Chapter 6

Chapter Six

B eatrice hadn't forgotten his reward if he resisted this temptation. In fact, she'd prayed he would resist because she wanted him more now than she ever had. All through dinner she'd felt his gaze on her. When she glanced at him, and their eyes met, her belly went liquid, and her heart sped up. The duke's dining room had been cavernous and drafty, but she'd felt too warm. At one point, a bead of perspiration had trickled down her spine, teasing her as she imagined it was Munro's finger.

"A quarter hour," she whispered, looking at him now.

"That's right. A quarter hour to do whatever I like with you."

"As long as I consent." Who was she fooling? She would consent to anything with him right now. She wanted him so badly she had her hands clenched on the squabs to keep from reaching for him.

"Oh, I want your full and unmistakable consent, Beatrice." He moved across the coach to sit beside her.

"What, here? Now?"

"Good idea." He opened the coach window and gave the coachman directions to take the long way back to Notley House. Then he closed the window and turned to her. "One drawback to your little scheme that you might not have considered is that you are left with an aroused male in the aftermath of these tests."

"Is that supposed to frighten me?"

"Quite the opposite." He reached for the ties of her cloak. "Let's take this off, shall we?"

"I can do it." But he already had the ties loose and was pushing the cloak off her shoulders, revealing her low-cut gown.

"There it is," he breathed. "The instrument of my torture all night." His gaze was on the tops of her breasts, very much on display in the low bodice. She had indeed worn the mulberry gown to torment him, but it had been her own undoing as well. Her nipples had hardened every time she felt him glance at her. They were hard now and aching from the constant friction with her chemise.

"May I touch you?" he asked, his voice seduction wrapped in velvet. She had to inure herself to him or she'd give in completely. She'd call off this ridiculous scheme and tell him she loved him.

She'd made that mistake with Solomon. She couldn't afford to allow herself to be vulnerable again.

"Go ahead." Her voice sounded perfectly neutral, as though she wasn't panting for his hands on her.

He lifted one finger and slid it slowly across the swells of her breasts, making the flesh pebble, and her nipples harden into painful points. Then he leaned forward and breathed on her sensitive flesh. He looked up, his eyes dark. "May I kiss you?"

"Fine." Her voice trembled slightly, but she hoped he didn't notice.

He pressed his lips against the swell of one breast then the other. As his lips brushed her flesh, his fingers plucked at the pins holding her bodice, and the material floated down, revealing her chemise and stays. She heard his inhale of breath and felt his hands settle on her waist. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to think about what he was doing. She did not want his hands on her. She did not need his touch.

His hands glided upward, skating across the undersides of her breasts and then over her breast. She couldn't stop a quiet moan when his hands rubbed across her nipples. Even over the chemise and stays, the pressure felt delicious.

"You like that," he said.

She pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. How long would this go on? He must have spent three minutes already. Twelve left. She could endure.

"I can feel how hard you are even through this fabric," he whispered. "Your body wants mine. Shall I kiss you?" He circled one nipple with a finger. "Here?"

Her moan was less restrained this time. She gasped and clamped her mouth shut.

"I'll take that as a yes."

He tugged at her chemise and stays, and her breasts were freed. The instant relief she felt turned into a fire of need as he pressed his mouth to one aching nipple and took the other between two fingers. "Ripe as cherries," he said before sucking with enough pressure to send a jolt of heat between her legs.

"Oh, yes ," she cried, burying her hands in his hair. Heat and need pooled at her center as he licked and sucked and tugged with those skilled fingers and that persuasive tongue. She began to fear she might orgasm from this alone, and she squirmed to move closer to him. Finally, she dropped one hand from his hair and pressed it between her legs.

He caught it and pulled his mouth from her throbbing breast to look at her. "Allow me."

She wanted to shake her head, to tell him no and that this had already gone too far, but he slid off the squabs and knelt between her legs. He took the hem of her skirts and slid them upward, his fingers brushing her calves, then her outer thighs until her skirts were bunched at her waist. She gathered them in her hands and looked down at him. He was settled between her legs and seemed perfectly at home. He reached up, grasped her drawers, and pulled them down, his gaze never leaving her eyes.

He tossed the drawers aside and then his attention slid to her neck, her bared breasts, and then to her thighs. Somehow she knew the moment his eyes found her sex. She clenched and felt a rush of heat. His hands were warm on her inner thighs as he eased them further open and leaned in to kiss her just above the knee. He continued kissing upward, the shadow from his beard scratching her lightly.

"Tell me to stop, Beatrice," he said. "If you don't want my mouth on you, tell me to cease."

She opened her mouth, but she couldn't make the words come out. She could feel her body pulsing, her sex throbbing with anticipation. His lips slid higher, and then she felt his warm breath on her center.

He nuzzled her, his hands stroking her thighs as her need grew. Finally, she couldn't take it any longer. "Munro, please," she murmured.

He grinned up at her and leaned down and she felt the long, slow lick of his tongue.

She jerked violently at the rush of pleasure. But he didn't stop. He held her still as he continued the sweet torment. His licks turned to flicks and taps, and just as she felt she might come apart, he was inside her—first his tongue then his fingers. Her legs were wide, her body straining for release, and she'd forgotten they were in a coach and they had only a quarter of an hour. Her hand went to her breast, taking one hard nipple between her fingers and rubbing it as he teased the sensitive nub between her legs. She knew how to touch herself and bring pleasure, of course, but nothing could compare to this—to what he was doing with his lips and his mouth.

That mouth . He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to drive her to madness and the peak of pleasure before pulling back and making her whimper with need.

Finally, when she was shaking with arousal and all but crying with desire, he brought her to slow, blinding orgasm. Her entire body clenched, and she heard someone crying out in fractured screams. She was crying God and yes and don't stop .

And then she was crashing down, but even the aftermath was sweet as pleasant shocks vibrated through her.

Munro emerged from under her skirts, which had fallen to her thighs as she'd writhed under his ministrations. "I daresay that is a quarter of an hour," he said, composed as could be. His gaze raked over her, and in that moment, she saw herself as he must have—bared breasts, legs open, cheeks and lips flushed. Good God, they hadn't even kissed on the lips.

He took a breath. "You look delicious," he said. "If I had more time…but we'll save that, yes?"

She could only try and force breath into her lungs. She didn't want to save anything. She wanted to release the fall of his trousers and take him inside her. But she had to remember who he was and what he was. She had to resist him. Yes, he'd survived three temptations. Yes, he'd given her pleasure just now and taken none for himself. But wasn't that the way of the rake? To seduce a woman using any means necessary?

"What are you thinking?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

She could barely form any sort of coherent thought. But she had to say something. "We didn't even kiss," she said, feeling immediately stupid as soon as she'd said the words.

"I can rectify that." He rose on his knees, cupped her face with infinite delicacy, and kissed her gently. The gentleness contrasted sharply with the strident passion she had felt just moments before, and she was lost again. This man continued to surprise her.

But when she would have deepened the kiss, he pulled back. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

"I want to trust you."

He pushed back and seated himself across from her. Beatrice fumbled with her undergarments and skirts, trying to put her clothing to some semblance of rights.

"I've passed three of your tests," he said, his gaze on the flickering lantern. "And yet, it's not enough." He met her gaze. "I begin to wonder if five will be enough. If I pass five tests, will something suddenly shift?" He snapped his fingers.

"I need proof—"

"I don't think it works that way, Beatrice. I think you either trust me or you don't."

"It's not that easy for me."

"And you think it's easy for me? I've stood before you, heart in hands, and you gave me tests to rival those of Hercules."

Beatrice hardly thought a half-naked woman equal to one of the Labors of Hercules. But Munro had a point. He had exposed his feelings to her, and for any man, much less a rake, wasn't that almost as terrifying as the Lernaean Hydra?

"You're wary because of Solomon. I understand, but I am not Solomon Barnet. He would never have been faithful to you—not because you are not worth fidelity, but because he didn't love you. You were a prize to him, nothing more."

"You told me at the time," she said, sounding tired. "I just didn't believe you."

"I can hardly blame you for that. I know in your mind, and the opinion of the rest of the ton , I was an irredeemable rake. Solomon was much better at hiding his misdeeds. All of that is in the past. I was a rake then, but I have reformed. If you won't ever trust me, if you don't love me, then tell me now. I can't keep wanting you if there's no hope."

Beatrice took a breath. Her heart thudded in her chest as fear threatened to overwhelm her. She didn't trust him, not yet. But more truthfully, she didn't trust herself. She blamed herself for her poor decision to marry Solomon more than she'd ever blamed him.

But if she didn't say something to Munro now, she'd lose him. Again. Loath as she was to admit it, she did love him. A part of her had always loved him.

The carriage began to slow, and she parted the curtains and saw they had arrived at Notley House. Before the coach could slow, and they were ushered out and into the arms of their body servants, she grabbed his hand. "I do love you," she said. "Don't give up on me yet."

Then she released him, pulled her cloak over her rumpled clothing, and took the footman's hand as soon as the door opened and the steps were let down. She fled into the night, leaving Munro alone in the coach.

Munro dared not move. Had he heard her correctly? Beatrice loved him?

Beatrice loved him!

He wanted to open the window and shout the news to the rest of Mayfair. He wanted to race into the house, take the steps two at a time, burst into her bedchamber, and kiss her senseless.

But he had two more tests.

He could face two tests—he could face a dozen—if he'd have her at the conclusion.

He heard the crunch of gravel under wheels and finally roused himself and stepped out of the coach. He and Beatrice had driven about London so long, Lavinia and her parents were home.

He waited for them on the walk in front of the house, watching as Lavinia exited first. She had a dreamy look every bride should possess, and Munro vowed to strangle Ramsbury if the man ever took that look away from her.

Next came her parents, Judith stiffening visibly when she saw Munro. Arthur put his arm on his brother's shoulder. "Care for a drink before going up to bed?" Arthur asked.

"I could use one," Munro admitted.

"I'll see you both in the morning," his sister-in-law said as she started up the stairs.

"Actually," Munro said, "I wanted to speak with you, my lady. Would you join us?"

She turned sharply and narrowed her eyes at him. "What can you possibly have to say to me?"

Munro gestured toward the stairs to the drawing room, and she gave a small nod.

A few minutes later, Arthur had poured Judith a glass of wine and handed Munro a snifter of brandy. He sat on the couch beside his wife and drank from his own brandy. "What's this about, Munro?"

Munro's gaze met Judith's and lingered. She shook her head and pointed at him with her wineglass. "Don't try and use those eyes on me, Munro Notley. I'm immune to your charms."

"I've never once tried to charm you, my lady. I've never treated you with anything other than the respect owed to my brother's wife and a viscountess. Do you not agree?"

She sipped her wine again. "Yes."

"Then why don't you like me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I've never said I didn't like you."

"When you stare daggers at me, you don't really need words."

"I don't—"

"Judith," Arthur interrupted. "You don't like him. You've made no secret of that fact to me. You might as well tell him why."

She turned her head to give her husband a look that Munro was glad had not been directed at him. He suspected Arthur would be sleeping alone tonight as punishment for siding with Munro.

Judith set her glass on the table and stood. Munro made to stand as well, but she motioned for him to stay where he was. "You are correct, sir, that I do not like you. You wouldn't be here if Lavinia didn't beg and plead. I would have been happy never to see you again. And for my sister never to see you again."

"Beatrice? What does this have to do with her?"

"Everything," Judith said, sweeping one of her arms in an arc to encompass the room, and seemingly, the world.

Munro looked at his brother, hoping for clarification, but Arthur merely massaged the bridge of his nose, looking tired and as though he'd heard all this before.

"Do you know how much she agonized over you all those years ago?"

Munro stared at her. "Agonized over me? Hardly. I asked her to marry me, and she barely had time to consider my proposal before she rejected me. And before you accuse me of ruining her or some such nonsense, I never did anything but kiss her…well, not much more than kiss her," he admitted. "I was almost a complete gentleman."

"I heard it all from her," Judith said, "and I do not want to hear it from you. I know you didn't take advantage of her, but you did make her fall in love with you."

Now Munro jumped to his feet. "If she loved me so much, then why did she reject me and marry my best friend? She's not the only one who was in love, Judith. I loved her more than life itself. Why do you think I left for the Continent? I couldn't stand to be here in London and watch her paraded about on the arm of another man."

Judith pointed at him. "Ah, yes. You ran away and buried your sorrows and your manhood in drink and women while she stayed home and regretted her decision every day of her marriage and every day since."

Munro stared at her.

"That's right, sir. She never loved Barnet, but she married him because she was too afraid to marry you. She didn't think she'd survive it if you weren't faithful to her, if you lied about loving her. She knew she could survive it if Barnet was unfaithful. She cared for him, but she never loved him like she loved you. And then he was so awfully convincing, telling her he worshipped her and would do anything for her. And then when, not even a year later, he paraded his other women about in Society, you were off doing the same in Italy or Brussels!"

"I was a free man, and nothing I did was to hurt Beatrice. I was hurting too, Judith."

"And you will return to Europe and continue your debauchery, I'm sure. I will be left here to pick up the pieces when you break Beatrice's heart. Yes, she was the architect of her own sorrow before, but don't think I can't see what's happening since you arrived in London. Leave her alone, Munro. She's been hurt enough."

Arthur stood. "I think what Judith is saying, Munro, is that we all saw how much Beatrice suffered, and we don't want her to be hurt again."

"And you think I will hurt her?"

"Won't you? I read The Rake Review . Everyone knows once you get what you want, you're on to the next conquest."

"I know that's what most of Society believes, but that's what you believe as well?" He looked at Judith then Arthur. "You think all she is to me is another notch in my proverbial bedpost."

"Is she more than that?" Arthur asked.

"I asked her to marry me," Munro said. "The night of Lavinia's betrothal ball."

"You did what ?" Judith whispered.

"What did she say?" Arthur asked.

"I'm still waiting for her answer. She doesn't trust me. Apparently, no one does."

And with that, he strode out of the drawing room.

Munro supposed he might have spent the next day feeling sorry for himself. After all, not even his own brother believed he had an ounce of honor in him. His own family believed some anonymous author of salacious gossip over their blood kin.

But Munro couldn't feel sorry for himself for long—not when he could close his eyes and remember the look of ecstasy on Beatrice's face as he'd pleasured her. Not when he could still smell her on his hands and in his hair. He didn't even care that he hadn't found any release. Watching her climax had been more satisfying than he could have imagined. He wanted to touch her again, kiss her again, hear her moaning as he caressed her velvet skin.

And if his thoughts continued along that road, he would walk about with an erection the rest of the day. He splashed cold water on his face, and when he lifted his head from the basin, he caught the blue of the sky outside his window. November was usually gray and dreary. He should take advantage of the rare sunny skies. Calling for his valet, he dressed and went out for a walk through Mayfair, braving the stares of the people who passed him, ogling his trousers.

Munro realized he hadn't eaten any breakfast—he hadn't wanted to see Judith this morning—and started for Gunter's. The establishment wouldn't be serving ices this late in the year, but they would have coffee and light refreshments. As soon as he stepped into the shop with its large windows and assorted round tables, his nose was assaulted with the sweet scents of tea and sugar. Munro was immediately transported back to his childhood. He could remember running here with his brothers and sisters and buying ices on hot summer days.

When he'd been a bit older, he had escorted young ladies here and sat near the windows to watch the people strolling or picnicking in the park at Berkeley Square. The park was empty now, except for a couple of lads trying to fly a kite among the orange and yellow leaves littering the ground. Gunter's was almost as empty. A few ladies sat near the windows, their bonnets close together as they shared stories.

One lone woman sipped from a cup in the back, and of course, that woman had to be Beatrice. She raised her brows as he spotted her, and he bowed and approached her table. She looked lovely in the late morning light, her dark hair in a shining bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a high-necked rust-colored gown that complemented her coloring perfectly. Her green eyes followed him, dancing with amusement.

"I suppose you came here to avoid breakfasting with me."

"Not at all," he said. "I wanted to avoid your sister." Then something occurred to him. "Did you come to avoid breakfasting with me ?"

"I thought it might be easier to drink my tea alone than blush for an hour seated across from you."

"I didn't know widows blushed," he said.

She laughed. "Oh, I doubt that. You could make anyone blush. Join me?" she asked.

"Must I promise not to make you blush?"

"No. I feel much stronger than I did. I can resist your double entendre and innuendo."

He bowed and took a seat, ordering coffee and a scone when asked. Finally, he turned back to Beatrice. "Wordplay was never my forte, especially not in the morning. You are safe for the moment."

"I imagine you never needed to say anything. You could merely look at a woman with those eyes, and she'd fall at your feet."

He thought about what Judith had said the night before—that Beatrice had been in love with him. "You didn't fall at my feet," he said.

"Of course, I did. The first time you smiled at me, I felt so lightheaded I feared I would faint."

He accepted the coffee and set it on the table. "I suppose I always assumed that since you rejected my proposal, you didn't feel about me as I felt about you."

She looked down. "Then we were both at cross purposes. I didn't believe you when you said you loved me. Your reputation was too egregious."

He leaned back. "Only half of what was said about me was true. The other half could be attributed to Solomon, but his parents were always threatening to cut off his allowance, so I often took the blame for his misdeeds and mine."

"He told me that after we wed," she said. "And, once again, I know I should have listened to you when you said he was a rake."

"We can't go back," he said.

"I wish we could. We used to have so much fun together. We were always laughing. You'd recite silly poems and would attempt anything if I dared you."

Munro closed his eyes and grimaced. "I was an idiot. I almost fell off that bridge when you dared me to walk on the edge."

"I didn't think you'd do it!"

He laughed. "Of course I did it. If a pretty girl asked me to lay down in the middle of the street in Piccadilly Circus, I would have done it. Especially if that girl had green eyes and a mouth that gave me too many ideas."

She raised her brows. "What sorts of ideas?"

"The sort that would have shocked you back then and might make you blush now."

She leaned close enough that he caught the scent of apples. "Too bad fellatio was not on your list of rewards."

He was definitely regretting that now.

"But tell me this," she murmured, "if I did put my mouth on you, would I need to concern myself with a silver ornament?"

Munro sat back. "You can't quite stop thinking about that, can you?"

"It's all anyone is talking about."

"I've never had so many people staring at my trousers before." He leaned forward. "Do you want to know if the rumor is true?"

"Yes."

"Then give me another test, and you may explore all you want after I pass it."

She made a face and sat back. Munro narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you haven't any more tests in mind."

"Honestly, I didn't think you'd get this far."

"I should encourage you to forfeit."

"Would I still owe you the prizes?"

"Of course. I want you in my bed, Beatrice. And I want you as my wife."

She bit her lip, and he pointed at her. "There it is. You still don't trust me, which is why you can't forfeit. You need me to pass the next two tests if you're ever to trust me."

"And what if I simply never present you any more tests?"

"Then I suppose I use my ticket back to Italy, and you stay here. I can't wait around hoping one day you'll trust me, trying to prove myself to you just to have you tell me I'm still not quite good enough."

"I've never thought that—"

"Beatrice, you rejected me once. I've put my pride aside and made my feelings plain. If you don't want me by the time Lavinia weds, then I'll gather up that pride and never bother you again."

She stared at him, and he saw the turmoil in her eyes. She was torn. Munro half-wished he could shake her until she realized he loved her. But trust was something that must be freely given. As much as he wanted her, if she couldn't give him that, he'd walk away.