Page 40 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
He kissed her. He wasn’t slow, and he wasn’t gentle. And the fact that she was completely untutored in kissing infuriated him even more. She was a lie. She deserved all the pain he could give her. She was…
She was an innocent, and he had to soften. He had to be gentle with her, and so he did. He didn’t want to, contradictory beast that he was. He liked his anger. Stoked it to a hot flame, but not against her.
So he softened. He gentled.
Where before he had simply wrenched her mouth to his, he now petted her chin. And though he had forced his tongue into her mouth, he eased his penetration. He teased her and then pulled back.
“You are a lie,” he said to her panting chest.
“You are a brute,” she answered, anger vibrating between them.
“Yes, and worse. I’m a bastard.”
“You’re not even ashamed.”
Oh, he was. He was riddled with shame, but he wouldn’t let her see it. She had to know the truth about him. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Miss Bluebell. ButI’ll be taking youas I do it.”
He felt the impact of his words on her body. She shuddered, but she also licked her lips. Part of her wanted him, brute though he was.
“I am a lady.”
“Ladies spread their legs for me all the time.”
“Not me.”
“Then I’ll not take you anywhere.”
He felt her accept the truth of his words. Her body bowed, and her shoulders drooped. But when she spoke, her voice was strong with conviction.
“I don’t need you to take me. I’ve coin eno’. The mail coach goes to Oxfordshire and London.”
“You’ll be prey to every bloke who sees you.”
She finally jerked her chin away from his fingers. “’At’s been true since I first filled out a dress.” And then before he could anticipate her move, before it registered that he was in danger, she lifted her knee.
How she’d maneuvered it so perfectly, he didn’t know. One moment, he was hard as a rock, still thinking of ways to make her willing. The next there was a blinding flash of white-hot pain, and he was crumpled on the ground.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He just knew pain. And one word:
Bravo.
Chapter Eight
Bastards dream. And they’re really good atit.
Bloody bastard. Lecherousblackguard. Fat, stupid, spurious, ignoble…
The synonyms went on in Maybelle’s mind. An endless litany of invectives using her entire vocabulary, adding nonsense words when she ran out. Most of them weren’t even true. He wasn’t fat or stupid, but he was lecherous, as all men were. That wasn’t a surprise. And yet, his kiss had surprised her. But in the end, he only saw her as a set of legs to spread for his amusement.
Why had she thought London men were different? Thathewas different.
She was wrong. She relived kneeing him in the privates. The satisfaction of that moment made her smile, though she felt no joy in it. She didn’t like hurting anyone. Her goals had always been manipulation for mutual benefit. Not damage, not pain, not writhing in the dirt, his lips pulled back in a grimace of agony.
She’d done that to him, but she didn’t regret it. And yet, she did. She regretted that he’d forced her into that position. That she’d felt the need to protect herself from his base instincts. After everything, he was still just a venal man, and she was no closer to confronting her father than she’d been before Mr. Hallowsby had appeared.
Very well. Moving on.
Mr. Hallowsby had been a distraction, an inspiration born of Lady Linsel’s obvious hatred of her voice. Maybelle had been overcome with the fear that her father wouldn’t even listen to her because of her accent.
