Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed Page 3

  Uneasiness crammed in her throat when he prowled closer. “There’s room for six in there.”

  She shot him an annoyed glance. “Did you expect me to wear nothing at all? The night’s too cold, apart from anything else.”

  Mr. Merrick subjected her to a thorough and searing inspection. She just knew he pictured her naked and it was her fault for mentioning the possibility. All her life, people had warned that her impulsive tongue would get her into trouble. She was most definitely in trouble. Not just because Mr. Merrick’s manner had within an instant transformed from nonchalance to interest. That fleeting accounting of her body extended mere seconds, yet every inch of her skin burned. Her belly clenched with a painful mixture of shame and reluctant excitement. She met his eyes, then heartily wished she hadn’t. The predatory glint was unmistakable.

  “There’s room for maneuver between nakedness and that tent you’re wearing.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you think I’d quail at all that flannel?”

  “I took what defensive measures I could,” she muttered, staring upward again. Although truthfully it hadn’t occurred to her to pack anything other than her usual nightwear.

  “You underestimate the stimulating power of imagination,” he said drily. “I’m intrigued to discover the treasures beneath that billowing fabric.”

  In wordless horror, Sidonie turned her head to stare at him. His shell of carelessness disintegrated and she read raw hunger in his saturnine face. The air vibrated with blazing sexual awareness. In the bristling silence, the sound of rain sheeting against the windows was a jarring intrusion.

  “Take it off,” he said softly.

  Dear Lord…

  The time had come. Of course it had. She’d arrived on Merrick’s doorstep inviting him to tup her. He was hardly likely to turn her away in favor of an early night with an improving book. Reluctantly, her heart thundering panic, she sat. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the nightgown’s hem. Briefly her vision drowned in white flannel, then she was free. With a defiant gesture, she tossed the garment to the floor. She refused to meet Merrick’s gaze just as she refused to betray her humiliation by covering herself with her hands.

  Now the true wickedness of this mirror-filled room struck hard as a hammer on brass. Like endless echoes of that clanging blow, everywhere she looked, she saw her naked body. Over and over again. Pale skin. Jutting breasts. Bare legs.

  Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn’t shifted since she’d removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness.

  The silence stretched until she wanted to scream.

  She twisted at the waist to face him. His expression was vivid with what, even in her innocence, she recognized as arousal. In his angular face, his eyes blazed hot silver. He was no longer the languid, sardonically amused man who’d fed her a makeshift supper. This man was captive to appetite.

  Dread coiled in her belly. Dread and unwilling curiosity. When she looked at Merrick, unfamiliar heat eddied through her. Since agreeing to take Roberta’s place, she’d told herself her travails would be vile. Vile travails would leave her self-respect, if not her virginity, intact. Those glittering eyes hinted that self-respect would be the first casualty of this desperate bargain. She swallowed to moisten a parched mouth and her hands tangled in the sheets beneath her. She was so taut, she feared she’d snap in two if he touched her.

  A muscle jerked in his cheek and his fists clenched at his sides as his leisurely investigation paused at her breasts. Seconds spun into scorching fire. To her humiliation, her nipples tightened. An aggravatingly knowing expression narrowed his eyes and a smug smile curved his lips. He knew he didn’t repulse her, much as she wished he did.

  His lingering attention descended to the triangle of feathery brown hair between her legs. It was as if he touched her there. Molten heat flooded her belly, made her gasp with surprise. She squeezed her thighs together and her hand whipped down to shield her sex. “Stop it,” she whispered, the demand thick with tears she refused to shed.

  He seemed not to hear. Instead, he stepped nearer and slid his hand behind her neck. She started, then sat unmoving. Through encroaching warmth, she felt the roughness of faint calluses on his fingers. After a charged hesitation, he ran his hand lightly down her neck to the pulse racing in her throat. Every nerve leaped and the molten sensation widened, deepened, left her unbearably agitated. Her instinct was to pull away, drag up the covers, cower.

  Pride kept her still.

  That searching hand dipped lower, stroked the upper slopes of her breasts. Then glanced across one beaded nipple. Unwelcome pleasure sizzled through her. In the silence, her unsteady breath was audible. Even the storm seemed to pause in anticipation. Her gaze flew to his face, where she found desire, but also something that looked like wonder. Her heart skipped a beat, then crashed painfully against her ribs.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely. Delicately he circled her nipple then cupped her breast in one large hand.

  It was too much. She couldn’t endure these lying overtures, however sweet. They lent a gloss of false tenderness to what was at its basest level a squalid business arrangement. She jerked away and slid down the bed. At last she summoned courage to look into the mirror above. She lay rigid, her body pallid against the sheets. Her face was drawn with fear and determination. Hectic color marked her cheekbones.

  “Do it.” She hardly recognized the strident voice. “For God’s sake, don’t torture me. Just… do it.”

  For a long time, the man reflected in the mirror didn’t move. Then with a smooth swiftness that made her wanton heart kick into a gallop, he seized the heavy brocade cover.

  “Your pardon, Miss Forsythe.” He didn’t sound at all like the shaken, sincere man who told her she was beautiful. With a contemptuous gesture, he tossed the covers over her nakedness. Shock held her speechless as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “I find tonight my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”

  Chapter Three

  In the cavernous hall, Sidonie Forsythe stood tall and straight in a pool of pale sunshine. She wore her heavy cloak and she clutched her valise at her side.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jonas strode across the flagstones and stopped a few paces short of her. Thank God he was an early riser or he’d be too late. He’d been flicking through the prospectus for a canal scheme when Mrs. Bevan lumbered into the library to announce the young lady requested use of his carriage.

  At his furious question, Miss Forsythe whipped around. She stared dismayed into his face and he knew they both revisited those blazing moments in his bed. The memory thundered through him like the blast of a thousand cannons. Her lovely eyes darkened with what he could only interpret as humiliation before anger rescued her. “Don’t you ever dress like a Christian?”

  Again, she surprised him. He liked that. He liked it almost as much as he’d liked seeing her unclothed body last night. And he’d liked that very much indeed.

  He released a derisive grunt of laughter. “This is my house. If I want to run around in my shirtsleeves, I will. If I tour the estate stark naked, I daresay it’s my privilege.”

  Delicate color tinged her cheeks at the mention of nakedness. This morning she looked brighter. She must have managed some sleep after he’d stormed from her room.

  He wished to Hades he had.

  “It’s nothing to me what you wear.” Calm determination masked any disquiet. He’d lay money that composure was as false as the canal scheme’s projected profits. “We’ll never see each other again after all.”

  “I wouldn’t place too much store in that particular prediction,” he said drily. “It’s a devilish shabby trick to sneak away without a by-your-leave.”

  “We have nothing to say to one another.”

  “You think not?” He turned to Mrs. Bevan. “Tell Hobbs the carriage isn’t required.”

  “Mr. Merrick—” Miss Forsythe began in a repressive voice.

  He’d be damned if he was squabbling with her out here while his housekeeper stood around with flapping ears. “Perhaps you’d rather continue this discussion in the library.”

  “I’d rather leave your house and pretend these lamentable hours never occurred.”

  “So vehement for daybreak.” He weighted his tone with completely spurious boredom. “It’s a trifle fatiguing.”

  “Only for a man of your advanced years,” she snapped back.

  Brava ancora. He could guess how awkward she felt in his presence after what had happened—and not happened—last night. Still she came back fighting. “At least let me rest my ageing bones on a cushion while you harangue me.”

  No answering humor. She continued to eye him warily. “I’d prefer to go.”

  “I’m sure you would. But I’ve still got Roberta’s vowels. Or had you forgotten?”

  Her magnificent eyes flashed hatred. “I hadn’t forgotten. I paid you last night.”

  He gave her a nasty smile. “That’s a matter of opinion.” He gestured toward the library. “Miss Forsythe?”

  She glowered at him, then glanced at Mrs. Bevan, who watched with avid interest. The girl’s color deepened and she nodded abruptly. “Five minutes.”

  Jonas knew not to push his advantage. Or at least to wait until they were alone before he did. He opened the door and ushered her into the book-lined room.

  Her shoulders tensed into a ruler-straight line when he lifted her cloak away. The white gown beneath was as inappropriate as ever. Although he appreciated the way it strained across her full bosom. As if once more shaping her perfect breasts, his hands curled in the cloak’s rough wool. Yielding to temptation, he leaned in to catch her fresh scent. She didn’t smell like rain this morning. Instead she smelled of lemon soap. Still, the commonplace fragrance stirred turbulent eddies of desire in his blood. He dropped the cloak onto a chair and stepped closer to release the ribbons on her unbecoming bonnet. Whoever chose her clothing should be drawn and quartered.

  She batted his hand away and her breath accelerated—whether with fear or excitement, he wasn’t sure. Probably a mixture of the two. “Stop it.”

  “Just making you comfortable.” The ribbons loosened and he lifted the bonnet, tossing it on top of the cloak.

  “As if you care for my comfort. If you did, you’d let me go.”

  His lips twitched as he wandered away. “But that would have a disagreeable effect on my comfort.” He gestured toward a leather chair. “Please sit down.”

  She remained standing uneasily in the center of the room. “No, thank you. I’ll be on my way shortly.”

  He sauntered to the window and slouched against the frame, basking in the sun’s unseasonal warmth. Last night’s storm had blown itself out and the day outside was pleasant for November. Although he suspected the temperature inside the library was about to drop several degrees.

  He fixed an unwavering stare upon her. “I hadn’t taken you for a cheat, Miss Forsythe.”

  Her expression remained neutral, although she must know what he meant. “I’ve cheated you of nothing, Mr. Merrick.”

  His tone held an edge. “What would you call bilking me of your company after promising… satisfaction?”

  She paled and her gloved hand tightened around the handle of her bag. “You didn’t want me last night,” she said flatly.

  He raised his eyebrows in mocking disbelief, while burgeoning need crooned its alluring song in his ears. “You’re not that innocent.”

  She growled softly and swung away with a flounce of filmy skirts. He caught a glimpse of two well-turned ankles. Interesting that the sight proved so arousing when he’d already seen her naked.

  “You’re in a humor to tease, I see.”

  He tilted his head back against the window frame and surveyed her down the bumpy length of his broken nose. “No, I’m in a humor to have my bargain honored.”

  She stopped and regarded him with a troubled light in her dark eyes. Grown men cringed from his scars. Why the hell didn’t his grotesque appearance daunt this untried girl?

  “I offered my… services; you rejected them.” She set down the bag and stubbornness squared her jaw. “I’m within my rights to leave unmolested.”

  “You’re quite the lawyer, Miss Forsythe. You employed similar sophistry last night when you presented yourself in your beguiling sister’s stead.”

  Not that he could summon one morsel of regret for the exchange. Roberta was a beautiful, if shallow, creature, and he’d have fucked her perfectly happily. Not least because every time he poked her, he’d know he cuckolded his toad of a cousin.

  But Roberta’s sister…

  Sidonie Forsythe was a jewel such as he’d never encountered. He wasn’t fool enough to leave her where he’d found her and walk away whistling.

  “Surely you won’t insist on full restitution.” The uncertainty that had always lurked beneath her bravado became overt. “Not after—”

  “Presumably you arrived expecting to repay the debt as it stands,” he said coolly. He folded his arms across his chest to stop himself from reaching for her. One ridiculously chaste kiss, a brief exploration of silky skin, now the craving to touch her was a fever.

  “This is insane.” Like a mare scenting a stallion, she shifted nervously. “If you won’t lend me your carriage, I’ll walk to Sidmouth and find transport there. It’s only a couple of miles.” She turned and marched away.

  He leaped forward and caught her arm. “Wait.”

  Immediately, even through her sleeve, there was that electric connection he’d felt cupping her naked breast last night. When she turned an appalled brown gaze on him, he knew she felt it, too. Much as she clearly wished she didn’t. He fought the urge to sweep the girl into his arms. The brief taste of her lips had left him hungry for more. The memory of her glorious body had kept him awake most of the night. In occasional snatches of sleep, he’d dreamed of her. Naked. Willing. Sighing her pleasure as he pounded into her.

  She trembled under his hand. “You don’t need to manhandle me.”

  “I mightn’t need to, but I’d certainly like to,” he purred and was rewarded with another beguiling blush. Jonas couldn’t recall the last time he’d consorted with a woman innocent enough to blush. The only females who took him on had become jaded with the banal charms of unmutilated men. “What about Roberta’s debt?”

  Miss Forsythe’s self-righteousness faded. “I came to you. I—”

  He struggled to ignore the fear in her face. Now wasn’t the time to develop a conscience. “No matter,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Roberta can sell some jewelry to repay me.”

  “That’s impossible.” He felt her quivering resistance under his grasp. “William would find out.”

  Ah, at last they reached the nut of the matter. “I expect he would.”

  His gut twisted with reluctant remorse when tears brightened the girl’s eyes. Tears she bravely blinked away. Just as she’d bravely offered herself to save her sister. Sidonie Forsythe was a remarkable woman. Which didn’t make him one whit more inclined to send her away.

  A strange moment to realize that he envied Roberta. It must be wonderful to know such steadfast love as Sidonie demonstrated. His father had undoubtedly loved him. But his father had been crippled by sorrow for his wife and then the ensuing scandal. Through a life of betrayal and rejection, Jonas had learned to mistrust love. Too often it masked self-serving interests. Too often it proved a fragile thread that snapped under the lightest pressure. And even if it was the powerful, overwhelming force the poets claimed, it brought destruction in its wake. Yet Sidonie loved her sister enough to sacrifice herself like this.

  Bah, he became sentimental. He shook off the uncharacteristic self-pity and concentrated on the woman before him.

  Her stare was bleak. “You know, don’t you?”

  “That William takes his temper out on his wife? Not until last night. I spent hours awake, puzzling out your behavior.” And cursing like the devil that his pride exiled him to the dressing room’s minuscule cot. “Your actions only make sense if the consequences of Roberta’s seduction are dire indeed. And my cousin has always met disappointment with violence.”

  With a twist of his gut, he realized his free hand crept up to touch his disfigured cheek. Hoping Miss Forsythe hadn’t noticed the betraying gesture, he forced his arm back to his side. His tone hardened. “I should have guessed.”

  Poor bloody Roberta. Life as William’s wife must be hell on earth. Her frenetic gaiety in society made sense now—she was probably relieved that her husband wouldn’t cuff her in public. Jonas could almost forgive her for the way she cringed at the merest sight of him.

  Miss Forsythe looked devastated. Her voice was low and shaking. “If you know… Roberta’s circumstances, chivalry insists you pardon the debt.”

  His lips lengthened in an unamused smile. “Like honor, chivalry isn’t a rule in this game. Surely you know by now that I’m a bastard by nature just as I’m a bastard by birth.”

  He expected her to flinch from his plain speaking, but she confronted him squarely. “If I stay here, I’ll be ruined.”

  With a grunt of disgust—at himself more than her—he released her arm and prowled back to the window. She came after him, standing too near for caution and staring at him as though seeking some evidence of goodness. She’d search till doomsday. The world had turned him into a monster. He’d done his best since to live up to the description.

  “You must have realized that before you arrived.” He forced himself to sound careless, no matter that her proximity stirred his senses so powerfully. The sun flooding through the window lit rich colors in her opulent hair. Flax. Gold. Auburn. “Presumably you’ve told your nearest and dearest some tale to keep them at bay over the next seven days.”

  “I still don’t want my name sullied.”

  -->