Waking Up With a Rake Page 8

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “So sure about so many things, aren’t you?” The fact that he suspected she was in danger should have made this little interview deadly serious, but he was enjoying the view too much. Backlit by the fire, her otherwise chaste nightrail and wrapper were nearly transparent. The shadowy silhouettes of her legs were easy to make out. “And only this morning you were certain you’d never call me Rhys in public. Whether you like it or not, you owe me a favor.”

  “Not this one. You are not staying.”

  He stood and walked toward her. “Shall it be noised about that the daughter of Horatio Symon is a welcher?”

  “Shall it be noised about that Lord Rhys Warrington is a cad? Oh, wait, it already is. I was simply foolish enough to give you the benefit of the doubt.” She backtracked a few steps, then held her ground in a defensible position next to the pair of chintz-covered wing chairs by the fire. “Don’t you care what people think of you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Or what they think of me, evidently.”

  “Nonsense. Unless you insist on talking too loudly, no one will know I’m spending my nights here.”

  She made a disgruntled little sound in the back of her throat as she plopped into one of the chairs. “I’ll know and—what do you mean by nights?”

  “‘When the plain sense makes sense, seek no other sense,’ my old tutor used to say,” Rhys said, settling his hands on the arms of her chair and leaning toward her. She pressed herself into the tufted back, but the way her breath hitched told him she was excited by his nearness. “I mean just what I said. Nights as in plural, as in more than one, as in for as long as I remain a guest here at Barrowdell. That’s the favor you owe me and that’s what I’ll have. These chairs seem quite comfy. If you don’t care to share the bed, we might push them together so you could sit in one and prop your feet on the other.”

  “No, I don’t care to share my bed, and I will not sleep on a chair in my own room either.” She pressed her palms against his chest and shoved. “Rhys, you’re not staying. How can I convince you of that? I ought not to have allowed you through the door.”

  “Why did you then?” He straightened to his full height but wouldn’t move away so she could escape him.

  “Because someone…because you…because…oh, hang it all! I don’t know.” The way she rubbed her forehead made him think she hadn’t been pretending when she pleaded a headache at supper. “You are, without doubt, the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  She shot him an evil glare. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

  “Anytime one is designated ‘the most anything,’ it indicates a certain level of accomplishment beyond the common. That raises your comment to the ranks of a compliment, don’t you think?”

  The glare dissolved and was replaced by such a look of entreaty that his chest ached with guilt over the discomfort he was causing her.

  “Oh, Rhys, please go away.”

  “I can’t.” He’d hoped to protect her without having to tell her that she needed protection. It was time to fall back on the truth. It was supposed to set one free, he’d heard. Rhys sat in the opposite chair and leaned forward. “Tell me. When you went back to the stable today, did Mr. Thatcher show you Molly’s saddle?”

  “No, he didn’t,” she said wearily. “He’d already sent it to the saddler to be repaired.”

  “Just my luck. You have a servant who’s the soul of discretion.”

  “Why are you trying to change the subject?” She stood, determination radiating from her slight frame. “You’re not staying, so we don’t need to talk about Molly’s saddle or the quality of our servants or anything else, because…you’re not staying.”

  “You’ve said that once or twice already.”

  “Yes, well, I meant it every time.”

  “I can see that you do,” he said. “And usually when a lady tells me no—and believe me, I can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened—I don’t argue. I bid the lady adieu and there’s the end of it. But unfortunately, this time I can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Do I need to scream to convince you I sincerely don’t want you here?”

  “That would certainly convince me of your sincerity, but you don’t want to do that,” he said. “Fair or not, if the two of us are found alone in your bedchamber, it would undoubtedly enhance my reputation. However, it would do no favors to your good name.”

  Her look of loathing made him cringe inside, but he was careful to give no outward sign of it.

  “You are despicable,” she said.

  “More than you know,” he admitted. “But I have good reason for my boorish behavior this time. You see, your accident today was no accident.”

  She sank back into the wing chair, wind spilling from her sails. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Molly’s saddle was deliberately tampered with.” He described what he’d discovered. She listened with far more calm than most debutants would if they’d been told someone meant them harm. Certainly more calm than he’d have been greeted with if he’d gone to her mother with the story.

  “So, you see, until we learn why someone wishes you ill, I’ll rest better if I know you’re secure,” he said. “If this person was bold enough to sneak into the stable and alter your saddle, they may be bold enough to slip into your chamber as well. That’s why I want to spend my nights here. Let me stay to keep you safe.”

  She stood and paced before the fireplace, arms wrapped around herself. “It makes no sense. Why would anyone want to harm me?”

  “You have captured the attention of the Duke of Clarence,” Rhys said. “Royal favor sometimes comes with unintended consequences.”

  Mr. Alcock might not be the only one who wanted to see the match between the duke and Miss Symon fail. Someone else may have decided the best way to go about it was to remove the potential bride for good. It was a bloodthirsty scenario, but the scheme of seducing her was at least as underhanded. In both cases, the results would be lasting.

  Rhys stomped down his guilt. He was trying to protect her. That ought to count for something. For the moment, at least, he was on the side of the angels.

  The guests in residence at Barrowdell didn’t seem the sort to be swept up in political intrigue. But in the shadowy realm of royal machinations, that only made it more likely Rhys’s supposition was right.

  After all, who would guess the duke’s emissary was also trying to sabotage the match?

  Or was there another unrelated reason Olivia Symon had fallen afoul of someone who would go to great lengths to harm her?

  “So you want to spend the nights with me simply to keep me safe.” She cast him a wry smile. “That has to be a first for you.”

  He shrugged. “You have the right of it. My motives are pure for once. I am here to protect you.”

  She cocked her head at him, as if weighing his words for veracity. “You certainly kept me safe this morning. In the confusion and with Molly’s injury and all, I’m not sure I even thanked you properly.”

  “Thank me now by letting me stay.”

  She sighed. “Very well. If I can’t trust the man who pulled me from the ‘jaws of death’”—she crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and gave a quick imitation of her mother’s histrionics at the dinner table, collapsing back into her chair in a fake swoon—“whom can I trust?”

  Rhys swallowed back a laugh but grinned so widely his cheeks hurt.

  Then her expression sobered. “Thank you, Rhys. Truly.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “However, most people would not consider having a rake in my boudoir the least conducive to my safety.”

  She had him there. Perhaps he’d been wrong to be so honest with her. Then he noticed she bunched her wrapper tightly in her fists, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil. She’d just learned someone had tried to do her harm, yet she wasn’t disso
lving into a frantic puddle.

  His respect for her ticked up several notches. Rhys reached across the space between them and took one of her hands between his. Despite the warmth emanating from the banked fire, her skin was icy.

  “I give you my word, Olivia. Nothing will pass between us that you don’t wish as well.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to it. He detected a slight tremble in her fingers. The softness of her skin made him ache to do more, but if he was going to win back her trust, he needed to be on his best behavior. “On my honor as a dissolute libertine, I so swear.”

  She laughed, covering her mouth with her other hand to muffle the sound.

  “I like hearing you laugh.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the back of the hand that he still held. “You ought to do it more often.”

  “Not recommended when there’s a man in my chambers, I expect.” To his surprise, she smiled and actually squeezed his fingertips.

  “Quite right. In this situation, there are better things to do.”

  “No doubt.” She lifted a brow at him. “Those ‘better things’ are also not recommended for a young woman whose chief value is the possession of a maidenhead.”

  “No matter what else might happen this night,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers; the tremble he’d noticed earlier ceased, “I promise you’ll greet the dawn in the same state of purity you now enjoy. However, it’s your choice whether or not you become a knowledgeable virgin.”

  Wide-eyed, she gazed at him, as if she were trying to penetrate to the last wrinkle of his misshapen soul.

  She really ought to turn away.

  His profligate life of the past three years rose up to taunt him. The last thing he deserved was this delicate creature treating him as if he weren’t some sort of monster. She should raise the alarm, call out the peasants with pitchforks, and have him tossed off her father’s estate for good.

  Instead she did the last thing he expected.

  “If I were to decide to let you educate me,” she said with only a slight quaver in her voice, “what would the first lesson be?”

  Chapter 10

  His hot gaze sizzled over her.

  Dear God, please don’t let the man ask me to repeat myself. I doubt my voice will work.

  “Are you sure, Olivia?” he said, a hint of a smile playing around his firm lips. “Though knowledge is much to be desired, and believe me, this sort of learning is far more pleasurable than doing a row of sums, you can’t un-know something once you’ve learned it. You must be certain this is what you want before we begin.”

  By seeming to take away his offer to open the door to sensuality, he only made her want it more.

  “One lesson,” she whispered. “One only.”

  There. She’d said it. Just as there was no way to undo the kiss he’d given her that morning, there was no way for her to unsay the words.

  “Very well, if you’re sure,” he said. “Stand up and take off your wrapper.”

  She gasped. “My wrapper?”

  “If you’re going to repeat every directive before you do it, this will take a very long time.” He leaned back in the chair and hooked an ankle over his knee, like a pasha contemplating his latest concubine. “Come to think of it, these things shouldn’t be rushed. Whenever you’re ready, then. Unless, of course, you’ve lost your courage.”

  Thought her a nervous Nellie, did he? She’d show him courage. She stood, unbelted her wrapper, and quickly began to yank it off.

  “No, no, not as if you’re killing snakes. Take your time. These things are meant to be savored.” He stood and draped the garment back around her shoulders. “Close your eyes. Let it drift off one shoulder and down your arm. Just so. Now the other. Very good. Feel the texture of the fabric as it sloughs off.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her eyes scrunched tightly. “My nightrail has long sleeves. The wrapper isn’t actually touching me.”

  “If you can’t use your imagination, that’s easily remedied. Take off the nightrail too.”

  “What?” Her eyes flew open.

  “You wanted the first lesson. Here it is. Your body is beautiful and was designed to give you pleasure. You only need to focus, to revel in the sensations, and your body will do the rest.”

  She snorted. “In a pig’s eye.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t believe my body is beautiful, no.”

  “Then that is your first error and one we shall have to correct immediately. Come.” He took her hand, led her toward the long looking glass in the corner, and positioned her so she could see herself. “The light isn’t the best here, but it will serve. Now stand still.”

  Olivia watched his face in the mirror as he reached around and untied the bow at the neckline of her prim nightrail. He was utterly intent on her. If the focused expression on his face was any indication, he believed her body was beautiful.

  Or at least imagined it might be.

  He unbuttoned the line of seed pearls that marched down the front of the garment. A piece of her came undone along with each button. Then he parted the fabric with deliberate slowness, drawing his fingertips along her collarbones as he exposed more of her skin to view. Pleasure sparked in the wake of his touch.

  “You see? Smooth, silky, beautiful,” he murmured into her hair.

  Her breath ran shallow as he pushed the nightrail off one shoulder and let it slide down her arm. One breast was bared in the light of the fire, its tip a hardened nub. When she caught him looking at it in their shared reflection, her nipple actually throbbed.

  She pressed a palm against it to still the strange ache.

  “No, you don’t,” he said, gently moving her hand from her breast. “No hiding from yourself.”

  “But it…I…” She could find no words for what she was feeling. It had happened before when he kissed her, and now that dull throb between her legs returned. All he had to do was look at her and the low drumbeat started.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “What you’re feeling is perfectly natural.”

  “How could you know what I’m feeling?”

  “Because I’m feeling the same sorts of things, only from a male perspective,” he said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Every sensation is heightened, every touch potent with meaning.” He ran his palm from her shoulder down her arm to engulf her hand in his. The sleeve of her nightrail fell away so her ribs and the indentation of her waist on one side were visible in the looking glass. He reached around and cupped her exposed breast.

  Her breath hissed in over her teeth.

  “I love holding you like this,” he murmured and pressed a string of soft kisses to her nape. His hand was so warm, almost feverish on her skin. His thumb circled her nipple, making the ache even stronger.

  She leaned back, reveling in the hard maleness of him. She’d always thought of herself as all angles and elbows, but in comparison to him, she felt soft. Feminine. Even her small breast seemed perfectly large enough, cradled as it was in his sheltering palm.

  His kisses strayed to the side of her neck and up to her earlobe. He took the bit of flesh between his lips and sucked. All the air fled from her lungs in a whoosh. While he distracted her with that torrent of sensation, he pushed the nightrail off her other shoulder. The garment slid down and would have slipped past her hips to the floor if she hadn’t caught it and clutched it to her waist.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He straightened to his full height and eyed her reflection. The crown of her head fit neatly beneath his chin. “Showing you that you’re beautiful. All of you. Don’t you want to see that you are?”

  All of her. Surely he didn’t mean that.

  “I’ve heard that even some husbands and wives might not ever see each other in the altogether,” she said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but completely disrobing is not required in order to do the necessary, is it?”

  “Do the necessary? Why on earth would you make somet
hing so pleasurable sound like a chore? From whom have you been taking sexual advice?”

  Some of her information had come from giggled conversations with other girls who were likely as ignorant as she. Knowledge of the basic mechanics of the act came from her close association with horse breeding.

  Then there was Mrs. Noddlingham’s Practical Advice for Young Ladies of Quality, a book her mother had given her in lieu of actually talking to her about what passes between a man and a woman in the marriage bed. The book was light on specifics, but according to Mrs. Noddlingham, disrobing wasn’t actually required for taking a bath either.

  “A chaste girl might do very well to bathe in her shift,” Mrs. Noddlingham advised, “in order to avoid seeing her own body and thereby entertaining any lewd thoughts that unwholesome sight might engender.”

  The sight of her bare body in the mirror didn’t seem particularly unwholesome, and Olivia wouldn’t class any of her thoughts as lewd. She was more bewildered than anything else. Olivia wished now that she’d asked Babette about it. Surely one who’d been a lady’s maid for a courtesan would be a fount of sensual information.

  “It might surprise you to learn that I do know something about the subject,” she said, hoping to sound worldly while trying to ignore the way he continued to massage her breast. “Because, ah…” He gave her nipple a little flick and the shock of it resonated to her toes. “Er…you see, I’ve…I’ve read a bit about marital urges.”

  “Marital urges. Lord spare me. Something that could be called ‘doing the necessary’ with your clothes on is not my idea of how to satisfy any sort of urge, marital or otherwise.” He cupped her other breast as well. “There’s nothing about what you and I are doing that’s ‘necessary,’ but you can’t deny it’s fun.”

  He was right. It was fun. Her skin was glowing. Her insides were a riot of excitement. She’d never felt more alive.

  Or more guilty.

  “It’s also wicked.”

  He grinned at her. “That, my dear, is part of its charm.” Then the grin faded. “But the truth is you are still as pure as when we began this lesson, are you not?”

  “If you want to split hairs, I suppose—”