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“Don’t be absurd. I’m responsible for my own bills,” she snapped, but Rohan simply ignored her, ushering Dr. Smithfield out the door.
When he turned back around, she fixed Rohan with a stern expression
. “All right, you can go now. The doctor has seen me, pronounced his verdict and prescribed treatment. Now go away. ”
He didn’t seem in any particular hurry to leave. “So, are you going to stay off your feet for two weeks?”
“What do you think? The full moon is in five days. I can either stay in bed and coddle myself and let innocent women be tortured and perhaps killed, or I can deal with it. ”
“By dealing with it you mean getting out of bed and risking crippling yourself?” He sounded no more than casual. “I don’t think so. Our partnership is over, Lady Carstairs. You’ll have to trust me to deal with the Heavenly Host. ”
She glared at him. “I don’t. Not for one moment. ”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter. ”
“Then I have no choice but to follow my investigations on my own. ” She would have climbed out of bed, just to prove to both herself and him that she could do it, but Dr. Smithfield had already given her a generous dose of tonic and she was having trouble lifting her head from her pillow. No trouble glaring, however.
He moved swiftly, so fast that she had no warning, and he was on the bed, his hands braced on either side of her as he leaned over her, and all pretense of manners had gone. “You will not,” he said in a dark, angry voice, “do anything more to endanger yourself. Do you hear me?”
She stared up at him, her mouth set in a stubborn line. For a long moment he didn’t move, and then his hands gripped her arms and yanked her up, and he kissed her.
Oh, God, she thought, as sensation washed over her, pure, bloody wonderful sensation. How many times had he kissed her? she thought. More than any other man. She knew his mouth by now, the touch and taste of him, the rich thrust of his tongue, the hard edge of his teeth, the sweet smoky flavor of him. Night had already closed in around the room, and the only candles were beside the bed, left there to assist the doctor’s examination. It was only a blur of light, and she closed her eyes against the shimmering brightness, lifted her arms and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to feel him against her body, heat and hardness and living flesh. He shifted, and she knew he’d moved onto the bed, covering her, and she didn’t even think of making a protest. This was going to be the last time she would see him, she thought dazedly. He was going to refuse to help her after this, and she was going to have to proceed on her own. He would never come near her again, and she had every right to take what she wanted right now, and what she wanted was him. To indulge in the forbidden delight that was Benedick Rohan.
Author: Anne Stuart
The doctor had tucked her beneath the covers. He pulled them away, so that their bodies were touching. She opened her eyes for a brief moment, wanting to see his face, see whether there was any affection, any tenderness, but he reached out and pinched the light from the bedside candle, plunging them into darkness, and it was as if there were no more restraints. No one could see them, therefore there were no rules. He rolled to his side, bringing her with him, and she ran her hand down his chest, inside his open coat to the loose white shirt he wore. His skin was hot beneath it, and she tugged at the fabric, wanting it out of the way. He reached down and yanked at it himself, and she slid her hands beneath, reveling in the silken feel of his skin.
She moved then, putting her mouth against his throat, and he tasted salty and sweet, wonderful. A faint thought danced through her brain—why had she never felt this for someone reasonable? Someone she could have? With dear Thomas it had been an uncomfortable burden. With Wilfred a disappointing experiment gone wrong.
But Benedick Rohan was richness and delight, setting every inch of her skin alive with feeling, and she wanted to lie beneath him, to have him take her, thrust inside her, cover her. She wanted…
She was dimly aware that he had frozen, and his hands covered hers, stilling their feverish exploration. She made a muffled sound of protest, but he moved away from her, releasing her, and she was very cold.
“I may be a bastard,” he said in a soft voice, “but I do draw the line at taking advantage of drugged women. You and I both know this is a very bad idea, and it’s just as well we’re forced to end our association. ”
His words weren’t making sense, but she blamed the laudanum. Damn Dr. Smithfield and his silly concoctions. She hadn’t been in more pain than she could bear, and she should have been able to argue Benedick out of his absurd idea that they should sever their connection. And if she weren’t shatter-brained from that vile stuff he wouldn’t have stopped what he was doing. She wanted him to touch her the way he had in the darkened room in the tunnels. She wanted to feel that astonishing surge of feeling that was almost painful in its intensity. She wanted…
But he was already gone. She heard the click of the door as he closed it behind him, and she wanted to cry. But the laudanum robbed her of even that much. All she could do was fall asleep.
Benedick Rohan was in a toweringly foul mood, and he had no wish to pass the gauntlet of staring women and girls, all scrubbed and fresh-faced and a far cry from their earlier profession. He particularly didn’t want to have Violet Highstreet staring at him with disapproval, nor did he want Emma Cadbury to stop his headlong pace toward the front door, putting her trim little body in between him and safety.
“Your lordship, we need to talk,” Mrs. Cadbury said in the pure, well-bred tones that were clearly natural to her.
“You tell ’im, Mrs. C. !”
“This is none of your business, Violet. You may join the other girls while I speak with the Viscount. ”
“Don’t let ’im get around you,” she said, and he stopped his annoyance to look at her in surprise. The last he’d seen her she’d been fighting for the chance to service him—now it seemed as if he’d become persona non grata.
“What in the world is the matter with you?” he said, and then was astonished at himself. The opinion of whores had never mattered. Then again, those of Charity’s gaggle were no longer whores. They were women and girls, human beings. Not faceless bodies for his pleasure.
Damn the woman, he thought absently.
“Just because I fancy you doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you hurt the mistress,” Violet announced in strident tones. A chorus of bellicose assent echoed from the women who lined the stairwell, looking down on them.
“That’s enough, girls,” Mrs. Cadbury said, sounding more like a schoolmarm than a notorious madam. Then again, she looked more like a schoolmarm, albeit a badly dressed but still exquisitely beautiful one. If she were planning to live a life of celibacy it was a damned shame, he thought absently.
At another time he might have considered changing her mind. At another time he would have signaled Violet and he knew, despite her disapprobation, that she would follow him home and do anything he required her to do, and do it with great pleasure and enthusiasm. He preferred his women, even the ones he paid for, to honestly enjoy themselves in his bed, and Violet had a natural ability for pleasure.
