Devil's Embrace (Devil 1)

She lay back, watching him peel off his clothing. When he stood naked in front of her, she pulled her dressing gown more closely about her and sat up. Words came from her mouth in a torrent. “It is my fault—all of it is my fault. I sold myself, just as would a harlot. I let him take me though I hated it and hated myself. I had nothing to give to him for you had already taken everything—my love, my passion. How can you forgive me? How can you say nothing when you know what I did?”

“Are you now quite through?”

“I am afraid that I have nothing to give you, don’t you understand? I am afraid that I can no longer feel passion after what I did.”

“I have never heard a more comprehensive recital of recriminations. Remind me, when you are an old woman, and I a doddering old man, to provide us both with the amusing tale of Cassandra’s fall from grace. I might even tell our grandchildren if ever your termagant’s tongue pushes me too far.”

“But you must hate me, you must.”

He grabbed her arms and pulled her forward on top of him. “If I yell and rave at you will it make you feel better? Or, perhaps I should beat you senseless. Would that assuage your ridiculous guilt? I do apologize for refusing to wallow with you in this spate of self-hatred. Actually, what you have done required a good deal of courage and determination. And, more importantly, my love, Edward Lyndhurst is no longer in your heart.”

She stared at him, opened her mouth, and closed it again. He laughed and gently flicked her chin.

“Now, Cassandra, what is it to be? Lovemaking with your future husband, or sleep?”

“You are strangling me with your nobility.”

“Oh no, I am your devil, do you not remember? I assure you, there is not a noble bone in my body. You have not answered my question, cara.” He stroked his hands gently down her back.

“You swear that you are not noble, that you are being honest with me?”

“I swear it.”

“But what if I no longer feel passion?” She felt his fingers stroking her hips.

“Your body does not seem to be aware that you are a passionless woman. And your eyes, cara, are becoming vague and smoky. Surely, that is not because of disinterest.”

There was still a faint protest in her mind, but when she opened her mouth, only a breathless sigh emerged.

“Your dressing gown, Cassandra.”

His voice made her urgent, and she tugged frantically at the sash at her waist.

“Hold still, little one.”

The dressing gown parted under his deft fingers, and he slipped her arms gently out of the full sleeves. He pressed her upon her back and lay beside her, his eyes on her body.

“You are too thin,” he said, still not touching her, “save for your breasts.” He leaned over her and kissed her. Her breasts were swollen and tender, but the touch of his mouth made her arch her back upward.

And then he was on top of her, and she felt the familiar hardness of him, the raw masculine strength of him. He crushed h

er breasts against his chest, and she felt his black hair pressing against her.

She felt a surge of joy as he forced her lips to part. He pushed against her belly, and her hands urgently kneaded his back as she parted her thighs. But he would not allow it.

He brought her to release before he entered her. To his besotted surprise, when he thrust deep inside her, she quivered anew with passion. She cried out his name, clutching him feverishly to her, and he closed his mouth over hers, willingly losing himself in her.

Belatedly, he was reminded of her shoulder and gently eased himself off her. He smoothed back the tousled hair from her forehead and solemnly kissed her nose.

“If you show any more passion, my love, I will be a dead man.”

She smiled vaguely, replete, and in the next moment, she was fast asleep, her face against his shoulder.

Their wedding was conducted aboard The Cassandra, in the captain’s cabin. Mr. Donnetti and Scargill supported the couple under the suspicious eye of a Father Donovan, lamentably Catholic.

After waving Father Donovan off the yacht, his step jaunty from the excellent champagne provided by the Earl of Clare, The Cassandra, sails billowing and men swarming nimbly over the rigging, prepared to sail out of the harbor of New York.

“Where are we bound, my lord?” Cassie turned to face her husband, her back against the bronze railing.