Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

R afe returned to Jasper's town house at an hour that was deliberately late. The rest of the house was abed, only the servants about.

Just what he wanted.

Nay, what he needed for his own self-preservation. If he were to spy even the slightest glimpse of Persephone, he was not certain he could trust himself. To that end, he had dined and finished conducting all his business prior to his return. On the morrow, he would need to return to The Sinner's Palace II for another day of coordinating tradesmen and keeping Pen from turning on the waterworks. But after that, he had determined he would switch roles with his brother Hart, who had been running The Sinner's Palace floor. Hart could stay in the West End and rub elbows with ladies, which would please him mightily.

Meanwhile, Rafe could return to where he belonged and forget all about the mysterious and equally delectable governess who had somehow cast a spell over him he could not shake.

Pleased with himself for avoiding her and settling upon a solution to his current problem of uncontrollable lust for a lady he could not shag, he crossed the threshold into his guest room.

And promptly discovered the source of what ailed him awaiting him, wearing a prim governess's gown that did nothing to detract from her loveliness.

What in the devil's arsehole was he to do with this development?

Rafe closed the door at his back and stalked across the fine carpets, irritated with himself for the way his heart hammered faster in his chest and his stupid prick twitched to life. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded.

His question emerged harsher than he had intended, for she flinched. "Forgive me for intruding, but I was hoping for a word with you, in private. This seemed the best way to ensure privacy."

Privacy. With her.

Lord in heaven, what he could do with this woman, a closed door, and a bed just waiting to be defiled.

Calm yourself, you bleeding reprobate.

"This ain't the place for it," he ground out, taking her elbow in a firm grip and intending to haul her from the room.

"Please, Rafe," she pleaded, putting up some opposition rather than allowing herself to be dragged nicely across the room as he had hoped she might. "I only need a moment of your time. Every minute I spend here risks my position, which I fear has already grown quite tenuous given what I heard from Mr. Sutton today."

He stopped pulling and frowned at her, trying not to notice the way the bodice of her gown clung to her ample breasts. "Jasper spoke with you today? Christ, don't tell me it was about what happened in the bleeding library this morning."

"Actually, it was about what happened with Lord Gregson," she said, worry in her tone and warm brown gaze.

The mere mentioning of the bastard's name had him longing to whip the whoreson again.

"What of 'im? Jasper ain't the sort of chap to take a cove who forced himself on a lady lightly." Indeed, if he knew his brother, Jasper had likely found the viscount himself and exacted his own retribution. "If he somehow discovered what happened to you when you were in Lord Landsdowne's employ, I promise he ain't going to hold it against you."

She shook her head, and he realized that her hair was demurely hidden beneath an ugly cap. His fingers itched to pluck it off to allow the radiance of her hair to shine in the candlelight. But that would be foolish indeed.

He was already tempted enough.

"It is not about what happened to me," she clarified softly, her countenance growing more concerned. "It is about what happened to Lord Gregson. Apparently, he was able to discover I am now in the employ of your brother's household. He went to The Sinner's Palace quite irate over what had befallen him in my name."

The whipping he had received.

"Fuck," Rafe muttered.

He could have kicked himself in the arse for invoking Persephone's name. The only reason he had done so was because he had wanted Viscount Gregson to be bloody sure the reason he had received such a basting was because of what he had done to her. What he had tried to do to her. And to make certain he would think twice before ever attempting to force himself upon another innocent sharing his roof, a woman without the power to refuse him.

Belatedly, he realized Persephone's cheeks were pink. He reckoned gentlemen didn't use oaths in the presence of ladies where she came from. And then he wondered just where it was that she came from.

"Forgive me," he said, with great feeling. "For the crudeness of my language and for any trouble I invited. If the bastard dares to return to The Sinner's Palace making demands, I'll whip 'im again."

He meant those words. Lord how he meant them.

"Thank you, but I do not think it shall be necessary." Persephone frowned. "At least I hope it shall not be."

"Gregson ain't going to cause any more problems for you, Persephone," he vowed. "I won't allow it."

The fierce protectiveness he felt toward her was troubling, but like the sky above him and the sun rising every morning on a new day, it was simply there. Beyond his control.

"I have no wish to cause you any problems, either with your brother or at your gaming hell," she said softly. "Mr. Sutton asked me about the morning Anne and Elizabeth came to my room and you told them I was sleeping. He told me he made some inquiries concerning what happened to Lord Gregson. I…I believe he may suspect you were involved."

It was possible. Jasper knew Sophie too. Their circles hadn't always been so damned lofty as they had now become, what with Jasper marrying into the quality.

"You won't cause me problems, lovely," he reassured Persephone, hating how fretful and tense she appeared, hating that Gregson could still affect her. "Don't worry your pretty head about it."

The urge to take her in his arms and kiss away that frown was stronger than the need to take another breath. He banished it by sheer force of will.

"I thought you should know, should Mr. Sutton wish to speak with you about the matter." Her brown gaze, flecked with hints of gold, seared his. "He has requested I stay away from you while you are a guest here."

"He did, did he?" That rather nettled. What did Jasper think he was going to do? Tup Miss Wren?

Well, then he supposed his brother would not have been far from the mark. Hell.

"Yes." Her lips compressed. "I am concerned he thinks there is more to our friendship than I admitted. You need not fear I told him about…about…what happened in the library. That is best forgotten, of course."

Something inside Rafe, already stretched dangerously thin—some thread that was the last shred of honor he possessed—snapped. Severed beneath the weight of the moment, his desire for Persephone, Jasper interfering in his life, this business with Lord Gregson, everything .

One moment, he was determined to keep his distance, and the next, he was reaching for her waist, drawing her body slowly into his. He was careful to give her every chance to deny him, to withdraw. But she settled against him as if it were where she was meant to be.

And it felt as if she was. How perfectly they fit together, hip to hip, breast to chest. Her mouth was only a bit below his. Lowering his head enough to seize her lips with his required scarcely any effort at all.

Her hands were on his shoulders, not pushing him away but holding on to him, her eyes wide, fringed by cinnamon-colored lashes. A trail of freckles bedecked the bridge of her dainty nose.

"You can't say it, can you?" he asked, devouring her with his gaze the way he longed to do with his lips.

"Can't say what?" Her head tipped back, and the hideous cap slid, revealing some of her glorious hair.

He caught the thing between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it from her head, tossing it to the floor. "It's a sin to cover your hair with that bleeding thing," he told her before answering her query. "You can't bring yourself to say what happened between us. That you kissed me."

A flush stole over her cheekbones, painting them pink. "I was dreadfully forward. I must beg your forgiveness for my actions."

He shook his head. "I'll not forgive you. Nor will I forget it."

"No?" Her countenance turned stricken.

"No." He gave in to temptation and kissed the tip of her nose, where those mesmerizing little flecks dotted her creamy skin like pigment shaken from an artist's brush. Her skin was smooth and warm and vital beneath his lips. He raised his head, holding her gaze. "Because I wanted you to kiss me, Persephone. And I bloody well loved it."

Her lips parted, the coal-black discs at the center of her eyes going wide. "You did?"

"Yes." He kissed her temple next, burying his nose in the curls which had burst forth to frame her face in the absence of the abysmal cap. "I want you to do it again. Now. Here."

"But I promised Mr. Sutton…"

He kissed her ear, the sweet dip behind it, smiling against her silken skin when she sighed. "To the devil with my brother. He ain't my king, and he ain't yours either."

Some part of him warned him this was foolish. That of all the terrible ideas he'd had in his years, this was by far the worst. But Persephone was in his arms, where she belonged. What would be the harm in keeping her here, just a bit longer?

He sensed the moment she surrendered to her own desires, the rigidity seeping from her body. She went pliant, her hands sliding along his shoulders to lock behind his neck. When her fingers slipped into his hair, her nails gently grazing his scalp, he could not suppress his groan.

"Your hair is so soft," she said, wonder in her voice. "I never knew a man's hair could be this silken."

According to his long-departed ma, he had been born with a head of curls, and it had never left. As a lad, it had been a bane, but when he'd been old enough to draw the eyes of the lasses, he had realized it was his glory. And then later, as a man, he'd discovered it was not his only glory. Saints be praised for that.

"I like your hands in it," he told her.

She touched him in a way no other woman had, with a hesitant admiration, as if she did not trust herself. And yet also with such tenderness, it made him ache. In his heart and lower, too.

"Have you always worn it longer than fashion?" she asked, still sifting through his hair as if it were a newly discovered treasure.

Damn, but he loved everything about the way she made him feel.

"I have always worn it as I wished, and to the devil with fashion." He grinned against her skin.

"I should return to my room," she said, but there was scarcely any intent in her voice to accompany the words.

No doubt about it, she should. She ought to run. Flee as fast as she could back to the safety of her small room. But he could not bear the thought of watching her go.

He pressed a line of kisses down her throat. "Or you could stay a little while, now that you've risked all to find your way into my chamber."

He was being reckless.

But where she was concerned, most of his good intentions had absconded.

He was consumed by his need to keep her here with him. To kiss her and pleasure her. Aye, there were ways to bring a woman to her pinnacle without tupping her. And no one would ever be the wiser. What Jasper didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"I…oh…"

He found a particularly sensitive spot on her neck and centered all his efforts there, sucking and licking and nipping her lightly with his teeth. She liked that, his prim governess. And suddenly, he would give his very life to make her come. To make her shudder and weep and know the heights of pleasure given as it should be, rather than to know the force of another's attempt to wield his physical strength over her.

"What do you say, lovely?" he asked, holding his breath as he awaited her answer.

What did she say?

Good heavens, what could she say with his lips working their magic on her? Persephone was dressed in one of her most drab gowns, and yet, her modest bodice and the dull, gray linen and mobcap had apparently done nothing to dull his ardor. His hands were on her, his kisses too. Moving, shifting all the determination she had garnered within, and she was helpless to resist him.

His words swirled through her mind, adding to the pleasurable delirium being in Rafe's presence created.

Because I wanted you to kiss me, Persephone. And I bloody well loved it.

For as long as she lived, and despite whatever came to pass in her future, these were sentences she would place in her heart and carry there forever. They would always be a part of her, as would these stolen, wicked moments with him.

She had come to his chamber this evening, knowing it would be a risk to do so and yet feeling indebted to him for his kindness to her. Mr. Sutton had been displeased, and she would no sooner cause strife for Rafe than she would herself. If Mr. Sutton wanted her to stay away from his brother, then she must honor his wishes. The alternative, losing her post, was tantamount to failure.

She would sooner die than return to Cousin Bartholomew in disgrace, so close to having won her freedom from him and yet, at the last minute, denied. But the longer she had waited for Rafe in his room, pacing the carpets and rehearsing what she must say, reminding herself she needed to inform him of his brother's suspicions and then leave, the more another, wanton part of her had wondered what would happen if she remained.

The moment he had pulled her into his embrace, bringing their bodies together, hers flush against his, his heat and strength burning into her, the wanton part of her had taken the reins. The rational, calm Persephone had disappeared, no match for the fiery sensations Rafe inspired in her.

Still, she did not know what the repercussions would be for him. It was her understanding that the Sutton siblings owned The Sinner's Palace together. However, it was possible Mr. Sutton, as the eldest of his family, owned more than the others. It was possible Rafe could be dismissed as well, or that Mr. Sutton would take other action against him.

She had to try one more time to dissuade him from his course. To dissuade them both.

"Staying here is foolish," she said on a gasp as he sucked on the tender flesh of her throat. She was breathless. Nearly mindless. She was his, whatever he wished of her. "I could be dismissed, and you…" Her words trailed away as he kissed back up her neck, not stopping until he reached her mouth.

He kissed the right corner, denying her what she craved, the full press of his lips on hers. "And you?"

He was prompting her to complete her thought. But the impediment to doing so was that she no longer was capable of thoughts. Not rational, reasonable ones, anyway.

"Oh, Rafe," she managed, cupping his face in her hands. The slight prick of golden whiskers on his jaw was a new delight. At last, she felt its texture on her palms and the sensitive undersides of her fingers. She had been longing to feel the rasp of his whiskers from the moment she had first seen them. "Kiss me."

He kissed the opposite corner of her mouth, obeying her command but not in the way she wanted. "I'm not like the other one, you know. If you want to leave, you're free to go."

Of course she knew he was nothing like Viscount Gregson. The two men could not be more dissimilar.

"I know you are not," she reassured him, allowing her touch to trail over his cheekbones, the high, carved slashes she had only admired but never touched. "I want to be here with you, though I know it is most unwise."

His head lifted, his hazel stare meeting hers.

"You're safe with me, Persephone," he said solemnly. "Safe with me and safe from others. No one will come to my room, and I'll make certain no one sees you return to yours when you decide to go."

He sounded so confident, as if he conducted trysts every day. But then, with his sinful good looks and his confident, sensual air, perhaps he did.

She did not want to think of that now. Nor did she want to think of the others who would inevitably follow her. For this stolen moment, he was hers, and she was his. The scars of the past and the uncertainties of the future could not find them here.

"I do feel safe with you," she reassured him, touched by his need to be sure she felt no danger.

"You didn't always," he reminded her wryly, still searching her eyes, as if they possessed all the answers he sought. "You drugged me."

Guilt lanced her. "It was not you. It was never you. It was merely my own desperation and fears."

He nodded, his jaw tensing beneath her fingers. "If you want to stop, tell me. If you don't want this, say it now. You're in control."

She nodded, grateful that he understood so well what she needed. Perhaps better, even, than she knew herself. She was in control, he had said. Which meant she did not need to wait for him to kiss her.

They were almost the same height. All she needed to do was roll to the balls of her feet and press her mouth to his. He responded immediately, his lips moving against hers, hungry and demanding and hot.

So hot.

She came to life, opening for his questing tongue. He tasted of spirits and sin and something indefinably heady. Him. Rafe. He may have told her she was in control, but she had lost all ability to rein in her body. Her arms wound around his neck, and she aligned herself shamelessly to him, seeking, searching.

This was what had been missing from her life. This man, this feeling.

The kiss went on, and she gave herself to it fully, just as she intended to give herself to him.

Give herself to him?

Yes! Why had the thought not occurred to her earlier?

The realization struck her like a knell of sudden clarity. A lady was told all her life that her worth was in her virtue. That she must guard and preserve it at all costs. What if she had none?

If Cousin Bartholomew were to find her tomorrow, no longer the virginal miss he had been determined to claim for his own, would he stomach the prospect of forcing her into marriage? The answer was elusive, but she felt quite certain it would, at the very least, prove an appalling discovery to him. And if he were indeed to discover her before she reached five-and-twenty, at least she would have this memory to cling to.

Persephone was justifying her shamelessness, but there was no longer a need for that when Rafe's knowing fingers found the ties of her gown and undid them. Her bodice sagged. Fabric pooled down her arms. And still he kissed her, devouring her with lips, tongue, and teeth.

Her gown fell to the floor, leaving her feeling curiously light. She wore only her shift, stays, petticoats, and stockings. His fingers slipped into her simple coiffure, pulling all the pins and dismantling her morning efforts. His lips moved over hers, coaxing the response he wanted, the low growl in his throat gratifying. To think, this handsome, seductive man wanted her. Persephone Wren, a drab governess who had done everything she could to blend in with her surroundings.

He wanted her without knowing who she was. He wanted her, not the power he had over her, not her inheritance, nothing but what she would willingly surrender. How strong and beautiful he made her feel. She told him with her kiss, her tongue mating with his as her fingers sifted through his soft curls and then traveled lower.

To the knot of his cravat. Removing their outer layers seemed both symbolic and necessary. She wanted all the barriers gone, longed for him as he had been the night he had spent in her bed, all bare, masculine flesh, sinew and muscle. The knot came undone, and blindly, she moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers gliding over silk, plucking each one from its moorings.

He shrugged it and his coat from his shoulders.

But when she moved to the short row of buttons at the neck of his shirt, he broke the kiss, stepping back. She knew a pang of disappointment along with a rush of embarrassment. Had she mistook his intentions?

"Have I displeased you?" she asked, searching his gaze, her lips still tingling from his passionate kisses.

"Never, lovely." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You please me far too much. I don't trust myself to remove all. The rest of my articles must stay on."

"But—"

He silenced her protest with a swift, maddening kiss.

By the time their lips parted, she forgot what her objection was. With the practiced ease of a lady's maid, he stripped her of her undergarments. Tapes and knots could not deter him from what he wanted. From her . Until at last, she stood in only a shift and stockings. And then, one more sweet, slow kiss, and even the shift was gone. She stood before him in nothing but her stockings, the plain garters tied above her knees.

Naked as she had never been before another. The cool air of the chamber swirled around her, but she was warm. Warmer still when he stepped back to look at her. Beneath his admiring gaze, she felt lovely for the first time. She felt worthy of that admiration, and more than that, she reveled in it.

His hazel stare traveled over her with undisguised hunger. "You are so bleeding beautiful, Persephone. Christ. I could look upon you all day."

She pressed her thighs together to quell the ache, wishing he were as bereft of garments as she was. "Thank you."

He held out his hand to her. "Come."

She placed her palm in his, their fingers intertwining, with the wild, impulsive thought that she would follow him anywhere he wished flashing through her mind. He led her to the bed instead, which was much larger and more ornate than hers, befitting the guest chamber of such an impressive town house. Her heart sped. The bed was his. He had lain in it. She was going to lie there with him.

It will not be the first time, Persephone.

Yes, she had shared a bed with him before. But he had been snoring, and she had built a wall of pillows and coverlets to protect her. This was different. Quite different. She knew him now. She trusted him now.

They stopped just short of the mattress, and he drew her against him, kissing her lingeringly until the desire overtook her tension. She felt achy in strange new places, her nipples hardened, the flesh between her thighs throbbing. He dragged his lips down her throat to the place where her shoulder and neck met, then over her shoulder blade where he lightly bit.

Her knees went weak, but Rafe's arm banded around her waist, catching her and keeping her from falling. Slowly, tenderly, he guided her to the bed, and then she was on her back, with his big, strong body atop hers.

The desire dissipated once more, chased by the unwanted remembrance of the night Lord Gregson had come to her room at Lord Landsdowne's town house. The bedclothes had been twisted about her ankles, and he had used his upper body to pin her to the mattress, denying her the ability to escape.

This is not Gregson. This is Rafe. You are safe with Rafe.

But no matter how many times she repeated the reassurance to herself, the panic was rising within, swiftly and uncontrollably. Her body and mind were at war, wanting and yet fearful. She stiffened, going cold, the memories of that awful night chasing her passions and leaving her like the ashes in a grate after the fire had burned out.

Rafe's face rose over hers, concern lining his handsome countenance. "What's wrong, sweet?"

Her chest was suddenly heaving, tremors shaking through her. Her voice failed Persephone. It was as if she had no power to stop this sudden dread threatening to overwhelm her.

He rolled to his side, his weight lifting from her, and she could breathe again. Gradually, the alarm subsided, her heart slowing. She drew air into her lungs, staring at the plasterwork on the ceiling above them, trying to gather her wits.

Tenderly, he stroked her cheek. "Have I frightened you? Do you wish to stop? Talk to me, Persephone."

He was so much more than she had supposed he was that fateful night of their first meeting. Such a complex and caring man, one who championed her and touched her with such gentle reverence, but yet could inflict vengeance and pain upon others with the same hands that caressed her. She had only to look into his eyes to calm, to understand she was in no harm. To return to her senses.

Words accompanied the lucidity.

"When I awoke that night, he was atop me," she struggled to explain. "It… For a fleeting moment, all I could think about was Lord Gregson holding me in place, and I… I panicked. Forgive me, Rafe."

Tears stung her eyes. Tears of frustration and humiliation. She wanted Rafe Sutton more than she had ever wanted anything, aside from her freedom. And yet, why could she not escape the damage Lord Gregson had done to her? She had ruined everything.

Or perhaps, to be more accurate, she was ruined.

"Hush." He kissed her forehead. "There is nothing to forgive. Christ, I should be begging your forgiveness. With what that bastard did to you, I never should've touched you."

"No." She seized his shoulders, frantic, fearing he would leave the bed. "Please. I want you, Rafe."

And she did.

She could overcome the fear, she was sure. She could overpower her body, those terrible memories.

"Maybe you aren't ready, lovely." His gaze was warm, soft with understanding. "You've been through a hellish scrape."

"I am ready." At least, her heart and her mind were.

He leaned into her, careful to keep his body from pressing against her, his lips finding hers. It was what she needed, the seductive governing of his mouth slanting on hers, calming her, bringing her back to the reason she was here. This man. His kisses. The way he made her feel.

Lovely.

Desired.

Powerful.

Fearless.

As if there were no troubles in her world, everything in its proper order. As if she had no need to fear the future, the coming day. All was right when Rafe Sutton kissed her.

He ended the connection, pulling back to study her with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness. She could not shake the sense he was delving into her, finding a part of her she had not previously known existed. Seeing all her secrets. Which was foolish, of course. He could not see the truth. He was not omniscient. He was merely a man.

"There will always be another day," he said, breaking the silence.

But that was the trouble. For her, there was every possibility there would not. On another day, she would lose her daring. Or he would have found another woman to ply with his charms. Or Mr. Sutton would finally uncover the entire truth about her and dismiss her. Mayhap Cousin Bartholomew would find her and force her to return to Silwood Manor. A myriad of possibilities, of lost chances. She could not bear to let him go without at least trying once more.

"What if there is not another day?" She swallowed hard against a swelling tide of emotion, trying in vain to read his expression. "What if this is our only chance, Rafe? If there will never be another night when we can be so free?"

That fear, more than the terror which beset her whenever she was reminded of the day Lord Gregson had nearly forced himself upon her, spurred her the most. If she was forced to marry Cousin Bartholomew, or if she spent the rest of her life as a governess, or even if she was able to free herself from her cousin's plans and live out her life as a spinster, she wanted more. She wanted the memory of having known passion, real and true, once in her life.

He kissed her again, so softly it was little more than a whisper of a touch, his lips feathering over hers before it ended. "Is it my body on yours that sparked your fears?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "Yes. I do think so."

He kissed her brow. "I can pleasure you without being atop you, sweet. Do you want to try?"

Heavens and angels, did he need to ask?

"Yes." In her relief, she leaned forward, kissing him so hard that her teeth slammed into the sensitive insides of her lips. But never mind. She did not care.

He broke the kiss and rolled to his back. "Come here, lovely."

He offered her his hand once more.

And she took it.