The Passionate Love of a Rake. Jane Lark

been lit to ward off a chill. It now glowed in the hearth, nearly burned out.

      He smiled as he watched her absorb the scene. Her eyes were wide as they passed over the pale cream and light gold colours, the satinwood dresser and chest, the two soft leather armchairs before the hearth, the three burning candelabras on the mantel, and the fourth by his bed. Her perusal stopped as her gaze rested on the tall, wide, four-poster bed. The rich orange walnut wood shone, polished like glass. The cream covers and sheets were turned back a little.

      It was the temple he worshipped at – the bliss that could be found in a bed with a woman.

      He sensed she was about to turn and flee, and rested his hands on her narrow waist. He looked towards her lips, deliberately denying her the opportunity to offer any excuse to leave by not meeting her gaze, and lowered his head, whispering, “Where were we?”

      His lips touched hers, and he felt them stir into movement as her hands slipped to his back then up across his shoulders and into his hair.

      Her mouth was soft against his. She kissed with uncertainty and hesitation.

      Because it was him, he supposed. Because it was them. But even so, she set his blood on fire, as she had done in the carriage.

      He broke the kiss and left some space between them to watch his gloved hand slide up across her stomach, over her ribs and her bosom, to her neck, and then he touched her mouth. She sighed. He stripped off his gloves and threw them aside, knowing an expectant smile played on his lips.

      Her gaze dropped as his hand touched her shoulder, his thumb resting on the bare flesh covering her collarbone, and he felt her shiver again when his fingers moved swiftly to release the four little buttons on her bodice.

      Her breath pulled into her lungs, lifting her breasts a little.

      Beneath her bodice, he tugged loose the ribbon securing the neck of her chemise, then slid his fingers inside, touching flesh. The circle of black at the centre of her eyes was a deep, inky pool, narrowing the emerald to only a slender rim.

      Her eyelids fell, and a fan of long dark lashes rested on her cheek.

      Her flesh was warm, and the sharp peak of her nipple pressed into his palm.

      Her eyebrows had been plucked and were narrow and shapely, defining her forehead and the elegant bridge of her slim nose. Her cheekbones were high and her jawline beautifully crafted. Her appearance tilted an axis deep within him, flooding him with warmth, like hot glowing coals in his stomach. Jane. God. This was Jane.

      He kissed her again, the delicate weight of her breast burning into his palm, its soft texture fluid in his fingers.

      Another sigh escaped her lips, passing through their kiss.

      He rained kisses along her jaw and down her neck. Then, as her head tilted sideward, he captured her nipple between finger and thumb and pinched it gently. She jumped and gasped, but it was not a displeased sound.

      With his other palm at the small of her back, he bent and claimed her nipple with his mouth.

      In his youth, he’d longed to do this, but then his sense of honour and his respect for her innocence had been too great. Now he would do as he wished and take whatever she gave.

      A false cough echoed in the silence about them, then Jenkins said, “My Lord?”

      Jane pulled away sharply and turned her back.

      Robert smiled. So, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton was shy, though, as he looked at his butler, he could toss a coin for who was more embarrassed.

      Robert supposed he should have shut the door, but at least Jenkins had the sense to keep his gaze lowered.

      “Bring it in,” Robert stated, “and set it down beside the bed.”

      The man nodded, doing Robert’s bidding with his eyes still to the floor. When he withdrew, he backed out without ever looking up.

      “Will there be anything else, my Lord?” he asked from the door.

      “No, Jenkins, that will be all for tonight. You may retire.”

      Jenkins pointedly shut the door, and, internally, Robert laughed as he turned back to Jane.

      She’d pulled her bodice back over her breast, but it still hung open, and it drew his eyes to the colour and texture of her skin. There had always been something exotic about Jane. Her skin was more ivory than cream, her hair so dark. Perhaps he’d stayed abroad because somehow being nearer to Spain, where her ancestors had come from, made him feel closer to her. He’d found many women of her ilk on the continent, but here in London, she was still rare.

      He turned away and crossed the room to collect their champagne, and poured them both a drink.

      When he returned, holding out a glass, she said, “Thank you,” her voice shaky and her eyes on his cravat.

      She did not look at all coquettish now. She looked like the bashful, blushing fifteen-year-old bewildered by his first kiss.

      He sipped his champagne and watched her do the same. Champagne was not his preference, but it was what women liked, and as what he liked was women, he drank champagne to please them.

      She coughed, clearly choking on the bubbles, and set the glass down. When she straightened, her eyes finally met his again.

      He discarded his glass, too, and felt her magnetism draw him closer. His fingers surrounded her chin and tilted her mouth to his.

      “Should we not talk first?”

      “I didn’t invite you here to talk. Your chance to talk was at the ball. You didn’t take it,” he whispered harshly against her mouth before claiming another kiss. His fingers slid her gown from her shoulders. With her arms hanging limp at her sides, it kept on going and dropped into a pool at her feet.

      She wore no corset. But then he’d realised that before, when his hand had touched her back and he’d felt the slight, feminine muscle play about her spine. He would lay his hands beneath her while they made love to feel the curve and flex of her slender form as he drove himself inside her. Lord, she aroused him.

      He felt her fingers pull the buttons of his evening coat, shaking.

      He smiled against her lips, and, stepping back, took over the task, undoing his coat and shrugging it off before tossing it over the arm of the closest chair. When his fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, her gaze lifted and met his once more, pupils wide and glimmering with desire. Once he was stripped of his waistcoat, too, she stepped forward and touched his arms, her fingers running across his shirt.

      Of course, in his youth, his muscles had not been so defined.

      She began untying his cravat.

      Yet again, she was too slow for his liking, and he took over the task, itching to be free of his clothes and have her delicate skin against his.

      She did not appear skilled in undressing men, but then she was nervous, and that probably explained it.

      When his neckcloth was loose, that was thrown to the chair, too. He gripped her waist and pulled her hips to his, kissing her as he pressed against her stomach. Her lips trembled a little beneath his, but her fingers began pulling his shirt from his waistband, brushing his skin beneath it.

      God he could lay her down now and take her through the slit of her drawers. But he would not. He wanted this to last. He wanted the contact of flesh against flesh.

      “Jane,” he said on a sigh into her mouth as her fingers lifted his shirt. He took it off while her eyes and her fingertips skimmed over his skin, exploring every contour of his midriff and his chest, pausing to brush over his nipples before sliding to his shoulders.

      “You’re magnificent,” she whispered as he tossed his shirt aside, her eyes shining.

      She kissed him.

      Robert laughed into her mouth, and Jane slid her fingers