Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

" Y ou look like you spent the night rolling about the floor of The Garden of Flora, with half a dozen wenches," Jasper observed when Rafe folded his frame into the carriage bench opposite his. "Were you carousing until dawn?"

Rafe tamped down a rise of inconvenient self-loathing and gave his brother his best devil-may-give-a-scrope smile. "And what do you care what I was about? You're an old married man these days, firmly caught in the leg-shackle."

"Happily so," his brother agreed, his countenance stern. "Mayhap I want the same for my rakehell brother."

"I ain't a rakehell." He adjusted the fit of his hat on his head, frowning as he thought of what he had done.

He'd taken what Persephone offered.

Given her pleasure.

She was still a bleeding virgin.

Yes, but she was an innocent, you fucking clod pate. You could have exercised some restraint. At the very least, you should have seen her back to her room last night instead of embarking on a furtive dash through the halls this morning.

Aye, it was true. They had narrowly avoided detection. It was not an exercise in stupidity he wished to repeat.

"And next you'll tell me the sky ain't blue and the Bradleys didn't steal our latest shipment of jackey and set rats loose in The Sinner's Palace."

Christ. So that was why Jasper had summoned him. The Bradleys were waging war once more.

"Bloody bastards." Rafe's hands clenched into fists he longed to slam into the teeth of one of the Bradley lads. Or their arsehole of a sire, for that matter. "Those shit sacks are determined to ruin us one way or another. If the last basting we gave them ain't enough to get through their thick sconces, we'll just 'ave to give them another."

"First we have to make certain the rat catchers gather all the vermin," Jasper said grimly.

What a coil. And Rafe could not help but to feel responsible for it. Leaving Hart and Wolf to fend for the gaming hell and look after Lily and Pen had likely been a bad halfpenny. Wolf and Hart were capable, but Pen was a bloody handful, and Lily was still young and wild. To say nothing of the daily running of the hell.

"I ought to be staying there." Rafe shook his head. "If I'd been at The Sinner's Palace, no rats or Bradleys would've found their way past me."

"The same could be said for me," his brother acknowledged. "It ain't about whose fault this is, Rafe. It's about what we do next to clean up the mess and make damn sure it never 'appens again."

"Ever the wise brother," he grumbled, and not without a hint of bitterness.

As the eldest of the Suttons, Jasper was their leader. There had been a time when he, too, had been full of hellfire, drinking and wenching far too much. But that had very much changed in recent years, and when his twin daughters from a past tryst had come into his life, he had grown more responsible and staid, committed to Lady Octavia and Anne and Elizabeth and their welfare in the same way he had once minded the hell.

Rafe, meanwhile, had not only shirked his duties at The Sinner's Palace, but he had made a muck of his own affairs as well. He had all but shagged his nieces' governess the night before.

And he had fallen in love with her.

What to do with this information?

Last night, he thought he had been drunk on quim, the notion occurring to him because all the blood in his body had diverted to his cock. But the feelings were still there, a strangeness in the pit of his belly, a pulling in his heart, as if there were an invisible string tying him to her.

Which was ridiculous, of course. Rafe Sutton did not lose his heart to a set of petticoats. And he had known more than his fair share. He kissed them and pleased them, worshiped their bodies and charmed them and laughed with them until they parted ways. He had never, in all his days, wanted one woman to be the first sight he beheld each morning when he rose and the last he saw every night before slumber claimed him.

Until her .

"Anything rattling about in that knowledge box of yours?"

Jasper's voice sliced through his musings, reminding him that he was in a carriage with his brother, on his way to the East End.

To where he bloody well belonged. He had been born in the rookeries. In a large sense, it was all he knew. A man could earn coin, acquire an education, purchase the togs of a fancy cove, hang his arse over a chamber pot in Mayfair, but he would never be a lord. He would never truly rise above his station. And he would do well to remember that.

Rafe shook the knowledge box in question. "Only a few puffs of dust and some wood shavings."

Jasper snorted. "Giving yourself a fat lot of credit, aren't you? More like nothing but dust. Christ knows that any man with a brain between his ears wouldn't whip the son of an earl in a bawdy house and expect the act to go unnoticed."

Well, hell. He stiffened, searching his brother's stare, so like his own. Wondering just how much Jasper knew.

"Who would do something so bleeding stupid?" he blustered, hoping they might at least leave Persephone out of it.

But he was not to be so fortunate.

"You," his brother said coolly. "That's who. Miss Wren spun some pretty lies on your behalf, but I'm not stupid, Rafe. There's something between the two of you, and I want to know what it is and why you whipped Lord Gregson at The Garden of Flora on her behalf."

The fury, burning deep inside him from the moment Persephone had unburdened herself to him in this very conveyance, rose. It would not be contained. The story was not his to tell, but he could not sit here in silence and allow his brother to suppose the viscount an innocent man.

"Because he tried to rape her," Rafe spat. "It 'appened at her last post, and she left without a letter of character just to escape the bleeding dunghill. You must know I'd never attack a lord without cause."

Indeed, lords were who filled their purses. The Sutton family business was keeping the quality happy, not inflicting pain and humiliation upon them. The whipping had been a necessity with Gregson, however. The man deserved punishment. He deserved more than what he had got.

"Hell," Jasper swore fiercely, his countenance going dark with the same rage coursing through Rafe's veins. Suttons protected their women. "Little wonder she forged the letter from the earl. I had wondered at the reason."

"Yes." Rafe exhaled in a rush, unclenching his fists and then digging his fingers into his thighs with painful pressure. "She didn't deserve what happened to her."

His brother's ire was still tangible, his face hard as granite. "Gregson will be turned away from The Sinner's Palace and all other establishments where we assert any hint of influence. I'll also be sharing this news with Lady Octavia. The right article in her scandal journal when the first edition is released, and he'll be ruined just as he deserves."

Jasper's wife, Lady Octavia, had recently begun Tales About Town , a new venture that thrived on the foibles of the ton . Rafe would dearly love to see an article printed in its pages revealing Gregson for who and what he was.

He nodded jerkily, emotion making his throat feel thick, the words more difficult to find. "I've no doubt Persephone would like that."

He realized his mistake the moment Jasper's brows rose.

"Persephone, is it?" He shook his head. "Damn it, Rafe, just how familiar are you with the twins' governess?"

Oh, the answers he could give.

Last night, his tongue had been in her sweet cunny and lashing her pearl while she rode his face until she came. Eh, he had a feeling Jasper wouldn't appreciate that response too much. Best to try a different one.

"Familiar enough to know she's a fine woman," he said, not wishing to harm her position in Jasper's household. She'd been deuced fretful this morning, worrying over what would happen. He hated having caused her a moment of worry with his own recklessness.

"That ain't an answer, brother," Jasper said, eyes narrowing.

Rafe grinned unrepentantly. "It's the only one you're going to get."

He would guard Persephone's honor to his dying breath. Perhaps it was all he could give her, aside from last night's pleasure, but he owed her that much. He owed her more, but he wasn't certain what he could give her.

She was a governess.

He was an East End scoundrel.

The carriage rocked to a halt outside The Sinner's Palace. This was where he belonged. His duty was to his family, he reminded himself firmly. Not to a woman who could never be his, regardless of how he felt for her. A man could love a woman and let her go because he knew he wasn't bloody well going to be the man for her.

Couldn't he?

"Hell, Rafe. What have you been doing beneath my roof?" Jasper demanded.

A scream issued from within the gaming hell.

"Damned rats," his brother grumbled.

Rafe and Jasper scrambled from the carriage, the question left unanswered, as they hastened inside.

Three nights.

Persephone paced the carpets of her small room, trying to turn her mind to other matters and failing. It always, inevitably, returned to him.

To Rafe.

She had not seen him since the morning he had left in day-old rumpled shirtsleeves and trousers, since he had kissed her on the nose and looked at her so tenderly she must surely have imagined it all. To say nothing of the feverish passion they had shared.

Yes, she would have believed none of it had happened at all were it not for the rush of sensation that filled her—entirely new and potent and unlike anything she had ever felt before—whenever she thought about what had passed between them that night. And were it not for the memory of his frantic kisses, his knowing touch, and his big strong body at her mercy.

But it had been three nights, and still, to the best of her knowledge, he had yet to return to the house. It was possible he may never. And she was powerless to know the truth of the matter. Who could she ask? Certainly not Mr. Sutton, who already suspected something more had happened between herself and Rafe than she dared reveal. Nor Lady Octavia, and most definitely not anyone belowstairs. To do so would only cause minds to wonder and tongues to wag, and she could not afford any of those circumstances.

You are down to weeks, Persephone. A scant few weeks until you are free of Cousin Bartholomew's reign.

"Oh, heavens!" Heaving a sigh, she stalked back to the opposite end of her chamber.

The evening air held a damp chill, for it had rained all day, and not even the fire burning in her grate was sufficient to warm her. She supposed she ought to be thankful for the fireplace, at least. In her previous situation, her room had been impossibly sweltering on a warm day and numbingly cold on a chilly day. She'd never been able to amass enough bedclothes to keep herself warm. It had been one of many times when she had been forced to acknowledge the disparity between her life—one she had considered an imprisonment, of sorts—and the lives of those in service. While Cousin Bartholomew had kept her soundly beneath his thumb, she had never been physically uncomfortable.

Aside from his announcement of their betrothal and the kisses he had forced upon her. She had been eighteen then, and terribly young and untutored in all the evils which could be visited upon a girl of vast fortune with no one to protect her.

But she had been intelligent enough to understand that becoming Cousin Bartholomew's wife was not the future she wanted for herself. She had formulated her plan, and then, when the opportunity had struck, she had run.

She was still running. All these years later.

If he caught her now…

She shivered, refusing to allow her mind to travel to such a possibility. Cousin Bartholomew did not appreciate a challenge to his brutal authority. Nor did he approve of a woman with her own mind and will, one who did not wish to become his pawn.

"Lovely?"

On a gasp, she spun about, hand to her heart. And there he was. Not the specter of her terrified imaginings. No indeed, Cousin Bartholomew had not found her here. She could only continue to hope and pray he would not.

The man standing before her was Rafe Sutton.

Her Rafe.

Dare she think of him in such terms? She had no right. He did not know who she truly was. Her life was a massive knot of lies.

"Rafe," she said, half of her believing he was an apparition, the product of her feverish longing for him.

It had been three nights.

The longest nights of her life.

How had he managed to slip inside her room, unheard, unnoticed?

"Tell me you are not a ghost," she added, although she felt foolish the moment the words emerged.

He was near to the door, dressed in evening finery, and he could not have looked more polished and handsome if he were waltzing beneath the blazing candles of a society ball. Or, at least, she imagined he would not. Persephone had never been able to attend a true society event. Cousin Bartholomew had made certain to keep her secluded. The air was wholesome in Oxfordshire, he had claimed, not at all thick with soot and fog as it was in London.

It had been yet another self-serving lie her guardian had told her.

Forcefully, Persephone thrust thoughts of Cousin Bartholomew from her mind. Rafe was here, and he was all she wanted to think, to know, to feel. Even if he stood somewhat hesitantly, several strides between them, he was here.

With her.

That had to account for something.

Surely?

"I ain't a ghost, sweet," Rafe said, sauntering toward her in that way he had, such pure, masculine confidence on display. "I'm damned real. Pinch me if you like."

His offer was silliness. But she did not care. Seizing upon an excuse to cut the distance between them and touch him, she moved forward. When he was within reach, she extended her right arm, her hand finding his biceps. Through the layers of his coat and shirt, his heat warmed her.

Brought her back to life.

She caught his skin and those outer layers between thumb and forefinger and did as he had suggested. Pinched. A small punishment for his absence.

"Ah!" He started, moving away from her and rubbing the place where she had touched him. "That bleeding hurt. I didn't truly intend for you to pinch me."

"Then you should not have encouraged me to do so," she countered, feeling ridiculously irritated with him now that he had finally appeared. "And nor should you have left me here for three nights, wondering where you have gone or why."

The last bit, she had meant to keep to herself. But of course, she had blurted the words without thought. Curse her foolish tongue.

He raised a brow, considering her, lips half-quirked upward in a charming rascal's smile, the slightest hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek. "You missed me then, did you?"

Had he thought she would not?

An unsettling thought occurred to her then. Did he ply every woman he met with such masterful pleasure? Did he make all the ladies in his acquaintance weep with the chance to have his mouth upon them once more? She wondered how many ladies were longing for him, somewhere in London, even now.

"Of course I did not," she told him, lying.

What was one more fib? Almost everything about her was a lie. Her name. Her past. Heavens, she had been someone else for so long she had forgotten what it felt like to be herself.

His countenance turned serious. "If you didn't miss me, mayhap I should go."

"No." She caught his sleeve when he would have turned away, staying his flight. "Do not go. Where have you been?"

His gaze traveled over her face, and she swore she saw hunger burning in the mysterious depths of his eyes. "Taking care of a few matters."

Belatedly, she noticed a shadow of bruising on his jaw. She reached for it, gently pressing the tips of her fingers to the mottled skin. "What happened to you?"

His grin returned. "Is that worry I hear? For me?"

Of course it was.

But she was still uncertain where she stood with him, so she withdrew her touch. "Is it not normal to be concerned for the welfare of others? One would suppose it a necessary human trait."

"Eh. Not every human has a good heart. In fact, most of them are deuced bad." He shrugged, then held up his gloveless hands for her inspection, flexing his fingers to show knuckles which were bruised and split. "But you needn't fear. The other lads had a worse time of it. I assure you of that."

"Fisticuffs?" Her ire returned. "That is what kept you away for three days?"

"That and rats. The kind with a tail and the kind without." His tone was smooth and calm, as if doing violence to others was a small matter.

Perhaps to him, it was.

She shivered. Rafe Sutton was a dangerous man.

"Cold?" He rubbed her upper arms as if to warm her. "Shall I stoke the fire?"

But how was it that she felt safe with him, despite everything she knew and all the warnings crowding her mind?

Because he is a good man. Because he is one of the few humans in possession of a good heart.

"Y-yes," she said, stepping away from him as she stammered over her words.

She was awash with confusion, longing, and something stronger. Something that felt a whole lot like…

Love.

Rafe moved away from her, prowling to the other end of the chamber where the fire had indeed begun to die. She watched as he built the flames with easy, methodical motions. Those hands were capable of so many deeds. Good and bad. They had touched her with gentle reverence. And they had also pummeled someone.

Someone deserving, as Lord Gregson had been?

"Rats, you said," she reminded him, crossing the room to avoid raising her voice too loudly. "What did you mean by that?"

Rafe was kneeling by the hearth, still tending to the fire. She tried not to notice the way his trousers clung to his well-muscled thighs, or the suggestion of his bottom beneath the tail of his dark wool coat.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, so rakishly handsome, he stole her breath. "We've some mace coves giving us trouble at The Sinner's Palace. One of them managed to set more than a dozen rats loose inside the kitchens. They also stole some of our best bleeding booze. It had to be answered."

"With fists?" she asked.

He raised a brow. "Sometimes that's the only way, a good, sound drubbing."

His world was so very different from hers. Or, at least, from the one she had formerly inhabited, what seemed a lifetime ago.

She nodded. "I see."

He turned back to the fire, finishing tending to it. The flames were hot and high now, casting off so much warmth that it suffused her face. Then again, perhaps that was just her body's reaction to Rafe's proximity.

When he rose to his full height and turned back to her, she had to clench her fists in the skirt of her gown to keep from reaching for him.

"Warmer now?" he asked.

Too warm. And most definitely not all from the fire.

"Yes." She summoned a smile. "Thank you. Did you slip into my room merely to tend to the fire for me?"

"Of course." He offered her the same courtly bow he had given in the gardens when he had tricked Anne and Elizabeth into proving their running prowess so he could speak with her alone. "Ever at your service, milady."

When Rafe chose to charm, he was magnetic. And like before, she found herself drawn to him. Moving nearer so that she might catch a hint of his scent. To her shame, she had been seeking it in the cravat he had left the morning after she had slipped the laudanum into his brandy. It remained hidden beneath her pillow, more treasured now than it had been that first day. The scrap of linen was the only bit of him that could truly be hers, and she had no intention of parting with it.

"Why have you come here this evening?" she asked him.

He raised a brow, magnificently rakish. "I am spending the night while I tend to The Sinner's Palace II on the morrow."

"I meant to my room," she corrected softly.

"Am I not welcome here?" As he posed the question, he reached out, guiding an errant curl from her cheek and tucking it beneath the mobcap she still wore. "Not another of these wretched things. Why do you hide your glory?"

"For ease and propriety," she told him simply. An easy answer. But also, being noticed was not the role of the governess. "And you must know you are welcome, although I ought to be made of sterner stuff."

"I'll admit to being glad you aren't." His grin was in full force now, those maddening dimples appearing. "But may I?"

He gestured to her cap, which was so much a part of Miss Persephone Wren that she often forgot to remove it.

"If you must."

He had scarcely waited for her response before he plucked the cap from her head. With a teasing air that was at odds with the evidence he had recently given his enemies a drubbing , as he had called it, he made as if to toss it into the fire he had just stoked. With a squeal of horror, she leapt toward the cap, trying to snag it from his fingers and save it from peril.

But he held it out of reach, and instead, the action merely brought her firmly against his chest. His free arm banded around her waist, anchoring her to him. The rise of him, firm and pronounced, made her hotter still. The ache that had never seemed to completely subside since the night she had spent in his bed blossomed into a throb.

Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, absorbing his easy strength. "You still owe me a mobcap from the last one you burned."

His grin fading, he tossed the most recently confiscated cap over his shoulder instead of consigning it to the flames. "I've a confession to make. I didn't burn your other cap."

"You didn't?"

He shook his head slowly, laying the backs of his fingers against her cheek and stroking gently. "No. I kept it. I rather fancy having a part of you for my own, even if it is that hideous little cap you use to hide your beautiful hair from the world."

She swallowed against a rush of emotion. What could she say? That she had done the same thing with his cravat? Such an admission would cost her too much. She was lying to this man, and she must not forget it.

"You ought to give it back," she said without any sting.

In truth, she adored the notion of this strong, dangerous man keeping her mobcap simply because it was hers.

"But if I can't have you, then the ugly cap is second best." His hand slid around her neck to her nape.

She leaned her head into his touch. "Perhaps you could have me for a time."

"The trouble is, a time ain't long enough, lovely." He regarded her solemnly.

What was he trying to tell her? And why did his words make her heart hurt as if barbs had been sunk into that tender organ?

"Stolen moments are all we can have," she told him as much as she warned herself.

It would not do to allow herself to grow any more attached to him. The bonds which had been forged would necessarily have to sever. The battle she would need to wage against Cousin Bartholomew when she reached her birthday would require all her efforts, persistence, and determination. But more than that, she heartily doubted a man like Rafe Sutton would forgive her for lying to him.

How can a lie of omission truly harm him?

She silenced the voice within, for it wanted too much. The last few years had taught her all too well that she could never have more, that she was fortunate indeed to have carved out her little place in the world where she could bide her time until she reached five-and-twenty.

"I'm greedy where you're concerned," Rafe told her, his gaze traveling over her face as if it were a wonder to him.

No one had ever looked at her thus, and it chipped away at her resolve as surely as a chisel. "You never answered me, Rafe. Why have you come to my room?"

He leaned his forehead to hers. "Because I cannot stay away from you. Regardless of how many times I tell myself I ain't the sort of chap for a lady like you, as soon as I'm beneath this bleeding roof, I'm drawn to wherever you are."

The wall of her defenses had been reduced to rubble. Her desire rose, stronger than her fear of being caught, more consuming than the need to maintain her lies and her position as the governess to Anne and Elizabeth. Here, in this room, she was his and he was hers.

She might pretend for a little while longer that what they shared never needed to have an end. That forever was possible. That she loved him and he loved her.

"Rafe," she said, but then the profundity of her emotions overwhelmed her, stealing her capacity for further speech.

Instead, she rose that scant two inches, all she required to be the same height as him, and pressed her mouth to his. It seemed she was always the first to kiss, and she was not certain whether it was by design. Perhaps he was giving her the control in much the same way he had when he had pleasured her. Or mayhap her want was the strongest, the most demanding.

She did not care if it was.

All she did care about was that he was kissing her in return. On a low growl, he cupped her face and held her still while he ravished her mouth with the hungriest kiss yet. He kissed her as if they had been separated for a decade rather than three days. Lips angling over hers, tongue sliding hot and wet to plunder. She made a low sound of her own, desire snaking through her as she sank her fingernails into his shoulders and held on tightly.

Letting him go was no longer a choice. He was a necessity to her. His presence, his warmth, his strength, his kiss. Had she thought the last time would be enough? That she would be satisfied with one night in his arms?

One would never be enough, for she felt every bit as greedy as he had claimed to be. She wanted more. Everything he had to give.

He kissed her harder, exploring, it seemed, every part of her as his tongue swept over hers, tracing her teeth, sinking deep, stroking even the insides of her cheeks. His fingers were in her hair now, the telltale sound of hair pins raining to the carpets, her curls coming unbound to fall down her back.

She did not care.

As if he had helped her dress that morning, he knew where to find all her tapes and ties and buttons. His hands caressed everywhere they traveled, divesting her of each layer with measured motions that were somehow smooth and frantic all at once. Her sensible gown fell away, and with it, all the reasons why she should not be alone with Rafe Sutton in her room. So, too, the reasons why she must not risk everything she had spent all the years of hiding working toward.

She wanted him. He was here. Nothing else mattered tonight. The misery of the last three days without him was forgotten as well. But it was hardly fair that he retained his garments while she was so quickly losing hers. Her fingers moved of their own volition, sliding buttons from their moorings. Untying knots. His coat and cravat were gone before their lips ever even parted.

He was first to break the kiss, lifting his head, his breaths gratifyingly ragged. "I told myself I wouldn't do this. All I wanted was to see you."

She understood he was at war with himself, for it was no different for her. "Seeing is not enough, is it?"

"Damn it." He closed his eyes, his hands tense on her waist, neither pushing her away nor holding her close as he struggled, before opening them on a sigh. "It has to be enough. Christ, what a beast I am. I've already stripped away your bleeding gown."

She wanted him to strip away the rest. Now that he was here, how could she let him go?

"Stay with me," she said, softly, beseeching him with her eyes. "Please, Rafe. I…I missed you."

It was the closest she dared allow herself to get to a declaration.

And it was everything he needed. In the next breath, his mouth was on hers, fiery and insistent. More garments were shed. Petticoats and stays disappeared. His waistcoat and shirt had been shucked as well.

Still kissing, they moved to her small bed. He lifted his head, gazing down at her with so much fiery passion, her knees went weak.

"What is it that you want, lovely?" he rasped, his voice low and rough with desire. "Tell me. I need to know, to hear the words from your sweet lips."

Persephone did not hesitate. "You, Rafe. You are what I want."

"But you're an innocent," he protested, his countenance torn. "You can't mean?—"

"I can," she interrupted, rising on her toes to press a swift kiss to his lips, silencing his objections. "I do. I know what I want, and it's you."

Even if this truly was the last time they could be together thus, she wanted to know what it felt like to be loved by him completely.

"Ah, God, you tempt me, woman."

"Take me," she said. "I am yours."

"Mine." His voice was low and deep, an answering spark lighting in his hazel eyes as he said the word.

"Yours."

If only for tonight.

Hands once more firmly on her waist, he guided her bottom to the edge of the bed, then urged her to sit. As he sank to his knees before her, his hands went beneath the hem of her shift, gliding up her calves. Fire followed in his wake, past her knees, where he lingered for a moment, before moving to her garters. These he untied and removed with unhurried motions before rolling down her stockings and removing them.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap, thinking how astounding it was to be here with him, so free. He was bare-chested as she had only seen him once before, and on that occasion, she had been too tangled up in knots over having poured too much of the laudanum in his brandy and fretting over what would happen when he woke in the morning. She took a moment to admire him, all muscle and sinew, the light dusting of golden hair on his chest, the broadness of his shoulders, the protrusion of his clavicle.

"Damnation, lovely, even your bleeding dew beaters are perfection."

"Dew beaters?" She watched in rapt fascination as he laid her stockings and garters on a neat pile before returning his attention to her limbs.

"Your feet," he explained. From beneath lowered lashes, he glanced up at her, flashing the devil's own grin. And his dimples! Lord in heaven, those dimples had appeared once more. "Yours are as beautiful as the rest of you. I should've known."

She felt strangely shy beneath his avid regard. Persephone had never taken particular note of her feet before. "You need not seduce me with flowery compliments now. I know I am not a beauty."

"Ah, but there you are wrong, sweeting." He caught her right foot in both his hands, gently kneading and massaging her sole. "There are few things lower than a liar, and I ain't one of those. If Rafe Sutton calls you beautiful, you're beautiful."

Few things lower than a liar…

She did not want to hear those words. Nor did she wish to think about the lies she had been telling. She had deceived everyone she knew for the last seven years. Strangely, her duplicities had never bothered her before in the way they did now. Lying had been a necessity. It still was. However, for the first time, she truly cared about the family with which she had been placed.

Especially this man.

I love him.

Astonishing thought, creeping into her mind. She'd had it before, but it was as if this moment, this connection with him, granted credence to the emotion in a new way. Rendering it permanent. Real. Undeniable.

She wanted to throw herself at him, kiss him everywhere, show him with her actions how she felt within. And yet, all the rules her joyless governesses had foisted upon her kept her from doing so.

"I am not beautiful, though I thank you for saying so," she said at last, tamping down the ferocious rush of feelings, so new, so queer, so necessary, rising up like the burst of a tiny seedling shooting through the soil in spring.

"You are." He brought her foot to his mouth, bestowing a kiss upon her instep.

"My hair is a dreadful shade of orange," she argued breathlessly as his lips found a sensitive patch of skin on her ankle she had never previously known existed.

Cousin Bartholomew had commented upon the unfortunate coloration , as he had called it, which she had received from her mother, whom she had never met. A true Calcot would never be so distressingly bold , he had commented once. Perhaps your mother made a cuckold of your father. I suppose we shall never know for certain.

Ruthlessly, she tamped down all thoughts of him. Banished his words. In a perfect world, there would be no Cousin Bartholomew, no impediments, no worries or fears or lies. But the world was far from perfect, as was she.

"Your hair is the color of the sunset at its most glorious," Rafe told her solemnly.

He kissed a trail over her shin bone.

She shivered, but not from cold. "I have spots on my nose."

"Copper flecks that mesmerize me." He kissed her inner knees, first one, and then the other.

Oh, his words. They sank directly into her heart, weighing it down like stones.

She struggled to sort her thoughts, find more faults. Heaven knew, her looking glass had always held many. "I am far too tall for a lady."

"You are the perfect height for me." Rafe dragged the hem of her shift higher, until the linen pooled in her lap.

The raiment was thin and smooth from many launderings. A governess could not afford the number of garments a lady could. Not by far. And that was what she was now. A governess. Nothing more, nothing less.

His hands were on her outer thighs, stroking and inciting a new world of sensations. Had she been listing her complaints about her appearance? She quite forgot to recall any others when his hot, hazel gaze met hers.

"I want my mouth on you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Do you want that, love?"

She licked her lips. "Yes."

Oh yes. Please.

For the last three nights, she had been alone in her bed, dreaming of how it had felt to have his mouth on her. Wondering if she would ever see him again. And now, he was here. On his knees before her, not taking as every man she had ever known had tried to do.

But asking.

Requiring her permission.

She could have wept at the realization, but the roiling emotion inside her gave way to pleasure when he guided her legs apart and his head dipped. His mouth unerringly found her center, sucking on the sensitive part of her. Her pearl, he had said. Finally, a name for the place where her pleasure seemed to dwell, brought to life by him.

Her own fingers had proven poor replacements indeed in his absence.

He sucked hard. She gave herself up to the sensations, wild and streaking through her, furious as bolts of lightning in the midst of a storm. Her hips pumped. He groaned into her flesh, the vibration sending more sparks of desire careening through her, catching flame.

His big, callused hands were not finished with her. He ran them up and down her outer thighs, before catching the hollows of her knees and hooking them over his shoulders.

The position was new.

Decadent.

It forced her to balance herself on her flattened palms on the bed, her legs draped over his back, her lower body tilted toward him as he feasted. And there was no other word to describe what Rafe was doing as he sucked and licked her. The wet sounds of her own excitement echoed in the quiet of the room, joining her pants and his groans of enjoyment. He tortured her so deliciously, swiping his tongue up and down her seam in long, lingering licks before lashing her pearl with swift, fast movements of his tongue, followed by hard sucks. The combination forced her to the edge quickly.

"Rafe," she crooned, mindless, lost to everything but the passion and the pleasure. "Oh, yes." More sounds followed, strange and uncontrollable. Sounds she had never made as the pleasure rendered her mindless.

His rough hands cupped her bottom and tipped her toward him. He rubbed his face against her, the golden whiskers she had so often admired on his strong jaw lightly abrading her sensitive skin.

So sinful.

So wonderful.

He laved her pearl and then paused long enough to lavish praise upon her. "Such a perfect cunny. So pretty and wet. All for me."

"Always for you," she said, feeling wetness slide from her body, trail lower. "Only for you."

"How does this feel?" he asked just before pressing a kiss to her throbbing bud.

"Wondrous," she hissed as his wicked tongue licked up and down her lips, then slid lower, parting her folds, finding the place where her wetness had gathered. He licked into her there, his tongue darting gently at first and then with greater persistence. His fingers gripped her, biting into her rump with painful pleasure. Just when she thought she could bear no more, he sucked hard on her pearl.

Her explosion was instant.

Crying out, she arched shamelessly into him as her inner walls contracted and spasm after spasm gripped her. As the intensity of her pleasure began to slowly subside, her pounding heart returning to a more subdued pace, she became aware of his gaze on her, intense and hot.

His sensual lips were glistening. "God, I love the way you come on my tongue."

She should have been shocked, she supposed, but his sinful confession only made her want him more. "Take me, Rafe. I am yours."

With a guttural sound of pure need, he slid her legs from his shoulders and rose to his feet. "You are sure? If we go too far, there will be no undoing what we've done."

In answer, she caught the hem of her shift and, with a slight lift of her bottom, pulled it off, over her head. She held his stare as she tossed the fine linen to the floor. "I'm sure."

He did not hesitate this time, his fingers flying to the fall of his trousers and undoing them. They slid from his hips, leaving him in nothing but his stockings and his smalls. And then those final barriers were shed as well.

It was not the first occasion she'd had to see Rafe Sutton naked. However, it was certainly the most breathtaking. He was all solid masculine strength, lean and tall, his manhood rising stiff and thick and hard.

And large.

Good heavens! The mechanics of the act which would follow seemed wildly impossible, given his size.

"Don't fret, lovely. I'll go slowly."

She looked up to find him smiling at her with such raw affection that she forgot her trepidation.

I love this man.

How strange and new it all still felt, the realization, the emotions, and the reality of him here with her, nude. About to make love to her.

"I trust you," she said, unwavering.

She knew instinctively that whatever happened between them, Rafe would be gentle and sweet.

He joined her on the bed, taking her lips with his, and she tasted herself in his kiss. They moved together, resting on their sides, bodies flush from hip to chest. His mouth moved lingeringly over hers, lightly at first, and then with mounting hunger. In their passion, they were equals, her tongue the first to delve into his mouth, dueling with his.

His fingers slipped into her hair while his other hand caressed her waist. Between them, his length prodded her belly. She was so caught up in the feeling of his warm skin burning into hers, the languorous seduction of his kisses, that it took her a moment to realize the panic which had previously assailed her at the press of his body against hers was…

Absent.

She was not fearful. The darkness and the memories were still at bay. And all she could think, feel, know, was Rafe, his lips gently moving over hers, his fingers sifting through her hair. His leg moving between hers, insinuating itself. The light friction pleased her, and she arched as he brought his thigh higher until she was riding it.

His hand slid from her waist over her feverish skin. He cupped her breast, his thumb swirling over the stiff peak as his lips broke from hers. Rafe trailed kisses down her throat, along her bare shoulder, then lower. Over the curve of her breast until he caught her nipple in his hot mouth and sucked.

A cry escaped her.

"Hush, darling girl." He flicked his tongue over her nipple, then painted a lazy swirl around it. "Not too loud."

You are foolish, Persephone.

Making so much noise when anyone in the corridor could hear what she was about. And then where would she be? Utterly, thoroughly ruined.

But oh, what a way to achieve her fall from grace.

"Forgive me," she murmured in a hushed tone. "I was not… oh ."

He had nipped her, taking her stiff nipple in his teeth and tugging. Her nails sank into the satiny skin of his back. Holding her gaze, he soothed the nip with his tongue, before closing his lips around the peak once more and sucking hard while his thigh pressed against her already throbbing flesh.

"Your cunny is dripping," he said, kissing the side of her breast. "Do you want me?"

She rocked on his thigh, needing more, fingers threading through his blond curls. The sensations buffeting her were exquisite. The first spend he had given her had rendered her almost painfully sensitive there, the abrasion of the coarse hair stippling his muscled thighs stimulating her in a new way.

"Yes," she said, seeking more, her hips moving with a will of their own, tilting to an angle that allowed her pearl to receive the attention she craved.

As if sensing her desperation, he slid his hand between their bodies, his fingers unerringly finding her swollen flesh. The first stroke of his thumb over her, in conjunction with another suck on her nipple, was too much. The second was incendiary.

"There's a love," he crooned, kissing the place where her breasts pushed together. "Come again for me. I want you to spend so many times, you think you cannot possibly spend again."

"Oh, God," she cried, seizing up as his thumb applied more direct pressure, finding the precise location that made her lose control. His wicked words, combined with his knowing touch, were too much.

She stiffened against him, clutching him frantically, as the bliss rolled through her. He held her tightly to him, understanding her need for closeness, kissing her cheek, her ear, her lips, whispering tender words in her ear. To her shame, she realized tears were on her lashes, rolling down her cheeks, as she returned to lucidity, her inner muscles still rhythmically contracting after the force of her pleasure.

He noticed immediately, wiping them away with the backs of his fingers. "Tears, sweeting? Is something wrong? Have I frightened you?"

"No," she hastened to reassure him, amazed she was capable of forming coherent speech. "Nothing is wrong, Rafe. Everything is right."

Too right. And it was both that awareness and the ferocity of her body's physical reaction to him that had led to the overwhelming swell of emotion. Worse, it would never be this right again. She knew it. Had always known it. Rafe was not meant to be hers and nor was she meant to be his.

But they had tonight, and it was not over yet.

"You are sure?" He was frowning, his gaze searching hers, concern etched on his handsome face.

"Oh yes."

She punctuated her reassurance with a kiss and drew him once more flat against her. The length of him prodded her belly, thick and demanding. Her curiosity had a will of its own, and while their tongues tangled, her fingers sought him, circling around the engorged shaft.

He was hot.

That was her first thought.

And sleek and silken in a way that was surprising. Larger, even, than she had supposed. Long and thick. Once more, she wondered how this would work. She possessed a rudimentary knowledge of the marriage bed thanks to life at Silwood Manor and her father's extensive stable. But this was not a marriage bed, and neither of them were horses.

As she gave him a tentative stroke, Rafe moaned and tore his mouth from hers, hips thrusting, pushing him deeper into her hand. The tip of him was wet, and her thumb found this curiosity, sweeping the slickness in circles the way he had done to her.

"Christ." His voice was low and thick, the muscles of his back tense beneath her other fingers. "You will have me spending in your hand if you don't take care."

"Would that be wrong?" she asked, giving him another stroke, this one less tentative, for his body was telling her more than his words ever could.

A strangled sound fled him, his hips moving again. "Ah, lovely. What am I to do with you?"

He kissed the bridge of her nose in what had become a familiar gesture. Perhaps he truly did adore her freckles as he had claimed. She was feeling bold and restless, so she continued what she was doing, moving up and down his shaft. How different and unique a man's body was.

"Do you like this?" she asked breathlessly, watching his gaze as it seemed to change color, the gray flecks becoming more pronounced.

He nuzzled her ear. "I love it. Need you ask?"

She supposed she did not, but words eluded her just then. He seemed to grow even larger in her hand. An answering ache began deep inside her, one she knew would not be satisfied unless he made love to her.

She kissed his shoulder, his neck, worked her lips over his Adam's apple, the prickle of his whiskers a delight to her already heightened senses. The scent of his soap, lingering on his skin, mingling with musky man, filled her head with fire. Their bodies were entwined, his hardness pulsing in her palm, and she had never felt more alive. It was as if she had been born for this moment, for this man.

As if she had been preordained to love him.

"Please," she said against his skin, inhaling swiftly that she might trap the scent of him in her memory forever. "Make me yours, Rafe. I need you."

"How are you feeling, sweet?" He nibbled on her earlobe, making her shiver. "I do not want to go too fast for you or to frighten you."

It seemed he could not proceed fast enough to Persephone's frenzied mind. But she did not say that. He was being gentle and sweet, so concerned for her welfare. Her heart swelled.

"I want to replace the memories," she told him. "I want there to only be you. Never what happened before."

She was not certain she would be able to banish thoughts of that terrible night or Lord Gregson from her mind forever. But she would try. And memories of Rafe—well, they would take her through her days.

They had to, for she could not have him forever. Only for now.

"It is easier for me to be atop you, at least the first time," he said. "Will you be comfortable on your back?"

It was the position that had given her such troubles previously. The truth was, she had no way of knowing what her reaction would be. The last time had taken her by surprise. Her body had a memory of its own.

"I will try." She kissed his chest, just above his pounding heart. The thump thump thump was a steady reassurance. "I know you will never hurt me."

"Never, lovely. Not if I can 'elp it."

His speech had lost its polish. But she liked it that way. She loved the true Rafe, rough and imperfect, hiding beneath all the handsome charm. How fortunate she was to have found this situation; she had to believe it was fated, that she had been meant to meet him. To love him.

She longed to say those words, to tell him how she felt, and yet all she dared was another fervent kiss to his chest. "Thank you for making me feel safe with you."

He tipped up her chin, bringing her gaze to his. "Because you are, sweet. I'll see to it for as long as I'm about."

For as long as I'm about.

There it was, the implication he would leave. And of course he would, as would she. One day soon, they would part ways. It was as inevitable as their paths crossing had been.

Best make this count, Persephone.

She closed the distance between their lips and kissed him, their mouths fusing and melding with a newer, deeper understanding. Slowly, he rolled them until she was on her back and he was settled between her parted legs. But although he continued to kiss her, he did not pin her with his weight. Instead, he leveraged himself on his forearms, careful to keep from covering her as he had done that first night.

He lifted his head and gazed down at her. "How does this feel?"

It felt like Rafe, vibrant and warm and everything she wanted. She never wanted to let go.

"Good," she said through a throat gone suddenly thick, instead of giving voice to the thoughts flitting through her mind.

He kissed her throat, rubbing his whiskers on her skin. "And this?"

"Also good."

His tongue flicked over her before he kissed to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Softly, he set his teeth there, then kissed away the sting. "What of this?"

"Quite good."

She could feel his lips stretching into a smile against her bare flesh. "I'm improving then, aye?"

He kissed down the valley of her breasts, before taking a nipple into his mouth.

"Yes," she gasped when he shifted his weight to his left arm and used the other to reach between them, petting her lightly.

The swollen bud hidden within her folds throbbed, wanting more.

"What do you think of this, lovely?" He kissed the curve of her other breast, taking his time as he played with her.

She was about to answer when he took her pearl between his thumb and forefinger and lightly pinched. Her hips bucked, white-hot desire shooting through her and leaving her electrified. All she could manage this time was a moan.

"Quiet, sweet," he reminded her, rubbing some more before releasing her and finding her hand. "We'll do the rest together, love. Are you ready?"

She nodded, more ready than she could say. All she wanted was this man.

"Take my cock," he instructed softly.

Cock.

There was the wicked word. How she liked it.

She wrapped her fingers around his length just as she had before, but when she would have stroked him, he stayed her, grasping himself atop her touch. On a slow exhalation that sent his warm breath cascading over her lips, he showed her how to align him with her entrance.

The tip of him pressed against her, in the place where she felt empty without him.

"Will you fit?" she asked as he probed a bit deeper, her worry getting the best of her.

"Ah, heaven and hell and all the saints," he growled. "If I don't, I shall die from wanting you."

She felt the same way.

Another slight movement, their fingers laced together over his cock. This small invasion exhilarated her. Made her angle her hips toward him. And that was when the burning sensation began as she stretched to accommodate more of him. For a moment, she feared he would tear her in two.

He stilled, glancing up at her, his breathing ragged, countenance strained. "More?"

He was asking her if he should stop or proceed. Either prospect seemed equally agonizing at the moment.

"More," she said.

This time, his hips lurched forward, sinking him deeper. He took her fingers from his shaft and raised them to his lips for a reverent kiss. "My brave darling."

Another thrust, and the burning lessened, though the tingling pain lingered, mingling with the new sensation of being filled and claimed.

She clung tight to him, holding the broad planes of his shoulders. He took her lips in another kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth. One flex of his hips, and he was fully seated, his hip bones pressing into hers, their bodies completely joined.

The sensation was indescribable. Quite unlike what she had anticipated. Her body was so highly aware of every sensation after the painstaking pleasure he had shown her. He was inside her, his cock hot and hard and demanding.

He gazed down at her, his concentration and strain showing. "Shall I continue, sweet?"

Continue?

This was not all there was to lovemaking? She had supposed that, while the precursors had been vastly different from the equestrian form of courting and copulating, the end result would be the same.

She bit her lip. "Horses seem to go about the process a bit differently."

He chuckled, the sound like velvet, warm and soft falling around her. "I ain't a bleeding horse, lovely. And thank Christ for that."

"Oh," was all she could think of to say.

"Shall I?" he asked, kissing one of her distended nipples.

"Yes, please," she said demurely, sinking her fingers into his beloved ringlets.

He was moving the moment her words of permission took shape, his lower body lifting, his cock gliding through her passage and almost slipping free before he slid inside her once more. Slowly, deliciously. And again. This time, her body easily accepted every inch, her bottom rising from the bed to meet his thrust.

His lips met hers, his fingers moving between their bodies to toy with her aching bud once more. The combination of sensation was overwhelming in the headiest sense, their bodies uniting as he fed her kisses and stimulated her pearl until she spent again, seizing with a cry of wild joy as she quivered and clenched around him. He continued thrusting, his low groans blending with her uncontrollable sounds of pure surrender.

Through the exquisite rush, she was dimly aware of him suddenly withdrawing from her, fist wrapped around his length, and spending into the bedclothes. But the loss of him shook her, and she was not ready for it yet. She drew him into her embrace, not satisfied until his body was perfectly pressed against hers, his weight a comforting presence atop her.

He stiffened. "I shouldn't lie on you this way."

But as he tried to frantically extricate himself, she held on tightly. "No, Rafe. I need you here. Right where you are."

He stilled, looking down at her with an expression of such unfettered caring that her eyes pricked with fresh tears. "Whatever you need, lovely."

What if all I need is you?

But these words, like so many others, she tucked away inside. They were better left unspoken. For what good would they do her? Her lies and the truth would eventually collide.