The Red Hot Earl Page 7

  She stepped toward him until there was barely any space between them. “I know you don’t want Thornaby or Keldon or any of the others to help. I don’t either. I also realize you don’t want your mother to know you don’t want them involved.”

  She was incredibly perceptive. And caring. He suddenly acknowledged there had been a dreadful weight on his chest for as long as he could remember. He noticed its presence in this moment because it lightened, and he felt…free. A gentle twitch moved across his shoulders.

  The snow was clinging to her brows now, and a shiver jolted her frame.

  “Let’s go inside.” He swept his arm around her waist and ushered her back into the house.

  She shuddered, sending snow flying from her dressing gown and her hair. “I didn’t realize how cold it was. You distracted me.” Her gaze met his, her brow arching. “You also changed the subject. Again.”

  He laughed softly. “Only because I didn’t want you to freeze. You need to get out of that wet dressing gown.” He placed his hand against the small of her back. The silk of her gown was damp, and he pulled his hand away. Not because he didn’t want to get wet, but because he didn’t want to press the cold material against her skin.

  “You can touch me.” With her words and the impassioned look in her eyes, a different weight settled into him. One that was welcome with its heat and intensity.

  He put his hand lightly against her as he guided her toward the stairs. “I don’t want you to catch cold.”

  “I will disrobe as soon as I get upstairs. Will that suffice?” She gave him a heated stare, and he wasn’t sure if she was being playful or serious. Did it matter? His body burned hotter at the thought of her removing her gown…

  They started up the stairs. “Bee, are you flirting with me?”

  “Probably.” Her voice had dipped to a lower timbre, one he felt in his bones. “It’s just…” They weren’t quite to the top of the stairs, but she stopped and turned toward him. “I was so angry yesterday. I wanted you to know that.” She searched his face, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling with her breath.

  He sensed there was more. “What else did you want me to know?”

  “Actually, it’s what I’d like to know. You said London was a long story, and then you prevaricated—don’t pretend you didn’t.” Her tone was scolding, but with an underlying warmth. “My brother told me you were a pugilist.” She blinked. “Is that true?”

  He felt his heart beat in his neck along with a rush of excitement. The combination of thrill and trepidation when something so guarded was about to be revealed. “It is.”

  Her eyes widened slightly with surprise, and her lips parted as she stared at him for a moment. Her reaction was troubling.

  “That bothers you,” he said.

  “I don’t know if it does,” she admitted, sounding tense. “My brother said you were dangerous, that I should stay away from you.”

  “I take it he doesn’t know you’re here?” She shook her head, and he couldn’t help a short chuckle. “You really don’t care about propriety, do you?”

  She shook her head again. Then she took his hand. “I didn’t think you could be dangerous—not the Ash I knew. But then you shot that pistol, and you looked so—”

  “Angry.” That word didn’t remotely encompass the emotion he’d felt. The rage, the pain, feelings he’d thought long buried. He gripped her hand more tightly. “I’m not dangerous. Not to you.”

  He was too aware that they were standing on the stairs, not that he expected anyone to be about. He squeezed her hand and led her up to the landing. Without speaking, he took her to the left toward his private apartments. A few moments later, he ushered her into his outer sitting room, where a low fire burned.

  Positioning her in front of the fire, he said, “Stand there and don’t move.”

  Her brows climbed her forehead, but there was humor in her gaze. She nodded mutely and moved closer to the warmth.

  Satisfied she would not catch cold, he went to the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of brandy. He returned to her and offered the tumbler. “This will warm you from the inside.”

  Lurid images of other ways he could warm her from the inside filled his mind. Why had he brought her here of all places?

  So he could explain.

  He sipped the brandy, and she did the same.

  She swirled the amber liquid in the glass. “French brandy?”

  “Lyndon had a fair supply of it. Smuggled, I’m sure.” He took another sip to steady his nerves and keep from arching his neck. “I’ve never talked to anyone about why I fought.”

  Pivoting, she faced him in front of the fire. “Fought as in the past? You don’t fight anymore?”

  He turned to her, shaking his head. “Not since Lyndon died. It seemed I should stop doing that if I am to be the earl.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Nearly every day.” A weak smile surfaced from within him, conjured by his regret. “Not as much as before—the earldom keeps me very busy. Before that, I had my work and fighting.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. I needed both those things to overcome my…affliction.”

  The space between her brows gathered. She took a step toward him. “What affliction?”

  “Surely you’ve noticed it. The way I twitch, the vocalizations?”

  She nodded. “My sister mentioned it—she recalls you doing that before you went to school, but I don’t.”

  “You were very young, not quite ten, I believe.”

  “Yes, but you visited, and although I didn’t see you very often, I still don’t remember you doing those things.” She frowned. “What causes it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always been that way. It grew more troublesome as I started to mature.” The twitches could be almost constant, and the vocalizations, including words and phrases he would never voluntarily say aloud, could happen at any moment. “At school, it was horrible.”

  “Thornaby and the others taunted you for it,” she said flatly.

  “Lyndon was the worst. When we had lessons together in our youth, he often mocked my efforts—the symptoms have always displayed when I am nervous or tense.” He glanced from her toward the fire. “Or afraid.” Conquering his fear through fighting had been his primary goal after Oxford. Admitting it aloud to another person was, he supposed, another victory.

  “Is that why they called you Ruddy?” she asked.

  “Because my face would grow red, both from embarrassment and my efforts to control myself.”

  “You seem to be in control now.”

  “Mostly.” He tipped his head to the side, and a small smile flitted across his lips. “Like that. It seems innocuous, but I can’t control it.”

  She reached up and cupped her hand against his jaw. “How does it feel?” The question was soft and rife with concern as well as a genuine need to understand.

  “I don’t know that I can explain it. When I was younger, it was as if I was standing outside myself watching it happen to someone else. Now, it’s simply who I am. Along with my red hair—that’s the other reason they called me Ruddy. And my name, Rutledge.”

  She slipped her hand back behind his ear and ran her fingers through his thick strands. “I have always adored your hair. I wanted it for myself. It’s so vivid and full of fire and energy.”

  Anticipation continued to build inside him. “Like you.” The words tumbled from his mouth, not that he would have stopped them. If he was losing control where she was concerned, he wasn’t sure he wanted to rein himself in.

  But he should.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Your hair is how I feel inside—it isn’t fair that it belongs to you.”

  He grinned, utterly charmed by this woman. And yes, she was very much a woman and not the girl from his youth. “Bee—Bianca—I’m going to kiss you unless you tell me not to.”

  She stared up at him, then dropped her hand from his hair. Turning her head, she set
her glass atop the mantelpiece before returning her gaze to his. Her lips didn’t part, and the look she gave him overflowed with expectation. With invitation.

  Ash set his unfinished brandy next to hers. He cupped his hands against her cheeks and moved closer until their chests touched. “Last chance,” he murmured just before his lips grazed hers.

  Her palms flattened against his chest, her heat seeping into him through the damp of his banyan. He took that as encouragement and pressed his mouth to hers. She moved beneath him, tentative at first. He went slow, both to give her time to adjust and to decide if she wanted to stop.

  Then her fingers curled into the silk of his banyan, and she leaned into him. So much for going slow. Still, he kept control. He tipped his head to the side—completely on purpose this time—and opened his mouth against hers. Gently, he slid his tongue along her lower lip.

  “Open,” he whispered against her.

  She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside. Again, her fingers dug into him, this time the tips pressing into his flesh through the fabric. Her tongue moved against his, her mouth blooming beneath his, and the concert between them began.

  The song lifted his soul, and he cradled her nape with one hand while he trailed the other down her back and pressed against her lower spine. He withdrew from her mouth only to begin again from a new angle so he could learn every part of her. She met him eagerly, greedily, her hands clutching at his neck, her body straining against his.

  He moved his hand lower to her backside and pulled her flush against his erection. A low groan rumbled in his chest, and she pulled away.

  What am I doing?

  This was Bee. Not some London trollop. He stepped back and lifted his hand to his mouth, horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

  She glared at him, and he’d never felt worse in his life.

  Then she untied the sash at her waist and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. Beneath the garment, she wore only a thin chemise, through which he could see every curve and slope of her body.

  His mouth went utterly dry, and he had to know if this was all in his mind. “What are you doing?”

  “Encouraging you not to stop. Is it working?”

  Wait, she didn’t want him to stop?

  He blinked at her, trying to make sense of what was happening—between them and within himself. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted Bianca.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, she drew her chemise over her head and kicked her slippers from her feet. “How about now? Please tell me this is enough to tempt you, because I can’t take anything else off. I suppose I can try seduction, but I haven’t the faintest idea what to do—”

  He would never know if she meant to say anything else because he swept her up against his chest and kissed her fiercely. It was some minutes later before he came up for a breath.

  He stared down into her eyes. “I am seduced.”

  Chapter 7

  Glee mixed with excitement and anticipation as Bianca clutched his neck. This was not at all what she’d envisioned when she’d decided to come here today, and yet she couldn’t say she was surprised. It felt—to her, at least—like the inevitable conclusion to their acquaintance. As if their childhood had been a precursor to this so that they would have a shared background that would bind them together as nothing else could.

  Or maybe it was just that when he kissed her, she felt as though she was going to melt into a puddle. Not just when he kissed her. The way he looked at her. The way he spoke to her. The way he valued who she was and how she lived her life. No one else made her feel so…right.

  “Show me what to do,” she whispered.

  His warm brown eyes held hers. “You’re certain?”

  She nodded. “Never more.”

  One of his auburn brows arched high on his forehead with a hint of humor. “You have always been a woman of conviction.” He lifted her and carried her through a doorway.

  Into his bedchamber. The room was large, but the four-poster bed sat in a place of prominence on a raised dais against the wall opposite the fireplace. Heavy dark blue drapes edged with gold hung about the bed, and the bedclothes were even more opulent—rich, deep blues and golds swirling on the coverlet.

  “It’s a bit ostentatious for my taste,” he said, setting her down. “However, I’ve other things I prefer to spend money on. Such as hosting a St. Stephen’s Day party.”

  She came up on her knees and put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Ash. You are so very wonderful.”

  Their lips met once more, and she surrendered to his kiss. No, not surrendered, for she was an equal instigator. In fact, it seemed she could do more to further her cause.

  She slid her hands into the opening of his banyan and pushed it from his shoulders. There was a sash, she recalled, but he was already undoing it, and the garment slid to the floor.

  Dipping her gaze to his shirt and breeches, she frowned slightly. “You are wearing far more clothes than me.”

  “An unlikely situation since women are typically far more clothed than men. However, we can easily rectify the situation.”

  “Yes, please.” She found the hem of his shirt, which was loose from his breeches, and pulled the garment over his head. He provided assistance, casting it away as soon as he could.

  She studied his bare chest in the firelight. “Here are your freckles.” A light smattering of pale brown spots dotted his upper chest. “I was afraid they’d disappeared.”

  “I was glad when they did.”

  “I was thinking that I missed them.” She ran her fingers over his flesh, glorying in the heat and firmness of him. Then she dipped her head and kissed the largest freckle she could find.

  “Bee.”

  “You’re still wearing breeches.”

  She closed her eyes and kissed upward, along his sternum and neck. He cast his head back as she felt him working open his fall. A moment later, they were gone from him, or at least they sounded like they were.

  Bianca skimmed her hands down his chest, relishing the ripples of his ribs and abdominal muscles, in search of his waistband. There was no garment to block her passage. There was, however, his cock.

  Her hands stilled, and she pulled back slightly, looking down at his sex. She’d never seen a man like this in person. Oh, she’d seen drawings—hidden in the bottom shelf of the library at Hartwood—but nothing could compare to this. To Ash.

  “Do you wish to stop?” he asked. The words were so lovely, like a verbal caress.

  She lifted her gaze to his and shook her head. “No.”

  “I may keep asking, in case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.” She couldn’t imagine stopping now. She wanted this—she wanted him. “But that you would accept that is lovely.”

  “Of course I would. I don’t want you to regret this.”

  “I couldn’t. Now, tell me how to seduce you.”

  He laughed softly. “As I said, I am already seduced. You, on the other hand, require my attention.” He brought his hand to her breast, sliding it up beneath and lifting the weight of her.

  The sensation was simple but incredibly decadent. She’d never imagined she could feel such desire. It started where he touched her and spread outward, spiraling down through her belly and pooling between her legs. When he’d first kissed her, a spark had lit there, and now he kindled the flames, stoking a fire within her that begged to burn.

  His hand closed over her, and he captured her lips once more. She kissed him back, but her focus was fixed on him touching her breast. He stroked her gently, drawing his fingers over her nipple. It was both too much and not enough.

  She pressed into him, offering all that he could possibly take. He left her mouth, his lips blazing a path down her neck and across her collarbone. Pushing her breast up, he held her captive to his mouth. And then he sucked.

  The sensation between her legs intensified. She felt like an utter wanton, desperate for him to touch her there to ease the ache g
rowing inside her. She clamped her legs together, seeking something to satisfy her need.

  His free hand skimmed along her belly and out to her waist, then lower to her hip. His touch was soft and subtle, but she was aware of every graze of his fingers and brush of his palm. He curled his hand behind her, stroking the curve of her backside.

  The flesh between her legs began to throb. “Touch me.”

  He dragged his hand back along her hip and down her thigh, coasting inward as he went. “Here?” he murmured just before he stroked her sex.

  Oh yes, but much, much more. “You’re teasing me.”

  He lifted his head and gave her a sultry smile. “That’s part of sex. The teasing, the anticipation.” He skimmed his fingers over her, a light caress designed to torture her, she was certain.

  “If you are trying to heighten my awareness, I should tell you that I am keenly aware in ways I have never been before. I do think I may die if you don’t touch me.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.” His thumb found the top of her sex, and he pressed. “I believe this right here is what you want me to touch.”

  She gasped as lights danced before her eyes. Every sensation seemed to gather and tighten in that very spot. “Yes.”

  “And if I continue to do so, your desire will climb.” He stroked his thumb and fingers over her, doing exactly as he said. “If I go faster, the pleasure will build until you’re unable to stand another moment.”

  Everything he described was true. Her legs felt weak, and she began to crumble. He eased her back on the bed until she lay before him. She wanted to watch him, to share this with him, but as her body began to shudder, her eyes closed.

  “Now come for me, Bee.” He moved his fingers faster, then slid one inside her. She couldn’t stand another moment. Every one of her muscles was pulled tight as her body gathered into a storm. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, just that pleasure was raining down on her. It was a torrent of lightning and thunder that broke suddenly free into a bright and roaring crescendo.

  “Shhh,” he whispered against her ear.

  Vaguely, she became aware of his body against hers, of his hand stroking her sex, calming her after the storm. She opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was taut, his jaw clenched.