Page 75 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Stephen followed her into her bedchamber before she could change her mind. She was sweet and shy and his desire was raging. Lady Partington was no innocent debutante playing coquetry with no real knowledge of the consequences. He'd had plenty of those. They were diverting cameos played out in a public place and while he'd enjoyed these flirtations, this was the real thing. His breathing was labored, his erection painful.

In front of him, the hesitancy in Lady Partington's step suggested she was reconsidering but Stephen guided her forward with one hand gently on her rear; a pert, charming rear, he decided.

At the door, she turned. She looked so desperately concerned when she stammered, "I don't make a habit of inviting young men into my boudoir,"

that he nearly laughed.

Instead he simply smiled and touched his lips to her brow. "If I thought you did, Lady Partington, I wouldn't be as excited as I am."

He closed the door behind them then led her gently but firmly toward the four-poster. "Now unless you've changed your mind about providing a solution that will make your husband and ultimately both your daughters happy, let us proceed."

Her maid had already prepared her for sleep and a candle on a low table added to the glow of the one she held.

He was conscious of his voice, intimate and full of promise—and hopefully of reassurance—when he murmured, "It sounds like you've had a lonely time of it in this room. Unlikely we'll be disturbed, eh?"

He was glad she kept her head held high rather than slumping from the inference of her husband's lack of interest. It affirmed the impression he had of her, that she was no frigid matron; that beneath her delicate, vulnerable exterior there flowered a woman with all the yearnings and hopes that might be brought to the fore with the right handling.

Stephen might be young and he was well aware he could be brash but he was sensitive, too. An interest in nature—animals and insects—had given him an insight into the cause and effect of certain behaviours. He knew that, when frightened, his horses and dogs responded better to soothing words than barked orders and the whip.

If he'd not studied women with the same dedication that he'd studied arachnids, that was because he'd not had to. Women seemed to find him attractive.

But now, strangely, he was fired up as he never had been before by the challenge of nurturing the suppressed passions of this lovely, undemanding woman with the beautiful soul and kind and deserving nature.

With brittle pride, Lady Partington stared at him, one hand clinging to the carved bed post, the other nervously smoothing her silk skirts. "Humphrey has visited me less than half a dozen times in this room during twenty years of marriage. No, we will not be disturbed."

She bent to blow out one candle, turned to regard him with a long, considering look, then seemed to banish all indecision. Nothing in her gestures now suggested this was anything other than a purely practical solution to the collective family's problems as she made to undress.

"Please turn your back, Stephen. Oh!"

She had obviously not expected to find him standing so close. Or to be taken in his arms. He was disappointed she didn't go limp but he did manage to chase some of the steel from her spine as he gently massaged the nape of her neck. Still, he wanted her to throw herself into the pleasure of it. This would be no fun at all if he was unable to bring her to rapture at his touch.

"No, don't blow out the other candle,"

he protested mildly, arresting her hand, which he placed on his heart. "Do you feel it racing?"

He'd thought to place it further down to reassure her that he truly found her desirable, however he feared she might find that too confronting.

"But, I?—"

He removed the candlestick from her grasp and set it on the table, aware she was shivering when he slipped his hands beneath the silk of her shawl to hold her.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he drew her onto his lap.

"Put your arms around me,"

he instructed softly, tucking her head against the hollow of his neck. "Now,"

he murmured, "you didn't answer my question."

Again, he took one of her hands and rested it against his heart while he stroked the nape of her neck. "Do you feel how fast it beats?"

She glanced up at him, then dropped her gaze as if she couldn't bear to face him. "Anticipation for what is about to happen will affect any man like that—except my husband,"

she whispered.

"Your husband clearly has no discernment."

Lowering his face, he touched his lips to hers, then drew back, surprised. He'd not expected the frisson of sensation that fizzed through him. He hardened even more while his anticipation notched up several levels. Lord, she truly was desirable. Much more than he'd thought, even when he'd accepted her proposition with such alacrity.

She did not respond. That is, while she seemed to offer herself pliantly, obediently enough, her lips did not part with passion and she did not cleave to him. He thought quickly. In order to make this an encounter to remember he needed to fuel her with the same desire, he felt otherwise it was worth nothing. While his skin burned and his body roared with sensation when she touched his cheek, she seemed to feel nothing.

Rising quickly, he scooped her up and gently lay her upon the mattress. Obediently, she'd kicked off her slippers and now she lay on her back in her simple gown, the swell of her breasts a tantalising marker of the delights that were in store.

Yes, delights that he was determined she'd enjoy equally as much as he.

When she sat up suddenly, saying almost briskly, "Please don't trouble yourself with all this, Stephen. I'm very capable of undressing myself,"

he gripped her wrist and then was startled by the sudden confusion, almost fearful look she sent at him.

"Grand seductions do not include desirable women undressing themselves,"

he told her sternly but with a smile tugging at his lips as he allowed her to rise to her feet. The bed would still be there but she needed to be drawn there at her own pace. "Surely you know that!"

"Oh…"

Uncertainly, she turned and let him unbutton the back of her dress, her self consciousness clearly growing by the second as he peeled off her evening gown, watching it pool sensuously about her ankles before he turned her to face him. He contemplated her with genuine curiosity and warring desire.

"You really are not used to this are you, Lady Partington? Well, now I'm going to have to ask you to help me. Please extend your right leg and point your toe. I'm going to remove your stockings."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing that?—"

"I've no doubt you are but you surely aren't going to spoil my fun, are you?"

She stared down at him, looking fragile and innocent in her thin chemise beneath her short stays, while he, still fully clothed and kneeling at her feet, smiled at her doubt and confusion as he slowly contoured the arch of her foot.

He chuckled at her gasp when he kissed her instep but his amusement turned to heightened desire when he turned his attentions a little higher. Clearly, Lady Partington wasn't used to feeling a man's tongue exploring the contours of her shapely thighs, cooling the sensitive skin behind one knee in an attempt to elicit at least a sigh of pleasure.

He rose slowly, contemplating his next move. She wasn't throwing herself into this with the abandonment exhibited by all the other women in his life, he thought, and then was ashamed at the reminder of some less than noble encounters. Most notably, Lady Julia's seduction. Though, to be fair, it was she who'd seduced him. Stephen had gone over that evening enough times to have convinced himself he would never have even dreamed of intimate relations with another man's wife had he not been bosky and tricked.

Yet, excuses aside, what he had done had been wrong. And he had to atone.

Though, agreeing to Lady Partington's request was hardly atonement. It was pure, undiluted pleasure.

"Back to bed, I think,"

he whispered, scooping her up once more to set her upon the counterpane before caging her with his body, gently kissing her throat, her collarbone and finally, once more, her lips. Tentatively she kissed him back but she still held herself aloof, as if terrified of succumbing to the base, elemental desire that was fast beginning to consume him.

His enjoyment grew. The seduction of a sweet, shy older woman who needed to be taught that love at any age was worth celebrating was more exciting than any previous hot and sweaty encounters where enthusiasm was high from the outset.

Her skin was smooth and dewy, her breasts full and firm beneath the sheer fabric that clothed her.

Studying her with fascinated lust, he slowly loosened the laces of her short stays, then untied her lace-edged chemise and slipped his hand beneath the fabric. Her faint exhalation of surprise echoed his as he closed his hand over one of her glorious breasts. He began to massage the small peak until it hardened. He himself was so hard it was almost painful.

"Please, Stephen, you need not go to so much trouble."

He stilled. "You're not enjoying it?"

"Too much, but you are not obliged to pretend for my benefit."

Her words sounded as if they were forced from her, her eyes closed as if she could not look at him.

Guilt? Was she frigid? He didn't think she was.

She whispered, "All I ask is that you join me beneath the sheets and we get this over with."

Offended, he climbed off the bed and stood, tidying his rumpled garments. "So this really is just duty for you?"

He knew he sounded like an injured schoolboy but he couldn't help himself.

"Stephen, you don't understand?—"

"I understand very well. You want me to give you a child but you want nothing more from me."

Breathing heavily, he promised, "If I am required to…perform without us both gaining any pleasure from the bargain then I withdraw my services."

"I am more than ten years older than you and…certainly no beauty."

"Not a beauty?"

He sat heavily on the bed and looked at her. In the candlelight her eyes looked luminous with fear and his anger and hurt suddenly dissipated. He reached for her hand. "You've been conditioned to believe it. And by whom? Your husband, who's never looked at any woman save his mistress. No doubt Araminta has picked up her father's contemptuous attitude. The little jade thinks she's too pretty by half, and I'll admit she has spirit you'll never have—a most engaging if infuriating commodity—but your looks are far more pleasing to me than her smug self-assurance."

At her shock he went on, "Now, I'm tired of trying to make it clear to you that I've been dreaming wicked, carnal dreams since I unwittingly spied on you through the casement. By God, you were a luscious sight and I want to enjoy you now."

At her tremulous smile he laughed and threw himself onto her, demanding, "Now kiss me back or I refuse to partake in this bedroom sport."

After that it was easy. Sybil's reserve had never been so fully withdrawn within such a short time. No one had ever tried to cajole her into anything beyond the dry, formal relations that were the preserve of the drawing room and which, in her case with her husband, persisted so very rarely into her bedchamber.

She'd been married at seventeen during her first season. There'd been no flirtatious encounters with potential suitors beforehand. Humphrey had proposed and that had been that. He'd been handsome and charming and he'd easily won her heart. During their six-week bridal tour in Cornwall he'd visited her once a week, performed the marriage act efficiently and in silence, and while her heart had reached out to him her body had been left cold by the experience. He'd not touched, kissed or caressed her. Ever.

Only as she grew older did she realize there was more to the act itself. Other women occasionally offered some oblique reference to what went on in the bedroom which sometimes caused others in company might blush or titter. Sybil had no idea what they were talking about although they reinforced the suspicion that this "something more"

she craved from Humphrey was a physical manifestation of the affection a loving husband had for his wife.

It took her many years to resign herself to the fact that Humphrey felt no physical attraction toward her and that as it would not be forthcoming from her husband she'd have to live without it.

Now, when she'd made her suggestion to Stephen on the wildest of impulses, she'd been determined to treat it in the same manner Humphrey had gone about his bedroom encounters. It was the end result that was important, not the process and she was just a foolish old woman if she thought it could be otherwise.

Yet slowly, with the sweep of Stephen's hands over sensitive places, a well-placed kiss, and yes, Stephen's increasingly believable show of genuine pleasure in her body, Sybil was finally losing her reserve.

In the shadows of her bedroom, as Stephen's hand skimmed the line of her body from breast to hip, she allowed herself a tiny sigh of pleasure.

"My first victory,"

he murmured against her lips, contouring her bottom and squeezing her against him. Against his jutting erection.

She jerked back as if stung but he just laughed and pulled her over, closer against him, whispering, "Desire is nothing to be afraid of, Sybil. Don't you feel it too?"

And she did. In every nerve ending, in every secret place where pleasure had lain dormant her body was reveling in the slow but steady re-emergence of new life. It fed into her veins, sending out signals to her brain to relax, just relax and enjoy what this handsome young man was offering her, which was so much more than she'd asked for.

They hadn't made it under the covers. Sybil had planned for all the mechanics to take place in darkness and under the sheets; so when he reached down and grasped the hem of her chemise, she gasped. He raised his arm, tugging the light linen shift with it, exposing her knees.

"Please don't,"

she begged. "I don't want you to see me."

As an older woman she at least knew how to articulate her preferences once matters had been set in motion. She remembered that as a new bride she'd been mute with the terror of it all: the quick fumbling, Humphrey's knee between her legs and the sharp thrust of his manhood into her unprepared entrance. Each time, she'd had to brace herself for the cruel irony of receiving him in this most intimate manner, knowing how much he resented her for requiring him under the terms of their marriage contract to perform.

A more congenial familiarity with one another had only been established after George had been born some years into their marriage. With the required heir, thankfully in robust health, finally installed in the nursery, Humphrey had fulfilled his dynastic requirements and no longer had to force himself to perform the despised act with Sybil.

"I've already seen you,"

Stephen argued as he gently tugged her chemise up past her thighs. His face gleamed. She saw that he meant what he said. "You're beautiful. That's why I want a closer look. Now assist me, please. Raise your arms."

And lie before him, naked? With the candle guttering behind her?

Resigned, she closed her eyes, her own desire fast evaporating. What she had to offer could not stand up to scrutiny. Humphrey had made his offer on the barest acquaintance and look how disappointed he'd been when forced to become intimate.

She was not prepared for Stephen's enthusiasm. "Oh, you are delectable, Lady Partington,"

he sighed, cutting short his praise with an almost boyish gorging upon her right breast.

"What are you doing?"

she squeaked.

Breasts were not for suckling by grown men. Surely this was not…right. Yet with his warm mouth closed over her nipple, desire was suddenly in the ascendant. It swamped her, embarrassed her with the flow of moisture between her legs and she shifted awkwardly, remembering that she'd felt like this once before and that it had embarrassed her then, this manifestation of her own prurience, for respectable women didn't lose control of their bodily juices.

As she glanced down she intercepted the wicked look in his eye. She realized that he'd assumed control. He'd not stop and explain every clever trick.

It was then she decided to throw self-control to the wind. He was clearly enjoying himself, so why shouldn't she? Within reason. She could do this. Enjoy herself, for it was the letting go that was so hard. She must simply close her eyes and give herself up to physical abandonment, let him dictate the pace and procedure. He knew what he was doing. He was the expert and neither was expecting each other's hearts. She ought to be used to the sexual act when no deep emotion was involved.

And yet the sensations that ravaged her almost virgin-like body when his hot, devouring mouth licked and suckled, and when he skimmed his hand up her thighs, were devastating.

She tried not to waste her breath gasping with embarrassment or objecting when his thumb and forefinger found the juncture between her legs and began to massage that damp, highly sensitized and most intimate of places. This was obviously what he meant by giving and receiving pleasure. He certainly seemed to enjoy her responses when she squirmed and moaned softly.

"Now I have you where I want you, Lady Partington. Completely naked and completely mine."

The devilish glint in his eye was gratifying in the extreme, as was the enormous length of his shaft when he finally divested himself of his clothes and once more caged her with his lean, handsome body.

This was male perfection like she'd not witnessed at close quarters. Ever.

She even found herself grinning back. An extreme paradox, for she was the last person she'd ever imagine participating in such wickedness—and enjoying it so much.

"Your wish is my command."

His lips grazed her neck, his hand toying with her nipple, leaving her with an empty, deeply unsatisfied feeling in her lower belly when it fell away to stroke her belly.

When she hitched her hips he gave a low chuckle of understanding but growled, "Not yet, my beauty. There is a great deal more pleasure to be had before I do the business, if I might speak so plainly."

Sybil was glad the bedcovers had already been turned back by her maid, for when without warning he slid down the bed and ran his tongue the length of her entrance, she shrieked with horror and drew the covers over the sight. This was not right.

And yet the wicked sensations were like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

"Mama…"

Heady desire turned instantly to horror at the sound of Araminta's voice, filtering in through the doorway with the light of the candle she held. Sybil froze and held her breath as she silently demanded her breathing become more regular.

Araminta. She'd never thought…

Araminta placed her candle onto her mother's dressing table at the far end of the room and lowered herself onto the stool.

"You didn't knock!"

It was all Sybil could say. Thank God Stephen was beneath the covers, albeit also between her legs.

The heavy carved post of the bed and three yards of floor space diluted visuals. Fortunately, Araminta didn't seem particularly concerned about her mother, who knew that her complete nakedness, including lack of nightcap, and disordered hair, might ring alarm bells. That is, if Araminta were not so self-absorbed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't hear,"

Araminta excused herself. With a sigh she added, "Oh Mama, I do so want to marry Stephen."

"What!"

It was a croak at best. Sybil registered Stephen's horror too, somewhere in the darkness beneath the bed covers and yes, between Araminta's own mother's legs.

"Yet how can I, now that Edgar has returned and is heir? Stephen is handsome and charming and he makes my heart beat faster and I know he is madly in love with me."

She gave another gusty sigh. "But with Edgar alive, Stephen has nothing. Does he, Mama?"

She spoke as if desperate for her mother to refute it.

"I…I don't know very much about Stephen's situation, my dear."

Sybil shifted, careful to keep the sheet up around her neck—and not to smother Stephen. Lord, she'd never felt so desperately cornered. "Araminta, it's very late. Perhaps we should have this talk in the morning."

"Mama, what do you think about Stephen?"

Araminta clearly considered her mother's desire to talk in the morning of no account.

"What do I think of him?"

It was all Sybil could do just to repeat the sentence. She didn't know if she could possibly answer it in such a situation.

"Yes, what do you really think about him? Do you think he's handsome?"

"Yes, he's very handsome, Araminta, but?—"

"And do you think he'd make a good husband?"

Sybil swallowed. "I think he's a very kind man. I didn't think that at first. I thought he was young and callow and very much like so many other young blades who like to sow their wild oats and behave badly."

"So you don't think he's the kind of young man to sow his wild oats and behave badly? I think I know what you mean."

Sow his wild oats? Isn't that what he was doing right now? At Sybil's behest? Right here in Sybil's bedchamber? Oh Lord, she had to get Araminta out of here.

"I think Stephen understands matters more than you think, Araminta. He knows you won't—can't—marry him now that Edgar has returned."

"Do you think he will forgive me?"

Araminta sniffed. "After all, I've broken his heart, Mama. He barely caught my eye this afternoon and I was all but begging him to understand that we must be forever rent asunder by the tragedy of this altered situation."

"The tragedy being that Edgar survived that bullet after all."

Sybil's tone was dry. She was fast losing patience.

Of course, Araminta had never understood irony. Now she said, dolefully, "I daresay Edgar's the only one who's really pleased about the situation but the rest of us must make the best of it. I tried to explain that to Hetty but she refused to speak to me. She's being awfully churlish. Please will you talk to her, Mama, and tell her not to be so selfish?"

A muffled, choking noise emanated from beneath the covers. Araminta looked up, her brow wrinkled, and Sybil coughed violently. "It's late, Araminta, and I was in a deep sleep. We can take a stroll in the morning and talk about it then, if you like."

Araminta rose with obvious reluctance. "I've promised to meet Edgar for a walk around the park in the morning."

She narrowed her eyes at her mother. "It looks like you've had a nightmare, Mama. Your eyes are quite wild and your face is all flushed. You really look quite gruesome. Shall I wake Mary and have her make you up a cordial?"

"No, Araminta!"

Araminta shrugged. "Just as well, I daresay. Mary gets quite crotchety when she's disturbed in the middle of the night."

She picked up her candlestick and moved to the door. "Good night, Mama," she said.

"Good night, Araminta."

The moment the door closed behind her, Stephen's head emerged. Sybil put her hands to her flaming cheeks. So she looked gruesome? And poor Stephen had been stuck under the covers in close quarters with her nether regions for nigh on five minutes. He'd not be able to get away fast enough.

"Oh Lord, Sybil, she's a minx sent to try you."

He drew in a deep lungful of air, gasping between laughter. "And this has only confirmed what a lucky escape I've had."

He collapsed on his back beside Sybil and rested his hand companionably on her stomach. "You handled that consummately."

He rolled over onto his side. "And now that I'm quite confident she won't return, I think it's time to proceed. Where were we?"

Sybil hadn't thought she could possibly return to the intimacy that preceded Araminta's visit. She'd not thought Stephen would have the stomach for it either. Didn't it reinforce what pure folly it was?

Stephen, however, seemed to regard the disturbance as hilarious and even more so when Sybil began to rise, feeling hot and flushed and increasingly distressed. At first he didn't notice but as she reached for her shawl, he leapt after her and grasped her by the shoulders.

The shawl slithered to the floor. Her heart followed. Araminta's criticism had cut deep.

"What's wrong?"

He wasn't laughing now. He really didn't know and yet he really wanted to know.

She glanced away from his hard, young body, gleaming and desirable in the candlelight. He was unaware of his magnificence.

"I hardly imagine you'd want to continue this farce with a gruesome-looking old hag like myself with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. You don't strike me as that charitable, Stephen."

"Good Lord, that little piece knows where to strike, doesn't she? You mean you really believed her?"

I'm not going to snivel, thought Sybil, clenching her fists and tensing as he wrapped his arms about her and held her tight.

After a moment he put her away from him, tipping up her chin with his forefinger so that he could observe her better. Slowly he traced the outline of her lips. Sensation roared through her and she closed her eyes.

"That's better,"

he murmured, scooping her up once more and depositing her on the bed. "You're beautiful and I intend to make sure you know it before tonight is over. Now, make room for me. Ah, that's right."

Gently he eased her thighs apart. She felt the probing tip of his member and suddenly she was very afraid.

Soon he'd fill her with himself but the sheathing would change her in ways she could never have imagined. She foresaw this and stiffened with the knowledge of how much her actions ran counter to the natural order of things.

And yet did they?

Stephen was looking down at her. In the depths of his eyes she saw the effort his self-restraint cost him, followed by the curve of his smile as he whispered, suddenly relaxing beside her, "I think we're going just a little too quickly, Lady Partington. This one's for you."

Then his clever, deft fingers were coaxing her into sensations she'd never experienced, filling her mind with soaring hopes and her body with rapture as he stroked the slick nub of her desire.

Heat prickled the back of her neck and her scalp, sensation journeyed to her nerve endings and she closed her eyes against the kaleidoscope of color that filled her vision.

His words were soothing and tender as he softly encouraged her to do nothing more than enjoy what he could do for her.

What no one had ever done for her.

She swallowed and drew in a staccato breath as the tension rose within her, both terrifying and exhilarating and hitherto completely unknown.

Stephen kissed her—on her lips, nose, eyelids and brow—as his sensitive fingers continued to stimulate her. When she opened her eyes briefly his smile was warm before he touched his lips to hers, tracing the seam with the tip of his tongue. With a shuddering sigh she surrendered to the next wave of pleasure that engulfed her. Her body had been taken to a higher plane, dragging her mind with it, and awareness coalesced as, with mind and body finally as one, she prepared for the inevitable launch into the abyss.

"Surrender to it."

The warmth of Stephen's breath seeped through her, giving her courage and permission to do just that and her body moaned its delight as it opened itself up to the first man who'd ever wanted to give it pleasure.

As she lay gasping in the aftermath, cradled against Stephen's warm, hard body, she realized that he truly had meant what he said. This had all been for her.

She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her. "I can send you on another journey like that one, Lady Partington,"

he whispered, playing with her nipple, sending messages directly to her groin. "And this time go along for the ride, but if you want to change your mind, I must remind you it's your last chance. If you beget a child you'll have your husband to answer to and your actions will change the course of the succession. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that? I'm in it for the pleasure only, Lady Partington. I've got nothing to lose."

She swallowed, wriggled a little against his straining member and in that faintest of movement sealed the fates of all of them.

Stephen chuckled and got down to business. She was all soft curves, a disarming mixture of naivety and wisdom. She knew so much more of the world than he, of the disappointments and the cruelties people inflicted on one another, yet he could show her how much pure lust and unadulterated enthusiasm could go towards salving those wounds.

In mere weeks he'd be back to wooing innocent virgins with handsome dowries.

Twined in the arms of sweet Lady Partington was novelty like he'd not known. Pure, unadulterated fun—or rather pure adultery, he supposed—like he'd not expected when he'd responded to her extraordinary proposition.

Once she'd cast aside her inhibitions and accepted responsibility for her actions she burst out of her chrysalis with the abandon of a butterfly joyfully taking flight.

Oh, he was going to enjoy taking her on the flight of her life.

Every thrust brought an increase in the breathiness of her response, the breadth of her smile, the unequivocal enjoyment she took in accepting all of him. He was not used to such unfettered delight. The gratification alone spurred him on.

He loved the way her breasts quivered and her cheeks went pink. Her glorious hair was spread out over her pillow like a shawl of the finest fiber and her skin was surprisingly soft and satiny. It was as if her enforced all-but-virginity had preserved her in some odd way. And yet as he rolled her nipple on his tongue and again massaged the slick nub of her sex, he seemed to be bringing her to life from the inside. Her eyes grew brighter and her translucent skin flushed to a deep, rich glow. He thought he'd never seen a more beautiful woman and his desire, which had been borne of pleasure alone, took on a new dimension.

This was not going to be the last time he made love to sweet, adorable, luscious Lady Partington.