Page 11 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Bastards lie. It’s in their nature. Just as it is with gentlemen, and ladies, andchildren.

B ram had always loved watching a woman in the throes of passion. He loved seeing if her nose wrinkled, hearing if she grunted or moaned. He liked the undulations of her body and the special way her breasts puckered. Did she shiver within her pants or thrust forward with the arch? Did her body flail wide or shrink into its pleasure?

These were the things he liked knowing, and with Bluebell it was no different. So when her eyes widened in shock and her arms flew wide, he grinned and watched with greedy eyes.

His fingers were pushed deep inside, enjoying the hard fist of her body around his fingers. Two inside her, and the others held back shallow because of her maidenhead.

Except when she orgasmed. He was so enthralled by the sight that he simply held on, his fingers pushing deeper to feel every contraction, every gasp and shudder that went through her body.

Including the rip of the membrane.

He didn’t understand what had happened at first. Things were moving so explosively around him. She was wild in her completion, and his blood was pounding with her every shift and moan. But eventually, she had to quiet. Eventually, her body stopped its contractions, and she caught her breath. Eventually, he looked down at his hand and saw the blood. That was when he realized what he’d done. That he hadn’t intended to rip her hymen wasn’t relevant. He’d meant it when he said he wouldn’t take her virginity. And he hadn’t. Not really. Except…

Jesus.

Her maidenhead was ripped. By his fingers.

He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed, her body still giving tiny pulses that made her belly flutter. Her head was lying against the high back of the chair, and a languid smile played about her lips.

She was utterly beautiful.

And she was no longer a virgin.

With shaking hands, he pulled out of her. The basin was right there, so it was the easiest thing to do to wash his hands and then wash her. There wasn’t much blood anyway.

She hummed, deep in her throat, when he stroked her thighs with the cloth. She let out a murmur of delight when he pressed a kiss to the inside of her leg. And she whispered a word of thanks when he pulled her skirt down to cover her modesty, though he mourned the lost view.

“No thanks are necessary, Miss Bluebell. That was my pleasure,” he said, and he meant every word.

She swallowed, then seemed to reluctantly gather herself together. She straightened up slightly on the chair and pulled her knees together. He did not interfere. Indeed, he picked up the basin and dumped the water out the back rather than let her see the tiniest tinge of pink. There wasn’t any. There had been too little blood. But he was excruciatingly aware of it.

“Is it always like that?”

He shook his head. “That was like a first meal, and a good one, I hope.”

She grinned. “Very good.”

“But experiences are as varied as the dinners you have eaten.”

She arched her brows, looking young and mischievous. “There is not much variety in the food I eat.”

“Then mayhaps your every encounter will be as wonderful as this.”

She nodded, but her gaze went to him. To his falls, most specifically, as he set the basin away. He had not been looking directly at her. He wanted her to feel unpressured and hold on to her languor as long as possible. But he was too aware of her, even from the corner of his eye, and so he saw the direction of her gaze.

“Will you show me now?”

“Uh…what?” He turned directly to her, afraid to guess what she wanted.

“You said that what I just did…that ladies do that all the time in the dark of their bedrooms.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So if this is what women do, will you show me what men do?”

He gaped at her. There was no other word for the way he stared, dumbfounded.

“We are sharing, yes?” she pressed. “As friends?”

Friends? Sharing?

She straightened fully. “We are showing each other things. It is not whoring—”

“Of course not!”

“Then…” Her eyes took on a pleading aspect, though her voice remained casual. “Share with me.”

“You want to see…me?”

“Doing what men do.”

Good God, she was serious. And he wanted to do it. Desperately. “It is…” How to phrase the thrusting and grunting, not to mention the messy release? “It’s not an attractive thing.”

“Did you find what I did attractive?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then why do you think a man is different?”

Wasn’t she a country-bred girl? Didn’t she understand the basics? “The man strains and moves.”

“I did as well. At least, I think I did.”

“And—”

She pushed to her feet, coming to stand directly before him with her chin lifted and her arms dropped onto her hips. “I showed you everything, did I not?”

Well, there was a great deal more possible, but he supposed from her perspective, she had.

“So show me!” It was as much an order as a plea.

How could he refuse? His hands went to the buttons on his clothes. When she realized what he was doing, her smile was brilliant. Gratitude shone on her face, but mostly, he saw an excited curiosity. And as he let his pants drop and set about opening his falls, she raised her hands off her hips, only to hold them nervously in front of her.

“Will you sit down?” she gestured awkwardly. “In the chair?”

The one she had just vacated? It seemed fitting. Especially as she would likely settle on the stool he had used. It did, after all, afford the best view.

He moved awkwardly, neither fully in, nor out, of his clothes. And when he sat down, she did as he expected, resting on the stool at his knees. She appeared like a student before a master, her expression eager. It was unsettling.

“Bluebell…” he said, but she shook her head.

“Do I help? What should I do?”

All at once, he was seized by the unreality of the situation. Imagine a woman asking to see this? Even at the height of his adolescent imagination, he had never imagined this. So why not enjoy it?

He leaned back in his chair and extended his legs to either side while he freed himself. And there he was, tall and proud, directly before her eyes, which were as huge as saucers.

“Are you sure you want to learn?” His voice was casual, but inside, his blood pounded with hungry excitement.

“Oh yes,” she said as she shifted on the stool. Apparently, she wished to see him from all angles. “You are not exactly straight.”

He nodded. A small hitch to the left. “Most men are not ruler straight.”

“But there is more, yes? The sac?”

So her country education was not completely lacking. “Do you wish to see everything?”

“I thought I’d made that clear already.”

Of course she had. So he divested himself of all coverings from the waist down. The chair felt cold on his bare bum, but stranger was the way she impatiently unbuttoned the lower fastenings of his shirt, enough to drape it open but not fully wide. Like a stage curtain to frame the main show.

It was a truly uncomfortable thought.

He looked at her red lips, still dark from excitement. “Will you kiss me?” he asked.

She hesitated. She had cast this as a sharing of information. Kissing would make it too intimate. But it was something he wanted desperately.

“It is what men imagine before they begin.”

“Kissing?”

“And more.”

She shook her head. “There will not be more.”

As if what they had already done wasn’t intimate enough. “I know,” he said, keeping his voice level. “But a kiss would be welcome.”

She nodded, straightening as gracefully as any queen from her throne. Then she stretched forward over his organ, leaning in such that he could smell her scent—spiced with arousal—and see the bob of her breasts.

“Just a kiss?” she asked.

“A slow one. With your mouth open.”

She agreed with a nod. They connected, lip to lip, a teasing press at first where the heat of her breath coiled with his. Then he angled his mouth one way, and she, the other. Her tongue was tentative, extended into him on a shy quest. It was novel, this exploration she did, and he let her find her way around teeth and tongue.

But all too soon, his hunger took over. Where he had meant to play with her lightly, his need surged forward to make him dominate. She was leaning over him, but he boldly thrust his tongue into her mouth. In and out. Dominance and submission.

He made a passionate play of a single kiss, and when she finally broke away, he knew he had pushed her too far. The kiss had been frankly sexual, and she was overwhelmed. She stared at him with her breath short and her eyes wary.

He let her pull away, though his every muscle clenched with the need to keep her close.

“No more,” she rasped.

He looked down to where his penis was wet and flushed, jerking toward her with muscles he could not completely control. “Do you still wish to see?”

She swallowed, and he thought for a moment she would run. But Bluebell was a bold woman, and so after a moment, she nodded.

“You may help me at any time,” he instructed, “but I will show you for now.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and his blood surged at the word.

He took himself in hand. He wrapped his fingers around himself, and he did a slow stroke from tip to base. He surged into his hand, unable to stop himself, but his eyes were on her as she wet her lips and angled to see. Just how bold was this country miss?

“Do you see the moisture at the tip?”

She nodded.

“Many women like the taste. Would you like to try?”

“They…?”

He nodded.

He watched her bite her lower lip, even white teeth pressing into red flesh. He focused on that, using it to control the roaring in his blood. But then she nodded.

Bold miss indeed.

He kept himself excruciatingly still as she extended her index finger toward him. She had to do it on her own, so he said nothing. Just waited.

Then the pad of her finger stroked across the very tip. He held back a groan while his buttocks pushed himself toward her. He could not stop it, and the brief pressure against her finger was like the press of heaven.

Then she drew back, her finger moist, the liquid pearlescent in the light. And she popped it in her mouth and sucked.

He nearly came from the sight of that alone. He imagined himself in her mouth with her tongue swirling over his tip. With the taste of him inside her, filling her.

“Salty,” she said.

“Yes.”

He forced himself to let go of his grip. He opened his hand and let his organ bob free between them. “You cannot fully understand unless you do it.”

“Hold it?”

“As I was. Stroke from the tip to the base.”

She looked at him, her expression showing uncertainty. But then she did it. She reached out and wrapped him in a tentative hold. Her hand was cool compared to the heat of his cock, but it quickly warmed. And as she adjusted her fingers to his girth, he shuddered from the glorious feel.

“Harder,” he rasped, and she complied.

White fingers, the dark red head of his cock, and the pressure of her small hand around him. God, it was a wonder he didn’t explode right there.

He let his head fall back, his breath ragged. She didn’t move, but he saw her eyes dart to his face.

“Good?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He pushed into her hand. She didn’t resist, but went upward with him. So he wrapped his hand around hers, showing her where to squeeze, how to stroke, what to do.

It was the most exquisite torture he’d ever had. Holding himself back while he instructed her. He tried to keep things dispassionate. He tried to think of anything but the wonder of her hand on him.

Then she began to knead him. Not hard, more like the rolling squeeze of a woman who had milked many a cow. It was an unflattering thought, but oh how it felt!

His hips jerked in reaction. He let go of her hand to grip the edges of the chair. And he thrust into her hand.

Over and over, while she watched and smiled.

It was her smile that got him. She was delighted to do this for him. She was happy.

To do this.

For him.

“Ahhhh!”

He exploded. His mind went white, his hips bucked uncontrolled, and he released everything like a shot from a gun.

Everything.

Pulse after pulse.

Yes. God yes.

It was some moments before he had control of himself enough to open his eyes. When he finally did, he saw her grinning. She hadn’t let go of him, but was still holding his shrinking cock, his cum covering her hand. He didn’t want to look to see where else it had gone. It was enough to see it there on her and him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Thank him? The best orgasm of his life, and she was thanking him.

“Was it what you wanted?” he asked.

“Yes.” She looked at him as if waiting for a sign. He had no idea what she meant, but then she glanced back at her hand. “I should let go now?”

God no. He was already starting to swell again. How could he not, with her looking so happily intrigued? But honesty forced him to nod.

“That is the essence of it,” he finally managed. “There is endless variety, of course, between a man and a woman. But that is the main part.”

She released him slowly, uncoiling one finger after another. Then she straightened, refilling the basin quickly, and returning with water and cloth. He had meant to put himself away by then, but languor was making his thoughts and his movements slow.

And then she was there with a gentle stroke on an organ all too willing to come to life again. She cleaned him, and he had to grasp her wrist or demonstrate again.

“Too soon?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Too hungry for more.”

Her smile was wicked. “I understand.”

She…what?

“You…um…” How to ask? “You wish to do that again?”

She laughed, the sound light and free. “Of course. Now I understand why women rush to the altar. It is not completely about money or even love. It is to enjoy that, yes?”

He cleared his throat. “Most women do not have such pleasure in their bed. That is why they do it alone. In secret.”

She nodded as if that made sense. “Then I will have to be careful when selecting my husband.”

How practical of her. He admired that, even as a surge of fierce jealousy burned through his gut. He was sprawled in her chair, his cock ready to thrust inside her, and she was speaking of the husband she would one day wed. It was enough to make him hastily work his falls back up to cover himself.

She moved away to give him room. As he had done, she dumped the water outside the kitchen and set aside the cloth. She restored everything to rights, but damn it, nothing was right. She’d just come for the first time. He’d just released in her hand. He wanted her to look at him sweetly. At least pretend there was warmth between them.

And he did not want it to seem as if nothing had happened. As if she were not changed somehow by her new knowledge.

“Bluebell?” he asked. Damn it, he didn’t even know her Christian name.

She turned to look at him, her skirts swishing about her ankles. She was naked beneath those skirts. He had been beneath those skirts. And yet, when she looked at him, there was nothing of that intimacy in her face. She was relaxed. And the curve to her lips could have been because of a sunny disposition.

“I will take you to Oxfordshire,” he said. “Do not ride the mail coach.”

She lifted her chin. “I will not pay you.”

“Of course not. It is simply a shared ride. Between friends.” They were not friends. In his mind, they were so much more, but it was all she would accept, and so he used it.

“It is not proper. I need to appear a lady.”

Right. “Then hire me. For the price that you would have paid for the mail coach.”

“That is a pittance.”

“Nevertheless, pay me that, and you will be hiring me as your guard and driver.” He hated his next words, but he pushed them out anyway. “I will be your paid servant, nothing more.”

She frowned, and her gaze drifted to the chair they’d used. It was the only thing that suggested she’d been affected by what they’d done.

“We cannot…share again. It’s not proper. Certainly not with a servant.”

He couldn’t argue that, much though he wanted to. “I will come first thing in the morning.”

She frowned and looked out her window. “Everyone will know.”

“We’ll leave early. I’ll take the horse now. Come to the inn yard in the morning, and you can hire me. There is nothing improper in a day’s drive.”

She swallowed. “There is a great deal improper in appearing to do one thing and acting another. And people will still think the worst if I ride away with you.”

Again, he could not argue. Instead, he closed the distance between them. She didn’t shy away, for which he was grateful. And so he took his time, touching her cheek, stroking the curve of her chin, and drawing her face up to look him squarely in the eye.

“I have lived in the demi-monde all my life. The nobles, the upper crust, even the wealthy cits—I have known many of them. Every one focuses on appearance. Actions mean little so long as the appearance is pure.”

“But that is dishonest.”

“Yes.”

She searched his face, reading the truth in his expression—or so he hoped. Perhaps all she saw was his lust. And it was that base emotion that directed his actions now. It insisted that he stay a little longer in her company, however he could manage it.

Meanwhile, she bit her lower lip in thought. White teeth, red flesh. He would never tire of that sight. “You are living proof that people do not act as purely as they pretend,” she said.

He winced. He did not like her bringing up his illegitimacy, but he could not deny it.

“Come with me, Miss Bluebell. I will see that your reputation is not harmed.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly. And then she looked at his mouth. He felt her gaze there like a brand, his flesh hot and pulsing beneath her regard.

“One last kiss?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He took it. He lingered over it. He burned it in his memory and hers—he hoped. Then he stepped away, feeling as if he were ripping himself away from some essential mooring. It made no sense.

She was a woman, no more, no less. He’d had many, and though this encounter was seared as intensely special, it meant nothing to his life. So he told himself as he put on his hat and left.

She meant nothing.

Except, perhaps, another more exciting interlude.

He would have to handle her carefully. He would have to plan his approach. But that was something he was willing to do.

Bram was still thinking of ways to seduce Bluebell when he rode Mina into the innyard barn. The horse was indeed an ugly, sweet-tempered creature. She would serve them well. It was quiet in the barn as it was full dark, and everyone was eating or in bed. He’d be there soon enough, but he needed to settle Mina and make one last check on the carriage. The whitewashing was well done, and the carpentry—

“But why must we wait out here?” came a plaintive voice from inside the carriage.

Bram froze, his thoughts turning dark. It couldn’t be. He’d sent Dicky and Clarissa to Scotland, by God. But then he wrenched open the carriage door, and there they were, looking somewhat worse for wear.

Clarissa’s dress was travel-stained, her hair was askew, and her skin looked wan. Though in the lamplight, her fake sapphires still shone bright, probably because she spent so much time clutching the damned things. Dicky still looked every inch the aristocrat, though his eyes had that desperate, haunted look that came from spending too much time in close quarters with his wife.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Bram demanded.

“Oh, hullo there,” said Dicky. “Do come in and join us for a moment, won’t you?” He gestured elegantly to the inside of the carriage as if he were inviting Bram to dine.

“I thought you were off to America,” he snapped.

“Scotland,” corrected Dicky.

“Foul things, boats,” Clarissa huffed. “The waves were abominable. I couldn’t possibly go to America on one of those.”

“Did you try?” Bram asked.

Dicky rolled his eyes. “Of course we tried. Barely an hour, and we had to turn back.”

“The waves,” Clarissa gasped. “My favorite gown.” Then she pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

Right. She did have a kind of stench around her.

“We need your help, my man,” said Dicky with strained good cheer. “A bath for the lady, a place to bed down, and a new plan, if you please.”

“I do not please. You refused to pay me, if you recall.”

“You took what you wanted. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

True enough. “But that does not oblige me to allow you into my carriage or to feed and bathe you.”

Clarissa gasped and pressed the linen to her eye, presumably to wipe away a tear. “Oh, dearest Bram, you cannot leave me in such a pitiable state. Surely, you cannot.” Then she pursed her bow red lips. Far from enticing him, he felt nauseous at the sight.

“Look, my man,” said Dicky, drawing himself up to his full height. “There’s people after us. Surely you cannot leave us to die at their hands.”

“Oh!” gasped Clarissa. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—”

“Stop it!” Bram snapped. “Let me think.”

Both immediately quieted. They straightened in their seats, and Clarissa smoothed the folds of her stained gown as if they were awaiting tea service. And they waited.

“I did not say I would help you.”

“Oh!” Clarissa began again.

“No more of that.”

“I’m trying to stop crying,” she gasped, “but this has been so hard.” Jesus, three days away from her gasping had not been long enough.

He cursed under his breath. “Jeremy will come back the minute he finds out there isn’t any coin in the lockbox.” In truth, he was surprised the man hadn’t appeared already. “He’ll come asking me where you are.”

“And you’ll tell him Scotland,” said Dicky in a reasonable tone. “Which is why we didn’t go there.”

“I won’t need to tell him anything if he finds you here.”

Clarissa reached forward, her long fingers still elegant, despite the discoloration on her gloves. “You must not let that happen. What will we do?”

Bram frowned. He needed to send them far away. Someplace they could never return to plague him again. “Finland,” he finally said.

“What?” said Dicky.

“Where?” gasped Clarissa.

“The North Sea is very calm travel,” he lied. In truth he had no idea how calm it was. But it was the first place he thought of that would be far away from him.

“But isn’t it cold there?” asked Dicky.

“The North Sea?” Clarissa moaned. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Damn it, you have to get on a boat somewhere. Jeremy will find you anywhere in England.”

Dicky stiffened. “Mind your tongue, Bram. She’s a lady, and a gentleman must maintain some standards.”

Standards? From this pair? “Good thing I’m not a gentleman,” he growled. “What about Ireland?” They could still come back from there, but it was better than nothing.

“Goodness no,” Dicky said with a shudder. “Someone might mistake me for an Irishman.”

Which was actually the point, but Bram knew better than to quibble. “Wales?”

Clarissa’s gasp held true horror. “Among the Welsh?”

He sighed. “Italy then. You like Italians. Get a boat from Dover. Jeremy will be looking for you up here. If you travel south to Dover, the crossing isn’t so bad. Then across the Continent to Italy.”

Clarissa’s eyes brightened. “I do like Italians. The men are so very swarthy.”

“Excellent—”

“But how are we to get to Dover?”

“On the mail coach.”

Both beautiful people shuddered in a very beautiful way. Tiny little tremors that displayed total disdain. Bloody hell.

“We’ll take my carriage,” said Dicky.

“My carriage,” interrupted Bram.

“Well, not exactly.”

“Yes, exactly. I did not pay to have it fixed and whitewashed for you, Dicky. This is my carriage—”

Clarissa rubbed a long finger across the squabs toward him. “You did a fine job, Bram. No one will know it as the same equipage we came north in. It’s perfect cover.”

It wasn’t anything of the sort. “It’s not yours,” he stressed between gritted teeth. “It’s mine.”

Which is when the waterworks began. He knew it was for show. Or maybe not, because Clarissa was not a pretty woman when she cried. She made choked gasps, and her face became blotchy. If there was one thing that Clarissa maintained, it was her beauty. Which meant these tears were real.

“Bloody hell, man,” Dicky said, clear desperation in his tone. “You cannot abandon me now. Not when—”

“Two hundred pounds,” Bram ground out, cursing himself under his breath.

“What?”

“Two hundred bloody pounds, and you take yourself off now.” He felt bad about the horse. That sweet-tempered creature did not deserve these two. “And you leave the horse for me in Dover. I’ll find her there.” After all, the thing was so ugly that he’d be able to find her easily.

Clarissa’s tears ended on a hiccuping snort. “You’ll drive us to Dover?”

“No, I won’t.”

“But—”

“Jeremy will look for me in order to find you. If I’m driving you across England, he’s sure to find you.”

Even Clarissa saw the logic in that. So she whispered a tragic, “Very well.”

Seeing that his wife had already decided, Dicky sighed dramatically. “It hurts me, how you’ve forgotten our friendship.”

“It hurt me too when you ran off without paying me.” He held out his hand.

With a sullen curse, Dicky reached for a small pot pressed near his leg. Pulling off the lid, he carefully extricated two hundred pounds.

“What is that?” Bram asked.

“It’s your money,” the man responded with a dramatic sniff.

“No, no. The…small chamber pot.”

“Well, I couldn’t keep carrying it around in a rucksack, could I?”

Clarissa brightened. “Everyone has pots, you know. I thought that would blend in.”

Because everyone carried around a lidded piece of pottery wherever they went. Bram didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled the money out of Dicky’s hand before the man could find a way to palm some of the notes.

“It’s a sad thing,” Dicky drawled to his wife, “when education does not overcome breeding. Bad blood will always out.” By which he meant to insult Bram’s bastard blood. Too bad Bram was long since inured to such jabs.

“Oh yes,” Clarissa agreed. Then she smiled winningly at Bram. “Do fetch us some stew, please, before you hitch up the carriage. I think I can manage some food now that we’re away from the water.”

Dicky clapped his hands. “Excellent notion, my dear. Most excellent.”

Then together, man and wife gave him calm, condescending smiles appropriate to the king’s drawing room. Bram almost slammed the door in their faces. Almost. But if he didn’t help them, then they’d be plaguing him for the rest of the night.

So he did as he was bid. He got them stew and bread. He hitched up Mina and helped them out of the inn yard. Dicky put up a token objection that he would have to drive, but he probably needed the respite from his wife. So with Dicky driving, Bram was finally, happily, able to wave them good-bye and good riddance.

But what the hell was he going to do for Bluebell in the morning?