A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

He urged, "Yes," as she threw her head back and strained toward him. Time hung, unmoving and cruel, until finally, finally, all that tension turned in on itself, twisting together until it exploded in waves of light and dark that left her screaming beneath him.

She was still sobbing when Hart moaned her name and slid from her body. His muscles turned to stone beneath her hands; she felt the hot brand of his seed spilling against her thigh.

Her body slowly settled back to its normal state, feeling normal sensations. The coolness of the room, the dampness of their mingled sweat, the sharp burn between her thighs. And tears going cold on her cheeks.

But beyond all that was his wonderful weight against her and the heavy satisfaction of her limbs. She felt decadent. And relieved. He hadn't known. She should have done this weeks before: gotten him drunk and enraged, too angry to notice the subtle resistance of her body.

Hart gave a sleepy sigh when she stroked a hand over his hair. She stroked again, memorizing the glossy texture, the faint scent of spice and vanilla that must be his soap.

His weight lessened slightly, and his lips brushed her col­larbone just before he lifted himself from her body. "It's cold." The way his chest pressed against her arm made the words rumble through her.

He twisted and turned, tugging the bedcovers from be­neath them so he could pull them over their bodies. Emma nearly melted with pleasure when the warmed linens floated down to her skin. And then his strong arm was reaching over to pull her tighter to him and his knee was resting on her thigh, and she felt safe and warm and even loved. "Stay with me," he sighed. "Stay."

Emma didn't bother to answer. He was already asleep, or close enough, and it was one less lie to tell him.

By the time he woke Lady Denmore would be gone. Less than a ghost. She would, in fact, never have existed. But the same could not be said for her feelings or for his.

In the coming days Hart, at least, would have his hatred to protect him. Emma would have nothing but enough regret to last a lifetime.

"Tea, Your Grace."

The words floated over him, accompanied by a dull, warm light. Hart ignored both. He was exhausted and vaguely ill, and he could feel the crisp bite of cold air against his shoul­der. In other words, there was no good reason to wake.

The scent of fresh, hot tea touched the air and grew stronger. Hart buried his head in the pillow, trying to escape, but he found another scent there. The faint citrus kiss of a woman's perfume. Her perfume.

The reason for his exhaustion—and his pounding head— crawled through his sticky mind. Emma. Emma was here. In his bed.

Even the alcohol that still clung to his brain couldn't stop his slow smile. She had finally surrendered. Or he had sur­rendered. He didn't know and didn't care. All he knew was that it had been intense and impossibly good.

Christ, if only he felt a little better, they could do it again right now. But his sour mouth and pounding head stopped him from reaching for her. Tea first. Lots of tea. And then perhaps he'd show her his Turkish bathing room.

He smiled once more into the pillow, and his body began to protest that it didn't need tea or time; it was ready to en­tertain his guest this very moment. Ready to ease her into hot water, lay her against the tile floor while steam billowed around them. Surely the warmth would help his head.

But first he'd have to raise himself up enough to reach the bellpull. The servants would need time to ready the bath and he'd need at least enough tea to wet his parched mouth. But he could let her sleep until then.

Plan in place, Hart managed to roll over, though it took him several minutes to force his eyes open. His valet had only cracked the curtains, but the light seemed impossibly harsh. He was too damn old to get drunk, infuriating lover or not.

Speaking of. . .

Hart reached toward her as he turned. He was still reach­ing to touch her when his eyes revealed the truth, the sad truth. Emma was gone. Snuck away in the night. He'd asked her to stay—he remembered that—and she'd left.

Just to be sure, he sat up to look for her scattered clothes, but the room was pristine. Even his own clothing had been retrieved and taken away to be washed and pressed. All ev­idence of their interlude had vanished.

He let himself fall back to the pillow; he even let himself groan out a loud, vicious curse. Had he really expected one night in his bed to transform her into a tender, obedient lover? Hart snorted at his own question. Hell, he didn't even want her tender and obedient, just here.

The bedside clock caught his eye. It was nearly one. Per­haps she'd stayed and had finally given up on him when morning ticked into afternoon.

Hell, he couldn't think.

Resigned to being awake—and alone—Hart reached for the cup of tea that steamed weakly in a narrow ray of sun­light. He didn't open his eyes again until he'd finished it, and that was only to refill the cup.

By the time someone tapped at his door, he'd finished that cup too. His head felt marginally better and his stomach showed no sign of rebelling as he called out for the servant to enter.

"Your Grace." The footman bowed and averted his eyes. "That Stimp fellow is here. He insists you'll want to see him."

Hart shook his head, then winced and rubbed it gingerly. "He's hours late. Send him on his way. I'll be in touch." "Yes, Your Grace."

Hart reached for the cold toast and assiduously avoided the boiled egg. He was swallowing the first bite when he no­ticed the stain on the bedcover. Rust red stood out in smeared blotches against the gray and green weave. The toast turned to plaster in his throat and choked him until he finally forced it down with a gulp of tea.