The Rake to Rescue Her. Julia Justiss
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everything was as he’d ordered. The new staff dispatched by the agency, all with impeccable references, had done their jobs perfectly. The immaculate house gleamed, every wooden surface and silver object polished to a soft glow in the candlelight. Taking the stairs, he inspected the sitting room adjoining the bedroom, nodding dismissal to the maid who’d just finished setting out a cold buffet. In the bedroom itself, a decanter of wine stood on the bedside table, and two glasses reflected the flames of the lit candles on the mantel above.
Wine to lend courage to him—or to her? he wondered with a wry grin. Maybe for consolation, if the joke was on him and Diana simply did not show up.
Which would, he admitted, be a justifiable rebuke for his ungentlemanly behaviour.
Even as he thought it, he heard the click of the front door opening, and a murmur of voices as the new manservant admitted a visitor.
So she had come after all.
Alastair descended the stairs nearly at a run.
‘I’ve shown the, ah, lady into the parlour,’ the servant told him. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’
‘Nothing more tonight, Marston. Thank you.’
Expression impassive, the servant bowed and headed off towards the service stairs. Alastair wondered, not for the first time, what the handful of employees thought of their new situation—and how much they’d been told when the agency he’d consulted had hired them. Certainly upon arrival, if not before, they would have realised they were being called upon to staff the love nest of some wealthy man’s chère-amie. He’d not been able to glean from the behaviour of Marston, the cook or the maid whether they disapproved or were indifferent to the situation.
To tell the truth, he felt a bit uncomfortable. In his previous liaisons, after hiring a house, he’d simply given the lady of the moment the funds to bring or hire her own staff—and had never given the servants’ opinions a thought. But this was Diana—and how she was regarded by the staff, he realised suddenly, did matter to him.
Rather ridiculous that he was concerned she be treated like a lady, when he’d set up this whole endeavour to humiliate her.
No, not to humiliate—simply to slake his desire for her, so that he might achieve the indifference that seemed to come so easily to her. So he could get over her and get on with his life, as she so obviously had.
Heartbeat accelerating, Alastair walked into the parlour.
A lady stood at the hearth with her back to him, enveloped in a black cape with the hood drawn up over her hair. Very discreet, Alastair thought, glad that she was evidently as concerned as he that this liaison be kept secret.
She turned towards him, and the visceral reaction she’d always evoked flooded him immediately, speeding his pulses, drying his mouth, filling him with desire and gladness.
‘Good evening, Alastair,’ she said. ‘Where would you like me?’
Something almost like...disappointment tempered his enthusiasm. So there’d be no illusion of polite conversation first—just a proceeding straight to the matter at hand. She’d always been honest and direct, Alastair remembered.
Which was just as well. She wasn’t here to revive an old relationship, but to bury the long-dead corpse of one.
‘Come,’ he said, motioning to the hallway.
Obediently she exited the parlour, brushing past him in a cloud of violet scent that instantly revived his lust and determination. She mounted the stairs, pausing at the top until he indicated the correct bedchamber.
He let her precede him into the room, already so taut with arousal that his hands were sweating and his breath uneven. In one fluid movement, she swept off her cloak and cast it in a shimmer of satin on to the chair beside the bed, then turned to him, waiting.
He scanned her hungrily. The full swell of bosom, the graceful curve of neck and cheek, the dusky curls gleaming brightly in the firelight, the lush pout of a mouth...the eyes staring sightlessly ahead of her, the face as devoid of expression as a statue. As if she were bored, waiting for the episode to be over.
While he stood, barely able to breathe, gut churning with eagerness and longing.
Sudden fury consumed him. But before he could sort through his wildly varying impulses—send her away or seduce her into feeling something—she sank to her knees before him and calmly unbuttoned his trouser flap. Wrapping her hands around his swollen length, she guided him into her mouth.
Shocked that she would play the courtesan so unresistingly, he opened his lips to tell her to stop...but at the touch of the exquisite softness of her tongue, moving over and around his throbbing member, thought dissolved into pure sensation. Gasping, he fisted his hands in her hair, every fibre of his being focused on the delicious friction of her mouth and tongue as she pushed him deep within, withdrew to suckle the sensitive tip, laved it with her tongue and took him deep again. Passion built with unprecedented swiftness until mere moments later, he climaxed in a rush so dizzying and intense he nearly lost consciousness.
Staggering backward, he collapsed on the bed, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Dazed, he dimly noted Diana rising and walking noiselessly over to the washbasin on the bureau.
Sometime later, his heart finally settled back into its normal rhythm and enough rational thought returned that he recognised what had just transpired. He’d meant to slake his lust, not use her like a doxy—or bolt straight to conclusion, like a callow youth with his first woman.
Shame and embarrassment filled him. Looking around, he found Diana sitting silently in the chair, gazing into the fire, her cloak wrapped around her.
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for that to be an exclusive experience,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I can do much better.’
And he meant to. Of the many things that had attracted him to Diana during their courtship, one that had drawn him most strongly was her passion. She’d gloried in his kisses, giving herself to him with wild abandon, guiding his hands to her breasts, moulding her hands over his erection. He might not be able to love her again or truly forgive her, but they could at least have the honesty of pleasure between them.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
‘It does to me,’ he replied, and held out his hand.
This time, he vowed as she took it, he would undress her slowly, as he’d dreamed of doing so many times. Kiss and caress each bit of skin revealed. Use all the considerable skill he’d amassed over nearly a decade of pleasuring women to give her the same intense release she’d just given him.
‘I didn’t hire you a lady’s maid,’ he said, turning her so he could begin unlacing the ties at the back of her bodice. ‘I shall perform that function myself.’
She didn’t reply, which was just as well, for as the ties loosened, the bare nape of her neck so distracted him he’d not have comprehended her words anyway. Unable to resist, he bent to kiss her.
That intoxicating violet scent wrapped around him again as he tasted her skin. Desire returning in a rush, he slid his hands into her hair, winnowing out the pins with his fingers until the heavy mass fell to her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Wrapping his hands in the thick lengths, he pulled her closer, moving his lips from her neck to the shell of her ear.
Already fully erect again, he parted the hair and pulled it forward over her breasts, unveiling the pins and lacing that secured bodice and skirt. Making quick work of those, he peeled off the top and nudged her to step out of the skirt, then guided her to the bed.
Seating her on the edge, he tilted up her head and took her mouth, moving his lips slowly, gently over their silken surface as he dispensed with her stays. At the pressure of his tongue, she parted her lips, allowing him entry to the softness within.
While he licked and suckled, he moved his hands to cup her breasts, full and ripe under the thin linen of her chemise. His breathing unsteady