The Rake to Rescue Her

Sweat broke out on his brow and his rigid arms trembled as he stilled deep within her, battling the urge to thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw in wild rhythm to reach the pinnacle that shimmered just out of reach.

But though her body was obviously primed to receive him, Diana did not moan, or tilt her hips to pull him deeper...or move at all; she lay, eyes still closed, passively beneath him.

Knowing that even remaining motionless, he’d not be able to stave off his own climax much longer, and wanting desperately to bring Diana with him on that journey to ecstasy and back, Alastair wondered what to try next.

Granted, his previous amours had all been experienced, or at least enthusiastic participants. Almost, he was ready to withdraw completely—except that despite her self-control, her body didn’t lie. The peaked nipples and liquid heat within told him that she wasn’t unreceptive. The tightly closed eyes, clenched fists and rigid posture told him she was exerting all her will to resist responding.

Well, he’d see about that. Slowly he began moving in her, rocking deep, caressing the little nub with every stroke, then bending to suckle the taut nipples.

But though he was soon riding the razor’s edge, trying to stave off climax, Diana remained stiffly unmoving. Desperate, he redoubled his efforts.

Only to have her place a hand on his sweaty chest. ‘Go ahead, finish now,’ she said, her eyes still closed. And rocked her hips to force him deeper.

He wasn’t sure he could have resisted much longer anyway. But as she finally moved beneath him, the dyke of his control broke and wave after wave of pleasure crested, washing over him with a force that robbed him of breath and consciousness.

Suddenly aware that his weight must be crushing her, he rolled to the side and up on the pillow.

‘May I wash now?’ she asked, not meeting his gaze.

Too passion-drugged for coherent thought, he simply nodded. And watched as she slid off the bed, walked to the bureau, and calmly plied the sponge and linen towelling, then turned to face him, still naked.

Despite the perplexing episode that had just transpired between them, she was still so lovely, still called so strongly to some uncontrollable something deep within him, that all he wanted was to pull her back into bed and love her again.

‘May I dress now? Or do you require...more tonight?’

That prosaic question dashed whatever remained of his sensual haze, unleashing a boiling cauldron of emotions. Disappointment. Puzzlement. Curiosity. Embarrassment.

Anger.

No previous experience had prepared him to deal with an outcome like this. But he’d not take her again tonight, much as he wanted to, not until he’d had time to figure out what had happened and what to do about it.

‘That will be all for now,’ he said curtly, the dismissal eroding what little remained of the euphoria. She nodded, seeming entirely untroubled by the cold, transactional nature of the interlude.

In silence he dressed her. ‘Have Marston summon you a chair,’ he said at last, when the final tape had been tied, the pins replaced and her hair, much too thick for his fumbling attempts to recreate a coiffure, had been thrust under her bonnet.

‘Will you require me tomorrow?’ she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

‘I’ll send you a note. You’ll make yourself available?’

‘As you wish. Goodnight, then, Alastair.’

With a nod, she exited the chamber.

Alastair listened until her footsteps faded down the stairs. Then, with an oath, he poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one swallow.

What the hell had just happened?

Chapter Five (#ulink_91b85b2e-67d8-5d2e-91e4-667bf13c2409)

Frustration boiled up, and Alastair had to exert all his self-control to keep from hurling the unoffending wine glass into the hearth, just for the satisfaction of hearing it smash.

Had Diana been secretly laughing at him, mocking his all-too-evident desire with her ability to resist him?

Oh, how things had changed! After their engagement, she’d tantalised him, trying to drive him wild enough to overcome his refusal to take her before they were wed. He’d insisted she deserved better than some furtive, hurried coupling in the library or garden, where her father or a servant might at any moment interrupt. When they finally tasted consummation, he wanted them to be able to love each other freely, at length and at leisure.

This time, he had been eager and she’d been...indifferent.

If he’d not had numerous ladies testify to his expertise as a lover, he’d have been unmanned by her total lack of response.

But that wasn’t quite right, he corrected himself. Her body had responded; of that, he was certain. But for some reason, she’d refused to allow herself to experience pleasure.

To punish him for coercing her into this, so he might not revel in her satisfaction at his hands?

He didn’t think so. She’d exhibited no triumph at having resisted his skill; there’d been nothing of gloating superiority in her being able to render him helpless with pleasure, while refusing to allow him to do the same for her.

Besides, though he might have had the bad taste to propose the liaison, he’d done nothing to force her into accepting. As she certainly knew, were she to have refused the offer, he would have left it at that.

Instead, it was almost as if she had withdrawn entirely, not permitting herself to experience pleasure.

How had the passionate girl he remembered come to this?

Was this startling transformation her late husband’s fault? For the first time he began to doubt his certainty that the account she’d given him of her marriage was a complete, or at least exaggerated, fabrication.

A sympathy he did not want to feel welled up in the wake of that doubt.

Stifling it, he jumped up and began to pace. There had to be some way to penetrate that wall of resistance. Break through to reach the body trembling for completion, and bring it to satisfaction.

If she’d been repulsed by him, or truly unresponsive, he would have, regretfully, dismissed her tonight. Instead, there’d been an intriguing disconnect between her will and her body’s arousal.

He’d hoped a few episodes would be enough to set him free of her. But he knew now with certainty that he could never let her go until he’d reached her, coaxed forth the response simmering beneath the surface, until she cried and shuddered in his arms with all the passion he’d not allowed himself to taste all those years ago.

How best to tempt her?

Pouring another glass of wine, he set himself to consider it.

* * *

Dismissing the sedan chair, Diana let herself into the townhouse and crept up to her chamber on legs that were still not steady. Summoning the maid to help her out of the gown—mercifully, the girl made no comment on hair that looked like an escapee from Bedlam had arranged it—she then dismissed her.

Sleep was out of the question. With her body still humming with awareness and her hard-won calm in tatters, she settled into the chair before the hearth, heart racing as she tried to determine what to do next.

Oh, she had been so right to fear letting Alastair Ransleigh get close to her! She’d thought, after eight years of fulfilling a man’s desires in whatever way demanded of her while mentally distancing herself from the activity, she would be able to service Alastair with detachment.

And so she had...but just barely.

The process had been much easier with the Duke, who had no interest in her physical satisfaction. In fact, he’d mentioned on several occasions that he thought it demeaning for a man to have a wife who disported herself in the bedchamber like a harlot; such behaviour was for strumpets, not for the high-born woman chosen for the honour of breeding the offspring of a lord.

Given his opinion, she might have been tempted to ‘disport’ herself on occasion, had it not meant lengthening the time she had to suffer his touch. As it was, she slowly perfected the ability to wall herself off from what was happening to her. Viewing actions, even as she performed them, as if she were a spectator observing them from afar had allowed her to tolerate the bedchamber requirements of her role.