To Desire a Devil
By the time the carriage pulled up in front of Jeremy’s town house, the sky had darkened, threatening rain. Beatrice climbed out of the carriage and ran up the steps of the town house to knock at the door. She glanced at the black clouds overhead while she waited, wishing Putley would hurry.
When at last he opened the door, she made to walk past him, saying, “Good afternoon, Putley. I won’t be staying long.”
“A moment, miss,” the butler gasped.
“Oh, really, Putley, after all this time, can’t you at least pretend you know me?” She smiled up at him, but then her smile fell from her face as completely as if it’d never been there.
The butler’s face was gray.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and for once he did sound sorry.
Which only made panic rise in her chest. “No. Let me in. Let me see him.”
“I can’t, miss,” the old butler said. “Mr. Oates is dead. Dead and buried.”
Chapter Ten
Princess Serenity’s horse had been killed, and Longsword had none, so they were forced to set off for the witch’s lair on foot. All that day they walked, and though the princess was small and slight, never did she falter. At nightfall, they came to the foot of the mountain where the witch lived. In the dark, guided only by the light of the pale moon, they climbed the great black mountain. Strange beasts stirred in the shadows, and mournful birds cried in the dark, but Longsword and the princess pressed on. And as the first light of dawn crested the peak of the mountain, they stood before the witch’s castle….
—from Longsword
“What do you mean, she’s gone out?” Reynaud grated at the butler. He stood in the front hall, having just returned from his business meeting.
The man cringed but stood his ground bravely enough. “Miss Corning said she was going to visit Mr. Oates, my lord.”
“Dammit!” Reynaud turned and ran to the front door, throwing it open. The stable boy was just leading his horse to the corner. “Oy! Bring him back here!”
The boy looked up, startled, but led the big bay around. Reynaud leaped down the steps and mounted the horse, nudging the gelding into a trot. He’d seen the note just this afternoon while sitting with her in her bedroom. Jeremy Oates had died two days before. Why it had taken Oates’s parents that long to write the terse note, he had no idea. He knew he should feel shame for reading Beatrice’s letters, but he’d wanted to protect her while she was recovering from that terrible stab wound. He’d intended to break the news of her friend’s death gently. Hold her while she wept. Dammit! Now his plan to cushion the blow was in shambles. He urged the horse into a canter, riding dangerously fast past carts and pedestrians.
Five minutes later, when he rounded the corner onto Oates’s street, the first thing he saw was Beatrice, standing at the top of the town-house steps, looking like a forlorn waif. He jumped down from the horse and threw the reins to one of the footmen attending her carriage. Then he slowly mounted the stairs. One fat raindrop fell, then two, then a deluge let down.
They were instantly drenched.
He took her arm gently. “Come home, Beatrice.”
She looked up at him, the water running down her face like tears. “He’s dead.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“How?” she asked. “How could he be dead? I just saw him the other day, and he was fine.”
“Come home.” He started leading her down the steps. “You’re still ill.”
“No!” She yanked her arm suddenly and surprised him enough to pull it from his grasp. “No! I want to see him. Maybe they’re wrong. They hardly look in on him at all. Maybe he’s just… just . . .” She trailed away, looking around wildly. “I want to see him.”
She started back up the stairs.
He came up swiftly behind her and picked her up. “You need to go home.”
“No!” She flailed her arms and hit him—whether on purpose or accidently, it was hard to tell. “Let me go! Let me see him!”
He no longer tried arguing with her. Instead he ran down the rain-slicked steps and took her to the carriage.
“Home!” he yelled to the coachman before ducking into the vehicle.
The footman slammed the door behind them, and the carriage bumped into motion.
He wrapped his arms about her to contain her movements so she wouldn’t pull the stitches out of her wound, but she’d stopped struggling. Deep, heaving sobs shook her frame.
He laid his cheek against her wet hair. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t fair,” she choked.
“No, ’tisn’t.”
“He was so young.”
“Yes.”
He murmured into her hair, gently stroking her cheek, her shoulder, and let her sob against him. Her grief was uncontrolled, childish and wild and without grace, and such raw emotion stirred something within him. This woman was real. He might never again be the sort of civilized English gentleman she deserved, but she was exactly what he wanted. What he needed. She was warm and caring, and she was home.
He wanted her.
So when the carriage at last pulled up in front of Blanchard House—his house—he took her in his arms and carried her up the steps and into the house as and his ancestors with their brides. He passed the butler, the footmen, and the maids, and all fell back, making way for him and his prize.
He made her room and walked in. The maid was there, dithering by the wardrobe.
He set Beatrice down gently by the bed. She had her face still buried in his shoulder and was as limp as a rag doll.
“No,” she said feebly, though what she still protested he had no idea. She probably didn’t, either.
“You’re wet,” he said gently. “I need to dry you.”
She stood without protest as he unlaced her bodice and stays, stripping the wet fabric from her body. He did it dispassionately. It was important to get her warm and to make sure she hadn’t reopened the wound. When she was nude, he took a cloth from the wardrobe and rubbed her all over, drying what wet there was. Her skin was white and peach, a smooth, beautiful expanse. He took the pins from her hair and dried them with the towel, watching as the silky gold strands curled against his fingers. When that was done, he wet a corner of the cloth at the basin on the dresser and washed her face. Her cheeks were reddened, her eyelids and lips swollen, and he knew she didn’t look her prettiest, but his cock didn’t care. He’d been erect since he’d walked into the room.
Finally, he pulled back the coverlet on her bed and, picking her up, laid her on the bed and tugged the sheets over her to keep her warm.
It was only after he’d taken off his coat and begun unbuttoning his waistcoat that her eyebrows knit.
“What,” she said softly, “are you doing?”
HER CHEST HURT. Her heart and lungs and breasts, they all hurt with every breath she took. She felt as if part of her world had broken off and fallen, never to be reclaimed again. Jeremy was dead. Dead, and she’d not even known it until Putley had blurted the news. Shouldn’t she have known? Shouldn’t she have felt his passing in some fundamental portion of herself?
She shied from the thought, from the bone-crushing hurt, and looked at Lord Hope. Somehow he’d taken her to her rooms and undressed her. She should be scandalized, but she just hadn’t the will to be. And now… and now he appeared to be taking off his own clothing.
She peered at him, only a little bit curious. “What are you doing?”
“Undressing,” he said, and that certainly made sense because he was.
He took off his waistcoat and shirt, and she watched, detached. His arms were strong and brown from the sun. Had he worn a shirt when he’d lived with the Indians? He unbuttoned the fall of his breeches, and she watched him strip those off as well. His smallclothes were tented over his masculine parts, and at any other time she would be very interested at the sight, but at the moment she felt… nothing.
Or at least almost nothing.
“But why?” she asked, and even in her sad state, she knew her voice sounded like a small child’s.
“Why what?” he asked as he removed his shoes and stockings.
“Why are you undressing?”
“Because I intend to lie with you,” he said, and took off his smallclothes.
Well, that certainly was something she’d not seen before. His cock stood up as proudly as a soldier, thick and round and almost a purplish red, particularly at the head. She blinked at the sight. Then he was walking toward her, that part of himself bobbing with each step, and he got into the bed with her. He gathered her close and he felt so hot. So hot he was like a furnace and she sighed a little at how nice his hard, hot body felt against her cold skin.
She looked up at him, so close, his black eyes only inches from her own, and said, “He’s dead and I’ll never forget him.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied.
“I want to die, too.”
His eyes hardened. “I won’t let you.”
And he kissed her. His mouth was hot, too, and this time he didn’t wait but thrust his tongue into her mouth. She moaned a little at the sensation. He tasted of rain-water and salt, and suddenly she couldn’t think of anything better to taste. She grasped at his shoulder and felt bare, masculine skin, and she dug her fingernails in. If she wasn’t allowed to die, then she would live and forget the rest of the world for right now.
At this moment, there was only the two of them, together in this cozy bed.
He pushed his fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her head, holding her as he explored her mouth with his tongue. He darted in and then out until she caught him and sucked on him, and he made an approving sound. He rolled then, climbing atop her, and she felt the brush of his chest hair against her breasts, tickling and arousing.
She made a sound deep in her throat, and he raised his head. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She tried to pull him back down to kiss her, but he held still, resisting her.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She said it irritably, because she missed his kisses. It seemed to her that he was simply teasing her.
Then he moved, shifting so that one of his legs began to part hers. Her eyes flew to his, and she saw the corner of his mouth quirk.
“You’re sure?”
“Ye-es,” she said, but she was distracted, feeling the slow insertion of his thigh between hers. Her legs fell open, admitting him, but he didn’t stop there. He continued pressing down until his thigh had thrust to the very apex of her thighs, until he had burrowed against her feminine flesh, and she was parted, open against him.
Her eyes widened.
His eyes drooped, the tattooed birds looking wild and pagan.
“It doesn’t hurt?” he asked gently.
“No… oh!” She gasped because he’d shifted and pressed, and somehow the combination was simply divine. “Do that again,” she demanded.
He grinned, his teeth white against his brown skin. “As my lady commands.”
And he kissed her as he pressed with his thigh. She opened her mouth wide, wanting to taste all of him, wanting to experience everything he might show her. When next he pressed down, she shoved up, rubbing herself against him, twisting and thrusting. She wanted… more. Much more.
She tore her mouth from his and looked him in the face. “Put it in me.”