Chapter 7

That evening, Madeline made certain to wear her most becoming gown at dinner. It was a daringly cut scarlet evening gown that, coupled with the impressive tightlacing of her lady's maid, served to put her breasts on ample display. She wore ostentatious diamonds in her hair and at her ears and throat to help direct a certain male gaze should it prove elusive. And she also asked Vivi to be sure to seat her next to Lachlan.

Her loyal friend had granted Madeline her wish.

Which meant that, as the first course was laid before the remaining houseguests—an ever-diminishing assemblage—that evening, Madeline was to the right of Lachlan's large, warm presence. She had to admit that he looked extra handsome in his evening finery. The cut of his black coat served to complement his broad shoulders and chest perfectly. His red hair had been neatly combed and parted in the middle.

When he chose to, he played the role of gentleman quite well. She might even venture to say he looked quite ducal. But his debonair air aside, Madeline hadn't forgotten the way he had shoved her unceremoniously into the hall the night before. Nor had she failed to notice the way he had avoided her at breakfast and for the remainder of the day, aside from convening with her and her mother to establish the details of the wedding.

He may have conceded to marry her in three weeks' time, but he'd worn a funereal air that had made her long to stomp on his foot. Or kiss him. She'd alternated between the two. Thankfully, the Duke and Duchess of Bradford had been generous enough to allow them to stay on following the house party so that they might have the banns read.

From Yorkshire, Madeline would be departing for Scotland with her new husband, while Lucy would be journeying with their mother to Paris to prepare for her own lavish wedding to the Earl of Rexingham. The knowledge left Madeline feeling unsettled. She didn't want to carry on to Paris and find herself entangled in Mother's wedding of the century web. But she was also loathe to wave goodbye to her sister and mother and all the friends she possessed to accompany her new husband to a tumbledown castle in Scotland.

A new husband who wanted a marriage in name only and had announced his intention to uphold some ninny vow of celibacy.

And that meant she was either going to have to force Lachlan to cease being so stubborn and surrender to his attraction to her, or she was going to have to run away. As the latter option didn't particularly appeal to her—to say nothing of her father's fury should she do something so reckless—Madeline was left with little choice other than to seduce her future husband before they married.

Since he was currently ignoring her in favor of conversing with everyone at the table who wasn't Madeline, she was going to have to work harder at her efforts.

"Today was a lovely day, wasn't it, Your Grace?" she asked him directly, using her sweetest tone.

The one she reserved for when she truly wished to charm someone, or when she wanted to cozen someone into doing what she wanted. Madeline was employing all the weapons in her arsenal in this war.

He turned to her, searing her with his bright-blue stare. "Lovely, indeed."

And then he turned back to his soup.

This wouldn't do. A bowl of parsnip soup was most assuredly not more interesting than she was.

"What occupied you this morning?" she prodded. "I didn't see you at the breakfast table."

She had seen him most mornings during the house party. His appetite for breakfast was every bit as large as his appetite for salad. Perhaps larger. He'd become a legend over the last fortnight for his consumption of bacon and eggs. And yet, despite the informal breakfast hours that allowed guests to dine at their leisure, Madeline had been watching for him. He hadn't broken his fast as far as she had been able to tell.

"I went for a walk," he said mildly.

And then he stuffed a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "A walk? Where did you go?"

He raised his brows at her, as if to say he couldn't speak because of the spoon. Never mind that he wasn't consuming the rich broth politely. Soup was meant to be delicately sipped from the spoon. Naturally, a man like Lachlan wouldn't concern himself with such trivialities.

But he was going to have to remove the silverware at some point.

Madeline folded her hands in her lap and waited, watching him serenely.

The spoon exited his sensual lips. "In the gardens."

"He was with me, I'm afraid," Mr. Elijah Decker intoned from Lachlan's opposite side. "I was advising him on his future nuptials."

Madeline cast a searching glance in the direction of the dashing businessman. "I do hope your advice was sound, Mr. Decker."

"Never fear, Miss Chartrand," he said gallantly. "My counsel is always sound."

She wasn't sure she believed him. Mr. Decker had a certain whispered reputation. Apparently, he'd been something of a wild rake before settling down and falling in love with his wife, Lady Josephine. He looked like the sort of man who enjoyed getting into trouble.

"I wouldnae say it's always sound," Lachlan argued. "Mayhap half of the time."

"All the time," Decker countered smoothly.

"One-quarter of the time," Lachlan said.

Madeline watched the easy banter between the two friends and business associates. Their respect for each other was apparent, as was their affection. She found herself oddly envious of Mr. Decker's easy camaraderie with Lachlan. Her future husband seemed insistent upon keeping her at a distance, and she didn't like it.

"Always," Decker said, turning an adoring glance to his wife. "Isn't that right, bijou?"

Lady Josephine—Jo, as she was simply known in their circle—smiled at her husband, love shining in her eyes. "Of course it is. Without following your advice, I never would have found myself here at this table."

Lachlan grumbled something under his breath.

"What was that, dear friend?" Decker prodded, grinning. "I'm afraid I didn't hear you."

"Likely yer auld ears are no' functioning properly," Lachlan returned.

"Ha!" Decker laughed, the sound drawing the attention of some of the other guests at the expansive dinner table who had been otherwise occupied in their separate conversations. "If my ears are indeed in poor condition, it's only down to all the doors you've been slamming all these years."

A curious redness was creeping along Lachlan's pronounced cheekbones. "Sometimes I dinnae know my own strength."

His embarrassment did something strange to Madeline. Left a faint trace of warmth in her chest. He was a complicated man. But beneath his brawny and brutish exterior, he had a tenderness that he hid from the world. She'd been privileged to witness it, the lowering of his guard, last night.

And she wanted to see it again.

"I'm grateful for your strength," she told him. "It saved my life in the castle."

"Och," he said, turning back to bestow the full force of his attention upon her again. "Ye're verra kind tae me, lass."

"I like being kind," she said quietly and with hidden meaning that was for him alone. "Especially to you, Your Grace."

The hue on his cheeks increased, and he looked away, but not before she spied the heat burning in the depths of his blue eyes.

Madeline turned her attention to her own bowl of soup, suppressing a smile.

He wasn't as unaffected as he pretended, then.

The rest of the dinner progressed splendidly, with Madeline roping Lachlan into conversation like a cowboy lassoing a calf.

By the time she retired for the evening, she felt certain she had outmaneuvered him. She'd caught him looking at her lips and the bold cut of her décolletage many times. She'd also been gratified that she had wrested his attention away from his friend and business associate with relative ease. Madeline accompanied Lucy and their mother to Lucy's chamber and pleaded a headache when Mother wanted to spend some time discussing wedding details with her sister.

But instead of going to her chamber as she'd claimed, Madeline stealthily made her way to Lachlan's room. He'd stayed behind with some of the gentlemen to play billiards, which meant his chamber would be empty. She would be awaiting him when he retired for the evening again.

And it would be impossible for him to shove her into the hallway.

Because this time, she'd be waiting for him in his bed.

Naked.

Smiling to herself, Madeline slipped into his darkened room.

The hour was late.

Lachlan was once again pleasantly soused.

He crossed the threshold of his guest chamber, half expecting to find Madeline awaiting him within, looking as glorious as she had at dinner in that brilliant red gown. He'd had to pick his jaw off the floor when he'd first seen her wearing it as they'd paired off to go into dinner. Her breasts were nothing short of perfection. He'd itched to weigh them in his palms. To see if her nipples matched the berry-stained color of her lips. To carry her away from the rest of the houseguests and make love to her all night long.

In the end, he hadn't done any of those things.

Nay, he had seized his restraint with both hands. He'd conversed with her like a gentleman, only allowing his gaze to slip to those luscious bubbies a handful of times. He'd kept his rampant erection under control. He'd been calm, measured, and cool.

And apparently, she had taken note of his efforts to maintain civility and to uphold his vow. Because she wasn't here in his chamber awaiting him, tucked into a wingback chair as he'd secretly hoped she might be.

He closed the door at his back, the low light from a lone lamp illuminating the empty chair in almost accusatory fashion. Lachlan tamped down the disappointment rising within, telling himself it was just as well that Madeline had not come to him again tonight. There was no knowing what he would have done had she been awaiting him.

He tugged at his necktie, feeling as if the stupid scrap of fabric was choking him. Best not to think about the folly that would have unfolded. He yanked the tie from his neck, tossing it atop a nearby table. And then he toed off his shoes before shucking his coat. He hadn't had the heart to play billiards this evening, so he had watched as Viscount Wilton had trampled the Marquess of Dorset, and likewise, Decker had trounced the Earl of Sinclair.

Diversions weren't what he needed. He'd been tippling some brandy to keep himself distracted. But that wasn't what he'd needed either. His cock was still annoyingly hard at the merest thought of Madeline, he still wanted her desperately, and even if she wasn't here in his chamber, he was still wedding her in less than three weeks' time.

With a sigh, he began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Unlike well-bred gentlemen—and most certainly unlike dukes—Lachlan didn't have a valet. He'd never concerned himself much with his dress. Even shaving was a task he performed on his own like an automaton with passable efficiency and no real discernment. He reckoned some things would never change, even if he had suddenly inherited a title and responsibilities he'd never wanted.

Also, a wife.

Lachlan removed his waistcoat and freed the buttons of his shirt, trying to keep his mind from Madeline. By the rood, she'd been beautiful this evening, diamonds twinkling from her hair and her elegant throat. That gown. He'd wanted to tear it off her.

As if on cue, his rampant prick rose to attention.

There was no help for it; he was going to have to take himself in hand.

Grimly, he shrugged out of his shirt and turned, bare-chested, toward his bed.

And froze.

Because there, nestled beneath the coverlets on his bed, hair unbound in a gleaming chestnut cloud on his pillow, was Madeline Chartrand, soundly sleeping and—if her bare arm tucked over the counterpane was any indication—without a stitch of clothing.

Naked.

His cock's reaction was instant. He went harder than a ramrod, straining against his trousers, his breath quickening and his heart pounding into a rapid gallop in his chest. His body rejoiced at the rightness of seeing her in his bed, waiting for him, even if his mind knew he must not partake in the temptation awaiting him.

He watched her for a moment, her back to him, all that hair unraveled from the chignon she'd kept it in earlier. It was so long, lush, wavy tresses begging for him to sink his hands into, to wrap around his fist and hold her tightly as he ravished her mouth with fiery kisses. She was beautiful. And his. He moved toward her, drawn like a worthless hunk of metal to a magnet, even though he knew he shouldn't. That he ought to be keeping his distance, waking her discreetly, and demanding that she dress and leave his chamber for both their sakes.

It was the brandy that was ruling him now. Lulling him into a foolish haze of sensual promise. He couldn't think properly. His feet carried him around the bed to her side. Her face was lovely in the shadows, relaxed in sleep, her brow smooth as if she hadn't a care in the world. But then, likely, she didn't. She'd been born to one of the wealthiest men in America. Her biggest obstacle in life thus far had been her parents decreeing that she had to marry.

Their worlds couldn't have been more disparate. He couldn't bear to entrust himself to another woman, let alone one so ruled by capricious whims. She'd likely been horridly spoilt all her life, given whatever she wished. He had been born in genteel poverty, bearing the massive frame of his blacksmith ancestor, far removed from a title he'd never had a prayer of assuming.

And yet…

And yet, he couldn't resist reaching out to her. Gently trailing the backs of his fingers over her sinfully soft cheek.

"Madeline."

She stirred sleepily, her eyes remaining closed.

"Lass," he said more firmly, caressing her cheek again, finding a tendril of hair that had fallen over her face and sweeping it back. "Wake up."

"Mmm," she murmured, the hum doing wicked things to him.

It was throaty and husky, and it instantly made him wonder if she would make that same sound when she came.

Blast and damnation, this was not what he was meant to be thinking.

"Ye cannae be here again," he said more firmly, forcing sternness into his voice. "Ye cannae be in my bed."

Her eyes fluttered open at last, and she graced him with a sleepy smile that made his heart trip over itself. "I fell asleep."

"I ken." He tugged the covers that had slipped lower on her shoulder back up to her ear. "But ye need tae sleep in yer own room. In yer own bed."

She stretched her arms languidly over her head, a yawn slipping from her parted lips. "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, incredulous. "This is it, lass. This is the moment my heid is going tae explode. Ye may wish tae hide, lest ye get all the splattery bits in yer lovely hair."

The cursed blankets were riding low again, the curve of one breast and the forbidden vee between them visible. Naturally, the vixen did nothing to rectify the matter. She simply left them there, a shocking amount of her glorious skin bared to his view.

"That sounds terribly messy," she said calmly. "Why don't you kiss me instead? I'd hate for your brains to go dashing all over the chamber. And I most especially wouldn't want them getting into my hair."

Lachlan stared at her. "Ye're a madwoman."

"I consider myself reasonably sane." She shifted in the bed, propping herself on her elbows and sending the counterpane perilously lower.

"Ye've been sent by the devil tae torment me," he grumbled, part of him praying that the bedclothes would continue their southward retreat and the other part of him praying they would remain in place. "Surely that's the answer. I must do penance for all my sins by continuously warding off the seductive wiles of a beautiful siren sent tae lure me intae the rocks like an unsuspecting sailor on a storm-tossed sea."

She smiled. "You think I'm beautiful?"

Bollocks. That was all she'd managed to extract from everything he'd just said?

"Are ye daft, woman? Of course ye're beautiful, and ye ken it well. Ye're also a she-devil come tae haunt my every waking hour."

And the sleeping hours too, but she didn't need to know that.

Her smile widened. She leveraged herself a bit higher on her elbows. And the bedclothes surrendered, falling to her waist.

Lachlan forgot to breathe.

"Thank you. That's the nicest compliment I've ever been paid," she said. "Aside from the part where you called me a she-devil."

Her breasts were creamy and full. Not overly large and not too small. The perfect size for his hands. And her nipples were the same shade as her lips as he'd wondered, taut and tight and calling to his mouth.

He exhaled, then inhaled, feeling in the way he imagined a bull must when he was ready to rut. Beastly, his senses succumbing to fire. He wanted to charge. To claim.

"Lass," he hissed out, a desperate plea. "Ye should leave."

"But I'm quite comfortable here." Her smile turned wicked.

She knew what she was doing to him. The effect she had on him. And he was helpless to hide it. Helpless to stop the desire raging through him. To fight it.

"Move over," he gritted.

Madeline scooted to the right, positioning herself in the middle of the bed. He joined her against his better judgment. He was still wearing his trousers. That had to count for something. And he was atop the covers rather than beneath them.

"I was tired of looming over ye tae speak," he said, but that wasn't the whole truth and they both knew it. He was also desperate to be in this bed with her. "Now listen tae me lass, and listen clearly. Ye cannae be sneaking off tae my chamber like this, and ye most assuredly cannae be waiting for me in my bed wearing nary a stitch."

He had rolled to his side, facing her. She rolled onto her side as well, not bothering to cover her breasts. Her nipples pointed to him in erotic offering. He wanted to suck and lick them more than he wanted to live to see another day.

"I think I've proven that I can sneak into your chamber—and with ease," she said, a teasing note in her voice that somehow crept past his defenses.

He stared at her, realizing his power to resist her was disintegrating faster than those castle walls had back at the ruins. Decker's words that morning at the fountain returned to haunt him.

Will you look to the future, or will you allow the past to control you?

What if, all this time, he had been allowing Rose to control him from afar? He'd never thought of his vow that way before, but it was suddenly, abundantly clear. Rose had carried on with her life. She'd married—he knew that much. Likely, she'd had bairns of her own. And what had he done? He'd turned himself into a fortress, incapable of desire, of allowing anyone past his walls.

Maybe the time had come to look to the future.

"Lass," he said thickly. "If ye dinnae go now, I'll no' promise I'll be a gentleman."

"I don't want you to be a gentleman. And I don't want a marriage in name only."

Sweet heaven and hell and saints and angels and even the bloody rocks in the soil.

He was no match for this woman. He might be taller, larger, stronger. He might be a brawny brute who didn't know his own strength. But she had bested him. She had won.

He was giving in.

He reached for her, pulling her into him, his hand sliding under the blankets to find hot, sleek skin and wonderful curves. Her waist, the small of her back. Her breasts crushed into his bare chest, her nipples poking into him like hard little diamonds. He swept his hand up, along her spine, to cup her nape, capturing a handful of her sweetly scented hair. He pulled her head back, holding her there, looking deep into the depths of those gray eyes.

"Ye're sure?" he demanded gruffly.

"Kiss me and see," she invited.

And she didn't need to say it a second time. Lachlan's mouth claimed hers. The kiss was instantly ravenous, hungry, and hard. Her hands were on his body, coasting over his bare shoulders and down his back, as if she were starved for the feeling of him beneath her fingertips. He'd always felt ungainly, even before his vow of celibacy. But somehow, Madeline made him feel invincible, as if she reveled in his size, his strength.

It was intoxicating. Emboldening. With a groan, he fed her his tongue, and she sucked it greedily, opening for him, all velvet heat and lush welcome. He feasted on her mouth for what could have been seconds or hours. Kissed her until they were breathless and their bodies were writhing together on the bed in helpless need. Kissed her until he dragged his mouth along her jaw, down her throat, tugging her head back so that he could consume every inch of soft skin revealed to him.

Until finally, he reached her breasts. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, and she moaned, arching into him, her hips bucking into his. The friction against his rigid cock was divine torture. He wanted to be inside her so badly.

But that had to wait. He would pleasure her. He would do for her what he should have done when she'd come to his chamber before. The hand at her nape glided, traveling over the smoothness of her back, the supple curve of her delectable rump, over her hip. And then he rolled her to her back, still sucking her nipple as he went, his hand slipping between her legs.

She was wet.

Wet and hot.

And he had to taste her.

Lachlan kissed down her belly as she writhed under him. Every warning he'd issued to himself had been decimated by need. He was no longer capable of coherent thought. His lips devoured her.

"What are you…"

Her question trailed away when he impatiently shoved the counterpane away and shifted so that he could insert himself in the lee of her spread legs. His wide shoulders wedged between her thighs. The fit wasn't quite right, so he guided her legs over his shoulders and cupped her bottom in both hands, one arse cheek per palm.

"Oh," she said softly. "You're going to kiss me on my?—"

"Damn it, lass," he ground out. "No' a word more."

Because if she said cunny, he'd spend in his trousers. And he wanted to savor the moment, to savor his Madeline, the woman who had somehow managed to tear him apart in less than a fortnight.

For once, she obeyed.

He pressed his face to the heart of her, inhaling her sweet, musky scent where she was pink and softer than any blossom he'd ever seen and where her desire was soaking her folds. And then he kissed her softly, slowly, making love to her with his mouth as she loosened under him, gasping in pleasure, her fingers finding their way into his hair, cupping his head as if to hold him there.

She needn't worry he would leave. She was better than anything he'd ever tasted. Like ambrosia from the gods, and he'd been far too long without the wondrous pleasure of making a woman come on his tongue. He would rectify that omission now, with this beautiful, bold hellion he intended to marry.

In his exuberance, he was certain he was lacking the proficiency he had once possessed for the task. But her body's reaction spurred him on, past any feelings of self-doubt. Lachlan remembered to listen to her sounds, to take his cues from the way her body undulated and stiffened and arched beneath his ministrations. When he licked her seam, she moaned softly. When his tongue found the plump bud of her clitoris, she inhaled sharply. And when he sucked as he had her nipple, she pumped into him, seeking more, his name falling from her lips.

"Oh, Lachlan."

Aye, he wanted to crow. Say my name when you come.

He might have, had his mouth not been presently, wonderfully filled with cunny. Slick, perfect, responsive, hot, delicate, demanding cunny. What a tragedy it would have been to die without experiencing this again, without experiencing her. Without having Madeline on his tongue, on his face. What had he been thinking when he'd na?vely supposed he could marry her without bedding her?

He couldn't even be in the same room with her and resist her.

He lost himself in pleasuring her, giving her everything she wanted. His tongue, his lips, his teeth, gently nibbling on her. When she came undone, it was with a choked cry, her thighs closing on his head, her body tensing and quivering under him, her fingers tightening in his hair. A gush of wetness flooded his mouth, ran down his chin. He lapped up her juices, devouring her in every way he could, returning to her pearl to suck and nip as she undulated against him, growing frenzied as the final waves of her release washed over her.

He sucked hard, wanting to torment her. Wanting her as desperate and mindless as she'd made him. And this time as he worked her perfect nub, he glanced up her body, finding her flushed and lovely, a sensual goddess in repose. Watching him.

Fuck.

His cock threatened to spill. He canted his hips and pressed his throbbing erection into the mattress, staving off his own release. Because he wanted to give her another. And this time, he wanted her eyes on him. He wanted her to watch what she'd made him do. What she'd reduced him to.

And if he could hold off his spend for long enough, he'd make her come a third time too.