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When a girl trudged through the rain at midnight to knock at the Devil’s door, the Devil should at least have the depravity—if not the decency—to answer.
“Truly?” She frowned at him. “Then . . . for as long as it took you to answer the door, you might have put on some clothes.” With a devilish grin, he indicated his trousers. “I did.”
The longer she stared at him now, the more she could actually feel her intelligence waning.
“A geology symposium,” he repeated to himself. “I should have known there’d be rocks at the bottom of this.”
“Well,” he said. “Certainty becomes you.” Her heart gave a queer flutter. It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her.
“I’m a lover of women, yes.” Then he lifted his empty hand. “And yes, I seem to break everything I touch. But thus far I’ve succeeded in keeping the two proclivities separate, you see. I sleep with women and I ruin things, but I’ve never yet ruined an innocent woman.”
“That’s it,” she said, balling her hands in fists. “I’m not letting you out of it this time. I insist that you take me to Scotland. I demand you ruin me. As a point of honor.”
“Jesus,” he finally managed, pushing water off his face. “Jesus Christ and John the Baptist. For that matter, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.” Still not enough. He needed to reach back to the Old Testament for this. “Obadiah. Nebuchadnezzar. Methuselah and Job.”
“Be calm,” she said, taking him by the shoulders. “Be calm. And there are women in the Bible, you know.”
A dozen mocking rejoinders jostled for prominence in Colin’s mind, but he sensed that teasing her on this point would leave him too vulnerable. She was a scientist. She had a cave. And he was an aimless aristocrat who had . . . nothing.
Jesus. Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Delilah, Jezebel, Salome, Judith, Eve. Trouble, every last one. Add Minerva Highwood to the list. A woman like this could ruin him. If he didn’t ruin her first.
He stood by and watched her desperate gesticulations, absurdly enchanted by them. Good for you, pet. Good for you.
“You know,” he said, “this design begins to appeal to me after all. Sea slugs aren’t the least bit arousing, but logarithms . . . I’ve always thought that word sounded splendidly naughty.” He let it roll off his tongue with ribald inflection. “Logarithm.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Ooh. Yes and thank you and may I have some more.”
Good Lord. That word was wicked. Her pronunciation of it did rather wicked things to him. He had to admire the way she didn’t shrink from a challenge, but came back with a new and surprising retort. One day, she’d make some fortunate man a very creative lover.
Colin felt like carving a hashmark in the bedpost. Surely this marked a new level of achievement in his amatory career. Never before had he charmed the frock off a woman with talk of mathematics. Never before would he have thought to try.
He was a man, he told himself. There was an unclothed woman in the room. His physical reaction couldn’t be helped. It was simple biology. Birds felt it. Bees felt it. Even primeval sea snails felt it.
She was right, he told himself. Her breasts were nothing out of the ordinary. To begin with, there were two of them. The usual number.
Colin turned to her, eyebrows raised, as though waiting for her to put the final link on this epic chain of balderdash. “You’re cracked,” she said. He slapped the table. “Exactly! I’d call out, ‘Tallyho!’, and she’d call back, ‘You’re cracked!,’ blithe as anything. And that’s how we’d keep from being separated.”
“If my entertaining the Fontleys with a few exaggerated tales counts as wicked, I suggest you learn to embrace wickedness. For at least the remainder of the week. Their offer of transport is a true boon. It will save a great deal of money and perhaps preserve your reputation, as well. You have a chaperone.”
Colin knew he’d pay for this later. But he couldn’t resist provoking her. Never had been able to resist it, ever since they’d first met. Today, of all days, he wanted to draw her out, push her beyond those boundaries she’d erected. He wanted to be surprised.
His eyebrows lifted. “Except me.” “You’re a special case.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “You really shouldn’t.” And he really shouldn’t look at her that way. So intensely. Searchingly.
Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.
“Is it always so loud?” she asked. “Only when it’s good.” “Good?” Minerva frowned, listening. Nothing about that sounded good. The poor woman was even crying out to God.
“Yes,” he whispered in her ear. “I will push you, pull you, rattle you as I see fit. Because you’ve a sparkling wit lurking beneath that dull exterior. Because you can sing, but you don’t. Because you’ve a fiery passion inside you, and it needs release. Because you can keep walking. You just need someone to push you over that next horizon.”
“Those are rather ironic words,” she said, turning her head to face him. “From a man who won’t even ride in a coach.”
Truly, what could he say? Admit that he’d been harboring some absurd male fantasy of her running through the woods to save him, hair flowing loose behind her, breasts heaving with every pace . . . aided by helpful songbirds chirping directions . . . simply because she’d known in her heart that he needed her help? Because the moment the Gatesheads’ carriage had rolled away, she’d realized that science meant nothing—absolutely nothing—to her without him, and now she would fall at his feet and beg to be his sultry-lipped love slave forevermore?
“You’re standing in the middle of this”—he spread his arms wide to indicate Nature’s splendor—“and you’re thinking about loam in the soil? You spend far too much time staring at the ground.”
“I don’t know. What do people see when they gaze at the sky? Inspiration? Beauty?” She heard him sigh. “Truth be told, this view always intimidated me. The sky’s so vast. I can’t help but feel it has expectations of me. Ones I’m already failing.” He was silent for a long moment. “It reminds me of your eyes.” She dug her elbow into his side. “My eyes are brown. And my back’s growing damp. This is definitely very loam-rich soil. I just needed to look at the sky to realize it.” With a chuckle, he rolled over and pinned her with one leg. “Do you know, you are the most surprising woman.”
“Such lovely marble, to be so misused.” She ran her fingers over the cool, smooth stone. Then withdrew her hand immediately when she realized the cylindrical protuberance she’d grasped was not a horn, nor a pipe.
The possession in his manner thrilled her, and so did the press of his hard, muscled body against hers. He pressed a kiss to her ear. “What if I said I was an idiot that night?” “Then I would agree.” “What if I told you everything’s changed?” He kissed her neck. “That in the past four-and-twenty hours I’ve wanted to murder three different men just for daring to touch you—one of them a duke. That I am desperate with longing, consumed with wanting you. As I’ve wanted no other woman in all my debauched, misspent life.”
“I mean, I am beginning to notice a pattern. All your guises are variations on the same theme. The charming, fun-loving rogue with the not-so-deeply hidden pain. Obviously, it works for you nicely. But doesn’t it grow tiresome?”
“Do be calm. What was it you told me? Think of it as an . . . an excavation.” Smiling, she curled her fingers around his hard, hot length. “It’s in the name of science.”
It’s in the name of science. Hah. That was a first-rate line, that was. Ranked right up there with, “You could save my life tonight,” and “Darling, teach me what it means to love.” Colin made a mental note to remember that one for the future.
“Goodness.” She spoke the word in an awed, highly gratifying tone that made him wonder why he didn’t debauch virgins more often.
Rules. He had to have some rule against this. And even if he didn’t have a standing rule—any code of conduct that allowed him to slide his cock into a virgin’s mouth but not her cunny? Well, that code probably needed some rethinking.
Rutting bass-tard that he was, he reached for her and did what he’d been longing to do for ages. He tangled his hand in all that dark, silky hair and made a tight fist. And then he guided her, teaching her how to please him. Dragging her lush, hot mouth up and down his length, in a deep, steady rhythm. He was a cad. He was a monster. He was going to burn in the fires of hell. It would be worth it.
Until the wine-colored buds of her nipples showed through, and the dark triangle between her legs as well.
BUSHWATCH
“Anyway, I’m satisfied now. You know, in terms of my curiosity. After last night, I’m sure I’ve seen all there is to see.” His voice darkened in a thrilling way. “Believe me. You haven’t seen a fraction of what I could show you.” Oh, don’t. Don’t tell me that.
Minerva found herself caught between admiration and envy. She seemed doomed to move through life feeling the perpetual outsider, whereas Colin could fit in anywhere. But for the first time, she saw his charm in a different light. Not as lubricant, of either a social or sexual variety, but simply as an expression of his true self. He caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Tallyho!” She couldn’t help but smile and shake her head, whispering, “You’re cracked.”
Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.
“She’s a first-rate sword swallower.” Oh my God. Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth and made helpless snuffling sounds into her palm. “Caught a bit of straw dust,” she explained a few moments later, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.
She slid a look at Colin. The man was unbelievably shameless. Incorrigibly handsome. And—oh, heavens. She was a feather’s brush away from falling hopelessly in love with him. “A sword swallower,” the brunette echoed, casting a skeptical glance at Minerva.
Minerva laced her hand with Colin’s and gave it a squeeze of thanks. Along with all the blissful pleasure he’d so masterfully coaxed from her body, he’d now introduced her to an entirely new sensation. So this was how it felt to be envied.
“Oh, Colin. That’s marvelous.” She swept her tongue over those ripe, sultry, pouting lips. He stared at her, suddenly helpless to move or speak. Raw, animal lust gripped him, and gripped him hard. He had to feel those lips on him again. Had. To. This wasn’t a mild expression of preference. This was an imperative. His body was insistent. To continue his existence on this earth, he now needed the following: food, water, shelter, clothing, and Minerva Highwood’s lips.
Sending him a coy glance through her dark eyelashes, she took a sip of milk. Then she licked her lips again. Correction. He needed food, water, shelter, clothing, Minerva Highwood’s lips, and . . . Minerva Highwood’s tongue.
Remarkable. He’d wooed lovers with jewels and Venetian lace, taken them to view operas from the most lavish box in the theater, fed them oysters and sugared berries from silver trays. But he’d never known the sort of pure, honest pleasure he felt right here, right now. Devouring meat pies with Minerva Highwood in the middle of a country fair.
“Francine,” she whispered, “this is for you.”
