Page 45 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

He did. Knew too how to turn the ache into a throb as he toyed with her curls and traced the seam along the top of her thigh. On a sigh, she let her legs fall open, praying he also knew how to ease the sensation he’d so skillfully built.

“That’s right,” he praised her. “Let me see you.” Following his heated gaze downward, she discovered that her skirts had risen almost to her waist, revealing…everything. She thought perhaps she ought to be mortified, lying there, totally exposed, in the light of midday. But when he looked at her with such undisguised admiration, watching his fingertip slide deeper into her feminine folds and murmuring, “So pretty and wet,” embarrassment was the last emotion she could muster.

“Kiss me,” she pleaded.

His fingertip flicked across a spot so marvelously sensitive, her breath stuttered in her chest. “Here?” he asked, favoring her with a lazy, wicked grin. Shock rushed through her, another wave of heat. She’d never imagined such a thing.

Perhaps it was time to let her imagination run wild.

“Yes,” she breathed. “There.”

Lowering his head, he rewarded her with the most wonderfully wicked kiss imaginable.

His tongue and his fingers worked in concert, teasing her, ratcheting her pleasure higher and higher. She gripped his hair and lifted her hips, chasing…something. Racing toward…something. It fluttered there, in the distance, all around her, inside her—until it burst, like fireworks over Vauxhall Gardens, explosion after explosion of color and light, bright sparks that washed over her and rippled through her, making her gasp with joy.

In the aftermath, she let one arm drop over the side of the chaise and leaned her cheek against the tufted velvet. She did not know that tears had leaked from the corners of her eyes until his thumb had whisked them away. She looked up to see her desire reflected in his gaze, glistening on his lips and chin. “Not unpleasant, dare I hope?” he teased.

Her fingers curled around the corner of one of the cushions that had fallen to the floor. If she’d had the strength, she would have whacked him with it.

He must have read her thoughts. Laughing, he fished in his breast pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his hand and face, then tucked it away and withdrew his pocket watch to check the time. “Just under an hour, too.” He winked. “But now I suppose I must see to my other duties,” he said, pushing up from his knees to stand.

She brushed her skirts down to her knees and scooted her hips higher on the chaise. “Your other—y-you mean, you’re going to go? Without…?” Her eyes fell to his evident arousal, tenting the fall of his breeches.

Another laugh rumbled from his chest, this one more wry, as he snatched up his coat from the floor, shook it out, and thrust his arms into the sleeves. “Three things,” he said, returning to her side and leaning over to press a kiss against her brow, then lingering to whisper into her hair. “First, that greedy fellow has been known to get hard at the mere thought of you and must learn patience. Because, second, I intend to make you come a dozen times at least before he gets involved in the proceedings. And third, I promised you I would go to Royal Crescent in an hour to check on your friend—and Fanny?” He tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his, serious and seductive all at once. “I keep my promises.”

Chapter 15

Sometime past dawn, Caro rose, gave a most unladylike stretch, and circled her neck to ease the knot formed by drowsing all night in a chair.

Maxim slept on. In repose, his features had lost some of their habitual harshness. She wondered if there could ever come a time when he could surrender that mask in his waking hours too.

Maxim.

When had she resumed thinking of him by that name? When he’d left, she had vowed never to allow the intimacy of it, and all it represented, to intrude on her thoughts. But the events of the past day—the discovery of those horrible letters, his near drowning, the sight of his scarred body—had made him real to her in a way he hadn’t been six years ago. Not a beast, but a man.

Maxim.

Resisting the urge to brush the dark hair from his brow again, she stepped silently to the door, returned to her own chamber, and rang the bell. Nan, the elder of the two housemaids, came to help her wash and dress and arrange her hair.

“Have Mrs. Horn bring up a breakfast tray. To Hartwell’s chamber.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

When she returned to his room, he was sitting up in bed, the dressing gown gaping open to reveal the mat of dark hair on his chest. Before she could make sense of the sudden desire to lay her hand, perhaps even her cheek, against it, he cleared his throat and gathered the two sides of the robe together again. “Good morning, Caro. I’ve just sent Leclerc to fetch me some coffee.”

“You needn’t have bothered,” she said, stepping closer. “Mrs. Horn will be here shortly with a breakfast tray.”

“I’m not an invalid,” he protested, the familiar scowl beginning to cloud his features.

She met that look with a scolding one of her own, just enough to drive back some of his ferocity. “It’s for both of us.”

For a moment, he didn’t seem to know what to say to that. His dark eyes looked her up and down. “You’re dressed for walking.”

“Yes.” She’d reached the side of the bed and now rested her hip against the mattress. Over the course of the night, she’d imagined the conversation they must have today. But she couldn’t bear the thought of facing him across the drawing room, or any other room in this house, this place to which she’d fled to be free of painful memories. “I thought, after breakfast, you might join me. If you feel up to it.”

His voice was still hoarse but his color had returned to normal, and she knew he’d slept well. Yet behind his gaze glimmered something that might have been trepidation. As if he wasn’t sure how to answer her.

Moments later, Mrs. Horn backed into the room carrying a loaded tray. “Here you be, Your Grace,” she said, laying it across his lap. “And how are you feeling after yesterday’s ordeal?”