To Undo A Lady. Christine Merrill

sweet. He squeezed her breasts through a gown that was fine enough for a drawing room, and felt her shiver. But it was more from the cold than anticipation. His own body was answering, ready. Perhaps, if he had been a gentleman, he’d have refused her. It should be beneath him to take this unfortunate against a wall.

      If things went as he expected, she’d be his leading lady soon enough, and that inevitably lead to a situation much like this one. If they got the first intimacy out of the way before he negotiated her salary, there would be no questions later about what he might wish from her.

      He took control, and pulled aside his scarf so that he might open his greatcoat to wrap it around them both. Then he turned their bodies so that she was the one braced against the bricks, and lifted her skirt.

      Her shivering ceased and he could feel her fumbling with the buttons of his breeches. But either she was still frightened, or her fingers were numb with the cold. He lifted one hand to his lips and kissed it, breathing the life back into it. With his other hand, he touched her yahni, trying to tease some warmth to it as well.

      She might be inexperienced, but clearly she was no virgin. She did not seem surprised by his touch. Her breathing quickened and then stopped in fear as voices passed within a few feet of them on the other side of the pillar.

      He used her fear against her, pressing into her and increasing his teasing, pulling on the lips of her body, tracing the place between them, and thrusting a finger into the wet center of her, in and out as the strangers on the other side of the pillar discussed whether it would be better to go to Ma Brown’s for a girl or to a hell to play faro.

      She clenched her body against his hand, fighting the excitement. He added a second finger and increased his speed. And then he guided her warm hand back to his buttons, helping her undo the flap, guiding himself to the body that was wet and ready to receive him, and filling her.

      If this act was any indication of how they would fare on stage, he had chosen well. She was responsive to him, sensing his desires almost before he knew them, twisting her hips, pushing back in rhythm with his thrusts, sucking his tongue into her mouth and raking it with her teeth as he took her.

      The strangers had moved on, but he did not know or care. He could think of nothing now but the climax, bracing her hips with his hands and hammering into her, losing his control in a tide that seemed to pulse in time to her cries of pleasure and the spasms of her body.

      Dear God, he was almost too weak to stand. If it hadn’t been for the wall, he’d have dragged them both down to the ground in a heap. As it was, it would take a few moments to recover sufficiently to get her back to his apartments above the theater, and to explain the real reason he had accosted her.

      But for now, he fumbled in his purse and pushed a crumpled pound note into the tiny hand that rested against his side.

      Chapter Two

      Sarah Branford was appalled with her own behavior. She had made love to a stranger on the street. Worse yet, he was a foreigner. He had caught her staring at him, as though she had cast off her ladylike manners the moment she had made the decision to fall.

      But that was only because she had seen very few men like him. He appeared to be a Punjabi: strikingly handsome, with thick black hair and skin dark as well-tanned leather.

      But he was, for want of a better word, elegant. His clothing was almost foppishly well tailored, and his voice as clearly English as any gentleman of her acquaintance. He seemed as at home in Covent Garden as a Londoner.

      And she flattered herself when she thought of what had occurred as love. She had whored herself in the street, against a wall, with people walking scant feet from her. The dark-skinned stranger had teased her until she was wet, and then thrust his considerable manhood into her and used her shamelessly.

      Perhaps she was as bad as her husband had said. He had accused her of wanting this often enough, calling her whore and worse for no reason at all. He had treated her as though she deserved punishment, until she had feared for her life and run from him.

      And now she had done the worst thing she could imagine doing. Worse yet, she had enjoyed it. She had been aroused and climaxed along with her partner. She would do so again, if she thought too long on what had occurred, for the memory of it was exciting her all over again. He was still inside of her. His mouth pressed little kisses against the skin of her throat. But the movement slowed until his head rested on her shoulder, as though his ardor was fading along with his erection.

      She calmed herself by thinking of the pound note, and the fact that it was more than enough money for a bed and a meal. It was cold tonight, and she was so hungry. The smell from the vendor down the way had been driving her mad all evening. She could be in her own parlor right now, with a bowl of those chestnuts in her lap, planning her Christmas house party.

      She put the thoughts firmly from her mind. There would be no Christmas for her this year: no house party, no chestnuts. And the activity she’d just engaged in had not required mistletoe. When the money in her hand ran out, she would likely have to do this again, and the next man might not be as pleasant.

      But at least she would not be hung for it, as she might have if she’d attempted to cut purses. And it would be quite some time before she was downtrodden enough to beg. Three days on the run had not broken her dignity to the point where she was a convincing object of pity. Those she had asked for help had suggested she do just as she had done: offer the only thing of value that she had.

      It would be better to be a courtesan, she was sure. But the word would surely get back to the Earl of Sconsbury that his wife had accepted an offer of protection from another man. The consequences to that gentleman would be swift and brutal. Then Sconsbury would haul her home and make sure that she did not escape again.

      She had needed to disappear completely. Anonymity would be her salvation, and what better place to be lost than on the street?

      But her first customer did not seem to be in any hurry to leave. It was just as well, she supposed. He had given her sufficient money so that she did not need to seek another. And wrapped in his coat she felt warmer than she had felt in days.

      He gripped her shoulder, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like approval of her height. Then he asked, quite clearly, “How much do you weigh?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “I asked you how much you weigh. If you are not sure, an estimate will be sufficient.”

      Less than she had, after several days without food. But she could not think what it might have to do with the present situation. Did he mean to eat her? The thought of his teeth on her body raised scenarios that were terribly wicked. And before she could help herself, she giggled.

      He ignored it and ran hands quickly over her body, as though measuring her girth. “Between eight and nine stone, I should think,” he supplied, since she had not answered. “That is just about right for my purposes.” His fingers closed on her arm, pulling her away from the wall and letting her skirt fall back into place. “Come with me.” He was pulling her farther into the darkened alley, and her excitement changed to panic.

      She set the heels of her shoes into the slush and muck of the cobbles, trying to stay him. “Why?”

      “I wish to talk with you.”

      “Here is good enough,” she insisted. She had thought him…well, not exactly a gentleman. But he had not seemed particularly dangerous. Now she was not so sure.

      He ignored her hesitance and smiled at her, releasing her arm to do up his trouser buttons. “I mean you no harm. And I have money. I wish to talk with you. In a warm room. It will take, perhaps, an hour of your time to hear me out. Then you can stay or go, as you wish.” He glanced down at her, as though he could see how empty she was. “Either way, I will give you dinner.”

      Her stomach rumbled in response. Her mouth watered. Her mind ran wild with thoughts of roast goose, stuffing, sprouts and Christmas pudding. It was foolish. He’d said nothing about a feast. But any food would