But he wouldn’t stop. He stroked, stroked, stroked. The tide of sensation, of agony, was building in her. But it was too much.
He caught hold of her hands so she couldn’t push him away or pull free. Relentlessly, he suckled and teased. This was so much more intense than her caresses. She arched her hips up to him. She had to close her eyes, grip his hands.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! My lord!” She wanted him to never stop, to take her over the brink—
She exploded. Her body clenched and pulsed and she thrashed with it. Saw fireworks—worthy of Vauxhall—then sparkling darkness. She was screaming!
He stopped her shouts with a kiss, covering her mouth with his. His lips tasted of her quim, rich and primal and musky, and his fingers stroked her. She was still coming, still pulsing, still caught up in ecstasy. Then, she opened her eyes to find him leaning over her, braced on his muscular arms. He smiled down at her. She touched his cheek, and he kissed her palm. A gesture that made her heart tremble.
Then she realized she was half-naked, drenched in sweat and her juices, and had screamed his house down in the middle of the morning.
She sat up abruptly, almost falling to the side as she did. Her head was dizzy—lovemaking was as intoxicating as liquor. She must put herself to rights but her bodice was crumpled beneath her bare breasts, her skirts a wrinkled mess.
“What is wrong, my dear? Why the haste?”
“I—oh, what have I done? I am—” Horrified, she thought of his offer. “You see I’m not good and proper at all, my lord. I am not the sort of woman who should paint Lady Ravenwood’s baby.”
As she slapped at her skirt to try to smooth it, he kissed her cheek. “Marcus. After that intimacy we are Marcus and Venetia, my dear. And you aren’t wicked, love. However, you aren’t going to Chartrand’s.”
“I do not require your permission!”
“I could stop you in a heartbeat,” he warned, “Merely by telling your father.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I could dispatch a footman with a note immediately.”
He crossed his arms over his bared chest, forearms and biceps bulging—how could she notice such a thing when he threatened to betray her? How could he do such a thing after giving her an intimate French kiss?
To protect her. She almost laughed at the madness. He was the noblest man she’d ever known yet he had just licked her quim until she saw stars.
She stared down at her hopeless skirts. “Then you have won, my lord. I cannot go.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I take it I am here to play Devil’s Advocate?” Viscount Ravenwood leaned back and sipped his brandy.
Sprawled on his leather chair, Marcus raked his hand over his jaw. “Miss Hamilton has every intention of going to Chartrand’s bacchanalia and I suspect that nothing short of chaining the woman to the bed would stop her.” The sudden scorching mental image of Miss Hamilton in playful bondage sent blood racing to his groin.
Firelight was the only light cutting the blackness of his library. Marcus wasn’t certain why he’d summoned Stephen here, and before his brother-in-law could counter, he said, “And you bloody well know I can’t snitch to her father. Miss Hamilton will hire an escort—some seedy ex-Runner who will likely rape her. Or Chartrand will find out who she is and make her the centerpiece of some perverse sexual display.”
Stephen grinned. “You’re looking for an excuse to go with her.”
“Hell and damnation, Stephen, she’s a virgin. If she wanted to drink an entire bottle of brandy, I’d stop her.” But he was trying to justify taking her, not stopping her. “She’s sensual…innately sensual, but innocent. And a day at Chartrand’s event should shock her into realizing she must give up her career.”
“And she needs a noble escort who won’t ravish her?”
He’d already ravished her—with his mouth. Rock-hard at the memory, his cock strained against his trousers. He would love to do it again. The delectable Miss Hamilton deserved to discover her sexuality. He could teach her without hurting her, without spoiling her future.
“I began with a kiss. A kiss to prove a point.” He lowered his head, unable to look Stephen in the eye. “I’ve never been kissed like that—it was more passionate, more heated, more explosive than any other kiss I’ve had. She was so…untutored, but so giving.” And then, in his library, he’d begun again to ‘prove a point’ and been overwhelmed by desire.
He launched to his feet to pace. “Damnation, Stephen, is it her innocence that tempts me? Am I the same kind of blackguard as my father?”
“Christ, no!”
The vehemence of Stephen’s cry gave him the answer he needed, even as Stephen assured him, “You are not the same kind of man as your father, Marcus.”
Marcus tossed back his brandy as he strode across the carpet. “Lydia Harcourt is blackmailing me.”
Stephen’s liquor sloshed over his ice-blue waistcoat. “Hades, over what? Everyone in England knows your reputation for bedding women. I believe it even extends to the Continent and the Americas.”
He frowned. That might be true if Venetia Hamilton’s book found its way there. “Father’s scandals.”
His brother-in-law’s face went stark white. “God, not—”
“Not Min,” Marcus lied. “Lady Susannah Lawrence, the young woman who got with child and killed herself. And the details of my father’s disgusting practice of having madams procure innocents for him. I’m terrified what having that in print would do to Min. To Mother.”
Stephen rubbed his temple. “Why in Hades would your father confess to Lydia Harcourt?”
“Drink. He spent his days in a brandy bottle and was possessed by devils. The witch—I quote from her letter—‘sought to ease his pain by encouraging him to confess his troubles’.”
The rest of the letter haunted him. A subject of great delicacy…Lady Ravenwood…secrets… Damn that bitch, Lydia.
“How much does she want?”
“Ten thousand.”
Stephen grimaced. His white hand gripped the glass. “Do you plan to pay her?”
“I’d like to wring her blasted neck. But I’m thinking of negotiating a trade. If I can get hold of her manuscript, I can trade it for her silence. I imagine she’s taken her book to Chartrand’s with her. I’ll burn it page by page until she agrees.”
“And Miss Hamilton?” Stephen prompted.
“Taking a pretty new mistress to Chartrand’s orgy would be the perfect disguise.”
“Take her because you want to,” Stephen advised. “Don’t take her as a way to punish yourself with temptation.”
Marcus swung open the door as his carriage clattered to a stop on the street outside Venetia’s narrow townhouse. A slim figure in a swirling black cloak darted out from the shadow and hastened down the steps.
Leaning out, Marcus reached for her hand. At this hour the street was deserted, save for his servants loading her trunks. Her delicate fingers slid across his palm. As he drew her up into his softly lit, private world, she pushed back her deep hood. He caught his breath as he gazed into effervescent hazel eyes.
Holding her cloak about her, she settled in the seat opposite him. He raised a brow—after the sensual session in his library, he’d expected her to cuddle up against him.
She