Page 11 of How to Court a Rake
‘Some would call that a very brave rebellion, indeed. Many would also call it foolish,’ Mary challenged softly. ‘I am happy for you that you have the choice. We are different then, not quite as alike as you originally posited.Youstill get to choose. No one, not even the King, can truly force you if you are willing to pay the price, which is not so very great. You get to keep your title for your lifetime. It’s still more than you started with.’
Whereas for her it was all still captivity. He saw the unspoken juxtaposition of her argument. She was just trading jailers. Not for the first time that night, Caine thought this woman beside him, who followed the rules so diligently yet thrilled to the sipping of port, who dared to dance with him on not one occasion but two, deserved something better than the fate that awaited her. Perhaps there was something he could do for her, something he could give her.
He reached a hand to cup the fine curve of her jaw, his touch slow and sure so as not to startle her with the intimacy of it, but there was no mistake—this was not how a gentleman touched a lady. Her eyes followed his hand, he felt her skin warm against his palm. ‘You are all petals and pearls. I’ve never seen skin so fine.’ His thumb stroked the high, elegant arch of her cheekbone, her quicksilver eyes going dark at his words. He moved his thumb to the rosy bow of her lips, drawing them apart, tracing the lower one in a slow, lingering caress.
Her hand gripped his wrist, her fingers too slender, her grip too small to encircle its girth entirely. ‘What are you doing?’ The question came out on a breathy sigh. She was teetering—wanting to know as much as she felt she ought to put a halt to it.
‘Say my name,’ came the whispered growl. ‘“What are you doing, Caine?” and then maybe I’ll tell you.’ His mouth was at her ear again, feathering a gentle breath against it, his hand moving to rest at the base of her neck, feeling her pulse accelerate.
‘What are you doing,Caine?’ She breathed the words and he smiled against her skin.
‘Can you not guess? Surely you have imagination enough,’ he teased softly, his teeth nipping at her ear, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. He trailed kisses along her jaw, slow and deliberate, making his destination clear, giving her time to object. He did not kiss unwilling women. But there was no objection, only a sigh that ended with a little sob of want and the shift of her head as she turned into his kiss, her mouth meeting his.
He led her into it with the gentle instruction of his mouth, coaching hers to open, coaxing her to taste, to tangle in mimicry of his own.
Copy me, follow me, it said.Come with me a little further on this path we’ve walked tonight and I will show you a garden of delights.
And she did. He felt the moment when she gave herself over to him, to this brief adventure. There was the press of her body against his, the realisation that kissing was not for mouths only. She tasted deliciously of the port, smelled of English springtime, sweetness and seduction rolled into one. Did she realise what she was offering with the crush of her breasts against his evening jacket? He dared not take it, not when she was caught up in the first throes of passion newly discovered. The moan that purled up her throat was his sign that they’d reached the end of that path. He should not take them beyond this point.
He withdrew from the kiss gradually, cupping her jaw once more as he released her mouth, letting his eyes hold hers so that she could see his want, his regret that the kiss must end. He did not want her to doubt, or to think he withdrew from disappointment when just the opposite was true. He’d enjoyed kissing her, more than he would have thought a few weeks ago. Hell, a few weeks ago he’d not even conceived of kissing Lady Mary Kimber.
But a lot had changed in two weeks. Stepan was missing, a traitor was at large, he’d been made a marquess and given an ultimatum to wed. The Four Horsemen had gone from hellions to husband material, a sure sign of end times.
Her grey eyes were wide in posthumous realisation of what they’d done, of what she’d experienced. Her elegant fingers went to her lips as if she could touch the memory of him, a gesture that he found provocatively erotic. Her voice was a sensual husk when she spoke. ‘Why did you do that?’ There was no scold in it.
‘Because you deserve to know passion, at least once,’ he said in quiet tones. Because now she would have something to hold on to against all the kisses to come. He could not change her fate, but he could gift her with a memory.
She blushed, her gaze downcast, a soft smile on her lips. ‘Thank you, Caine.’ Then she rose. He did not stop her. It was beyond time to return to the ball.
He stood with her. ‘I will go back by way of the garden.’ She would go back to the ballroom through the hallway to ensure they arrived separately. He held her gaze, forcing her to look at him. ‘Will you be all right?’ He felt protective of her. She gave a small nod of assurance and turned for the door.
‘Mary,’ he called at the last. ‘If you ever have need, send word.’
She glanced over her shoulder, her features already schooled into politeness, her mask firmly, admirably already in place. ‘Of course, thank you,’ she said as if he’d offered her a glass of punch, as if they’d not, moments before, had their tongues in one another’s mouths. The door shut behind her and Caine raised an appreciative toast to the empty room. Lady Mary Kimber was a cool customer indeed. Who would have thought?
Chapter Seven
Caine focused his thoughts on the half-composed list that lay beside his breakfast plate. It was no easy task considering his thoughts felt they had better places to be—back in the dimly lit library kissing Mary Kimber, worrying about Lucien holed up in his new estate with his grief and refusing to engage in the Season, worrying about Kieran who was perhaps engaging in the Season a bit too much—and always there was that insistent faction of thoughts that remained committed to being on the dock in Wapping searching for Stepan, steadfastly convinced his brother was out there…somewhere.
Where his thoughtsneededto be, though, was on creating a list of likely suspects behind the sabotage. Caine reached for his coffee cup, hoping a hot swallow would centre him, burn his distractions to oblivion or at least drive them to the back of his mind. The arms sabotage had to come first, nothing else could follow until that was resolved, not just for England but for Stepan. If he couldn’t have his brother, he would have his revenge.
The sound of boots on hardwood announced Kieran’s presence. Caine checked his watch as his brother entered, fully shaved, and dressed. ‘This is awfully early for you.’ Since the titles had been bestowed, Kieran hadn’t been home before four or up before noon. Caine missed his morning riding partner. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’ He snapped his pocket watch shut.
‘I have calls to pay,’ Kieran replied cheerily, filling a plate with a hefty scoop of eggs.
Caine raised a brow. ‘So, you’re taking the marriage challenge seriously?’
‘I’m serious about promoting the illusion that I am.’ Kieran winked as he took his seat.
‘As am I,’ Caine retorted, feeling there was a scold wrapped somewhere in Kieran’s words.
‘You’re not doing a very good job. You dance, but you have to pay calls, you have to follow up on your intentions or else you’re still a rake.’ Kieran shot his cuffs for emphasis and gave a devilish grin. ‘A gentleman pays calls, Brother.’ He flicked a finger at a folded newspaper at his place. ‘How does Lady Mary Kimber feel about your attentions?’
He took a sip of his coffee and Caine didn’t like the slow smile on his brother’s face as if Kieran knew something he didn’t. ‘You haven’t seen the pages this morning, have you? Your dance and subsequent departure to the gardens was noted. Page five. My valet delivers a copy to my room before I come down.’
Caine scowled. Mary wouldn’t thank him for the attention.
Kieran chuckled. ‘Finally, I get one over on you. Let me enjoy my victory.’
