Last Rake Standing Page 8

  “I suppose your wife isn’t allowed to care,” she added, determined to make him feel some guilt.

  He shot her a narrow-eyed look.

  “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to impress me,” she continued. “Especially when I haven’t even agreed to your terms yet. Do you think I’ll be worth it?”

  The waiter almost over-filled her crystal flute, and Marcus gestured at him to leave the bottle. “I don’t know, yet, if you’ll be worth it, Miss O’Neil. May I answer that question later?” He tucked his tongue in his cheek, his gaze meandering over her bare shoulders.

  It was much too warm in the little room with its velvet-clad walls. Under the table, she slipped off her shoe and raised her foot to caress his leg.

  He shifted in his chair. “About these terms of mine.”

  “Hmmm?” Leaning back, she sipped her champagne.

  “Perhaps you should tell me what they are?”

  She watched his lips while her toes caressed his knee and then reached along his inner thigh. “Me tell you? Don’t you know what they are?”

  A light consommé was set before them, but she was no longer very hungry.

  “I’ve never done this before,” he explained. “I really don’t know what we’re doing here and I haven’t the slightest idea what to do next.”

  “Never done this before?” A small, unladylike snort escaped with the last uplifted word.

  “Never,” he insisted, his eyes dark, face somber.

  “You’ve had women.”

  “Not officially. Not for long. Not with any sort of agreement of exclusivity.”

  She felt her mouth open, ready to argue. But the words wouldn’t come. He was telling her the truth. She knew it. He’d picked up his spoon and it rattled nervously against the edge of the china dish. There she was expecting the Duke of Penhale to be an old hand at these negotiations, and he was apparently a novice. It was strangely pleasing to find him so much adrift.

  “However, I’m more than happy to go along with whatever you want,” he added. “I find you extremely desirable and I want you all to myself. Beyond that, you can make your own terms.”

  She closed her lips, once again losing her train of thought. His eyes were clear and cerulean, concealing nothing. Didn’t he know that a man should never let a woman see how much he desired her? No man, or woman, should ever lay all his cards face up on the table, but he did so for her. He was lucky Le Petit Oiseau was not a spiteful, mercenary creature, or she’d take him for every penny.

  He asked for too much and offered too much. One should never give all of oneself to another. It only ended in tragedy and a great deal of pain.

  “I’m quite certain I’d never be able to refuse you anything, my darling,” he added, “in bloomers or out of them.”

  * * * *

  Marcus couldn’t quite make out what went on in her head. He knew he’d shocked her somehow, although he couldn’t imagine what he’d said that would shock this woman.

  He signaled to the waiter, conferring on the choice of wine to be served with the next course. She declared herself content with the champagne, but it was too sweet for him. She ate like a bird, he noted. Her waist was tiny, a mere hands span in width, as was fashionable and, in his opinion, not healthy at all. She needed her corset loosening. He imagined his fingers pulling on silk laces, ridding her of the rigid item, freeing her breasts from the cruel constraint. Letting them spill into his hands. He could imagine feeling the hot satin of her skin. Mentally, he traced the lush curves with his fingers, found the rubies at their center and rolled his palms over them as he pulled her back into his embrace. The image was so real, he smelled the perfume of her hair, felt the soft warmth of her shoulder against his heart, her rounded bottom against his thigh.

  His knee bounced, hitting the underside of the table.

  Her toes had finally reached their goal between his thighs.

  “You live up to your devilish sobriquet, your grace,” she whispered.

  “I can assure you, it’s purely accidental,” he managed gruffly. “I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.” It was true. He had a tendency to fall over women, or stumble into them, but it was seldom planned.

  When she laughed, he felt it vibrate through her foot. He quickly slid one hand under the cloth and grabbed her ankle, before she succeeded in making him spill too early in the evening.

  “I think you know exactly what you do, your grace,” she purred.

  He watched her toying with the stem of her glass, her fingers restless. “Oh?”

  “I pity your poor wife.”

  “You do? Why?”

  She retrieved her foot. “Because she’ll be expected to put up with a philandering husband, who’ll never be content with one woman.”

  “Oh, I think two should be enough. One wife and one mistress. What more could I need?”

  Her eyes simmered, her fingertips tapped along the tablecloth.

  “Preferably,” he added, lowering his voice, “in the same bed, at the same time.”

  That stopped her fidgeting. An irritable flush worked its way up her slender neck.

  “What’s the matter?” he inquired politely, blinking. “Surely you’re not prudish? My wife believes the more the merrier, but, personally, I think three in a bed is the limit. One does have to consider the logistics and, of course, there are a limited number of hours in the night. Some of them have to be reserved for sleep.”

  * * * *

  Emma drank a full glass of champagne without pausing while he looked on, faint amusement playing over his countenance. “Are you always so brutally straightforward?”

  “I find it saves the embarrassment of any misunderstanding.” He dabbed his lips on a napkin. “Now, will you please open your present?”

  With a sigh that moved her entire, over-heated body, she grabbed the package and ripped it apart.

  “It should fit,” he said, breaking the heart-stilled silence. “I believe I have your measurements down by now.”

  It was a new coat, exquisitely made, all the buttons neatly sewn on and in their proper place. Must have cost him a small fortune to have it constructed in so short a time. She stared for a moment, wide-eyed, trying to understand why he would give Holly O’Neil a new coat.

  “I wanted to give you something useful this time, since you disdain fine jewelry.” He paused and their eyes met above the flickering candles. “Emma.”

  It was a good thing she was sitting down. The room spun around her like a diorama. “You knew?”

  His lips parted in a slow, winding smile. “Of course I knew. Why else do you think I agreed to your stringent marriage terms? I wouldn’t go fifty-fifty with anyone else.”

  From the moment they sat down, he’d pestered her to unwrap her present, like an over-excited little boy on Christmas morning. He’d known who she was from the very beginning and played along to amuse himself. Damn it!

  Laughter soared through her belly, up into her throat, ready to escape on little wings.

  With trembling fingers, she opened her little beaded purse. “I suppose you want your handkerchief back, then. Lucette washed and ironed it.”

  “Ah. Thank you.”

  Her plans were all thrown asunder. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It had been her intention to surprise him with his handkerchief when she revealed her identity. But he’d surprised her first.

  She should have been angry, but she wasn’t. She didn’t know what she was at that moment. Eventually, the room settled and her sight cleared. Across the candles, she studied his strong features, stern brow, and resolute chin. “When did you realize that Emma Hale and Holly O’Neil were one and the same?”

  “The first time I saw you perform in Paris.”

  Stunned, she watched as he poured her another glass of champagne.

  “I’m a heavy investor in the theatre,” he explained, lifting one shoulder in a loose shrug. “Who do you think insisted on offering the contract to bring Le Petit Oise
au home? She cost me an arm and a leg.” He set down the bottle and smiled. “But I had to have her back in England somehow, didn’t I, if I was ever going to persuade her to marry me?”

  She stroked the beautiful coat, still not quite believing all this. Her heart was beating too fast. “Do you always get what you want, Penhale?”

  He tilted his head to the side. “That’s up to you. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I tried, but no one else suited me. I knew it twelve years ago, when you fired that bullet at me. Good God, I’d never seen anything like you.”

  “The feeling,” she arched an eyebrow, “was mutual.”

  “Had you stood still, woman, instead of running off, you could have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”

  She tried to straighten it all in her head, put everything in order. “You knew you wanted to marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want Le Petit Oiseau for your mistress?”

  “Perhaps I want both.” He smiled warmly. “I’m completely smitten with my mistress, but I think I’m in love with my wife. I really cannot choose between them.”

  Emma swallowed another glass of champagne, shot back with a distinct lack of ladylike aplomb. The man was outrageous, and she still couldn’t decide if his charm was calculated or unconscious, as he claimed. Suddenly, she was extremely restless in that small, gilded chair, pressing her thighs together, wishing her corset wasn’t laced quite so tightly.

  “Since you can’t choose between us, your grace,” she chirped, “you’d best keep us both happy. Think you’re up to it, toff?”

  “We’d best find out.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Let’s go home, little bird,” he whispered huskily. “To bed.”

  “A bed? Now won’t that be a novelty?” Then she pouted. “But what about dessert?”

  “Is there time for that? You can barely sit still.”

  “That’s not because…” She felt her face growing hot. “I’m just restless tonight.” Grabbing a napkin, she fanned herself. “It’s hot in here.” She took a deep breath, or as deep a breath as her corset would allow. “Very well, then. Let’s go. If you insist.”

  “Not because you can’t wait?” His eyes gleamed wickedly above the candles.

  “Oh, I can wait. If you can.” Still certain that she ought to take umbrage at the trick he’d played on her, she tried her best to be aloof.

  Marcus leaned back in his chair and signaled for the waiter to remove his plate. A slow, indolent smile curved his lips. “We’ll have dessert, then. I wouldn’t want to be accused of rushing you into bed.”

  The waiter returned with crème brulee and she was soon preoccupied with her dessert.

  “By the way,” he muttered softly, “I can see through that gown.”

  Eyes closed, she licked her spoon slowly and heard his knee hit the underside of the table again.

  “Ummm?” She looked up. “What did you say, your grace?”

  He swallowed, fidgeted with his napkin. “I can see through that gown.” It oozed out of him, little more than a low growl. His eyes were the satiny blue of a summer night’s sky as they carefully traversed the width of her bare shoulders. She could feel his admiration absorbing her, curve by curve, moving down to her décolletage, prying through the froth of gauzy chiffon that was so artfully placed to reveal and yet conceal. Suddenly, her nipples ached, hardened merely by his words and the wandering caress of his potent, liquid gaze across the exposed portion of her bosom.

  She licked her lips. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Silly?” His eyebrows flew skyward, his nostrils flared.

  * * * *

  Watching her lick the spoon with such dedication, he grew increasingly aroused and was now uncomfortably hard. He had never felt possessive about anything or anyone in his life, because most of what was now called his truly belonged, in his mind, to his dead brother. It came to him by default and he was, every day, in many small ways, obliquely reminded of it. This woman, however, roused new emotions, selfish, intemperate, and covetous.

  “Making a meal of that, aren’t you?” he demanded, suspecting her of deliberately lingering over it just to tease him.

  “One should never rush one’s food, or you’ll get indigestion,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “Did your nanny never warn you?”

  “I never listen to warnings.” He let the tip of his tongue caress his lower lip. “Neither, I suspect, do you.” As she reached for her glass, he caught her hand, wrapping his fingers hard around her wrist. “Your pulse is racing. Are you ready for that wedding night you promised me now?”

  * * * *

  She tried to take a breath, but found it virtually impossible now that his skin contacted with hers. The tightening that began in those small, sensitive peaks under her bodice traveled down to her constricted belly and then lower. It moved deep inside, where she braced, ready to draw him in and hold him there, her body all too eager, getting ahead of itself, regardless of her mind’s protest. Her mouth was dry. Other parts of her were not.

  “If we don’t get out of here in a few minutes, I’ll be paying the wait staff a small fortune to turn a blind eye.” His voice was hoarse, his rapt attention on her bosom.

  To Emma’s dismay, with just the intensity of his hard gaze, he conjured a reckless quickening of her blood. It was an inequitable talent. “I can see your nipples,” he breathed low, barely loud enough to be heard.

  She looked down, aghast. “You certainly cannot.” It was a low-cut bodice, but not that revealing. The chiffon hid the upper swell of her bosom, or was supposed to. Whatever he claimed, her nipples were not on display.

  “They are aroused, are they not? One might almost describe them as malapert.”

  When she looked up again, his lips were damp, his tongue just withdrawn from another sly lick. She was inflamed. His amorous, blue, unblinking perusal did nothing to put out the fire.

  “I can see them,” he said firmly. “I can feel them on my tongue and I can even taste them.”

  Wanton heat flooded into her body, filling her and thrilling her.

  “You’re so primed, Emma, I could make you come with words alone.”

  A small sigh floated out of her before she could prevent it. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”

  “Is that a gauntlet thrown down?”

  “Don’t,” she snapped, afraid he would feel her pulse speed yet again as he squeezed her wrist. “People will see.”

  He moved in his chair, fidgeting as if his thighs were too big and his legs too long to fit under the table. “I don’t think this is something we can prevent. It’s already begun.” His fingers loosened around her wrist and then he ran his thumb along her pulse, following the most prominent vein. “I can feel myself inside you. You’re throbbing around me, driving me on, pulling me in.”

  “Stop.”

  “No. Never. I’m all the way in now. All the way.”

  She shivered, impulsively clenching her thighs together once more, suffering the first tremors of an unmistakable, deep quake. An unusually strong one. She held it back, biting her lip, her eyelashes fluttering shut.

  “Can you feel me there? I’m so far inside, so hot. You should be able to taste me. Can you?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Wait for me. I’ll be coming soon. Don’t go anywhere without me.” He released her wrist, leaving her at the edge of a precipice. Her eyes flew open. His countenance gave nothing away and now he looked for the waiter over his shoulder. While he was distracted, she exhaled a quick series of shattered breaths and fanned her face with the napkin, waiting for the sensations to die down, scrambling desperately back from the edge.

  The man they called devilish lived up to his name.

  “All right,” she gasped, “you win. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I’m afraid Gudgeon hasn’t had much time to prepare for a Duchess in residence.” He opened a door and showed her into a pretty
bedroom.

  Emma tried not to appear impressed, but it certainly looked as if a great deal of trouble had been taken for her. Perhaps the Duke of Penhale was accustomed to people running around for him, she wasn’t and didn’t think she ever would be.

  The largest furniture in the room was a bed, surrounded by heavy brocade drapes. A delicate mahogany dressing table stood to one side, a full length mirror to the other. In one corner there was a washstand with a willow pattern jug and basin, and a burgundy velvet chaise completed the room.

  Lucette was already there, unpacking luggage and looking smug.

  “That,” he pointed, “leads to my room.” And then he lowered his voice. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  She watched him stride through the door and then, finally, she pulled herself together enough to sit on the bed, kicking off her shoes. “Lucette, how on earth did you get here?”

  “Monsieur Le Duc arranged a carriage to bring me with your things.” She handed her mistress a silk and lace nightgown. “You will need this tonight, mademoiselle…” she paused, “…madam.”

  Struggling to undress, Emma was suddenly all fingers and thumbs. Even with the maid’s help, it took twice as long. The anticipation of her wedding night was something she wouldn’t have imagined twenty-four hours ago. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous that she should feel so nervous. She was about to make love to a man who was no mystery to her; they’d barely kept their hands off one another since he first appeared in her dressing room. What should be different about tonight?

  “Where is the wig, madam?” Lucette inquired.

  Emma raised a hand to her hair and felt the softly tousled curls falling haphazardly over her fingers. “Oh, I must have left it in the carriage. Make certain you get it in the morning.”

  “Oui, madam.”

  She slid her arms into the nightgown and the softness fell around her, over the goose-bumps that he’d, yet again, left on her skin with his kisses.