Chapter Six

 

Rowan could hardly believe that Sophie had just agreed to let him touch her, pleasure her. This had not been his plan when he approached her in the garden, but here they were, alone in the steamy darkness, her body trembling as he leaned up on his knees and claimed her mouth once again.

He’d always liked kissing. He was a proficient at it, if his lovers were telling the truth. He could do it for hours, truth be told, allowing desire to build in a slow, powerful burn until there was nothing left but throbbing need.

Sophie took him to that place in moments. His cock was like stone, rubbing uncomfortably against his trouser front, his body whispering all the things he wanted to do to the lady who was moaning against his lips, her trembling hands smoothing gently across his chest. He couldn’t do, wouldn’t do, any of those things his body desired, of course. He might be on a path that he didn’t like, but there was still a gentleman in him. He wouldn’t force her hand by claiming her.

But he was certainly not above seducing her to push her toward his plans. Not when the thought of it was so damned pleasurable.

He dragged her to the edge of the bench, forcing her legs to part to give him a place. She shivered, her tongue driving into his mouth with an increased abandon that set him on fire. He’d never thought she was passionate. Her reputation of always saying no had led people to say she was cold.

She was not. Her fingers glided into his hair, her heart pounded hard enough that he could feel it—her body was like an inferno. She gasped when he slid his hand down her side, curling it around to cup her breast for a second time. Just as it had been the first time he touched her so intimately, her nipple was a hard outline beneath her thin gown. He stroked his thumb over it, measuring her every reaction, from the catch of her breath to the arch of her back to the way she trembled.

He wanted more. As much as she could give. He wanted it now.

He gripped a handful of silken skirt in his fist, tugging it up over her calves, her knees. She gasped a second time and jerked her head back to look at him in the dim light. Her eyes were wide, uncertain but also filled with undeniable need. He held that stare, unwavering as he glided the skirt higher, over her thighs. Only then did he look down at what had been revealed.

She had lovely legs, and they were clad in a finely stitched, almost sheer stocking that was silky to the touch when he let his hand settle on her knee.

She jolted. “Rowan!” she gasped, a question and a plea.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers until she relaxed slightly. “I’m not going to ruin you,” he promised a second time.

He didn’t wait for her response but began to nibble his way along her neck, down to the slope of her gown. He dragged his mouth over her breast, wishing he had time to strip her naked, to worship her as she deserved to be worshipped.

She made a strangled cry as he placed a hand on each thigh and gently pushed, giving himself more space and revealing her in the moonlight that filtered into the hothouse. Her drawers were easily parted, and he stopped breathing as he looked at the slick, fragrant flower of her sex, there for him to pluck so easily.

She turned her head. “You shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.”

He glanced up. Her hands were gripped against the edge of the bench, her breath was short, she worried her lip.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “But I’m still going to do it. You still want me to.”

She nodded, and the wordless consent was all he needed. He leaned in, brushing his fingertips against her first. She jolted at the first contact, her hips lifting slightly toward him in a natural yearning for the pleasure he would give. Some part of her understood that, even though she’d never experienced it. Even if it frightened her because she’d spent her whole life being told that what he wanted to do was wicked. Wrong. A cause for ruination and despair.

He wanted to replace all those fears with powerful memories. To wake that passion he could see inside of her. To make her crave what he could give rather than fearfully brace herself.

He stroked her again, parting her outer folds with his thumbs. She was slick already, aroused by his kisses, by the way he’d touched her so far. Her responsiveness only drove him with more fevered purpose. He drew a long whiff of her sweetness and then ducked his head to stroke his tongue across her at last.

 

 

The riot of feelings that cascaded over Sophie as Rowan touched her in this utterly sinful, completely inappropriate, fantastically wonderful way was almost indescribable.

She was shocked, of course. His mouth was on her. His mouth. And he was kissing her with abandon in her most personal and private of places.

But her reaction, both body and soul, was not what she knew it should be. She should be outraged and horrified, should push him away and tell her aunt.

Instead, her body flared with heat and pleasure unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She dipped her head back, holding tighter and tighter to the bench’s edge as he stroked his tongue across the entire entrance of her trembling sex. Electric pleasure sizzled through her, and she let out a tiny cry she could not have kept inside for all the riches in the world. That sound only seemed to drive Rowan, for he held her more firmly in place with his big hands on her thighs and darted his tongue across her with purpose.

She lifted against him on instinct, her breath vanishing with the pleasure that grinding on his tongue created. This was…magical. This was spectacular. This was everything, and she surrendered to it and to him.

He must have felt that shift, that softening of her guard, for he increased his strokes, focusing his tongue on the hidden bundle of nerves she occasionally brushed in her bath or her bed. The pleasure she felt from that innocent touch was magnified by his wicked mouth. It built, driving her toward a cliff that she couldn’t see and didn’t fully understand. She just knew that what she felt was building, rushing out of control.

He sucked at her, and suddenly all the sensation reached its natural crescendo. She bucked against him helplessly, letting out keening cry after keening cry as pleasure unlike anything she’d ever experienced rushed over her. There was no stopping it, no fighting it, no changing it. It just was, and she had to ride it to its end as he continued to pleasure her through it all. Until she was weak with it and sagged against the bench, her breath short and her body flushed in the aftermath.

Only then did he lift his head from between her thighs. He looked up at her, searching her face, seeing her in a way that made her even more uncomfortable and exposed than the wicked things he’d just done. She turned her face, shoving at her skirts as he shifted to take a place beside her on the bench.

“That is pleasure, Sophie. And it’s only the beginning,” he whispered, his voice rough and low and sensual. She was shocked that her body responded to the sound, still aching for more of what she’d just experienced.

She stood, pacing away from him, her hands shaking, her knees unsteady. He watched her, silent for a long moment, and then he said, “Sophie.”

It was just her name, but his voice saying it forced her to turn toward him. Made her want to fall into his arms. Her blood went cold at that realization as she stared at him. He was utterly calm, completely in control. The only outward sign of what they’d done was his mussed hair, where her fingers had threaded. A few sweeps and he would be perfect again, untouched and unchanged by what they’d done.

Meanwhile, she would never be the same.

“We—we should not have done that,” she whispered.

He arched a brow. “You regret it?”

She caught her breath. Regret it? She should regret it. She should be horrified by what she’d done, not want to repeat it. Not want to do even more. That was part of the problem. Her reaction was wrong and terrible.

“I-I don’t—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “No matter what your friends or the stuffy women of the ton might tell you. Pleasure is natural, something to be celebrated and sought, not shunned.”

She folded her arms. “So say you, a man. Someone who can take his pleasure without consequence. Meanwhile, I must now live with what I did. What I allowed you to do. If anyone found out, I would be labeled a wanton. My future prospects could be damaged.”

“What happened to living a life of adventure, without fear?” he asked as he pushed to his feet. When he moved toward her, she forgot all her clever answers and solid reasons for pulling away from him.

She forgot everything but that moment when his mouth had drawn intense pleasure from her. A sensation she hadn’t even known could exist.

She blinked, trying desperately to bring herself back to the present. To recall why what he suggested was unsafe and unsavory, despite the pleasurable results of it. And that was the danger of his actions, of her reaction. A few stolen moments and all her reason was gone. She was ready to throw everything to the wind for him.

She’d seen the results of such a loss of control before. Up close. Personal. The consequences of her mother’s obsession with her father had led to her going driving with him even when he’d been drinking. Had led to the accident that had torn them both away. They’d led to Sophie’s world being destroyed.

And here she was, standing at the edge of the very same cliff with Rowan Sinclair.

Rowan Sinclair, a confirmed rake. Rowan Sinclair, a seducer of women. Rowan Sinclair, who was looking at her like he knew he could draw her in at any time, suck her life away, make her follow him to the ends of the earth with just a crook of his talented fingers.

“There are some actions that go far beyond adventure. Into foolishness. Into places where I never should have gone.” She pushed past him, toward the door. The hothouse was suddenly too close, too dark, too intimate. She needed to flee.

But he didn’t let her. He caught her arm and tugged her back against his chest, forced to look up into his impossibly blue eyes. Eyes she could lose herself in. A man she could lose herself in.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she said, not meaning to voice it out loud, but there it was. “This was a mistake, Rowan, no matter how pleasurable it was. And I can’t repeat it. I’m sorry, good—good night.”

She tugged her arm from his grip and he let her go. He had no response, but simply watched her as she walked away. It was funny that his silent regard was harder to escape from than any sweetly whispered words. Somehow, though, she managed it, and stepped from the steamy greenhouse and back into the world. Reality.

Which suddenly seemed far less sparkling than it had before.

 

 

Rowan lifted to the balls of his feet and scanned the ballroom a third time. Still, he found no trace of Sophie. Just as he hadn’t when he looked for her in the garden. Just as he hadn’t when he sought her out in the numerous parlors. She had disappeared.

And all he could think about was her crumpled expression when she whispered that she didn’t want to lose herself. He’d always seen her as so strong. So independent of spirit and mind. From the outside she looked untouchable, unbreakable, but now he’d seen a glimpse into the truth of her.

She was afraid. Afraid of the passion he’d awakened in her. Afraid of the idea of giving herself over to the care of another person, even for a moment. That was why she said no. No was a cloak she wore, a shield she carried. Beneath was the soft and vulnerable heart of a woman.

And he was a bastard for having ulterior motives when it came to her.

“You look sour.”

He turned to find Percy coming toward him, a drink held out in offering. He took it but didn’t partake. “Do I?” he mused softly.

“I assume your desperate search to determine what has driven Lady No to become Lady Yes has come up short, despite your best efforts?” Percy teased.

Rowan turned his face. “Her reasons are her own,” he said softly. “It’s wrong to pry.”

Percy leaned back, eyebrows lifting. “When just a short time ago you were determined to be the hero of the Season?”

“I was not,” Rowan said, frustration rising in his chest. “I was curious, as I’m sure many are. The feeling has passed.”

“But you have been dancing with the lady. Spending time with her. You haven’t turned that to your advantage?”

Rowan flinched. Turned it to his advantage? That was exactly what he’d been trying to do from the moment he discovered Sophie’s secret. Turn it to his advantage.

“Unless your motive for spending time with the young woman are something less probative,” Percy continued. “Her purse is—”

“Stop,” Rowan said through clenched teeth.

Percy’s brow furrowed. “What? I’m just—”

Rowan caught his lapels and shook him. “Stop. Now.”

Percy backed away, his eyes wide as he pulled from Rowan’s grip. “There now, Sinclair, there’s no need for that. Jesus.”

Rowan stared at his friend. A man he knew to be good and decent and filled with nothing but good humor. Yet a few ill-placed words and Rowan had been willing to come to blows with him.

Over Lady Sophie.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Percy held his gaze for a beat, then motioned toward the door. “Come. We need a far stronger drink than the weak swill this lot calls sherry.”

Rowan nodded silently, and followed his friend from the room and down the hallway to an open parlor. They entered, and Rowan sat as Percy poured them each a glass of scotch. Rowan downed his in one swig before Percy could even take his seat.

“What’s wrong?”

“They cut me off,” he admitted.

Percy’s eyebrows lifted. “Your brothers?”

“Completely. I depend on the allowance, I’ve never done much to save it. It’s…”

“It’s complicated,” Percy said. “Because of your art.”

Rowan bent his head. Only a handful of people knew of his passion. “Yes. I have never made what I do public. I have tried to build myself as an artist on my own merit, rather than on the curiosity of those who might buy a piece. I have kept it quiet to protect my family name. And now I have nothing. So I admit that when I started to pursue Sophie, her purse did have something to do with that. What kind of a man does that make me, Percy? What kind of a bastard does it make me?”

“The same as a dozens of other bastards in our acquaintance,” Percy said with a shake of his head. “Money and power make most marriages in the Upper Ten Thousand go ’round. But I know you, my old friend. This self-abusing thing you are doing has nothing to do with what you don’t feel. It seems to me that you are torturing yourself with what you do.”

Rowan pushed to his feet. Percy was treading dangerously close to ground he didn’t want to walk. Didn’t want to look at.

“Do you care for this girl?”

There was the question in a nutshell. The one he’d never fully expected to ask himself or have asked to him. “I have…no answer to that.”

Percy seemed to ponder that for a moment. “I see. You’ve circled her a long time. Far longer than just the last week or so.”

“I suppose I have, considering my long friendship with her aunt,” he conceded.

“Is that why you formed the friendship?”

Rowan blinked. “That’s ludicrous.”

“Is it? Because I watched you watch Sophie for at least a year before you became her guardian’s friend. I don’t doubt you and Lady Louisa do connect, but was that your true motivation?”

“I would have spoken to Sophie long before if I had feelings for her,” Rowan said, folding his arms and glaring at his friend.

“Would you have? You, who have never been said no to in your life? Would you have truly risked Lady No’s cut direct?”

“What are you saying?”

“That perhaps the money and this sudden drive in her to say yes are just catalysts for you to pursue what you’ve always secretly wanted. And now that you feel closer to it, you’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Percy hesitated, and then he said, “Actually losing something you care about. Like you did your father.”

Rowan walked away. Percy’s words cut so close to the bone. Far closer than he’d ever thought they could. Probably because there was truth to them.

Yes, he’d watched Sophie over the years. He’d admired her spirit and her wit far more than her beauty and her dowry. But he’d never come too close. Neither had she.

And now he knew what it was like to lose something he’d had and loved more than anything. His father had been Rowan’s lifeline, his calm ear and advice, his sharp conscience when he needed that. Losing him had been devastating. It still was. Perhaps it always would be.

And perhaps there was some truth to the idea that it made him reach for Sophie. So that he wouldn’t lose her without even trying for more.

So where did that leave him?

“She’s afraid of something deeper,” he admitted softly.

“So are you.” Percy folded his arms, daring Rowan to deny it.

“Perhaps I am at that.” Rowan let out a long sigh. “Perhaps that’s why it will never work.”

Percy cocked his head. “I hate to hear that,” he said softly. “That you would walk away from something because it felt too…real. That sounds like a deathbed regret I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

Rowan shrugged. “It’s something to think about,” he conceded slowly.

“Indeed. And I assume you are now going to excuse yourself to consider it at length.”

“You know me too well,” Rowan said, squeezing his friend’s arm. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Percy called after him as he exited the parlor. “Call on me if you want to drink some of your troubles away during the thinking part.”

Rowan laughed as he left his friend behind, but there was nothing joyful in his heart. It was now a jumble that he had to sort out or else risk hurting everyone involved in the situation. Something he very much didn’t want to do. For himself. For her.