Lord of Scoundrels

by Loretta Chase

He was also moody, quick-tempered, and generally unappealing. On the other hand, he was only a little boy, who deserved better, she thought, than what Fate had dealt out to him.

She leaned back in the chair and gazed at him contemplatively. “Lud, Bertie, you look just like a pig, with your eyes all squeezed up like that. In fact, you’ve grown amazingly piglike since last I saw you. You’ve gained two stone at least. Maybe as much as three.” Her gaze dropped. “And all in your belly, by the looks of it. You put me in mind of the king.” “That whale?” he shrieked. “I do not. Take it back, Jess.” “Or what? You’ll sit on me?” She laughed.

She looked up. And a swift, fierce heat swept Lord Dain from the crown of his head to the toes in his champagne-buffed boots. The heat was immediately succeeded by a cold sweat.

“Your eyes,” she said, her gaze perfectly steady, “are very black. Intellect tells me they must be merely a very dark brown. Yet the illusion is…overpowering.”

“The conversation has progressed with astonishing rapidity to the personal,” he drawled. “You are fascinated by my eyes.” “I can’t help it,” she said. “They are extraordinary. So very black. But I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.” With a very faint smile, she turned back to the jewelry case.

It would have eased Jessica’s mind, could she but have known, that she gave Lord Dain nightmares.

“Dain,” she said in a low, hard voice, “if you do not release my hand this instant, I shall kiss you. In front of everybody.”

Dain was not certain what he was supposed to choke on, except perhaps laughter, because he was certain he’d never seen anything so vastly amusing in all his life as Miss Jessica Trent in a temper fit.

There was nothing sweet or chivalrous about his kiss. It was a hard, brazen, take-no-prisoners assault that drove her head back.

Her kiss was as sweet and innocently ardent as his had been bold and lustily demanding. He melted under that maidenly ardor as though it were rain and he a pillar of salt.

Bewildered and heated at once, he moved his big hands unsteadily over her back and shaped his trembling fingers to her deliciously dainty waist. He had never before held anything like her—so sweetly slim and supple and curved to delicate perfection. His chest tightened and ached and he wanted to weep.

Sognavo di te. I’ve dreamed of you. Ti ho voluta tra le mie braccia dal primo momento che ho vista. I’ve wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.

Ho bisogno di te. I need you.

“Oh, Genevieve. He was so adorable. I wanted to kiss him. Right on his big, beautiful nose. And then everywhere else. It was so frustrating.

Then what holds you here? he asked himself. What mighty force dragged you here, to gaze stupidly, like a moonstruck puppy, at a house, because she was in it? And what chains held you here, waiting for a glimpse of her? A touch. A kiss. That’s revolting, he told himself.

Touch me. Hold me. Kiss me.

I need you.

Her lips clinging to his…her hands, holding him fast. She was soft and warm and she tasted of rain, and it was sweet, unbearably sweet, to believe for a moment that she wanted to be in his arms.

After a mere three encounters with Dain, a simple animal attraction had intensified to mindless infatuation. Her symptoms had not simply become virulent; they had become noticeable.

“I must be besotted,” he said evenly. “I have the imbecilic idea that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

You made me want you, he told her in his mother’s language. You’ve made me heartsick, lonely. You’ve made me crave what I vowed I would never need, never seek.

He was big and dark and beautiful and he smelled of smoke and wine and cologne and Male. Now she found that she’d never wanted anything so desperately in all her life as she wanted his low voice sending shivers up and down her back and the lashing strength of his arms about her and his hard, depraved mouth crushing hers.

She was wax in his hands, melting under the kisses simmering over the swell of her breast.

She had wanted him from the start, without understanding what desire was. Now he’d taught her what it was and made her want more.

She was not simply jealous, she was madly so—and he’d put her into this mortifying state with but a few careless words.

“You’re mine. I look after what’s mine.

She claimed, too, her hands raking over his massive shoulders and down, digging her fingers into the powerful sinews of his arms. Mine, she thought, as the muscles bunched and flexed under her touch.

And mine, she vowed, as she splayed her hands over his broad, hard chest. She would have him and keep him if it killed her. A monster he may be, but he was her monster. She would not share his stormy kisses with anyone else. She would not share his big, splendid body with anyone else.

She wanted his touch upon her naked flesh: big, bare, dark hands moving over her, everywhere. Rough or gentle, she didn’t care. As long as he wanted her. As long as he kissed her and touched her like this…as though he were starving, as she was, as though he couldn’t get enough of her, as she couldn’t of him.

Most of the world—all but a handful of the wedding guests, certainly—viewed him as a monster, and her marriage to the Bane and Blight of the Ballisters as a narrow notch above a death sentence. But he was not a monster when he held her in his arms. And so Jessica couldn’t stop herself from hoping for more of that, at least. And hoping, she was determined to try.

The morning sun beat down warmly, but she tasted like rain, like a summer storm, and the thunder he heard was his own need, his blood pounding in his ears, his heart drumming the same unsteady beat.

“I should like to see you try to get rid of me,” she said.

He was on fire, and her low, foggy tones were oil drizzled upon the flames.

“You can pick me up with one hand,” the throaty voice continued. “I love your big hands. I want them all over me, Dain. Everywhere.” She flicked her tongue over his ear, and he trembled. “On my skin. Like this.” Under his fine cambric shirt, her fingers stroked over his pounding heart. She brushed her thumb over the taut nipple, and his breath hissed out between clenched teeth. “I want you to do that,” she said, “to me.”

“Oh, Jess.” His voice was an anguished whisper as he sank down beside her. He pulled her to him, and dragged hot kisses over her face. “Baciami. Kiss me. Abbracciami. Hold me. Touch me. Please. I’m sorry.” Urgent, desperate, his voice, while he struggled with the narrow ribbon ties.

She wanted to resist, to remain angry, but she wanted this more. She’d wanted to touch and kiss and hold him from the day she’d met him. She’d wanted him to burn for her, just as she’d wanted him to set her ablaze.

Darling. The room was whirling merrily about him.

“I’d heard all about you,” she said. “I thought I was prepared. But no one had described you properly. I was expecting a gorilla.” She drew her index finger down his nose. “You were not supposed to have the face of a dé Medici prince. You were not supposed to have the physique of a Roman god. I wasn’t prepared for that. I had no defenses ready.” With a small sigh, she brought her hands to his shoulders. “I still haven’t. Physically, I cannot resist you at all.”

He decided he was becoming hysterical. He wasn’t surprised. She had a knack for doing that to him.

“I almost wish I could be naked all the time,” she said softly. “I love the way you look at me.”

“You mean the panting and salivating?” He untied his own sash. “I mean that sleepy, sulky look you get.” She laid her hand upon her belly. “It makes my insides hot and muddled.”

She was all he wanted in the world, and she was his, wanting him, slick and hot for him.

She was falling in love with him—in spite of everything and against her better judgment—more slowly, yes, but just as inexorably as she’d fallen in lust with him.

When it came to being exasperating, Dain was a genius.

His big hand dangled but a few inches from her breast. She wondered whether anyone in the crowd pressing about them would notice if she shifted to close the distance. She hated herself for wishing to close it.

He dragged up her skirts. “I’ve wanted you the whole curst day, drat you,” he growled.

“Fool,” he said. Mad she was, to want such an animal. “Your fool,” she said. “Stop it, Jess.” She was nobody’s fool, least of all his. “I love you.”

“You can’t stop me,” she gasped. “I love you.”

He never had been, never would be, safe from her. Femme fatale. Still, there were worse ways to die.

This time, he felt as lost and helpless as that little boy had been, trying to understand why his Heavenly Father had made him wrong inside and out and wondering what prayer must be prayed, what penance must be paid, to make him right.