If He's Sinful. Hannah Howell

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СКАЧАТЬ That madness had been fleeting for those who had claimed to suffer from it, yet Ashton could not help but fear that there was something wrong with him since he had never felt it at all. Just once he would like to be gripped by that madness, but since he would be thirty soon and was about to commit himself to the cool, elegant Clarissa, he doubted he would ever know it.

      “Here we be, m’lord,” said the woman leading him along as he heard her open a door. “I’ll just tug ye o’er to the bed and then take off the blindfold so’s ye can see the fine gift your friends got ye.”

      When the woman removed the blindfold, Ashton looked at his gift and experienced a sensation that he compared to the time he had fallen out of a tree and landed so hard that all the breath had been stolen from his body. The woman tied spread-eagle to the bed was small, delicate. Ashton wondered if she were too stretched out to be comfortable. He was only dimly aware of a woman setting a tray of wine and cakes on the table by the bed while another placed his clothing on a chair. All of his attention was firmly centered upon his gift.

      The white diaphanous gown she wore hid little from his gaze. His breath quickened, became something just short of a pant, as he studied her lithe shape. Her breasts were not particularly large but they were perfectly shaped, round and plump with dark pink nipples. She had a tiny waist and it accentuated the womanly curve of her hips. His palms began to sweat while he looked up and down the length of her beautifully formed, slender legs, and he slowly wiped them dry on the sides of his tunic. Her body was cushioned by thick, rippling waves of brown hair enlivened with glints of gold and red and reached almost to her knees. He wanted to wrap it around his body. His gaze was then caught by the tidy vee of curls between her pale thighs. He trembled and his heart began to pound.

      When he heard the women leave the room, he quickly sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt oddly unsteady. Ashton fought the urge to throw himself at her as he studied her heart-shaped face. Her small straight nose was lightly dusted with unfashionable freckles and he wanted to kiss each one. There was the hint of a few more on her breasts and he wanted to count them, too. With his tongue. Fine cheekbones and a faintly pointed chin made for a face that was pleasing, but not elegant. Her eyes, however, were stunningly beautiful. A strange blend of blue and green, they were wide, surrounded by thick, long dark lashes and set beneath neatly arched dark brows. Her mouth would tempt a saint, he mused. It was a little too wide for fashion, was no rosebud or cupid’s bow, but it was perfectly shaped with slightly full lips. He wanted to nibble on them.

      “Is that uncomfortable?” he asked and decided he deserved the scornful look she gave him. “A stupid question.”

      “I would never be so rude as to say so.”

      She spoke very well for a common whore, Ashton thought, and inwardly winced. He hated to think of her as one of that sad breed, which was utterly foolish of him. She was working in a brothel and was tied to a bed, prepared to play the part of a maiden sacrifice in some idiotic sex game with a total stranger. It embarrassed him a little to admit to himself that he was now prepared to play that game; was, in all truth, eager to participate. He would untie her ankles in a few minutes, he decided and reached out to stroke her thigh.

      The soft gasp she gave and the sight of his hand upon her thigh made Ashton slightly feverish. This was lust, he realized; that blinding sort of lust he had just decided he would never experience. Suddenly what had seemed foolish now appeared highly erotic. Ashton discovered that he did have an imagination and it was filling his mind with a vast array of truly licentious plans. He removed his sandals and stood up to pull off his tunic. The way her eyes widened flattered him and he tossed the tunic aside. It took an effort not to preen in front of her like some vain fool.

      Nick me! Penelope thought; she was looking at a naked man. Even more astonishing, she was looking at a naked Lord Radmoor. She had been infatuated with the man from the moment she had first set eyes on him, but not once in all her silly romantic little dreams had she imagined him naked. And if she had, Penelope decided, unable to stop herself from staring at his groin, she would never have imagined that particular appendage to be so inspiring. The little knowledge she had gathered concerning the male anatomy had come from caring for young boys. She had always suspected that a man’s appendage would be larger than a boy’s, but would never have guessed it could be that large. Penelope did not know what emotion seized her more firmly, amazement, or terror over the fact that he actually thought he could put that inside her.

      It was not only Mrs. Cratchitt’s potion that kept her from demanding, loudly and hysterically, to be set free, and Penelope knew it. Her infatuation with the man also held her captive. Until now she had seen him only from a distance or as she indulged in some spying, creeping about her own home like a thief. Everything about the man had drawn her, from his aura of strength and reserve to his elegant handsome appearance. She had been struck stupid by his beauty from the start. Clothed, he had often caused her to sigh with appreciation like some moonstruck girl. Unclothed, he left her unable to find the breath to even sigh.

      She was finally able to lift her gaze to his face in the vain hope of easing the odd warmth infecting her blood. The sight of his body had stirred a strange fever inside her and she needed to shake free of it. His thick golden hair was unrestrained, hanging past his shoulders. A shorter strand dangled over his broad forehead. A long, straight nose, elegant bones, a firm jaw, and a mouth that begged for kisses with its slightly full lips equaled perfection in her eyes. It was a face she knew she would never tire of looking at. It was his eyes that held her spellbound, however. They reminded her of the mists upon the moors, a mystifying bluish gray that could lighten to clear silver or darken to the almost black color of threatening storm clouds. Thick, almost feminine lashes of dark brown tipped with the glint of gold encircled those incredible eyes. Sleek, faintly winged brows of that same color added to the exotic look, enhancing the faint hint of an upward slant to his eyes.

      Her thoughts about his beauty abruptly scattered when he joined her on the bed, crouching between her spread legs. He stroked her thighs with his elegant, long-fingered hands, and pure, unfettered lust swept over her. Penelope knew the potion was at fault, but suspected its effects were strengthened by all the emotions the man already stirred in her heart and body. The vile potion the madam had given her had also shattered all her shields, opened wide the inner doors she kept shut to protect herself from the turmoil of sensing the emotions of others and from being overwhelmed by the spirits all around her.

      Aunt Olympia had always said that those born of Wherlocke blood were passionate. Penelope was not pleased to discover the woman was right, not now, not when she was too helpless to control any of her emotions. Unless some miracle happened, she, who had never even been kissed, was soon to experience the full measure of passion. The fact that that thought more intrigued than frightened her was just another sign that she had no control at all.

      “Your legs are so beautiful,” Ashton murmured as he stroked them, reveling in the softness of her skin.

      “They are too thin,” she said, and the small, still sensible part of her drugged mind told her that that was a particularly foolish thing to say. His smile was beautiful, however, and held no ridicule.

      “Sleek and strong. And soft. Deliciously soft.” He gently nipped the inside of each of her thighs and then soothed the spots with tender kisses and slow strokes of his tongue. “You are too sweet for this sort of life,” he whispered and looked at her. The tips of her breasts had hardened and there was a slight flush upon her cheeks. “And very responsive. You are new to this life, I think.”

      “Oh, aye, quite new.”

      Ashton would have smiled at her use of the word “aye,” which revealed her country roots, if it had not been so sad. Too many country girls came to the city to find honest work only to end up selling their bodies just to survive. He intended to ask her just how new she was but was distracted by her body and his own lust. She even smelled delicious, СКАЧАТЬ