The ruling passion conquers reason still.
—Pope
The house was already filled with the sweet vibrato of violins as Gotherington’s doors were flung open for the Hunt Ball. Despite the fact that Elise had attended countless such evenings, she could not suppress a little thrill of anticipation as she hastened toward the entrance of the red and gold salon to better survey the crowd. This salon, along with many of the other ground-floor staterooms, had been flung open, one onto another, by a series of connecting doors, so that the crowd might surge back and forth. A dozen couples now twirled beneath the brightly lit chandeliers of the ballroom, while as many more lingered about the feast which had been laid out in the drawing room. For those too old to dance, the breakfast room had been filled with card tables, and for those young enough to flirt, the lights along the veranda had been lit.
Slowly, she looked over one shoulder to see that Maynard and Ophelia were greeting the last of the guests. In the long gallery above, she could see the four little figures in white nightclothes which peeped down from the balustrade. Elise shook her head in bemusement and returned her attention to the crowd. How on earth had she been persuaded to let Henriette postpone her punishment? Christian Villiers seemed to possess quite a talent for persuading her to do things which she knew were rash and imprudent.
But Elise’s weaknesses aside, at least the Hunt Ball was an unarguable success. The neighboring gentry had poured from their manors and villages to gossip, to dance, and to drink to the health of the young Onslow sisters. The last of them—an elderly squire whom she vaguely knew—passed from the hall into the salon, greeting Elise warmly as he crossed the threshold. Ophelia came in on his heels, her chest puffed out like an overdressed pouter pigeon. “Quite the crush, is it not?” she murmured, sweeping her hand in an expansive gesture. “You see! Did I not tell Maynard we mustn’t spare any expense?”
Just then, the Reverend Amherst approached. “The twins look lovely tonight, Mrs. Onslow,” he said with a bow. “I believe you may consider them properly launched.”
Beaming, Ophelia drew breath to answer, but at that very moment, her butler gave a mildly panicked wave from one of the buffet tables. Murmuring vague apologies, she hastened off, abandoning Elise to Mr. Amherst. As had been the case all evening, Bee and Lucy were dancing. Amherst was watching them, too. Impulsively, she leaned a little nearer. “You are the girls’ godfather, are you not?”
“Yes, and honored by it,” he answered cheerfully. “But I am very glad I do not have the job of firing them off. I collect my old friend Maynard has his hands full.” His smile was brilliant against his sun-bronzed skin, and a shock of heavy gold hair had fallen forward to make him look more than a little rakish. In fact, he looked nothing at all like a staid country vicar.
The music had ended, and the dancers were flooding from the ballroom in search of punch and champagne. Elise moved a little away from the tables which flanked the door and smiled back at Mr. Amherst. “I wonder, sir, might I have your help with a nefarious plan?” She spoke in a nervous rush. “You see, I wish to dower Belinda and Lucinda. My solicitor has set aside half of everything I have in the funds. It is all arranged.”
Amherst looked both surprised and puzzled. “How exceedingly generous,” he murmured as a boisterous group pushed past them in search of the punch bowl. “But how may I be of service in this—er, nefariousness?”
Elise smiled weakly. “Such a thing might be hard on Maynard’s pride, Mr. Amherst, and so I mean to tell him this was my husband’s dying wish.” At his look of bemusement, she lifted a staying hand. “No, no, I do not wish you to lie.”
Mr. Amherst crooked one eyebrow. “No?”
Someone brushed past Elise, jostling her elbow. “Not exactly,” she answered, edging closer. “Sir, may I speak frankly?”
“I am a vicar, Lady Middleton.” His sparkling gold eyes teased her. “Between you, me, and the good Lord, you may confess your sins if you so choose.”
“My fib does not quite sink to the level of sin, I hope,” she answered, dropping her voice. “But I realize, as you do, that the girls are a little—oh, capricious? Still, they have their mother’s beauty and their father’s kind heart. Can you convince Maynard to accept this dowry? Sir Henry provided for me far in excess of my needs, and I wish the girls to be happy. And as foolish as it may sound to you, Mr. Amherst, I wish them to marry for love.”
The teasing light left his eyes at once and he smiled softly. “Oh, that is wise, Lady Middleton, not foolish,” he said gently. “Depend upon me to take care of old Maynard.”
Just then, the violins struck up again, and someone brushed Elise’s elbow. She turned to see Denys standing at her side, holding a glass of champagne. “Amherst,” he interrupted, greeting the vicar with a tight nod. “My dear, may I have the pleasure? We’ve not had a chance to chat all evening.”
The orchestra was playing a waltz. Elise shook her head. “Thank you,” she murmured, oddly annoyed. “I am in the middle of something with Mr. Amherst.”
Denys nodded again, even more stiffly, if such a thing were possible. He was quite clearly angry. And then as abruptly as he had come, he left. Good Lord, could she do nothing right as far as Denys was concerned? Though she now realized she could never love him, she had no wish to make an enemy of the man. Elise shook her head and returned her gaze to Mr. Amherst, only to catch sight of Lord Grayston striding across the dance floor toward them.
“Ho, Amherst!” announced the marquis brightly. “You’re on the verge of calamity, sir. Your wife says you were to dance this one with her, and she doesn’t look like the sort of woman a fellow ought to antagonize.”
Amherst lifted both brows at that, and promptly put down his glass. “No, by Jove, she isn’t!” he murmured, swiftly bowing to Elise. “Lady Middleton, your pardon. Even a man of God must first see to his own preservation.”
Elise stared after him as Amherst melted into the crowd. “Ah, alone at last,” whispered a pair of warm lips very near her ear. “Can I persuade you to waltz with me?”
The strangest sense of relief flooded through Elise. Christian had not sought her out all evening. In fact, he’d kept his distance since Henriette’s accident, approaching her only in company—until this morning, when he’d come to plead the child’s parole. Then, although his touch had been tender and his words persuasive, his eyes had held a look of quiet sadness.
Now, as if impatient, he moved nearer and set his warm, heavy hand at the small of her back. It was a possessive and inappropriate gesture. Elise tried to shoot him a daunting look, but her traitorous mouth twitched with amusement. He glanced down at her, his silvery eyes flashing. “Do you dance, my lady, or no?” he demanded.
“And be reduced to blushes in front of an audience?” she whispered over her shoulder. “No, I fancy not.”
The lips returned to her ear, his warm breath stirring the hair about her temple. “Then do you fancy a walk in the dark with me?”
Elise pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. “Go away,” she hissed.
She felt his arm snake about her waist. “Come with me,” he growled. “Or I shall make a scene.”
And he might, she realized. Oh, he would never truly humiliate her; she knew him well enough now to realize that. But Christian would somehow manage to set her face to blushing, and with no hesitation at all. And in truth, she wanted a few moments alone with him. She felt rather light-hearted as she gave a quick glance about the room to make certain no one was looking. Impatient, Grayston seized her by the hand, almost dragging her through the salon and into the dimly lit corridor. They had swept past a half-dozen doors before she managed to shake off his hand.
“This is not the garden!”
Christian slowed to a halt. “I said nothing about the garden,” he murmured, lifting one demonic black brow. “I said dark. The library is dark—and very, very empty.”
Before Elise could protest, he pushed open the heavy oak door, snapping shut the lock as soon as they plunged into the gloom. She had not a moment to draw breath before he pulled her backward against him, urging her shoulder blades against the powerful width of his chest. His arm tightened around her waist as he bent his head to set his lips against her neck. Crooking her head, she felt him nip at her skin, and she gave a little gasp of surprise.
Christian took her mouth with his, surging inside on a kiss that fired her blood and made her knees go weak. His every touch was hot and demanding, and against her better judgment, Elise fell fully back into his arms, reveling in the feel of his hands as they flowed over the front of her body. She let her head fall back against the strength of his shoulder as his hand stroked her cheek, her hair, and then slipped to the curve of her throat. With one arm banded about her waist, Christian dragged her hips back against the hardening ridge of his arousal while his other hand slid down her belly and lower still, imprisoning her in sweet sensation. His hand eased between her thighs, crumpling the fabric as he caressed her, his breath hot and fast against her temple now.
Elise knew she should argue, but she could no longer remember why she had once resisted his touch. And so she simply surrendered to it, allowing that slow, familiar ache to pool in her belly, and weigh down her good intentions. His hand moved back to her breast, his broad-tipped fingers skimming beneath the neckline of her gown to pinch and tease at her nipple. Dimly, Elise knew she should be frightened, but she was not. He turned her about and dragged her hard against his chest. “Elise,” he whispered.
His mouth took hers with a new urgency, moving almost desperately as he explored her with deep, hungry strokes. Christian urged her deeper into the shadows until Elise felt as if she were drowning in his touch. It felt as if the darkness swirled about them, absorbed them, and drew them inescapably into its depths. She was lost, swimming in sensation. And as he plunged into her mouth again, she let her hands slide beneath his coat and up the rock-solid muscles of his back as his heat and scent surrounded her. Warm male musk mingled with the smell of starch and cologne, making her wish she could strip away his every stitch and feast her eyes on his beauty.
But he is just a beautiful rake, she tried to remind herself. And he wants only one thing.
But the knowledge no longer dissuaded her. Elise wanted that one thing, too. What did that make her? She wasn’t sure she cared. She ached for his weight to settle over her, to press her down into the depths of sensation until he eased the torment his touch engendered.
Christian’s nostrils were flared wide now, and his warm, heavy hands were on her breasts, molding and caressing them through the fabric of her gown as he urged her backward. Suddenly, she felt something hard strike the backs of her thighs. Her eyes flew open. A table—? She’d backed into one of the reading tables. And the room was not quite pitch black, after all. Along the row of windows, a lamp burned, its wick cut back to near nothing. But it was enough to see the ferocity which burned in Christian’s eyes.
“Elise,” he whispered, his voice almost grim. “God. Elise.”
His teeth raked down her throat, and Elise felt him push her back onto the table. Felt his arm come out and sweep a stack of magazines onto the carpet as he crawled over her. Dragging her farther up the table, Christian set his powerful arms on either side of her head, and took her mouth again, thrusting into the recesses of her mouth, almost into her throat. It was good to feel his mouth possess her, to yield to his unrelenting pressure and draw his tongue deep into her mouth. In the dim light, she listened as her own breath sped up. Listened to her heart pound against his. Felt his hand cup her breast and rub her nipple until it hardened and made her arch, aching for more.
It was so easy to let him seize control, to shut away all thought of discovery, and simply lie beneath him, savoring the raw, sweet pleasure of his touch. Unable to hold back, she strained instinctively upward, urging her body against his as a physical need built inside her, drawing her to him as if only Christian could assuage it. As if of its own volition, her hand went to his trousers, molding the hard ridge of his erection with her palm and fingers. She was oddly emboldened by the darkness. “Christian, now please …” she heard herself whisper.
“Elise,” he choked, his tongue sliding down her neck, down her chest, delving hotly into the cleft between her breasts. “God almighty, Elise.”
She lay halfway up the length of the table now, the baize surface rough and cool beneath her back. She felt his hand go skimming up her stocking, felt her leg bared to the thigh and higher still. Christian fumbled with the slit of her drawers and tore it open. She gasped when his fingers stroked her flesh, gliding between the folds already swollen and moist to his touch.
“Elise,” he muttered again. “So sweet.”
Elise closed her eyes and fought for sanity. Alarm bells should be ringing in her head. The word no should spring unhesitatingly to her lips. But Elise seemed unable to form intent. Could think of nothing but having him inside her, easing her torment. Again, as if she’d willed it, her hips lifted, inviting him to claim her. Christian’s hands worked frantically at the close of his trousers. His lips were pressed tight, his breath dragging in and out through his nose as he released himself. She could see the swollen head of his shaft rise up. In the dimness, it was not so intimidating.
Oh, she should not. What sort of fool did this? But the chance to love swiftly and mindlessly was too tempting to resist; the risk of being caught was like a wicked aphrodisiac. On a soft cry, she reached out and seized him, slicking her hand down his length, awed by the power she felt stir inside the warm, bulging veins and satiny flesh.
On her next stroke, Christian’s head went back, and Elise sensed his spine draw taut as a bowstring, felt his whole body shudder with restraint. “Christian, please,” she whimpered, lifting her hips, aching for the weight and power of him. “Now. Please.”
He hardly needed to be told twice. On her second please, he shoved her legs wide with his knee, and without a word of warning, thrust himself home—deeply home—on a desperate grunt. Swift. Furious. Elise jerked at the sudden invasion. The heavy, searing heat filled her, stretched her beyond belief. But Christian clasped her hips, stilling her to take his powerful thrusts. “Oh, Elise. So—sorry. Can’t—oh, God. Can’t wait.”
The rhythm was driving, pounding, and dragging her with it. It should have hurt. It should have seemed cheap and crude to ruck up her skirts and let herself be mounted on top of a table. But it was neither. Instead, the relentless pounding became a pleasure. She wrapped both legs around his waist and clutched at him. Christian’s soft sounds mingled with hers as his fierce rhythm caught her up in its cadence. Pleasure and pain simmered and swirled, then leapt to full flame.
Elise fought him, and fought to pull against him, hungering for something she barely understood. Yearning to drown in that sweet, pulsing sensation which he’d shown her once before. Willingly, she arched her hips and let him drive deep. And when his long, warm fingers drew down the ruching of her ball gown, and the heat of his mouth found the hard peak of her breast, biting and suckling like some wild animal, Elise thought she would die. An invisible spiral of lust writhed inside her, twisting from her breast to her belly and into her womb. Uncontrollably, her back bowed and her climax seized her, fast and hard, jerking at her insides with a searing pleasure.
Holding her gaze with a wild, shocked expression, Christian arched his spine and withdrew almost fully, then sank himself deep on one last stroke. His head went back until the tendons of his neck strained, and then he exploded, washing her with the warmth of his seed as he jerked and shuddered. “Oh, Elise, Elise.” He whispered her name with every spasm.
It seemed a very long time before he finally fell against her, his breath heaving in and out of his chest as though driven by bellows. Christian dropped his fore-head to hers, and she felt his perspiration cool against her skin. “God almighty, woman,” he groaned. “Loving you will surely be the death of me.”
But Elise could not find her voice to ask him what he meant. It had all been too raw, too visceral. Too magnificent. Her heart still pounded in her chest. But one thing was now crystal clear. However exaggerated his other habits might be, the wicked marquis had fairly earned his reputation as a lover. Elise no longer cared if Christian made her act more like a whore than a lady, and if she were dancing down the road to ruin, at least she liked the tune.
But Christian, it seemed, was suffering a pang of conscience. He lifted his weight onto his hands and sat back, allowing his trousers and drawers to slide halfway down a pair of thickly-muscled thighs. His eyes drifted about the room, as if he were not perfectly sure where they were. “God, Elise.” It was a horrified whisper. “I cannot believe I did this. To you. Here.”
Elise held out her hands, and he grasped her fingers in his. “I cannot claim to have voiced any complaint,” she murmured. At that, Christian closed his eyes and shook his head, a soft laugh escaping his mouth.
And then, they heard it.
The muted squeal of a door hinge. Then a muffled, bubbly giggle.
“Christ Jesus—!” Christian was off her in a flash, shoving in shirttails and yanking down skirts as if the house were suddenly afire.
“Shh—!” Elise sat up, jerking her bodice up as she tilted her head toward the left wall. “Through the door,” she softly mouthed. “It’s Lucy! In Maynard’s study!”
Christian hitched up his trousers, casting an assessing eye over Elise as he buttoned them. Another light, feminine laugh could be heard through the heavy wood panel. “Come on, Elise,” he whispered, extending his hand to her. “Out! Now!”
But Elise shook her head and clambered off the table. “Christian, I know that giggle. Someone is up to no good.”
“Yes,” he murmured dryly. “And we know just how easily that can happen, do we not?”
Elise blushed. “Well, at least I am no innocent virgin,” she answered. “And if we don’t sort this out, someone else might.”
For a long moment, he hesitated, and then with a shrug, Christian crossed to the window and took up the lamp. With Elise dogging his footsteps, they tiptoed through the shadows toward the door. Christian laid his hand on the brass doorknob just as something thumped hard against the adjacent wall.
“Oh, Lord!” groaned Elise.
With a soft oath, Christian jerked open the door and entered, Elise hard on his heels. But at once, he stopped short and spun about, his elbow almost clipping Elise’s temple as he slapped a hand over his eyes. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Miss Onslow!”
On an angry gasp, Elise pushed past Christian just as Lord Robert Rowland shoved Lucy off his lap. But Elise could not miss Lucy’s wet, just-kissed mouth, nor the ample display of feminine flesh which Lord Robert had apparently been admiring. “Lucinda Onslow, you minx!” declared Elise.
Lucy burst at once into tears. “Aunt Elise!”
As Lucy struggled awkwardly to hitch up her gaping dress, Lord Robert jerked to his feet. He was shifting anxiously back and forth, as if unsure whether he’d be better served by soothing Lucy or placating her aunt. But the young man hesitated a moment too long, giving Elise the opportunity to turn on him. “What are you two thinking?” she demanded of him. “I daresay your mother will have you whipped within an inch of your life! I ought to do it myself! That is an innocent, untouched girl!” Her voice was steadily rising as she stabbed one finger at her cringing niece.
Christian caught Elise firmly by the shoulder and shoved his weight between them. “Shush, my dear,” he demanded, drawing her gently against his side. “Should anyone overhear you, we’ll have a worse scandal than this on our hands.”
Elise’s hand clamped over her mouth as her eyes flew open wide. Lucy drew one last pitiful snivel, and Christian raked his gaze down Lord Robert. “Boy, how old are you?” he gritted out.
“Eighteen, s-sir,” he stammered. “Almost.”
Christian eyed him in cold disapprobation. “Then there’s little question what must happen next, is there?”
Lucy gave another withering sob and pressed one fist to her mouth. Lord Robert lost what little remained of his color. “Do you mean … t-t-to call me out, sir?”
Christian gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Good God, no! I wouldn’t trouble myself to swab out my pistol barrels over a whelp like you,” he retorted. “But what I will do is take a horsewhip to your bare backside if I catch you pawing that girl again before you’ve the benefit of a parson.”
Lucy wailed again. “Oh, Elise, no—!” Like a skittish colt, she shot a tremulous glance toward Christian. “He c-can’t make me! Can he?”
Elise set her hands on her hips. “Make you what, Lucy?”
“M-Marry him—!” The withering gaze turned on Lord Robert.
Christian’s cold, silvery eyes shot sudden sparks. “And have you some better solution, Miss Onslow?” he snapped. “Your reputation is now in tatters.”
Lord Robert stepped forward, blinking nervously “Marriage?” the lad choked, looking as if he’d vastly prefer the horse-whipping. “Why, I c-can’t get married! I’m not of age!”
Christian leaned into him with barely tethered malevolence. “If you’re bold enough to press your attentions on an innocent, sir, then you are old enough to be caught in the parson’s mousetrap,” he said grimly. “Your stepfather will, I have no doubt, sign the appropriate papers.”
Lucy was crying in earnest now. Elise pressed one hand against Christian’s chest and pushed him back onto his heels. “Now just stop, all of you!” she softly demanded. “What is this, Lucy? Have you no wish to marry?”
“Oh, Aunt Elise, not to him!” sniveled Lucy. “I’ve not even had a Season! I was only practicing my f-f-feminine wiles …”
At that, Lord Robert spun on his heel and gaped at Lucy. Lucy looked at her aunt and heaved another awful sob. Elise pressed her lips tightly together and cast Christian a somewhat desperate glance. His eyes were black and narrow, his fists balled up as if Lucy were his own daughter. Lamely, Elise sighed. “Christian, we’ve no choice,” she said. “This must be hushed up. Even if Lucy were willing, and even if Lord Robert’s parents permitted it, neither is mature enough for marriage.”
“Yes, and they haven’t a thimbleful of brains between them,” he growled. But slowly, the tension left Christian’s shoulders and an angry sigh escaped his lips. “Oh, bloody hell!” he grumbled, fixing his steely gaze on Lucy. “I cannot believe this! Miss Onslow, dry your eyes and go straight up the servants’ stairs to your room. Then get on your knees and thank God for your aunt’s restraint. And for pity’s sake, child, save those feminine wiles for your husband, else you aren’t apt to get one.”
Lucy all but tripped over her skirts as she hastened from the room, bobbing and curtsying, and all the while clutching at the front of her dress. Christian turned his glower upon Robert as soon as the door clicked shut. “You, young man, will go out onto the veranda and await your stepfather’s wrath. I mean to have a word with him. And I have little doubt as to how he will deal with you.”
When Lord Robert looked as if he might protest, Christian grabbed him by his neckcloth and heaved him toward the door. “And should so much as a whisper of this pass your lips,” Christian warned, “I’ll drag your scrawny little arse to the nearest boxing salon, and beat all but the breath of life out of you. Then I’ll take what little is left home to your mama, where she will, I suspect, exact a far worse punishment.”
All his color gone, Lord Robert mumbled his gratitude, and more or less promised to cut out his tongue. Christian gave him one last nasty look. “Fine! Now get out before I lose what’s left of my warmth and compassion!”
Lord Robert darted for the door and jerked it open. But at the last second, he spun about, his eyes suddenly narrowed. “A curious thing, though, Grayston,” he said very quietly. “You never did mention what you were doing here.”
“Out!” roared the marquis.
The door thumped shut. Dragging one hand through his hair, Christian turned to face Elise. “Well,” he announced on a sigh. “I don’t know how it came to this, Elise. I really don’t. I have no experience—and even less business—in lecturing young men about their morals.”
Elise leaned into him and rested her hands against his chest. “But it was admirably done, sir.”
His eyes flashed with mild exasperation. Then swiftly, he kissed her and dragged her back into the library. “Wait for me here, Elise,” he ordered, his voice grim. “It is time we had a serious talk, you and I. As soon as I’m done with Amherst.”