Page 2 of A Rake's Revenge
Caroline’s hands crept up to circle the marauder’s neck, and she sifted her fingers through his hair, wondering how it could feel so silky. She drew him closer as she parted her lips. She felt an instant of hesitation—or maybe surprise—and then his hands slid down her back to cup her buttocks and bring her fully against the length of him. He deepened the kiss, his mouth hard and demanding now as his tongue stroked in and out of hers, mimicking what other body parts could do. Caroline did battle with his tongue, reveling in hot, potent desire that swept over her and flooded her veins with fire. He tasted slightly of cloves. She felt his manhood harden and swayed her hips to feel more of him.
He broke away abruptly. So quickly that Caroline felt she was grasping only air. It took a moment for her to catch her breath as she stood staring at him.
He stared, too, and then, he gave her a lavish bow. “I have always taken control of this, but I believe that I have just been outmaneuvered, Mademoiselle.” He smiled slowly. “Merci. I thank you very much.”
With those words, he turned and walked away. Caroline stood mute, watching him vault onto his horse and ride away with his brigands. Slowly she put a hand to her swollen lips. Never in her entire life—even when she thought she’d been in love with George—had she ever had such a reaction to a man.
Who in Hades is he?
…
Stephan Stoddard, Marquis of Kendrick, hadn’t planned to attend the Countess of Lockwood’s soiree. He should have been making one last inspection of the sailing sloop. He was planning on taking it out on a trial run tomorrow to make sure the clinkered hull had enough pitch to be waterproof and that the winches were securely riveted to the deck, among other things.
But then, he hadn’t planned on kissing Caroline Nash the evening before last.
When his men had halted the carriage just past St. James Park that night, Stephan had thought he was stopping the spoiled son of a duke, a dandy trendsetter who not only carried large amounts of cash that he liked to brandish about, but who had been seen recently paying court to the younger sister of the Duc de Chartres. Stephan had considered it a stroke of luck that he’d seen them depart the theatre on Drury Lane and head toward the more dimly lit roads past the park. Not only would he obtain a sizable amount of blunt that would be evenly distributed among the farmers and fishermen near his Kent estate, but he would have the further pleasure of making the preening peacock look like a complete fool. Not to mention that French girls seemed to take to being kissed quite readily.
Caroline Nash haddefinitelytaken to kissing quite readily, too. He’d recognized her almost as soon as he realized he’d mistaken the carriage. Tall, with chestnut hair and gray eyes the color of a stormy sea, she’d almost been betrothed to the Duke of Danworth two years ago. That pompous ass had cast her aside for Lady Amelia Stanton. There had been a great deal of scandal, but Caroline had held her head up and not been cowed by the gossips. Stephan admired that kind of spunk. Amid rumors of her lost virtue—which he didn’t think was anyone’s business—a number of randy suitors had been overly eager to escort Caroline around, but she had refused them all.
Stephan understood her need to keep her dignity intact. He maintained an aloof air himself, since he’d been a suspect in his older half brother Devin’s drowning in order to inherit the title. The accusations were still whispered about, which meant although no hostess would dare cut him directly, he was pretty much persona non grata in Society circles. That had led to his idea of transferring funds from the pockets of thetonto the hands of the poor as revenge. Stealing kisses from naive debutantes who thought touching an ungloved hand was risqué kept him quite amused as well.
He hadn’t been prepared for Caroline Nash. Hell, he felt himself harden just thinking about how her body had felt pressed to his. Every nuance and curve and mound had melded perfectly. She was soft in all the right places and lush in the rest. Her mouth had tasted sweet with a hint of salt at her lips, telling him her body had heated in reaction to his. Her hands raking through his hair had nearly unmasked him, and he’d even forgotten that he wore a Vandyke disguise. He’d been damn lucky the moustache and beard hadn’t come off when he’d deepened the kiss. It had taken every ounce of his considerable willpower to break away when her hips rocked against his cock. How he’d managed to maintain the accent he used was nothing short of a miracle.
He’d decided to attend the soiree this evening to see if the attraction still lingered or if the surprise of her response had been just that—a pleasant surprise. He glanced around the crowded room of dark-coated men looking like crows amongst the brightly colored plumage and ridiculously large feather plumes in the hair of the tittering ladies. Stephan felt a little foolish when he did not see Caroline. Perhaps she had not come. He should have gone to the shipyard and finished his inspection.
And then he saw her, standing near an open French window, fanning herself rather rapidly. An urge as strong as the call of a sea siren turned his feet in her direction. The loose skirt of the high-waist gown she wore shimmered in shades of blue and green like the ocean on a sunny day, while the chandelier near the window highlighted reddish sun streaks in her upswept hair. She didn’t sport any of the fancy sausage curls that were currently in rage, but a few strands had come loose from the chignon, giving her a tousled just-out-of-bed look. His fingers itched to pull out the rest of the pins and watch that mane tumble down over shoulders that would be bare because he’d slipped the bodice down her arms to expose softly rounded white breasts topped with delicious little pink nipples…
Stephan shook his head slightly to clear it. The bedroom look—let alone removing Caroline’s clothes—was only his imagination moving into high gear, but at least he’d answered his own question. His body felt as tight as a sheeted sail close-hauled to the wind. He couldn’t recall a woman who had piqued his interest to this level. The kisses he stole from the debutantes amused him, but nothing more. Even the skilled courtesans he preferred did not stir his blood like Caroline did, and they were trained to do just that. What was it about Caroline that was so different? The call of the siren sounded louder in his ear, and he sensed he was about to crash on invisible rocks below the surface of whatever madness had come over him, if he were not careful.
Stephan paused halfway across the room as he saw her father and a portly, middle-aged man approach her. With his thoughts in full lecher mode, the last person he needed to speak to was Caroline’s father. Stephan squinted. If he weren’t mistaken, the man with Sir Reginald was the Earl of Tisdale, one of the prince regent’s more pretentious, toffee-nosed cronies. The man fancied himself a yachtsman since he’d recently purchased a new design of sailing sloop, but Devin had said more than once that the earl was more of a dockside captain than one who actually took the helm and steered a straight course.
As Stephan watched, the smile that Caroline had for her father slowly faded and her face paled. When the earl bowed slightly and reached for her hand, it looked to Stephan like she tried to snatch it away, but too late. Stephan narrowed his eyes again. The bloody bastard was practically slobbering over Caroline’s hand, and her face had turned as white as the glove that was probably wet.
The hair prickled at Stephan’s nape. Something was very, very wrong.
…
For at least the tenth time—maybe it was a hundred—Caroline suppressed a yawn and wondered what in the world she was doing at the Lockwoods’ soiree. The heat was stifling in the crowded room, and even the slight breeze at the French window didn’t cool her down. But perhaps her body felt so heated because her thoughts were.
Caroline hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the…incident…from two nights past. She could hardly call it being accosted, given her reaction to the stranger. Even now, she could remember the taste of him and the pressure of his mouth, as though he’d just removed it mere seconds ago. Her body tingled, too, recalling the feel of his strong arms pressing her against that big, hard body, especially one particularly hard part. Caroline fanned herself to no avail. Heat rose in her, and she felt ready to combust.
Who was the Midnight Marauder? She knew he had dark hair and eyes. He’d also worn facial hair not currently in vogue with theton, which would make him easy to spot. Had she come to the soiree with the silly idea of seeing him here? Maybe she had since he’d spoken with a cultivated French accent. But then, what would an aristocrat, especially a foreign one, be doing playing the part of a highwayman? She wished she’d paid more attention to the silly, giggling girls who whispered behind their fans about the totally scandalous liberties the marauder had taken. Whenever such a situation occurred, Caroline had assumed the intent was robbing the men of their coin and that the young ladies were exaggerating whatever the Midnight Marauder had actually done.
Not anymore. God in heaven. The man had awakened sensations she hadn’t even known she had. Desire, which Caroline thought she’d buried after George’s betrayal, had risen in her like steam from a tea kettle.
The Midnight Marauder had been bold, but he hadn’t used force. She had the strange feeling that if she hadn’t responded to him like she did, he wouldn’t have pressed the issue. A gentleman robber? The idea seemed incongruous, but something about it was also appealing. He’d acted like a chivalrous knight of old, stealing a kiss from a damsel as his reward. Caroline almost laughed out loud. When had she developed such a creative imagination? She wasn’t given to romantic ideas, and she certainly was no naive damsel. Regardless of the excitement the man had stirred in her, stopping carriages to steal money—and kisses—wasn’t exactly proper behavior. Which was precisely why she had liked it.
“My dear, I have been looking for you.”
Caroline turned, pushing her errant, wayward thoughts away, and looked at her father. The Earl Tisdale, a man who was as much a pompous ass as George had turned out to be, stood beside her father. She didn’t like his ogling look. It made her feel like a mare being sized up for potential breeding at a horse auction. Caroline forced a smile.
“My lord.”
The earl waved a rather pudgy hand. “You may call me Alfred.”
Keeping her smile in place, she demurred. “Addressing a peer by his Christian name is not proper, my lord.”
“We may dispense with the formality, I think,” her father said.
