Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 12

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seeing a faint trace of light glowing beneath the library door, Bane turned the knob. “I knew I would find you in here.”

  Startled, Miss Wakefield jumped and nearly dropped the open lamp she held. The taper wobbled, the flame sputtering. Drawing the candle closer, she shielded it behind the cup of her hand.

  The flame grew brighter instantly, illuminating her narrowed eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “And you should be thankful it’s only me and not Montwood.” Thinking about what he’d witnessed, his jaw hardened, a muscle ticking when he gritted his teeth.

  She scoffed. “Only you?”

  Even though they both knew he was equally as dangerous, or more so, to her reputation, he didn’t concede the point to her. “After the way you teased and flirted with him, I’d not be surprised to hear him knocking at your bedchamber later, expecting recompense for the state you put him in.”

  “Montwood is charming, but anyone who spent more than five minutes with him would know his tastes run to more ample pockets. However, the same cannot be said of your tastes. It seems you prefer feminine endowments that are all flesh and no substance.” Now, she cupped her hand around her ear. “Strange, I wonder if I’ll hear the scratch of the widow Pearce’s fingernails on your door?”

  He grinned. “You’re jealous.”

  Merribeth bristled. “I would no more be jealous of her than you would be of Montwood.”

  “Jealous of Montwood? That over-pandering peacock?” The idea appalled him. He’d never been jealous a day in his life. Though the notion that he could be experiencing it for the first time left him unsettled. As it wasn’t true in the least, he didn’t know why he let it bother him.

  “Jealous, indeed,” she said with a huff, mirroring his thoughts. With a withering glance, she turned back to study the shelves. “And furthermore, I came in here for the sole purpose of finding a book. I wasn’t running from anything.”

  “Or making a hermit of yourself in the midst of a party?”

  She exhaled through her nostrils, nearly blowing out the candle. “If that were the case, then I’d give you the blame for infecting me with your tendencies.”

  That made him grin. “I would readily take the blame if it were mine,” he said, surprised at how much he liked the idea of having as great an influence on her behavior as she was on his. “Yet we both know you fled the parlor when your attempts at flirtation were successful.”

  “Perhaps I’m searching for reading material to better understand the topics of the widow Pearce’s luncheon conversation.”

  Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement, as if she doubted his ability to know anything about her in the short time of their acquaintance. After spending days with her occupying his thoughts, he’d catalogued every mannerism, every tell, that gave her away.

  He also knew the difference in her blushes now, the subtle alterations in color that told him if she was nervous, embarrassed, or curious.

  At the moment, the soft peach tint to her cheeks and the steadiness of her gaze told him it was the last. The knowledge should have warned him away, for her own good as well as for his, yet the opposite happened. He took another step toward her.

  She pretended to return her attention to the shelves. Raven ringlets spilled over her forehead, no doubt, in an effort to conceal her brow, though he couldn’t fathom why. It was one of the things he liked best about her. One of the things? There was another sobering thought. If that was only one, then there had to be scores of others.

  Her gown was of a simple design, a high-wasted confection in blue silk with cap sleeves. Fine stitches of silver-embroidered ivy followed the neckline down to the enticing handfuls of her breasts. On anyone else, such a gown might be considered plain, but her form needed no enhancement. Her slender body curved in all the right places and made his palms itch with the desire to mold and caress her flesh.

  He leaned in to whisper. “The truth of why you fled the parlor is, you’re unsure of yourself and what’s expected of you. You detest being uncertain.”

  She turned sharply. “How could you—” She broke off when she noted his close proximity. He feigned innocence, pretending to read the titles with her. “I’m certain no one enjoys the prospect of finding oneself at another’s mercy.” The haughtiness of her tone quickly turned to a husky breath.

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. “I don’t know, Miss Wakefield. In my limited experience, being in a darkened study a week ago—at the mercy of a professed thief, mind you—was quite liberating. Seduction can be tiresome work. All that plotting and wooing . . .” He let out an exhausted sigh before a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I must say it was a nice alteration.”

  The candle trembled in her hand. “There was no thievery involved, if you recall.”

  Oh, he recalled. Far too much. Every blessed moment of that night and every moment since. “The becoming blush on your cheeks belies your bold tongue, my dear.” He chuckled and lifted his hand to snare the curl teasing the shell of her ear.

  Miss Wakefield’s lips parted, and her eyes closed as if in anticipation for his touch. Then, at the very last moment, she took a step back. Her eyes flashed open, her pupils still wide with desire. “I take back what I’d said before about having no proof of your prowess for flirting. You are quite skilled. My embarrassment and curiosity are constant rivals. It leads me to wonder how you became the man I see before me.”

  “The usual manner.” He shrugged absently, letting his hand fall to his side as he propped a shoulder against the bookcase. He enjoyed their play. Again, far too much. So it was probably for the best that he allowed her to steer the conversation onto another path.

  “Why is it that you do not have a wife and heir and profess to desire neither? It goes against all the lessons young women are taught. We are educated and refined for the purpose of convincing gentlemen that we would not only make good wives but mothers to their children—children who will inherit the title and resume the entire process for generations to come.”

  He smiled easily, amused by her effort to unsettle him. “Not all men want the same thing, Miss Wakefield. Some enjoy the freedom of their pursuits.”

  “For a time, of course. Some men even enjoy those pursuits after marriage,” she said, undeterred from her topic, even when another blush threatened to undermine the aloof pretense she’d adopted.

  “And you wouldn’t mind if your husband continued his own”—he took a step toward her—“pursuits after marriage?”

  She held her ground and brushed the curls from her forehead. “If I should be lucky enough to find love and respect in my marriage, then I would expect fidelity, of course.”

  Her brow was exposed, sending another surge of lust through him. She had no idea how much time he’d spent fantasizing about the tempting arch. How he’d imagined her with her brow arched in a carnal challenge to pleasure her for endless hours.

  “Find love?” he asked, shifting ever closer. “Do you not already possess it for your Mr. Clairmore?”

  At that, her gaze turned wintry. The color of her gown brought out the striations in her irises, inviting him to notice the different hues threaded together, captivating him. “Surely, the answer to that question could be of no interest to you. I am, after all, a marriage-minded woman.”

  “More’s the pity.” If only she set her determination on a prize worth winning. Like what? Him? To become his mistress? No. That was no prize. Such a life wasn’t good enough for her and would only lead Venus into heartache. She deserved more than that. More than someone like him.

  When she made a move to exit, he reached out and snatched her hand.

  “I find this conversation tiresome,” she said, staying a step apart from him, though without any effort to free herself.

  He felt his mood slide into darkness, but it did not dissuade his desire for her. Quite the opposite. In fact, knowing that Eve had invited Montwood solely for sake of flirting openly with Merribeth, he
suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to bolt the library door and take her against the bookcases. Claim her. Leave his mark on her.

  “I came to dictate your second lesson.”

  “I do not think—”

  “Your smile,” he interrupted and watched her flinch.

  “What about it?”

  He moved a half step closer. “You cannot hide it.” It would be easy to pull her into his arms, yet somehow he managed restraint. “For every time you do, you’ll owe me one kiss. And not the borrowed kind either. These, I will keep.”

  Her soft fragrance rose from the heated flesh of her throat, where he saw a single bead of perspiration make a slow journey downward toward the valley above her collarbone. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeper. The desire to taste her shuddered through him.

  “You ask too much of me.”

  “Perhaps.” Bane affected a shrug, all the while feeling the heated rise of his pulse and the weakening of his control. He hadn’t planned this. Then again, he hadn’t retracted the challenge either. In fact, anticipation nearly consumed him. The desire to claim her, to make her his, thundered through his veins—his soul—heedless of right or wrong. “You are determined to be successful in your quest, are you not?”

  “Of course.” Merribeth lifted her gaze and stared at him intently, as if searching for honorable intentions or promises for the future.

  She would never find those things in him.

  He accepted her plain statement as her acquiescence. “While you’re flirting with all the other gentlemen, know that I will be watching.” Through her glove, he stroked the edge of her finger that curled over the brass lamp handle. “Waiting. Counting my winnings.”

  A frisson of awareness trampled through Merribeth. Not because she was alone with Bane in the library, but because she realized she had no desire to flee. She glanced down from his eyes to his mouth.

  “All the other gentlemen?” she mocked. “First of all, Colonel Hamersley is too old. Sir Colin is too quiet—I would never know if he was returning my flirting. And you must know that I detest Archer.” Though she didn’t know why, she felt the need to clarify her part of this strange bargain. “So the only one I’m likely to flirt with is Montwood.”

  And perhaps, try to make Bane jealous.

  “He was about to lose an arm,” Bane said, his voice dark with warning, like stampeding horses carrying the cavalry into battle. A thrill shot through her.

  “Because you envy his skill on the piano? Or because he was aiding my quest to renew Mr. Clairmore’s affections?”

  She felt it important to say the words aloud for herself, though Bane didn’t seem to appreciate the reminder of her main goal.

  Silver heat flared in his gaze like a shaft of lightning. He snatched the candle from her and set it on the shelf behind him with enough force to extinguish the flame. He took hold of her, curling his hands beneath the ruffled cuff of her sleeves. The heat from his palms seared her flesh. “Because you’re mine.”

  “Yours?” she mocked, but even as she said it, she felt her body go weak. Any part of her that might have resisted such a blatantly primitive claim now only heeded the call of the pagan drummer.

  “Mine.” He ground out the word as if something had snapped in him for a moment, revealing a hardness she hadn’t seen before. He pulled her close, crushing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. “My pupil until the end of the party,” he corrected, expelling a deep breath as if she’d yanked the air from his lungs.

  Her lips parted.

  He shook his head, silencing any argument from her, and lowered his mouth. “Now, pay your lesson master the forfeits you owe for tonight.”

  He didn’t wait for her to give the kiss. Instead, he took one.

  Then, he took another. His mouth, body and the power he emanated made it impossible to resist.

  She tilted her head, entreating his tongue to plunder past her lips and delve inside. The contact—the sweet shock of tongue against tongue—stole the air from her lungs. A low moan escaped her. He groaned in response. The vibration tickled her palate and teased the soft lining of her cheeks into giving up more moisture. She swallowed, tasting his essence in return and drawing him deeper into her mouth.

  He pulled her closer. One hand slid to her nape and the other skimmed down her spine to the curve of her back. Her legs clashed against his. She shifted to get closer still and felt his hand slide possessively lower, over the swell of flesh of her derriere as he lifted her, settling her against the hardness of his thigh. Startled by a throbbing sensation where her body met his, she inhaled sharply.

  Bane didn’t release her or ease the potency of his kiss. Instead, he deepened it even further. Percussive music played within her, accelerating until it was all she felt. A need, primal and desperate, came over her as she lifted her hands to circle his neck. She arched against him. His fingers dug into her flesh as he lifted her, dragging her up along the hard, male ridge of his body.

  She’d never been kissed like this before. William’s had always been simple and chaste. They’d never lasted long enough for her to get a taste of him or draw his exhalation into her nostrils.

  With Bane, the kiss felt as if he were leaving his mark on her. Claiming her.

  His tongue was roughly textured and hot, flavored with the wine they drank at dinner, the coffee afterward, and a deeper essence her body identified as exotically male. Him.

  She was certain not every man tasted this way . . . or kissed this way. It felt as if each pull from his lips captured strands of her soul, leaving a void behind that only his breath could fill.

  Her body arched against his again—a purely primitive offering, a pagan sacrifice.

  Bane turned his head, pressing his cheek against hers, his breathing hard and heavy in her ear. “Venus, you’re going to kill me.”

  It took a moment for the name to breech the heavy cloud of desire and find her brain. Venus? From anyone else’s lips, she would have taken it as an insult. But from Bane, it sounded like the sweetest endearment.

  She nuzzled his neck, pressing her lips above the line of his cravat. “One more. We are not even. I’m certain I took one back to keep for myself.”

  He groaned but ended on a wry laugh. “Only one?” His hands gripped her hips for a moment longer before he set her on her feet. Then he reached up to untangle her hands from behind his neck and took a step back.

  “Must you stop?” Her body was still humming, throbbing, restless. All her senses were alert and too aware. Every breath was filled with his scent. She felt tingly all over, as if her body had fallen asleep only to awaken painfully. Rubbing against him was the only way to ease the ache. The taste of his kiss lingered on her tongue like the very last sip of coffee. She felt deprived and anxious. She couldn’t possibly go on like this.

  “Yes.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and made a point not to look at her. “The servants’ stairs that lead to your bedchamber are too near and my sanity too far gone.”

  At that, she blushed, suddenly aware of the consequences—should he have been a lesser man. She lifted her fingers to her lips. They felt heated and swollen, the skin surrounding them tender and likely red. He’d left his mark. “Perhaps your sanity and mine have both fled.” Because I would give anything to return to your embrace.

  His gaze dropped to where her fingertips touched her lips. “Do not expect an apology.”

  “I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Good.” He nodded, studying her with an intensity that made her feel as if he were reliving their kiss all over again. “I took less than I wanted. Believe me, I could still find ways for you to earn an apology from me. Ways that would change your fate and not for the better.”

  Her sanity was truly gone and any remnant of maidenly honor with it, because . . . She wanted him to show her.

  Apparently reading it in her expression, he shook his head. “Good night, Miss Wakefield. Please lock your bedchamber door when you retire. And bolt your window too, in
stead of leaving it open as you did last night.” He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “Best not tempt fate.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bane knew it wasn’t fate being tempted but him.

  He thanked the last thread of his control for his ability to walk away from her. Especially when the entire fabric of his being had wanted to take her and claim her, no matter the consequences. Somehow, he’d managed to leave her, escape to his room for a fresh waistcoat, and then return to the parlor. The room, however, seemed empty without her in it.

  If his frayed nerves were exposed, no one seemed to notice. Their attention was riveted on Hamersley as he boasted about the stag he’d brought down. Bane listened with half an ear, while the rest of him chided himself for his foolishness. One thing was certain; he needed to avoid Miss Wakefield for the remainder of the night. For that matter, he should probably avoid her tomorrow and the next day as well. Perhaps he should avoid her forever—it could take that long for him to regain all of his control.

  Still, he must adhere to the terms of his bargain with dear Auntie Eve. He couldn’t risk losing Gypsy or the information that would grant him another victory over his grandfather. In fact, losing in any way wasn’t an option. On occasion, he’d allowed others to win but only to his ultimate advantage. This wasn’t one of those occasions.

  He needed to win. The entire purpose of his life hinged on this victory, and he wasn’t about to allow one marriage-minded virgin to tempt him into forgetting that—no matter how tempted he was.

  Still, he wasn’t certain how he’d manage to keep his distance, to keep from recalling the sound of her moan and the feel of her body arching against him.

  Bane scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe the memory from his mind. When he looked up, he caught Eve’s steady gaze. And then the slow spread of a knowing smile.

  He bristled, the sensation of pinpricks stinging the back of his neck. In that instant, he realized that he’d underestimated her. She was playing to win, only—for the first time—he didn’t think she cared a fig about winning Gypsy. He even wondered if this was about Amberdeen’s pursuit of her land. A voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that she had another purpose. A darker purpose. What it could be, he didn’t know. And he always knew.