Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Read online

  His gaze searched hers before settling on her lips. “Just so. A fair exchange, no? I’ll forgive you for making me wait for my dinner, and you’ll forgive me for being an ignorant clod.”

  “I can think of many ways to describe you, but ‘ignorant clod’ would never be one of them,” she confessed before she could think better of her admission. It wouldn’t do, after all, to allow him too much power. To let him know how easily he affected her.

  “Oh?” His stare slid from her mouth, snapping back to her eyes with so much heat that her nipples tightened right there at the table with servants standing sentry and a table of china and cutlery and fine food between them. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  Gorgeous. Alluring. Arrogant. Mysterious. Sensual. Dangerous.

  She forced her mind to stop unleashing the torrent of possibilities upon her, none of which she would speak aloud. So many adjectives in the English language could be applied to the singular man before her. If her cheeks had been hot before, they were positively aflame now. The way he looked at her—such frank hunger and barely leashed civility—took her breath.

  She settled for a few with less damning connotations. “Distracting and occasionally vexing.”

  He laughed then, and it was pleasant and deep. His laughter filled her belly with warmth. She hadn’t heard it before, and she couldn’t shake the impression that he didn’t laugh often. Perhaps she could bring more levity into his world. His eyes crinkled, a heretofore unseen dimple making an appearance in his right cheek. Only the right. She wanted to kiss it.

  How silly, and yet her lips longed to learn that groove as much as her heart yearned to make him laugh again. To make him laugh often. Her life had been one of much misery and loneliness, forever trapped beneath someone else’s rule, forever forced to accede to the expectations of her father.

  Now, she was free, and she felt that newfound liberation in truth for the first time as she sat there with her uneaten salmon and the man she’d married in a whirlwind laughing across from her. Hope was a delicate, airy thing rising inside her like a hot air balloon.

  “I object to vexing,” he said at last, still grinning at her even after his mirth had subsided. A hint of that precious dimple lingered, bracketing his supple lips. “Distracting, however, I will happily own.”

  His tone was intimate and sincere. She swallowed, thinking it would be most unwise to fall in love with her husband on the second day of their marriage. “I suppose it depends on one’s definition of the term,” she said tartly to distract herself from how handsome he was and how easily he could woo her when he was charming. “Hangnails are also distracting. As are splinters and headaches.”

  He threw back his head and laughed again, the sound rich and uncontained. The dimple had returned in full force and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. “You may not be adept at silence, sweet, but you have a knack for a proper setdown.”

  She would never have dared to speak with such abandon before. Life under her father’s strict rule had taught her to hold her tongue and eradicate any hint of audacity or opinion. But she was not beneath her father’s thumb any longer, and she was beginning to appreciate that fact in new ways.

  She found herself smiling back at her too-handsome husband. “I was exercising logic, Your Grace. Make of it what you will.”

  He sobered, his gaze becoming intense, his expression one of unguarded hunger. “I believe we’ve finished with the fish course,” he announced to the servants without even glancing in their directions. “Bring the next in twenty minutes. Anyone who disturbs us before that time has passed shall be sacked without reference.” His gaze held hers, molten and hungry, rife with meaning.

  Daisy felt the full force of that look, beginning with a pulse of need between her thighs and radiating throughout her entire body. Her already hard nipples tightened even more, and she felt a sudden urgency to once again have his mouth upon her there. Sucking. Nipping, perhaps even.

  Good heavens. His stare was doing wicked things to her senses and mind both. She tore her gaze away to watch as the servants dutifully departed, closing the door behind them with judicious grace.

  They were alone, with twenty minutes to call their own. Perhaps she should have been embarrassed that he had delivered such a blatant edict to the servants. Twenty minutes alone, between courses. His motivation would be obvious to them, of course. One didn’t stop a dinner in medias res. Not unless one’s intentions were scandalous. Impure. Dangerous. Another adjective rattled to the forefront of her mind as she swung her eyes back to her husband in time to watch him unfold his tall, muscled length from his chair.

  Delicious.

  “Why have you stopped the dinner, Your Grace?” she asked, breathless despite her best intentions. Hadn’t he just shamed her before his servants? Strike that. Before their servants? “I thought your hunger was the reason for your earlier pique with me over my tardiness.”

  He moved to her with the cagey grace of a predatory cat. A big, predatory cat. A tiger, she thought, before thinking better of the choice. No, he was a lion. Proud and strong and savage. And handsome. Yes, he was undeniably that.

  “I appreciate punctuality,” he said, as if that explained his behavior. “And it’s Sebastian, buttercup, as I’ve already told you. No more formality between us. I don’t like it.”

  He skirted the table, never taking his eyes from her. No lord she had ever seen dignifying London’s ballrooms had been anything like him. It was as if he were a breed of his own, even if she couldn’t quite determine just what it was that set him so apart from all the rest. Wealth and titles had never meant anything to her. Kindness did. Compassion as well—two things she’d seen precious little of thus far, whether at home or here in England.

  But that wasn’t it. Anyone could be compassionate. Anyone could be kind if he chose. The duke—Sebastian, she must think of him as now—had been both to her at times. And still, there was something else about him that marked him as different. The mystery, the shadows in his eyes, the potent strength, the way he doled out parts of himself in such tiny increments that she was sure she’d only gotten to know the equivalent of a thimble-full… it was all those things and more. He was like a summer storm: aggressive, sudden, and beautiful in his harsh, powerful way.

  He didn’t stop until he stood behind her. She sat frozen, waiting, her heart pounding faster than a spooked horse’s hooves on a road. Every part of her clamored for his touch. At last, his hands, large and warm, settled on her bare shoulders, just above the layered sleeves of her evening gown. Just a touch, his skin on hers, and yet it felt unbearably intimate. Desire ricocheted through her.

  His breath was hot, his lips brushing over her ear as he spoke. “A true gentleman should never stand in the presence of a lady while she remains seated.”

  She knew as much, of course. She had been trained, after all. Her father had done his utmost to see that she would be wedded to the husband of his choice. A titled, born-in-the-purple aristocrat. Perhaps she should have stood when he had, for the sake of manners. But she had been too preoccupied by watching him to take note of anything else.

  Breathe, she chided herself, breathe. And she did, inhaling slowly, refusing to give in to the temptation of turning her head and meeting his mouth with hers. They were courting, after all, were they not? Moreover, he remained a man she little knew, despite the fact that they were now husband and wife.

  “Are you not a true gentleman, then?” she forced herself to ask as his thumbs began to run a lazy pattern of circles over her collarbone.

  “Would a gentleman follow a lady into the moonlight, intent on her seduction?” Something hot and wet and firm—his tongue, she realized, traced the ridges of her ear.

  She trembled, though it wasn’t with fear. It was with something else, something far more authoritative. Her own need. Her hands remained in her lap, but now she grabbed fistfuls of fabric, clenching the brocade to keep herself from touching him.

  “Would a lady lead a gentl
eman into the moonlight?” She injected a lightness into her tone that she hardly felt. After all, she wasn’t blameless in the situation in which they now found themselves mired. She hadn’t forgiven herself yet, even if it seemed that he had.

  His hands slid lower, to the swells of her breasts, continuing their careful, steady seduction. Swirls on her skin. Circles of desire that threatened to set her aflame. The tips of his fingers brushed the ribbon trimming her décolletage. Though she knew it was wanton and she ought not to, she arched her back ever so slightly, as if in offering. Her nipples longed for his touch. She felt as coiled as a spring, her entire being a pile of dry kindling about to be set aflame.

  “Perhaps we are a perfect match, buttercup.” His words were low, tinged with desire, rendering them almost a feral growl. “I’m not a gentleman, and you’re not a lady.”

  Either they brought out the worst in each other or the best. Daisy still hadn’t decided. All she knew was that he was setting her on fire in a slow burn, and she couldn’t bear much more teasing. Her body longed—no, hungered—for something, anything deeper and more meaningful than what they’d already shared. She didn’t know what it was, what he could give her that he hadn’t already, but her instinct told her it would far surpass anything she’d experienced thus far.

  She wanted him to claim her. To do wicked things to her. To make her his.

  He slipped beneath her bodice then, between her chemise and her skin, beneath her corset. Those knowing fingers found her nipples with unerring persistence, rolling them, pinching, plucking. Drawing a moan from her. His lips pressed to her throat, just below her ear.

  “Why did you call off the servants?” the question left her, a re-asking of the query she’d already posed. It was a desperate attempt at self-preservation. Because every part of her longed for him to continue doing what he was doing to her and then more. So much more. Anything he wished. Good heavens, this man was pure, blissful torture.

  “Cannot a man long to be alone with his wife?” He dragged his teeth slowly down the corded column of her throat. When he reached her shoulder, he gave her a playful bite as he pinched her nipples again.

  The ache between her thighs heightened. Her body felt boneless, breath held in anticipation, the core of her wet and wanting in a way she’d never before known. It was shameful, how much he could make her desire him.

  “You said we should court,” she reminded him as his mouth opened over her flesh, sucking and biting before soothing the sting with his tongue.

  “This is courting.” He removed his left hand from her bodice and lowered it to her lap, settling over hers where she clasped her skirts. Their fingers tangled while his right hand continued to play with her nipple. “If I had my way, I’d have you bent over this table right now, buttercup, with your skirt up around your waist and my cock so deep inside you that—”

  A discreet knock sounded at the door to the dining room just then. How had the time passed with such swiftness? The butler’s calm, utterly proper voice cut through the moment. “Your Grace? Forgive the interruption, but the next course will arrive in two minutes.”

  “Damn it.” Sebastian exhaled against her throat.

  Yes, damn it, she echoed inwardly. Some wicked part of her she hadn’t known existed still longed to hear the rest of what he’d been about to say. Such wicked, wanton things. So low and base, she ought to take umbrage as any properly bred lady would. But what he had said would taunt her all night long. His cock inside her. The mere notion was enough to make her come out of her skin.

  His hand retreated from her bodice. “I should have asked for a whole bloody hour.”

  His tone was grim. As grim as she felt. The loss of his touch was an ache pounding through her wherever his skin had last met hers. Acting on instinct alone, she released her skirts at last, reaching behind her to still him when he would have disengaged. She caught his cheek to her palm, the bristles of his whiskers a welcome abrasion upon her palm. She had chosen not to wear gloves on occasion of the intimacy of the setting and she was heartily glad for it now.

  Daisy turned finally, so that their mouths nearly brushed.

  Her eyes met his, challenging the sparks she saw. The heat. The want. “Yes,” she agreed, “you should have.”

  And then she pressed her lips to his.

  he had kissed him.

  And it had been inexperienced. Not at all artful. No hint of seduction. No teasing. Daisy’s mouth had simply turned to his, seeking. But if anything, her approach had only made the beast raging inside him hunger for more. And so, he’d met her halfway, claiming, obliging her.

  He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth, moaning his appreciation for her boldness, his hand fisting her skirts of its own volition and raising them higher. Up, past her knees, almost to her thighs. He found his way back into the inviting warmth of her bodice where the fullness of her breast made him long for more.

  He’d caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit. He’d almost been to the sweet slit in her drawers, his tongue taking her mouth the way he longed to claim her cunny, his fingers skimming past stockings and satin ribbons, over soft thighs she parted just for him. And then another knock had come at the door. Giles again. Ever discreet. Ever circumspect.

  It was a final warning. To postpone the servants yet again would set tongues belowstairs wagging more than they already had. He and Daisy were newly wed and allowed some latitude. But calling for a twenty-minute break followed by another, followed by only-the-Lord-knew-what was testing the bounds of propriety more than he ought to do, and even Sebastian knew that. There was also the concern, nipping at him, that Carlisle’s eyes and ears could be among his domestics.

  With a final, thorough kiss and a tweak of the sweet, tight bud of her nipple, he had withdrawn. The willpower required to disengage himself from her had been proportionate to the size of his cock, both of which had rendered his sudden retreat back to his seat a decidedly painful endeavor.

  They’d blithely moved on to the next course, feigning an unaffected air that was as honest as paste gems on an actress’s throat. Filet de bouef sauce Madère aux haricots verts, as it happened. It was the first time in Sebastian’s life that he’d had a perfectly cooked steak on his plate and hadn’t wanted to eat a goddamn bite.

  Because all he wanted—the only bloody nourishment that would satisfy him—was the gorgeous, unpredictable, untrustworthy woman he’d been forced to marry. How the hell had Carlisle ever imagined he could marry a goddess like Daisy Vanreid off to a man, whether he be a loyal, oath-swearing member of the League or no, without her tempting him to ruination?

  Sebastian had a glass of whisky in hand now as he stared at the door adjoining his chamber to hers, and he couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to fuck Daisy to oblivion. She was that alluring, that sensual, that innately beautiful. She was also bold and daring, witty and brave, smart and warm and soft, slow to rile, easy to laugh.

  Ordinarily, he didn’t imbibe often, and especially not during the course of a mission, but something about the situation in which he currently found himself made him want to drink an entire barrel of liquor if only it would quiet the demons eating away at him.

  The demons that told him to throw open the door between them, go to the woman he’d married, and take her. To tear away every scrap of fabric keeping her body from him until she was completely nude. To throw her on the bed, spread her luscious thighs, and take her for his own.

  He groaned. Beneath his dressing gown, his cock was harder than ever, raging and pulsing at the thought of burying himself in soft, wet, womanly flesh. But not just any woman’s. Daisy’s. Christ yes, there was something about that golden-haired American minx that fashioned him Odysseus and her one of the Sirens. A beautiful, undeniable lure leading him into the treacherous rocks of the shore.

  His ship was bound to crash if he followed her. Yet somehow, he couldn’t seem to stay away. Didn’t want to. Her skin had been softer than silk where he’d tasted her, kissed her, felt t
he rapid drum of her heartbeat. Whatever it was that sizzled between them, it was undeniable, and she felt it every bit as much as he did.

  Without even realizing he’d moved, he found himself across his chamber, hand on the doorknob separating him from her. Jesus. This was getting out of control. He tossed back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn that only fine whisky could provide, and then set it aside. There was nary a sound on the other side of the door as he took a few breaths and willed his raging arousal to subside.

  Going to her chamber was foolish, and he recognized it. But he couldn’t seem to keep his distance from her. One breath, two breaths. His cock was harder than a marble bust. Three, four. Still not lessening. Christ, this propensity for counting was all her fault, and it needed to bloody well end.

  He thought of the queen. Thought of his maternal grandmother’s funeral. Five, six. Attempted to recall some Shakespeare, but the only lines that came to mind had her name in them.

  When daisies pied and violets blue.

  Damn it all to hell. More words returned to him, mocking. The cuckoo, then, on every tree, mocks married men, for thus sings he…

  Bloody, bloody hell. Leave it to Shakespeare to taunt him as well, with a well-placed barb. She wasn’t his. Not to keep, no matter how much he desired her. This was all foolishness. Ridiculous. Unutterably stupid. And yet, he couldn’t excise her from his mind.

  The scent of her—bergamot, vanilla, ambergris—still filled his senses as if she stood before him. His fingers burned with remembrance of the feeling of those hard little buds of her nipples.

  Distraction wasn’t working. Neither was tarrying. Or breathing. He needed to see her. Needed to touch her. He rapped sharply on the door. Waited for her to respond. Hoped she would tell him to go to hell.

  Instead, he heard her dulcet voice, so calming and pleasant to the ears. “You may enter.”

  And enter he did. Damn if hearing her issue such an invitation didn’t make the blood pound harder through his veins as he thought of another sort of invitation. Another form of entry he might make into her territory. He was an unconscionable bastard, but he strode across her chamber just the same.