“You can’t tell me you’ve never been kissed—I won’t believe it. Paris is not so full of stupid men. ”
“The entire world is choked to death with stupid men. I’ve been kissed before. ”
His expression would have been gratifying if she was in the mood to notice. “Indeed, it is. I should have tried it this way. ” His mouth brushed hers, light, soft, and she rose into it, unconsciously wanting more. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her up and into his body, deepening the kiss, and his other hand cupped her chin, his long fingers gently stroking the sides of her face as he kissed her with the seductive, leisurely expertise of the devil himself, and when
his fingers tugged she opened her mouth for him, wanting him. To her complete and utter shame, wanting him.
A moment later he set her aside, backing away, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.
No one ever suggested that the Viscount Rohan was slow to understand subtleties. There was but the slightest pause. “So you’ve been kissed before but still fail to meet my requirements,” he murmured. “But how delightful for me. If you’re no longer a virgin then there’s nothing to keep you from going to bed with me. I’m even considering unfastening my breeches after all. Or doesn’t your expertise go that far?”
She’d asked for it, she deserved it. For letting him kiss her, for, God help her, kissing him back. In trying to shock him, she’d only managed to degrade herself further.
“No?” he said lazily, turning away from her for an unguarded moment. “Tant pis. I can teach you easily enough. ”
She backed away from him, coming up against the table that held the tray and her empty plate. And the fork.
For a weapon it was pathetic, but it was all she had. She grabbed it, sending the tray crashing to the floor. “If you touch me again I will stab you. ”
He made the very dire mistake of laughing at her. “That’s not going to do much damage through these clothes, poppet. And there’s no need to threaten me with your fury. I haven’t taken a woman against her will in decades—I would hardly be likely to start with you. ”
As a reminder of her lack of beauty his statement was effective enough to make her lower her arm. Even his following words couldn’t break through the tightly controlled pain. “You’re much too interesting to take by rape. Besides, what could you do with a fork?”
“I could stab you in the eyes,” she said fiercely.
“You couldn’t reach them. Besides, you don’t want to. You’d much rather I kissed you again. Let me demonstrate. ” And he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, against his hard, warm body.
Author: Anne Stuart
It was a different body, strong and hard, so very different from the soft, sagging flesh of the other, but she panicked anyway, struggling, and without thought stabbed the fork into his upper arm, where she’d seen the bandage.
His reaction shocked her. He merely flinched, but the hold on her changed abruptly, and a moment later she found herself on the sofa, wrapped in his arms, held tightly, and she had no idea why. He held her as a father might comfort a child, and she realized with shock that she was sobbing, loud, noisy sobs. And then she stopped thinking at all, giving in to all the grief and fear and sorrow that had torn at her life with a thousand tiny claws.
His arm was around her, and blood was seeping through the sleeve where she’d jabbed him, and she moaned and tried to say something, but he simply shifted her in his arms so that she couldn’t see it, holding her head against his chest and gently stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, as the harsh sobs racked her body. From a distance she could hear his words, soft, comforting, half in a language she couldn’t understand, but then it was simply the sound of his voice that soothed her, the way he held her, strong yet gentle, so that for the first time in what seemed a lifetime she could stop fighting, she could simply let go of everything, for a brief, blessed moment. She could simply be.
She truly did have the most amazing ability to fall asleep in his presence, Rohan thought absently, stroking her tear-damp face. He’d recognized the signs of it, the slowing of her breath, the infrequent shudders, her clutch on his perfect silk waistcoat loosening. It would never recover from the wrinkles, but it was little matter—he was bleeding all over it. Another extremely expensive article of clothing ruined, thanks to Miss Harriman. Poor poppet.
He considered carrying her into his bed, to let her finish her exhausted sleep, but thought better of it. If she awoke while he carried her she’d panic, and he really didn’t fancy her slamming into his wound once more. He’d probably drop her, ruining the entire, romantic effect of it.
He had to laugh at himself. Romantic gestures were as far removed from his life as this kind of tenderness. All he’d been able to do was treat her as Mrs. Clarke had treated him so many years ago. “Peace, now, love,” he whispered in Gaelic, a language he’d forgotten he knew. He rose from the sofa, cradling her carefully and lay her down on it. There was blood on the silk damask. If he spent much more time with Miss Harriman he was going to need to replace his wardrobe and his furniture. She was going through things at a prodigious pace.
She slept, exhausted, and he stared down at her. Her face was blotched and puffy from the tears. With the Harriman Nose she was such a far cry from her pretty little sister, from the beauties that surrounded him. She was a ragamuffin of misery. So why was he wasting even a moment of his time on her?
The answer was instant, obvious and reassuring. He was bored. It was that simple. She was something entirely new in his sphere of existence, and he appreciated the novelty. He’d tire of her soon enough, thank heavens. In the meantime she was entertaining.
He moved his arm, and flinched, glancing down at his blood-soaked sleeve. Such drama was exhausting, even as it entertained. She hadn’t been raped—that much was obvious, or she would have reacted more strongly to his use of the word. No, it must have simply been some clumsy fool. Perhaps she’d been in love with him and he’d used her poorly and left her. Without even so much as a kiss, poor angel. He wasn’t a great fancier of kisses, but someone like Elinor Harriman needed to be kissed, well and often.
A sensible woman would simply look for another lover, but women were seldom sensible. And doubtless his sleeping guest thought her life ruined after one awkward encounter.
Etienne would do very well for her. She would no longer have to brood about her lack of virginity, and while he doubted his cousin had the imagination to awaken her senses, he was, after all, French, and they were, reputedly, particularly good at that sort of thing. With luck, the good doctor could work her past her painful memories, and then he could step in and finish her education, much to their mutual pleasure.
The Revels were fast approaching. He couldn’t quite see the fierce Elinor stripping off her clothes and her fears to participate in that planned debauch, though it was an enticing idea. It would make sense to put the matter to one side and take it up again once spring had arrived. Perhaps he would discover some new and mysterious beauty at the Revels and forget all about the delicious innocence of Elinor Harriman.
Because she was even more of an innocent than he’d first thought. A woman who’d simply never encountered the pleasures of the flesh held a certain amount of interest if the woman herself appealed. But one who had tried, and been disappointed, was far more of a challenge, a delicious one.
Still, it would be safer all around if he simply transferred his interest to someone more likely to join in the celebrations of the Heavenly Host.
But then, when had safety had anything to do with it?