The Dangerous Mr. Ryder

‘This is Bel’s doing, I take it?’ His mouth was a hard line and Eva realised he was furiously angry.

‘Your sister told me you would be here. Jack—’ No, he wasn’t Jack Ryder here. This, in the glamour of the ballroom, in his exquisite tailoring, his signet glowing dark on his hand, this was the other man, the one she had never met. ‘Lord Sebastian. Please, there is a retiring room just here, I believe.’

‘Very well.’ Punctiliously he held the curtain back, opened the door for her and waited while she slipped inside.

‘Will you turn the key? I do not wish to be interrupted.’ She glanced around. A chaise against the wall, two chairs, a pretty little marble fireplace set across the corner, that was all.

‘Jack…Sebastian. What do I call you?’

‘Nothing,’ he said harshly.

‘You left without saying goodbye.’ Eva meant it as a prelude; he took it as an accusation.

‘It was better that way. I had hoped not to have this conversation.’

‘What conversation? How do you know what I want to talk about?’

‘I assumed you have changed your mind about wanting our affaire to end.’ Jack’s eyes were bleak, although his tone was neutral. ‘I do not want it to end, either,’ he added. ‘But I know it is the wise thing. The only thing for two people circumstanced as we are.’

‘No. That is not what I meant to say. I agree with you: an affaire i

s impossible here.’ That, she was pleased to see, took him aback. ‘But like you, I wish it were not.’

‘Then why are we here?’ Jack asked. The black mask made him seem different somehow, more aloof, more dangerous. ‘In a locked room? Just one more time, perhaps?’ Eva moved in a flutter of silk and gauze, needing to be closer, needing to see his eyes more clearly. She saw his control snap, suddenly without warning, like lightning from a clear sky. She was in his arms, crushed against his chest, his eyes were blazing into hers and his mouth came crushing down to silence her gasp of protest.

Damn it, did she think he was made of iron? She had taken him by surprise, with his guard down, and she came in silks and feathers and a cloud of subtle perfume that enhanced the scent of her and spoke of sin and sweetness and soft, soft skin. He was aching for her, had been aching with the bone-deep agony of something broken ever since that chaste night in Brussels.

He had expected it to get better; it got worse. He had thought it was purely lust and had tried to assuage it in the obvious manner. But he found his feet would not carry him over the threshold of the discreet house of pleasure that had enjoyed his custom so many times before.

If it were lust, then no other woman than this one, the one he could not have, could slake it. But it was not lust. He had admitted it to himself already—now he had to live with the reality of it. Love. He had found the strength to do the right thing and now she flung all that hard-won self-control back in his face, as though it did not matter, as though he would rather have slashed his own wrist open rather than walk away from that house without a farewell.

He had gone to the War Office and made them very happy with the rocket notes and then he made the effort to put Jack Ryder behind himself until this madness at least became a manageable agony. He had his hair ruthlessly barbered into the newest crop. He filled the white nights when he could not sleep with gaming, and won an embarrassing amount of money. He visited his tailor and ordered lavishly. Nothing helped, and, to add insult to injury, the highly fashionable, clinging knitted black silk of his evening knee breeches could not have been better designed to demonstrate the violently carnal effect Eva was having on him.

Then she had moved, bringing her warmth, her scent, to lash his senses, and he lost control.

Anger or lust or sheer desperation? Jack had no idea, and with Eva’s body crushed against his, with her mouth warm and moist and soft under his, he stopped thinking. Her gown, already low over those milk-white breasts, slid away under the pressure of his hands and she spilled into his palms, the perfect weight so familiar, so arousing. He stooped and took one nipple in his mouth, nipping it, fretting it with his tongue mercilessly so that she cried out, gripping his hair, not in pain, but to urge him closer.

Closer? If she wanted closer, then she would have closer. There were buttons under his fingers, then they were free, the gown slipping down, over the curve of her hips, the perfect roundness of her buttocks. Under it she wore only the finest of petticoats, the simplest of corsets. They were no obstacle, it was moments and then she was naked except for her silk stockings and her mask, the effect wildly, indecently erotic. Behind the mask her eyes were wide and soft and fevered in its feathery shadows.

Almost roughly he pushed her down on to the chaise and began to tear off his own clothing. He was so hard for her, so aroused, the clinging silk almost refused to be removed. Impatient, he tugged and heard her gasp as she saw him. Had she forgotten his body so soon, or was this simply the result of the days of abstinence from her?

But Eva showed no fear, not of his anger, not of his size. She reached for him, drew him down to her, wrapped her long, slim, strong horsewoman’s legs around him and pulled him hard to the core of her. She was wet for him, quivering, the scent of arousal fuelling his own state to the point where he thought he would lose all control before he even entered her.

There was no finesse, neither of them sought that, only possession, only oblivion. She cried out as he entered her without any preliminary caress, but the cry was feral, triumphant, demanding and he answered her by driving hard into the centre of her, again and again as she writhed and gasped and called his name, over and over until he felt her convulse around him and he somehow found the strength to wrench himself away before the tremors of her ecstasy sent him over into his.

Chapter Twenty-One

Eva came to herself to find Jack’s weight still crushing down on her, the chaise’s hard bolster digging into the small of her back in the most uncomfortable fashion. They were hot, they were sweaty, she could hardly breathe and she had never felt physical pleasure like it. From outside the volume of noise from the music and the guests beat against the door; inside, the only sound was their panting breaths.

Slowly Jack raised his head so he could look down into her eyes. The black mask made him seem almost sinister, but the harsh lines of his mouth were softened, and the shadow of a smile lurked at the corner. With a sigh he dropped his forehead to rest against hers. She closed her eyes as his lashes brushed against her own lids and his breath stirred warm on her mouth.

‘We are not very good at this abstinence thing, are we?’ he enquired.

‘No. It seems not. Jack…I cannot breathe very well.’

He levered himself up and sat at her feet, arms along the carved rail of the chaise, head thrown back. Naked except for the mask, he looked magnificent in the candlelight, his muscles long and smooth and powerful. She looked at the hand lying relaxed on the carved wood and felt the heat flood through her at the memory of what those elegant, clever, wicked fingers had been doing.

‘Thank you.’ She scrambled up until she was curled against the head of the chaise, just far enough away not to feel the heat of him, just far enough not to yield to the temptation to bend closer and run her tongue tip down his arm. ‘Strange to say, I did not come here for this.’