What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1) (14 page)

The carriage picked up speed and he slammed the door, fell back into the seat opposite and placed his hand over his heart, tapping his chest as he struggled to control his breathing.

Her terrified gaze shot to his hand. Ruby-red rivulets of blood stained his fingers and trickled down from split knuckles. He caught her gaze and removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket, dabbed it on the torn skin and winced when he clenched his fist to admire the damage.

“Your hand,” she panted. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he replied dismissively. “I have a rule about fleeing a scene without giving my pursuers an idea of what to expect should we ever meet again.” He flexed his fingers and she heard a bone crack. “I believe I caught one of them a little too hard on the jaw.”

He removed his hat and placed it on the seat next to him, threw the handkerchief inside and used his good hand to run his fingers through his thick hair. A damp lock fell over his brow. He was still slightly breathless and his eyes sparkled from the exhilaration.

It was possibly the most enthralling vision she had ever seen.

A rush of pure physical desire flooded her senses, making her catch her breath, making her skin tingle. All she could think about was the memory of his warm mouth moving against hers, a memory she was desperate to relive.

He glanced up at her through the shadows, evidently mistaking her heated look for one of anger. “It’s just a graze. It will heal,” he shrugged, his tone apologetic. “I was never in any —”

“When will we be home?” Sophie interrupted, trying her best not to stumble over the words. “I mean, how long will it take?”

He hesitated and then peered out of the window at their surroundings. “Five minutes, perhaps. Why?”

“Would you mind pulling down your blind?” she asked, her hands trembling as she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged it off her shoulders. She folded it into a neat package and placed it on the seat with her hat.

“Certainly, but you’ll be cold without your coat.” He leaned forward and pulled down the blind, plunging them into semi-darkness.

She almost laughed aloud. Was he feigning naiveté? Or was she so unskilled in the art of seduction, he was missing the signs? Sophie leaned forward and pulled down her blind, too.

“You cannot expect to sleep —”

“Hush,” she murmured in a soft, languorous tone. “I do not want to sleep, Dane. I do not want to think or talk.”

I want to live. I want to choose. I want to be free.

With all the courage she could muster, she reached across and placed her hands on his knees. The hard muscles flexed beneath her fingers and she heard his sharp intake of breath. Before rational thought took over, she slid across and tumbled into his lap. “I just want to feel,” she whispered in his ear.

He was silent for a moment and then he breathed deeply. “Then I am more than happy to oblige,” he murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her mouth softly against his.

She expected him to take control, but he did not.

Instead, he let her move her mouth across his in a slow, sensual assault that left her aching for something more. Desperate to feel the warmth of his body, she pressed herself against him letting her tongue skim lightly across the seam of his lips. Moving her hands to grip his shoulders, she turned in his lap, lifting one leg over to straddle him. His low, guttural groan of appreciation spurred her on and she claimed his mouth again, her tongue finding his in a desperate bid to stoke the flames of passion coursing through her body. She let her hands trail down over his broad chest, giddy at the feel of him, even through his clothes.

“You
do
want me?” she asked, doubt creeping in.

“I have never wanted anything more in my entire life.” His deep drawl sent her pulse racing and he placed his arm around her waist and shuffled them both to the edge of the seat. He felt hard beneath his breeches and as he pulled her closer, he rubbed against her most intimate place. “Is that not proof enough?”

The carriage rocked back and forth as it raced along the uneven road, the movement causing her to rub against him again and again, until she felt so drunk with desire she threw her head back and whispered his name.

“You’ve had your three minutes,” he panted. “Now it’s my turn.”

She lifted her head and gazed into sinful brown eyes. “That only leaves you with two minutes,” she teased.

“You will be amazed at what I can achieve in such a short time.”

He wasted no time at all.

Despite grazed knuckles, his nimble fingers undid the buttons on her waistcoat and he pulled her shirt up until it was free of her breeches. Placing a hand behind her neck he brought her mouth to his. He kissed her gently at first as he moved his free hand up inside the front of her shirt, his palm cupping her breast, his thumb brushing gently over her nipple.

“Oh, Dane,”
she whispered against his mouth.

He reclined back against the seat and she followed him, her hands grabbing the lapels of his coat, clutching the material in her fists as he took her mouth in a frenzy of unadulterated passion.

His hands drifted down to her waist and pulled her against him, and she could feel the rigid length of his arousal.

“Just think what it will be like when we are naked … when I am pushing deep inside you,” he said as his mouth worked its way across her jaw and down her neck.

Sophie couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t think.

She felt hot, molten fire pulsing between her thighs, spreading through her body, building in heat and intensity. She could feel him, hard and solid through his breeches. Her skin tingled, her body trembled, desperate for something more.

Using both hands, he grasped her hips and began moving her back and forth in rapid strokes. Instinctively, as she rubbed against him, she arched her back, thrusting herself forward, giving access for his tongue to trace her nipple in circular motions through the fine fabric of her shirt. Then her breath came in short, sharp pants as she cried out, as her body convulsed with pure pleasure.

She collapsed in his arms and could have stayed there forever, her head on his shoulder, his strong arms clutching her close against his chest. But the carriage slowed and despite her slight embarrassment, she straightened. She was frightened to look at him, frightened she had disappointed him. After all, he had brought her pleasure and she had brought him none.

What if she wasn’t enough for him?

What would a mistress do that she hadn’t?

Feeling a surge of anger at her lack of confidence, she looked up to find his head lying back against the seat, his eyes closed, his breathing still ragged. She felt another burst of desire and could not help but lean down and kiss him softly on the mouth. His eyes shot open and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.

The carriage rumbled to a halt, forcing her to pull away and she moved to the seat opposite and straightened her clothes.

“If I’d known it was going to be like this,” she said with a coy smile, “I would have let you have the whole five minutes.”

His mouth curved up into a wicked grin. ‘‘It’s not even midnight. Perhaps you still have an appetite for dessert.”

Nerves threatened to push to the fore and she trampled them down. “I have suddenly developed a very large appetite,” she said, hardly recognising her own voice.

“Then you’re in luck because I believe we have only just sampled the first course.” His smile suddenly faded and he sighed. “But we need to discuss what I discovered at Labelles.”

She had spent the last six years preparing for this moment: for a chance to make her own choices, for a chance to prove she was more than a match for any woman. They would deal with her brother’s problem in the morning. A few hours would not make any difference.

“What did you discover?” she asked playfully. “That two gentlemen can desire one another?”

“Trust me, you are no gentleman. Your body is too soft, too deliciously round in all the right places.”

She gave a feigned gasp. “How very bold of you, my lord.”

“Oh, I’m no longer a lord. I’m a prince hoping to be ravaged by a tiger.”

Chapter 15

He was going to marry Sophie Beaufort.

There, he had said it. Well, perhaps not aloud and not directly to the lady herself, but he had formed the words nonetheless.

He glanced at the lady in question as she sauntered up the stone steps, her hips swaying in the tight breeches as she carried her coat over her arm. In fact, he was so damn smitten the words may as well have been carved into his forehead.

Besides, he would not be able to bed her without placating his conscience. And by God, he would bury himself deep inside her even if he spent the rest of his life paying for the pleasure.

It would not be a sacrifice; he was going to have to marry eventually. Why not Sophie Beaufort? He liked her, found her intriguing, interesting, and her passionate nature was more than a match for his own.

The memory of her examining Madame Labelle’s erotic engravings, of her panting and writhing in his lap, caused another stab of lustful desire. Of course, he expected such feelings to fade once his insatiable thirst for her had been quenched.

Mrs. Cox rushed to greet them in the hall, straightening her apron and cap as though she had just woken from a nap. “Will you be wanting anything from the kitchen, my lord?” she asked failing to suppress a yawn.

“Nothing for me, Mrs. Cox,” he replied, presenting her with his usual charming smile. The feel of Miss Beaufort’s soft thighs wrapped around him was the only thing
he
needed. “I believe I am in desperate need of my bed. What about you, Miss Beaufort? Can Mrs. Cox be of service or are you as eager as I to get to bed?”

Miss Beaufort smiled and her raised brow, showing amusement at his mischievous remarks. “If it is not too much trouble, I would love a glass of syllabub.” She stepped closer and touched Mrs. Cox affectionately on the arm. “But would you mind if I took it up to my room? You see, like Lord Danesfield, I too can think of nothing other than tumbling into bed. Yet, the thought of tasting something sweet is just too tempting an offer to pass.”

My God. For a woman of little experience, she was extremely skilled in the art of titillation, Sebastian thought. Had it not been for Mrs. Cox, he’d have said he would like to taste something sweet in his mouth too, and it wouldn’t be syllabub.

“I shall have Amy bring it right up,” Mrs. Cox replied.

“There’s no need. You may send Amy off to bed as I will not require her services tonight.” She waved her hand over the front of her clothes. ‘I shall follow you to the kitchen and then you must get yourself off to bed, too.”

Miss Beaufort was obviously determined to test his patience.

He watched them walk off down the hall before she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Good night, Lord Danesfield,” she said softly. Her gaze swept over him: a look that made him feel as though she had stripped him of his clothes and was pleased with what she saw.

“Good night, Miss Beaufort,” he replied, refusing to allow the smallest spark of disappointment show.

He waited until she was out of sight before climbing the stairs to his chamber.

Once inside, he took the candle from the side table and lit the wall sconce. He removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and draped them over the back of the chair, which he casually dropped into in order to remove his boots.

Whilst visiting Labelles had proved to be fruitful and had given him plenty to consider, he could not seem to focus on anything other than his delectable guest.

No one had ever captured his interest to this degree.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t predict her mood. She had shocked him when she’d thrown herself into his lap. So what the hell was she doing eating blasted syllabub when she should be in bed with him?

Perhaps he should go to her room and simply knock the door. But what would he say?

He relaxed back in the chair and closed his eyes, indifferent to the fact he was creasing his clothes. But even in the darkness, she was still there, straddling his lap, thrusting soft mounds of creamy flesh at him as the tip of her tongue traced her lips.

Bloody hell!

He stood abruptly and dragged his hand down his face in a bid to quell his raging desire. Perhaps she just enjoyed teasing him. Perhaps she’d thought on the matter and decided he was not worth the effort. Or more to the point, not worth her virtue.

How could he argue with that?

Pulling his shirt over his head, he stomped over to the washbowl and thrust his hands into the cool water, splashing it over his face and arms, yet it provided little relief. Perhaps he should secure a betrothal before seducing her, he thought, removing the rest of his clothes and climbing in between the cold sheets.

He laughed as he remembered something James Beaufort had said about trying to trap lightning in a bottle. He had a strange feeling securing a betrothal from Miss Beaufort would be even more difficult.

He was still awake when he heard the gentle tap on the door, but she did not wait for a response before entering. Feigning sleep, he watched her through half-closed eyes as she stepped inside and gently closed the door. She stood motionless for a moment, her back pressed against the jamb, her slow, deep breaths audible.