered his head and took the nearest one in his teeth.

Inhaling with a ragged groan, Gryff drew the bud in. Her scent flooding his nostrils, he nibbled and suckled, feeling the point grow hard beneath the damp fabric.

A ragged breath—a rasping sound—slipped from Eliza’s lips.
Was it a word? A plea?
His senses were pounding with all sorts of conflicting messages—his head was drumming in warning, his heart was thumping in pleasure, his groin was throbbing in lust.

She is a lady
, he reminded himself.

And I am a ravening Hellhound.

Her moans were a little louder, the sounds silencing any twinge of doubt. Eliza surged against him, her body speaking clearly that his touch was not unwelcome.

In response, Gryff left off his kisses, and began freeing the tiny buttons of her bodice.

“Oh, please,” she said, her voice slightly fuzzed. “D-don’t stop.”

“No. I won’t,” he assured her, surprised at the waver in his own tone. “Not until you tell me to.”

Her reply was lost in a breathy gasp as the muslin parted and his cheek touched the swell of naked flesh. His fingers hooked the top of her corset and eased it down, baring her rosy aureole.

“Exquisite,” he growled, possessing the rose-pink point with a gentle little nip.

With a heated cry, Eliza undulated against him, sliding her belly back and forth against his rigid erection. The friction of the fabric against his cock was driving every sane thought from his brain. Cloth—all he could think of was removing the cloth that curtained her luscious softness from him.

Licking a slow, teasing circuit around the dusky circle, Gryff glanced upward. Release, and this mad, mad, moment might thud to an end. But what choice was there? His hands danced up her arms, found the ruffled cuffs of her prim gown…

Whooossssh.
The light muslin yielded with surprising ease to his tug.
Rip, rip.
With their seams split, the sleeves fluttered like windblown petals to the carpet.

“Better,” he growled, peeling the remains of her gown down to her waist. The laces of her corset came next, a task he could perform with his eyes closed. But he kept them open, loath to leave off watching her expressive face. “Much better.”

Her mouth parted and she wet her lips.

Gryff sensed that despite being a widow, this was all new to her.

“Try to relax, sweeting, and tell me what you like. Sex is all about both people having fun.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Did your late husband never care about your pleasures?”

Eliza shook her head and answered in a very small voice. “He said proper females weren’t supposed to enjoy the act.”

“Lout,” growled Gryff. “Trust me, it’s the most natural thing in the world for women to take just as much pleasure in sex as men.” He touched his tongue to her nipple. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He heard her breath rasp into her lungs and smiled.

“I love the shape and the softness of your breasts.”

She cried out as he sucked her tip into his mouth, and the sound sent a surge of savage satisfaction through him. The heat of her skin triggered a scent of spicy florals mixed with an earthier feminine scent that was all her own.

As her body flexed beneath him, Gryff felt his own tension building. He was usually in control of his passions, but a powerful force seemed to have him in its grip, urging him on with an indescribable need…

Her body no longer seemed familiar. Eliza shivered as strange surges thrummed through her limbs, altering them in ways she had never imagined. It felt as if every wicked, wanton fantasy was coming true.

Not that in her wildest dreams she had
ever
imagined anything like this. Sex with her late husband had been a quick, furtive groping in the dark. Her night rail shoved up, his body shoved down in a few hurried jerks, leaving her wondering. Wanting.

She had
wanted
to respond to her physical stirring, but her late husband had found her eagerness…distasteful. He had made her feel ashamed of her desires. But Haddan seemed to like it.

“Oh, do that again,” she gasped.

“Gladly.” His teeth closed gently around her aroused nipple, sending a wave of pleasure coursing through her. As she arched against him, Gryff gave a laugh—a deeply male laugh that seemed to echo off the dark walls. “Let’s get rid of the rest of these frills, shall we?” he said. “They are only in the way.”

The crackling of the petticoat was like the sound of a dried husk being peeled away.
I am shedding my old skin and transforming…into a new and unrecognizable creature.
Dazed, Eliza looked down at her body, pink and taut with pleasure. She was naked, save for a thin pair of lacy drawers.

A surge of primal satisfaction welled up in her throat. She felt every fiber of her being was shamelessly, gloriously alive.

“Ah, that’s better,” murmured Gryff. He ran his palms down her sides, the slightly rough texture of his calloused skin abrading along every indent and curve. “Glorious,” he murmured, settling his hands on the swell of her hips. A hitch drew her close, and suddenly the heat of his erection pressed up against her belly.

Oh, so good, so good.

Eliza arched into him, aware of a mad, pulsing fire building inside her that somehow needed to find release.

“Let’s have nothing between the sensation of flesh against flesh,” Gryff whispered. Her garters snapped, and her stockings yielded with a whispery rip. Air kissed the exposed skin as he peeled off the wisps of silk and tossed them over his shoulder.