Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12. Ann Lethbridge
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he was anything but; she was throwing her head back and gasping as his teeth nipped lightly, aware now that his hand was sliding up her leg, caressing the silken skin above her stocking top, stealing up to the juncture of her thighs, then seeking—and finding—the moist warmth at her feminine core.
She was damp, shaking, enraptured. Her hands digging into his hard-muscled back were her only anchor on reality. With devastating skill he swept his strong, knowing fingers across the swollen bud again and again, watching her with smouldering eyes as she arched herself against him, all restraint forgotten, and cried his name aloud as the sweet, unfurling spasms of her climax shook her body.
Her eyes had fluttered shut. Her lips were tingling and parted. Even when the last echo of rapture had died away, she kept her eyes closed. She had not known that she could feel like this. A savage pain clawed at her stomach. Perhaps she was a whore, to give herself so readily, so eagerly.
He was already lifting her from his lap and setting her on her feet. And he was—just watching her. She gathered herself up, feeling cold away from the shelter of his arms. Feeling—terrified at what she’d just let him do to her.
‘I rather think it’s yourself that you should not trust, Mrs Rowland,’ he said softly at last. ‘Do us both a favour by going and putting on a dress that at least covers you. Do you hear me?’
A feeling not just of anger, but of utter loss, was squeezing at her heart. ‘You misunderstand and misjudge me at every turn, Captain Stewart,’ she said in a low voice.
‘No doubt.’ He dragged his hand through his dark hair and stood up also; he was trembling with tension, she realised, as if every muscle in his powerful body was held on the tightest of leashes. His lip curled when he saw her eyes slide, horrified, away from his skintight breeches. ‘Indeed, I’m rather a handy scapegoat for all your foolhardy experiments, aren’t I? You can see it’s time you and I were leaving. Now. Go and wrap yourself in your usual drab attire, then we’ll get back to the child in your care. Or had you forgotten her—again?’
That hurt. Oh, that hurt. She clenched her fists. ‘It was you who insisted I stay here to be impressed by this place that was once your home! You who implied I ought to repay you for your dubious protection by spending two hours examining paintings, when I only wanted to get back to Katy! You are overbearing and unjust and hateful! Damn you to hell, Alec Stewart!’
He gazed down at her, his eyes bleak. ‘No need. I’m already there.’
She stumbled away.
Alec sat there with his head in his hands. His lust for her was raging. The hardness between his thighs still throbbed.
Rosalie Rowland. Writer, courtesan and all-round troublemaker. In her way she’d been absolutely right to accuse him of trying to impress her with this magnificent place that he’d once called home. Certainly, he’d hoped to trick her into making mistakes. Yet it was he who had handled everything so badly.
In fact, until she’d let her damned fichu slip like that, he’d begun to feel that he’d got everything wrong about her. He clenched his jaw. Damn it, she’d had a lucky escape. One more minute of her passionate response to his foolhardy kiss and he’d have been hard-pressed to stop himself ravishing her there and then.
Alec got to his feet and paced the room like a caged animal. Why had he let things go so far? Well, he had plenty of answers. Not least of his motivations—and certainly the worst—was his impulse to prove to himself that she was indeed any man’s for the taking.
Yet once again he’d been baffled by Rosalie Rowland. Most women of experience would have realised that Alec was aroused virtually to the point of no return. Most women would have offered some sort of physical relief—but she had made no attempt whatsoever to assuage his rampant desire.
The enigmatic, tormenting Mrs Rowland. Everything about her stoked up the fire of his vital male urges—but ever since that first night at the Temple of Beauty, he’d not been able to make sense of her. He was utterly perplexed by the way she moved and spoke so gracefully, by the way she’d so solemnly examined those pictures for him and calmly delivered her judgement.
At Dr Barnard’s tawdry show she’d stood out from the other jades like a pure-white wax candle burning amidst a mass of burned-down tallow ones. But how could she be unspoiled? Innocent? No. For God’s sake, she’d been married, she’d been at the Temple of Beauty! She was still lying to him; he’d still be thinking Katy was hers, had it not been for Mary’s suspicions—’She doesn’t even know the child’s age for sure, Captain Stewart!’ And of course there was Garrett’s news that last winter Rosalie had been visiting one London theatre after another, asking for someone called Linette.
Who was Linette? Alec drove one fist against the other. Who had sent that nasty threat? Who was trying to bribe Alec’s men to betray her? What the hell had he let himself in for, by offering to protect her?
Upstairs, Rosalie gazed at herself in the cheval glass. She’d swiftly got changed back into the old, drab gown, but she had yet to summon up the courage to go downstairs and face him after betraying herself yet again, this time with so much more than a kiss.
Dear God. The pleasure, the molten ecstasy summoned by his mouth, his long lean fingers …
She saw in the mirror that her lips were rosy and swollen from the harshness of his mouth. You must tell him that Katy is your dead sister’s child. You must ask him why Linette named him as she lay dying.
Not tomorrow. Not later. But now.
She pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. One thing was certain. She could not go on much longer in this hell of uncertainty.
She went downstairs slowly, wearing her old grey mantle. Alec was at the far side of the room and he barely glanced at her. Clearly, she realised with a lurching stomach, he regretted what had just happened every bit as much as she did. He said, ‘A few more minutes and we’ll be ready to leave. I told Garrett to pick us up at six.’
She nodded, realising he was going round extinguishing the candles. He’d taken off his fine coat and his shirt sleeves fell back to his elbows as he reached for the higher sconces, revealing strong brown forearms that rippled with muscle and sinew.
Rosalie was about to tear her eyes away, but suddenly, in the flickering half-light, she saw an ugly, jagged scar that snaked up from his wrist. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ The words burst out on impulse. ‘Whatever happened to your arm?’
He glanced at it almost casually. ‘That? A French bayonet at Vittoria.’
Her mind reeled. ‘But …’
‘It was the battle that finally drove the French out of Spain,’ he said tersely. ‘June 1813.’
‘I know.’ Her lips and tongue would hardly work. ‘I know … Alec, were you there?’
He let out a sharp laugh. ‘Don’t make a hero out of me. Any soldier who could hold a weapon was at Vittoria. We were outnumbered and it was a desperate struggle, full of scenes I hope you can’t begin to imagine.’
‘Were you with Wellington’s army all that summer?’
‘All that year,’ he answered shortly. ‘No home leave for the officers.’
The full implications of it tore through her whole being. Dear God. He was in Spain with the army when Linette was seduced. He could not be Katy’s father …
‘Alec,’ she whispered. What could she say? She knew what she should say. Alec, I have been so determined to misjudge you. I have wronged you grievously …
He turned