Page 54

Rupert followed Franny into her chambers. She went to her dressing table, starting on her pins. He walked up right behind her, pressing her into the piece of furniture, his hands coming to rest on the tabletop to cage her in. Her small chuckle danced around them.

“Eager, husband?”

He dragged his lips down the column of her neck, his fingers working on the buttons down the back of her gown. “You have no idea, love.”

As much as his wife had wanted to leave directly after their dance, they had stayed until the end of the ball. They were both much too appreciative of the dowager Duchess of Ironcrest’s patronage. And by God, Rupert was fairly certain it had worked or at least helped a great deal.

Not only had the Ironcrest family thrown their support behind his wife, but other prestigious families had as well. The Bentleys had made it clear Franny’s bastard status meant not a whit to them, Lord Mallen confirming it when he’d asked Franny to dance. Rupert had struggled with that—it was extremely gracious of the Bentley heir to make such a declaration of support—but the man was stupidly handsome. Rupert hadn’t failed to notice his wife became incapable of words in the man’s presence. And to dance with Franny meant he’d have to touch Franny.

But Rupert had swallowed it down and tempered the beast inside him. He would show his wife who she belonged to now that they were home. And he was going to be very, very thorough.

His wife stared silently at him in the looking glass, a devilish gleam dancing in her eyes. A few more pins and her black tresses tumbled free. God, he was obsessed with those wild ebony waves. They had been the bane of his existence for so long, always flying in the wind as she ran from him. He’d always desperately wanted to pull it. His hand flexed. Wrap it around his fist. Use it to control its wild owner.

Her dress gaped, and after the last button popped free, he stepped back. He indicated with a jerk of his chin for her to lose the garment. A wicked smile curved her dusty-rose lips and then she spun to face him and let it fall.

He swallowed, and his cock throbbed. He pushed down on his length, desperate to relieve the ache. His wife’s gaze dropped to his hand, and her teeth dug into her bottom lip, eyes locked on his groin. So, he teased her and stroked himself over the fabric of his breeches.

A barely audible whine fled her. Fuck . She was too irresistible, pale skin shimmering in the low candlelight, breasts pushed so high from the gussets of her stays, her nipples peeking out the top. Pretty pink nipples. Surrounded by gleaming ebony waves.

Rupert needed to feel. To touch. He gripped the tip of his gloved finger with his teeth and gave a hard yank. Franny’s gaze shot to his mouth, her lids falling heavy. He frantically repeated the action with each finger in turn and tossed the gloves aside. And then his hands were slipping through the silky waves, cradling her head, and tilting her up to him. Finally, he tasted the first of many pink parts of her that he planned to feast on tonight.

Their lips molded together, and it was fervent, heated. It was need. Her hands slid between them, and she made quick work of his tailcoat. She assisted him out of it, their lips never leaving one another. Which was actually becoming a bit of a hindrance, but he was loathe to break away from her. Until she pulled on his cravat—and tightened it instead of loosening it. A strangled sound pulled from his throat, and he pulled away, tackling the constricting neck cloth himself.

“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry Rupert!” She bounded up and down on her toes, her forehead knit in concern while she chewed on her bottom lip.

The cravat fell loose, and he took a deep, refreshing breath. He caught Franny’s eye, and they both burst out laughing.

“Gloves,” he ordered, nodding toward her hands. And the bloody minx mimicked his earlier movements. Drawing one black fingertip to her mouth, sinking two even white teeth into the fabric, and tugging it free. But instead of frantic, hurried movements like he had made. She went slowly. The little tease.

By the time both her gloves floated to the rug, he was in nothing but his breeches. And his wife was still far too overdressed.

But what a picture she made.

“I love your hair,” he murmured. “It’s the truest of blacks, soft as silk.” He ran his fingers through it. “Seemingly untamable. Like its owner.” Down so that the pads of his fingers traced over her skin. His gaze flicked to hers. “Seemingly.” He paused above the mounds of her breasts. “Do you know what else I love about your hair?”

He leisurely rubbed over the top of her nipple, and her breath stuttered. “This,” he said, his voice low, gritty. “This is one of the things I love about your hair. The stark pink of your nipples peeking out from behind inky tresses. It’s beautiful. I’ll never forget the image of you before the pond, covered by nothing but these ebony waves.”

His hands wandered down, and he tugged at the tapes of her petticoats until those too pooled at her feet. God, she had been gloriously defiant that day. He spun her and loosened the strings of her stays and that fell to the floor with a thump . His cock, already at half mast, went fully hard. He needed her naked now.

“Go stand in front of the mirror,” he ordered.

She didn’t move. She just cocked her head, the right side of her mouth curving the slightest amount. His blood heated.

“Franny,” he warned.

But she still didn’t move from her spot before him. Instead, her hands gathered her chemise inch by inch, until it was bunched below her hips. And then she drew it over her head and took his breath with it. Because she was left before him, completely bare except for midnight black stockings. And bloody fucking hell, the combination of black silk stockings, sweet black curls, and black silk waves? It was devastating. Nearly brought him to his knees. She was too bloody lovely. And he wanted her to see it.

“Mirror. Now.”

He turned her and gave her a small push forward. And when she took her sweet time, that apple-bottomed arse sashaying. He stepped up to her and let his palm fly, landing with a crack against that soft skin. She jumped, her sharp cry slicing through the room. He leaned down, his lips hovering next to her ear.

“Now, Franny.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and the most beautiful whimper came from her throat. It was faint, and she tried to keep it back with those dusty-rose lips pressed tight. But he heard it. His cock heard it. And it had his blood rushing south.

But just to be sure. “Green?” he whispered over the shell of her ear.

“The greenest,” she said, her lips curving.

He gave her arse a tight squeeze and then thrust her forward again.

Time to show her how beautiful she was. Time to show her exactly who she belonged to.