Page 16 of Lord Fournier’s Shameless Princess (Scarlett Affairs #4)

“T hank you, Mary,” Liesel said, dismissing the young maid. “I will ring for you in the morning when I need you.”

She listened as the girl made her way to the sitting room beyond and close the door to the hall, then paced before her four-poster bed. The night was still young. She should be tired. Arriving at Fournier Park had been a relief. Dinner had been pleasant. Her bath, a long soak in the large tub, had been restful, restorative.

But her mind swam in sorrow.

Dirk would leave tomorrow, and she would never see him again. That would be the end of them, an abrupt abyss along the journey that had taken them over the hills and dales of hundreds of miles, leagues of sea—and stirring emotions full of conflict and the most tender craving.

She put a hand to her brow. She would not shed a tear over his departure. He had told her he would go, and she had argued as best she could.

But now she had only one need. One desire.

And she would show him that when he left, he took a part of her with him.

She padded into her sitting room and listened for anyone walking the hall. She opened the door. No one was about.

A hand to the neckline of her robe, borrowed from his mother’s trunks, as were the sheer muslin night rail and her slippers, she pulled open the door and peered out. The hall was clear.

Liesel had asked Mary about the layout of the house so she knew where she was going.

So reminiscent of that first time she had entered his life, she came into his suite and heard him dismissing his servant. The splash of water made her smile at the coincidence. He was again in his bath. All the better to waylay him.

She waited until she heard no more footsteps, his valet having retreated through his access at the back of the boudoir and into the servants’ closets. Standing taller, she found the gumption she needed—and a smile.

She strolled in. He reclined in his bath, facing her. Naked amid floating soap bubbles, he sat looking like a dashing Bacchus, sleek skin, muscular torso, eyes flashing at her with surprise and humor.

Merry that he was not angry at her, she walked right up to him. Then she picked up his towel from his nearby stool and sat down.

He made no effort to cover himself. It wasn’t necessary. She could see the important parts, most of all how he set his jaw, how his biceps flexed—and how his manhood rose.

His long, elegant fingers gripped the edge of his porcelain tub. “You make a habit of intruding on a man during his bath.”

“I know. I do like it, and I promise not to change. I also like the fragrance of roses you’ve added to your bathwater.”

He feigned disgruntlement. “It seems at the moment that is the only one they have in this house.”

“I know,” she said with a grin as she crossed one long, bare leg over the other and lifted an arm to her nose to inhale. “It’s what I too was offered.”

His gaze went limpid as it flowed over her hair and lips, her shoulders, down that bare leg to her toes. Dressed as she was in his mother’s finest Dacca muslin nightgown, she knew that beneath the robe, which she had left untied, she appeared nearly nude to him.

“I like you best in lemon verbena.”

His admission spiked her need of him. When he looked at her, so bedazzled, she had no way to hide her own enchantment. “I will take you any way at all.”

He sucked in air. “Turn around.”

She stared at him.

“So be it,” he said beneath his breath, and in the next instant, he put those powerful hands to the porcelain and rose like a wild, disheveled god from the sea.

She watched him rise, his sinewy thighs, his lean hips, his long, hard, red penis. All that she wanted, and more, much more of him.

“Hand me the towel.”

She did his bidding. She had not come to be a hellion.

He took it from her and dried himself off. Then, hooking the towel around his waist as he had done that first night she attacked him, he climbed out of his bath and padded to snatch up pants that sat folded upon another stool. She watched him climb into them and tie the ribbons at the waist. The pants fit loosely, cuffed at his ankles, an exotic flow of ruby Indian silk pajamas that teased her senses.

She wanted them off him, his leg pinning her to him, his skin hot on hers. But she swallowed. The time was not yet ripe, nor the place, so she strode away into his bedroom. He followed her.

Here were the elements that had defined his early life. A high chest of rich rosewood with silver pulls. A credenza of the same wood, his brush and comb placed just so. A few small bottles. A wall of shelves filled with books, old, newer, some well thumbed.

“You read Pamela ?” She wished to spend her life discovering new aspects of his character.

“Doesn’t everyone like a good romp?”

She waggled her brows at him. “I hope so.”

He gave a short laugh. “Ah, yes. The wrong thing to say, eh?”

She wandered to his desk. It was a useful piece, japanned in black lacquer, a complement to the rosewood. Atop the desk lay a few sheets of paper, indicating how he had spent much of the afternoon at his letter writing.

“Will you see your friends in London?” She was jealous of them, having his company when she would be robbed of it.

He frowned. “If I have time.”

“Why would you not make time?”

“ Liesel .” He shook his head. His word was a weary warning to her not to proceed.

Too bad. She was here. Her time was now.

“Why would you not?” She dug in. “You control the agenda. No one knows you are in town.”

“Visiting,” he said as he strode to his liquor console and unstoppered a carafe, “is for those who are free. I am not. Never have been.” He poured two glasses of some dark, rich liquid and returned to place one in her hand. “I will see Scarlett Hawthorne and her man of accounts, a huge, surly fellow who runs her records and helps her track of all their agents.” He took a good swallow of his drink and marched to the window overlooking the gardens. “What else do you want to know?”

“Will you see your mother?”

She admired him in stark silhouette. His expression softened as he regarded her, his hazel eyes mellow with his love for the lady who had birthed and raised him. “I asked if she might meet me in London. She would never forgive me if I failed to honor her with a few minutes before I leave.”

“More like you would not forgive yourself,” Liesel added, and strolled to stand before him. There, in the dim candlelight from the sconces, she smiled. “I’d go with you to London, but you would not allow it.”

He narrowed his gaze at her. “You are going to London and doing your own good work.”

“I will. Day after tomorrow, I think. I stay only to ensure Nikky and Katrin are happy and settling in here.” She drained her glass.

He went to sit in the huge wing chair near the fire. “I will instruct Jameson to give you all that you need for your journey and more. If you need anything—money, carriage, clothes, a house—you must know I will give it all to you.”

She huffed. She thought she had settled this. She had some money Becker had given her before they left Rittenburg. She hoped to have a goodly amount left in her accounts from years ago. Clothes she would acquire from her own townhouse when she arrived in London. To that city, she’d wear the gown and cloak she’d chosen from Dirk’s mother’s wardrobe. She’d take his coach, yes. Then send it back here.

She whirled to face him. Now she would tell him what she really needed. Her robe swung wide in the move, and the heavy brocade slid down one shoulder. The muslin gave away all that she was. And she would not move. Modesty would not contribute to her ambition.

So he looked. He savored and stared. From her eyes to her hair, to her breasts, her hips and her toes, he absorbed her. As his gaze wended back up, he did not breathe when he encountered the froth of hair at the juncture of her thighs, or how her nipples beaded high and hard against the transparent muslin. His fingers turned white as he gripped his glass. She marveled that he did not break it.

Then she went to him, putting her glass to the table beside him. Prying his glass from him to the table, too. She knelt before him and placed her hands on his thighs. Beneath the sinuous silk, she detected every arch, every plane of him that would be hers. She slid her hands up to his hips and raised her face to stare him in the eyes. “There is one thing you have not given me.”

He exhaled and sank one hand in the wealth of her hair. His fingernails against her scalp, he said, “My darling woman, you know that is not wise.”

She tipped her head into the caress of his hand. “Wisdom is not useful here.”

“It should be.”

“You argue with me, but why?” She slid up over his lap and spread her fingers against the rock-hard power of his chest.

“I keep my word.”

She moved so close that her lips were a whisper from his. “’Twas you who vowed you would not kiss me again.”

He curled his fingers in her hair. His gaze grew pained—and she knew not if it was with hope or defeat.

Her heart broke that she tortured him so. “But I did not promise I would not kiss you.”

“You should, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You should.”

But then his voice drifted away as her lips were on his, and all words—all vows, all promises—dissolved in the delirium of the now.

*

He tore his lips from hers. “I swore I would not do this, Liesel.”

“This is my decision. My need.”

His lips opened. No sound came forth.

“Deny me,” she challenged him.

His torment melted away, until all that was left of him was his undying desire for her.

She slid forward, and her mouth was on his, her heart atop his—and he would take her and offer her the world for one brief ecstasy.

So then she kissed him. Kissed him with all the longing of the past weeks. All the sorrow and terror and desire they’d endured. All the successes they had gained.

He cupped her cheeks and drew her lips to his again. She was soft and sweet, and he needed every bit of her. Her lips, her tongue, her teeth. How was it possible that he could not get enough of her?

He pulled her up over him, his mouth devouring hers. This was bliss he’d not known. Not anticipated. How could he have not enjoyed her, reveled in her, before now?

He sat forward, his mouth taking and giving. Then he pushed her away and heaved himself up. He took her with him, then swept her high into his arms.

She made a little sound that told him she was alarmed he’d leave her.

“I’m not going anywhere, my darling. You’ve come to me. Claimed me.” He kissed her. “Commanded me. And by God, you’ll have me.”

He strode to his bed and set her down on the edge. Brushing her robe away, he smoothed the muslin gown down her shoulders and over the globes of her breasts. Her large, pretty pink nipples stood, pointed and eager for his caresses. He sucked in his breath, bent, lifted one round, firm sphere, and laved and nipped her. She was made for him. He’d known at first glance that he was hers by rights of heaven and earth.

Her hands at his shoulders, he did homage to her other breast. But even that was not enough. He found the hem of her gown and the long, elegant curves of her calves and thighs.

In a rush of madness, he tore the gown from her, up and over her head.

The corners of her mouth turned slowly up in approval. She was not embarrassed. Not his Liesel. She was giving him all he wished.

He stared down at her beauty. His imagination had been so frail. Here beneath his fingers was the smooth line of her collarbone, the dip between her heavy breasts, her large, round nipples, her waist so small, her hips so wide, and her thighs open to his reach.

He dropped his head to her shoulder. He needed strength, resolve that he would go slowly. That he’d make this so sweet, so delicious for her that she would not, could not, hate him in the years to come.

He put a hand to her shoulder and pushed her back to the bed. With a look of an angel possessed, she went down and reached for him.

He pushed her slender thighs wider. Her allowing him so near, given her horrid past, told him that she trusted him. Yes, she loved him.

He dropped a kiss to the crevice between her thigh and her heavy folds.

She arched up in supplication for more of that, and he caught fast breaths, eager to lick and taste and savor all she was.

With a gentle hand smoothing her hip, he cupped her heavy lips and nudged her open for him. She complied, one of her legs up over his back.

The fragrance of roses melded with the musk of her arousal. He moaned, overcome. With gentle fingers, he spread her wide and dipped his tongue inside her.

She bucked, but he soothed her. And then he took more of her.

He sank one finger into her slick, hot channel and, with his thumb, found her clitoris. He polished the little nub, and sent her lolling her head upon the covers.

She gasped his name, and he gave her more.

Still, none of it was enough. He was ravenous. He’d expected this, told her that once he had made love to her, he’d never stop, never waver, never relent until he owned every part of her.

He rose, pushed down his pajamas, and threw them to the bed. Then he crawled up over her, his elbows to the mattress, smiling down at her and whispering how he would ensure this would erase all she’d known before with a careless man.

“You ensured that weeks ago, my darling,” she murmured, and caught his mouth in a demanding kiss.

He brushed tendrils of hair from her cheek. Tears scalded his eyes and joy filled his heart. “I love you.”

His words transformed her lovely face into a beatific look of grace. “I know. I know.”

He kissed his way down her ribs to her stomach and her hipbone. Then he took himself in hand and slid his length along her wet flesh. He set his teeth at the thrill of her heat and the spike of his voracious need.

He spread her lips wider and, bit by bit, sank in deep and deeper.

She held her breath, her eyes wide upon him. “More,” she pleaded, and sank her nails into his biceps.

Her invitation gave him courage, but her past experience, brutal as it was, made him careful. He kissed her throat, the top of her breast, and sought inside himself all the tenderness he bore her. If he was to make love to her—and so far into the act, he would not stop now—he would treasure each part of her. He’d show her by his every sigh that he valued all she was. He’d never hurt her. Never disappoint her. Not on his life.

His life.

He pulled away and admired all of her bare to him. He swept a hand down her elegant torso. Her body was his. His life was hers, had been since that second time she’d come to him and needed his help. His heart was hers, too, since every waking moment, and every one asleep, had been spent rejoicing in who and what she was. No woman had ever struck him with her beauty as she had. No woman had ever held him with her character as she had.

He smiled at her. “I have not told you enough how I love you.”

Her lips spread wide in a grin. “Tell me as often as you wish. I will never tire of the words.”

The dam holding back his wildest desires broke. “I want to be your man.”

“You are! You have been from the very night I asked for help.”

“I want to be the man who is worthy of you, a man of good repute. A man respected by his peers. I want to change what I am perceived to be so that I can be all you should have as your husband.”

“You can change the past. You can find a way.”

He kissed her deeply. “I must imbibe your faith in me.”

She undulated against him, her gaze afire with her need. “Then come inside me, please, and take all of me. I gladly give you all I have.” Her words were a plea for the rest of the act, her fingers digging into his arms, kneading, demanding all he could give her.

He began to move slowly, cautious to bring her along with him. She smiled at him and urged him down to kiss her.

He lowered his head to taste her earlobe and throat. She was everything he had dreamed of, hot and giving and liquid in his arms. He urged her higher, brought her legs up over his thighs so that he could reach more of her, take all of her. All at once, he was in, high to her hilt, full to his length.

With a few exquisite moves, he lost his mind to the rhythm that consumed them. In her slick warmth, she came, pulsing and sighing.

He marveled at her quick surrender to desire. He marveled at his own.

He was a man possessed by her. So when he reached the point where he had to have her with him, he also marveled that she arched and bucked and throbbed. But, careful not to spoil her more, he yanked away, caught himself, and spilled into his discarded pajamas.

She moaned in objection and rolled toward him. But he had done what he must.

He would not harm her more and chance a child.

He took her into his embrace and held her tightly. His lips in her hair, he rubbed her back while she kissed his throat and made him think of how this union should last forever.

*

She awoke to the movement of the mattress. He had made love to her a second time and, like after the first, held her close afterward. Now, cool air replaced the warm haven of his arms as he left the bed.

Naked, he strode away. A few candles still burned low and played in myriad shadows across his carved physique.

That second time he had loved her, he’d shown her more of a poignant declaration of love. He’d taken his time to show her how passion could rise and fall and rise again. He’d kissed each inch of her, turning her to her back, tasting the skin of her waist and her thigh, her calf, and even her big toe. He’d spread wide her thighs to find and tease and polish some small space between her folds that drove her, panting, to some blind heaven filled with rosy bliss. Silently, he had entered her again and taken her with him to a stunning climax where they both held, suspended in a euphoria she would recall to her last breath.

She watched him now. Detached, he wore that fixed expression when he debated an issue with himself. He poured water from a glass pitcher into two small glasses. The delicate sound of splashes made her smile.

When he returned, he sat beside her and bent to kiss her.

“Drink,” he said as he handed her a glass.

The water was cool, refreshing.

“How do you feel?” He threaded his fingers into her hair.

“Never more alive.”

He gave a laugh. “Good.” But then, frowning, he pushed away.

“Come back,” she urged him.

“This cannot be a habit.”

“You’re leaving,” she said with concern and mounting anger. Then she abruptly sat up. “How can it become a habit?”

He set his jaw, his brilliant eyes ablaze. “Because now I have a taste of you, I want all of you!”

There was the sum of their challenge. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “All or nothing.”

“If I try—” He stared at her, his hope mingling with his frustration in the shake of his head. “I cannot promise a thing.”

At least she had brought him that far—and there, on the edge of that abyss, she would meet him. She picked up her gown and robe, then clutched them to her naked body. “Nor I.”

But she had acquired here what she needed for herself. She hoped she’d given him fond memories, too, if, in their years ahead, they had only this night to sustain them.

“Never forget me.” His voice was a wreck.

So many had forgotten him, used him, ignored him. She absorbed the strength and power and despair of him, virile, tormented creature that he was. She loved him with every bone, muscle, vein in her body. “I remember your every smile, every word, every valiant act. Until we meet again, my darling, know that you live in me, as I live in you.”

Then, having given him everything, she left him where he stood.