Not Quite a Lady
Independent and unconventional, Indira disregards the rules of Regency society at
every turn. She’s sensual, wanton and completely alone in the world. But when she
seduces Sebastian Dare, she gets more than just a night of passion.
Dare has never known anyone like Indira—a woman who understands his deepest
desires. A woman who knows how to satisfy them. One night of sensual abandon
arouses Dare’s predatory instincts, and he’s a man used to getting what he wants. But
the brazen temptress of his dreams vanishes without a trace.
When circumstances force Indira to seek help from Dare, sparks fly. For Indira
Stuart is no lady, and beneath his polished facade, Sebastian Dare is no gentleman. In
stately London ballrooms, Indira and Dare fight their growing passion, and when a
man from Indira’s past reappears, a firestorm of power and possession ignites. Indira
knows that Dare desires her, but is passion enough to make her surrender her heart?
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Not Quite a Lady
ISBN 9781419928185
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Not Quite a Lady Copyright © 2010 Erica Anderson
Edited by Grace Bradley
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication April 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
N
OT
Q
UITE A
L
ADY
Erica Anderson
Acknowledgments
I'd like to thank my sister for offering to read the sex scenes “for accuracy˝. Thank you to Syneca
for creating a lovely cover and to Grace for expert editing.
Erica Anderson
Chapter One
Sebastian Dare tossed a few coins to the stable lad and shouldered through the door
of the Leaping Hare as though he owned it. This evening the taproom was crowded and
Dare swore under his breath. He had no desire for conversation. Only a good meal and
a good bed. In that order.
He slapped his crop against his boots in annoyance, his well-formed lips expressing
the precise level of his dissatisfaction.
“Your lordship, I do apologize!” said MacGillivray, the innkeeper, who approached
with a distracted look on his face. He straightened when he met the man’s dark and
steady gaze. “I’ve only the one private parlor available. There was a wedding in town
and, as you can see, the celebratin’ is still going on.”
Dare tightened his grip on the crop, just as a mug of ale went flying off a nearby
table. He stepped aside in time to miss the worst of it. The diners seemed not to have
noticed, for they were roaring at some joke, oblivious to the rivers of ale that dripped to
the floor. Dare scowled at the mess.
“Jenny,” MacGillivray shouted. “Come and clean up this mess!”
A flustered-looking barmaid glared at MacGillivray as she hurried by, but the
innkeeper had already turned away and missed the admiring glance she threw the tall
gentlemen behind him. Dare ignored her flirtatious smile. All he wanted from her was
his meal. He wasn’t in the mood to strain the limits of his manners should she invite
herself into his bed.
“This way, sir,” MacGillivray said, gesturing for Dare to precede him down the hall.
Just then, there was a loud crash, followed by laughter and a shriek, presumably from
Jenny. The innkeeper flashed a glance toward the taproom, clearly trying to decide
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between his aristocratic guest and the likelihood of property destruction. “Beg yer
pardon, but …”
Dare waved him away with one gloved hand. “I know my way,” he said. “Only
send in my meal without delay.”
“Yes, sir. Of course,” said the innkeeper, already halfway down the hall.
Dare allowed himself a huff of irritation as he stepped into the parlor, bending to
avoid smacking his head on the frame. His dark eyes scanned the candlelit room, and
he realized, too late, that the room was already occupied. A young woman sat at the
table, a book in one shapely hand.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said in his deep voice.
The woman glanced up. With a brazen gaze, she inspected the cut of his coat. “I
don’t imagine you can procure a decent cup of tea, can you?” She spoke English with an
odd accent.
Dare stared at her, nonplussed. “Do I appear to be a kitchen maid?” he asked in
glacial tones.
“No, then,” she said, “I thought not. Do sit down.”
“I beg your pardon,” he repeated, giving her a look that several generations of his
forebears had worked to perfect. It reduced most men to stammering imbeciles. It
would certainly serve to discourage such appalling familiarity.
The woman sighed, completely oblivious to the setdown he’d given her and pushed
a strand of hair from her face. Despite her atrocious manners, she had quite magnificent
hair. It was a warm brown shot with auburn and she had tied it back with—good
God—was that a piece of string?
His surprise must have shown on his face, for she gave a soft laugh.
She gestured to the chair across from her. “You’re still welcome to share the parlor.
I believe all the other rooms are taken.”
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Dare narrowed his eyes. As she made her offer, she pushed out the chair with her
foot, quite bare of any shoe. It was a rather nice foot, with a high arch and delicate
ankle. With an effort, he drew his gaze back to her face.
“I’m quite harmless, I assure you,” she said.
“Your assurances are completely unnecessary, madam.” Dare made a slow perusal
of the room before continuing. “I see no traveling companions. If, in fact, you have
any.” His tone left no doubt of his opinion on that issue. “Under the circumstances it
would be improper to share the parlor. Despite your kind offer.” The final phrase was
loaded with condescension. Really, had the woman been raised by wolves?
She appeared to be immune to his tone, only widening her eyes slightly as though
she’d heard something that surprised her. Her eyes were brown, and he was reminded
of the color of the moor when the autumn sun hung low in the sky. She was not pretty.
Not exactly. Dare had experience with beauty in all its feminine forms, and this woman
defied classification. Her nose was a bit too large, her chin too well defined. There was
nothing soft and pliable here. Except…
She was still staring at him, as though she were stripping away the layers of
politesse he cultivated in order to reveal whatever lay beneath his scowling features.
“As you wish,” she said simply and turned back to her book.
Dare ground his teeth. He did not care to return to the taproom where drunken
wedding guests rubbed arms with unwashed plowmen. Perhaps this woman, whoever
she was, at least had enough sense not to chatter. “I must beg your pardon,” he said
gruffly.
She pressed a finger to the page to mark her position and looked up. “Oh?”
“I have been unconscionably rude.” He gave her the merest hint of a bow.
“I own that my own manners are quite shocking,” she said. “You are still welcome.
If you wish.” Her voice curled around the words, lending them an undertone that he
usually associated with sexual satisfaction.
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He raised his eyebrows and let his eyes wander, quite deliberately, over her body.
“Surely you have a reputation to preserve. A maid or companion, perhaps.” Or not. She
was wearing a red dress, for God’s sake. It complemented her coloring, but still—red?
“Ah, yes. My maid.” She gave a little flick of her wrist. “She became ill and I was
forced to leave her behind.”
Though her eyes were guileless, Dare knew, without a doubt, that she was
dissembling. Rather than put him off, the realization only whetted his curiosity. “I see,”
he said. He turned and made a show of removing his gloves, pulling the skintight
leather from each finger. He tried again to place her. Perhaps she was a member of the
demimonde. It was a sorority with which Dare was familiar, but she had none of the
blowsy excess he associated with such women.
This train of thought reminded him of how long it had been since he had enjoyed a
woman. It was regrettable that the dashing Mrs. Finley had become demanding of late.
Dare tossed his hat and gloves onto the sideboard and returned his attention to the
mannerless creature across the room. She spoke the English of the upper classes, but
with an odd, lilting rhythm.
Perhaps she was an expatriate from the continent. The accent, however, represented
no language with which he was familiar.
Vexed, he strode across the room to the hearth where he stoked the fire, though the
room was pleasantly warm. Her shoes lay, discarded, beneath the table. He
straightened and realized that her eyes had followed him. He merely lifted his brows,
the expression acknowledging her overt scrutiny and communicating his distaste for it.
“May I offer you a glass of wine?” she asked. “I have tried to drink the tea, but it is
too awful.” Without waiting for his reply, she reached for a glass.
Her hands were slender, but her skin had been darkened by the sun, as though she
spent most of her time outdoors. Definitely not a whore, then. Not a lady, either.
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Erica Anderson
“I am Dare,” he said, settling his large frame into the chair across from her. She
lifted the decanter and Dare admired the swell of her breasts. They seemed to move
remarkably freely beneath her gown, as though she wore no chemise, no corset.
She poured out a glass for him and pushed it across the table. Her lips curved in a
smile and as she leaned toward him, Dare caught her scent, warm and spicy.
“You are not English.”
“No, not exactly,” she said, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass.
“But you were, perhaps, born in England?”
She sat back, then gave a little hop in her chair as though she’d caught something
under one of the legs.
“I was born in England,” she said. “But I have lived most of my life in India.”
That explained the odd accent which he wanted, for some reason, to hear again.
She turned toward the fire, a tendril of hair trailing over her shoulder. The strands
shone in shades of gold and auburn and cinnamon, bright against the tanned skin of her
throat.
She remained silent. Dare had rarely encountered a woman so disinclined to
conversation.
“East India Company?” he asked at last.
She shook her head.
Perhaps the daughter of a military man? Or a wife accustomed to following the
drum. The thought made Dare unaccountably surly. But no, he decided. She did not
have that not-so-subtle martial bearing that military wives tended to adopt.
“Not the British Army, I think.”
“No,” she said. “How perceptive of you.” She raised her eyes to his face, her fingers
toying with the stem of her glass.
A log popped in the fire and she turned toward the sound.
Definitely no corset. Christ. He closed his eyes. He usually had better taste.
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Not Quite a Lady
“Not associated with the British government at all, I would wager.”
“Correct. Again. I daresay by the end of the evening I shall have kept nothing from
you.”
Good God. She couldn’t have made a more blatant offer had she begun undressing.
His cock swelled at the prospect. An image of her spread out for him atop white cotton
sheets made him catch his breath.
She was watching him again, her look speculative.
“Tell me then,” he said, his voice roughening.
She said nothing for a moment. Then, “If you wish.” Dare’s balls tightened with her
words, at the pure, unadulterated sexual promise in her voice. He allowed himself the
luxury of a leisurely perusal of her body.
She held his eyes, as though accustomed to the lustful gazes of men. “My father was
a naturalist. He traveled, quite extensively, collecting specimens—birds, plants, insects.
Whatever interested him. I accompanied him.”
“Was?”
“Yes. He’s gone now. Nearly a year. Cholera, they said.”
“My condolences. The subject must be a painful one.”
“People die,” she said with a shrug and shifted her chair back. Then she scowled
and kicked at something beneath the table. Dare heard what sounded like fabric tearing.
“One becomes used to it.”
Dare digested this piece of information with another swallow of wine. Jenny
arrived then with his meal. She set down a platter of food with a thunk that resounded
in the quiet parlor. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Very good, sir. Mr. MacGillivray said your usual room is ready for you. Whenever
you like.” Giving a perfunctory curtsey, Jenny left, closing the door quietly behind her.
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Dare gestured at the food—thick slabs of roast beef, fresh bread with a crock of
butter. Cheese. Dried fruit. “Please,” he said. “There’s quite enough.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Surely there is some rule against eating meals
with men one meets along the highway.”
The words hinted at danger, one that was known and acknowledged.
“You have a problem with rules?” he inquired, serving himself a slice of beef.
She pursed her lips, which were moist with the wine.
“Not in principle,” she said. “Only there are so many.”
He laughed then, for the first time. “Surely India has rules.”
She gave him a rueful look. “Apparently not the right ones. I believe I scandalized
half the ship by the time we landed in England.”
Dare had no trouble imagining that. “And entranced the other half?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not unless you include the sailors.”
He almost choked at that and had to raise his napkin to his mouth. He hoped she
was exaggerating, but rather thought not.
“At least they didn’t mind that I went about without any shoes on.”
“No,” said Dare, dryly. “I imagine they didn’t.” He cut her a piece of cheese.
“Here,” he said and piled it atop a slice of bread.
She scooted forward on the chair, but something caught her under the table. She
swore then, in a hiss of syllables that he couldn’t decipher. The general meaning was
nevertheless clear. She began pulling at something, which Dare deduced to be the hem
of her gown. She looked up and frowned, as though remembering his presence. “I
know. I am barely civilized. You must be quite shocked. I simply don’t understand
these things.”
“These things?”
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“Yes,” she said. “Dresses. Women’s dresses. They are the most annoying, most
absurd things!” Her head had disappeared beneath the table and her voice became
muffled.
Dare watched, caught between astonishment and amusement, his glass halfway to
his lips. A harsh tearing sound met his ears. She sat up again, apparently quite pleased
with herself, brandishing a length of dirty scarlet lace that Dare presumed she had just
torn from the bottom of her gown. With a wicked smile at him, she leaned over and
tossed the offending object into the fire, giving Dare a fine view of her breasts and,
despite the warmth of the room, nipples that appeared as hard as cherry stones.
“Much better,” she said.
“I am quite shocked,” he said and arched a brow at her.
She laughed. “Are you? I would imagine women frequently tear off their clothing
in your presence.”
Good God, she really was a little heathen. “That sort of talk isn’t generally
considered proper at table,” he said.
“Oh? Which part was objectionable? Surely not the mention of clothing?”
“No,” said Dare, hiding his amusement behind his napkin. “The part about tearing
it off.”
“Ah,” she said, considering. “I have noticed a marked reluctance to discuss anything
related to acts of pleasure.”
Acts of pleasure? Dare made an effort to get a grip on himself. “I cannot imagine that
good British society in India is so very different. At least, not with regard to appropriate
topics for dinner conversation.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, breaking off a corner of a piece of bread. “I am not
acquainted with good British society.” She stressed the word good in such a way that
made it very clear she mocked him. “I spent most of my time out-of-doors. Do you
know, India has hundreds of birds.”
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Dare ignored this. “You must have had a proper education,” he persisted, “despite
your man—” He paused. Thirty-two years of training made him reconsider his words.
She wasn’t quite a lady, but he still ought not insult her manners.
She waited, not at all discomposed. “My…what?”
“Despite your accent,” he said, “you have the diction and, ah, carriage of an
educated lady.”
She laughed, a warm, comfortable sound quite unlike the affected mirth he
encountered at Almack’s. “My father sent me to a series of schools. But it was already
too late by that time. I had already gone feral.”
“Feral?”
“When a dog or cat goes half wild. India has feral pigs.”
Dare spared a moment of sympathy for her schoolmistresses. He could well believe
she had been an untamed creature as a child. Here in the mundane setting of a public
house, her vibrancy and exoticism were thrown into high relief.
“I don’t expect to stay in England long,” she continued. “I don’t understand it here.
And the clothing is terribly constricting.”
Dare remained silent, imagining all the ways he might loosen her clothing. In any
other woman, he would have understood the words to be an invitation. He needed to
be sure.
“You should be careful what you say,” he said, his voice flat and severe.
She looked up in surprise, then her face relaxed. “Clothing again? I shall never
learn.”
He felt a surprising need to make her understand. To ensure that she knew the
dangers of such banter. “Many men would understand you differently. They would
think you were making them an offer.”
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Her breathing had quickened. She had laid her hand on the table and her thumb
stroked back and forth across the tablecloth, unintentionally sensual. “I am not so
obtuse as that.”
He lifted his brows in mock surprise. “Oh? Then you were making an offer?”
He intended to frighten her, to let her know that she had drifted into dangerous
waters.
She looked up and there was nothing innocent about the look she gave him.
“Would you accept if I did?”
He drew in a breath and studied her face for a moment, wondering at the direction
the conversation was taking. “Have a care,” he said, quietly. “I do not wish to be trifled
with.”
She moistened her lips and took a sip of her wine. A drop of liquid balanced, like a
plump red currant, on the rim of her glass. She caught it on the tip of her finger. Dare’s
eyes followed as she lifted her hand to her mouth. She flicked out her tongue and licked
the wine from her skin.
Dare’s nostrils flared. The room had suddenly become too warm. “Madam,” he said
tightly, “unless your evening plans include bending over the table while I fuck you, I
advise you to desist.”
The words should have given her pause. They would have caused most women of
his acquaintance to become hysterical. She only looked at him and moistened her lips
with her tongue.
“As it happens, I have no plans for the evening,” she said.
Dare’s mouth went dry. He was painfully aware of how hard his cock was. And
what he wanted to do with it. Pushing her onto her knees and shoving it into her mouth
appealed. He thought about how she would look with those lush lips sliding down his
length. About what she might do with her tongue.
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She remained silent, sipping her wine, while he consumed the better part of the
beef, the cheese and the loaf of bread. He pushed back from the table and took up his
wine, watching her with hooded eyes. Her breasts beckoned to him, swelling above the
bodice of her gown. He wanted to lick them.
The candle on the table began to gutter. With a sigh, she put down her glass. “I am
to bed,” she said, pushing back her chair and standing up. Her gown, now several
inches shorter, gave him an excellent view of her feet as she pushed them into her
slippers. She came around the table and picked up her book.
She rested a sun-darkened hand on the back of the chair, drawing her fingers back
and forth along the wood grain in an unconsciously erotic gesture. “My room is at the
end of the hall,” she said simply. Then she turned toward the door, her hip brushing his
shoulder.
He caught her off guard, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her into his
lap.
She gave a gasp of surprise and clutched his coat, her body covering his like a layer
of warm honey. She shifted against him, until his cock was pressed against her bottom.
“If you keep moving like that, there won’t be anything to look forward to,” he said,
brushing his face against her hair. She gave a soft laugh and then opened her mouth for
his kiss. She yielded sweetly to his tongue, tasting of wine. Her response told him that
she wanted this, had wanted it since he had first appeared at the door.
His breathing quickened as she untied his cravat and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing
it aside to press a hand to his chest, curling her fingers in the dark hair she found there.
Her hands were hot and his skin heated wherever they roamed. He felt her tongue,
warm and wet, and tightened his hold on her. He ran one hand down her leg and
caught the hem of her dress, pushing his hand under the fabric, running his thumb over
her skin. She made an approving sound in her throat and he moved to the softer skin of
her thigh.
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Her gown barely contained her ripe breasts and he wanted to taste them—the skin
burnished by the firelight, the nipples aroused by his touch. He bent his head to draw
his tongue across one lush curve. She shivered in response, and her magnificent breasts
trembled beneath his lips.
She rose up and took his face between her hands, while he stroked her beneath her
gown. He heard the hitch in her breathing as he lowered his head to kiss her. There was
nothing tentative or resistant in her kiss. And her body betrayed none of the maidenly
affectations he associated with women of his own class. Even so, he half expected her to
push him away, to realize that he could ravish her in this not-so-private private parlor.
She tipped up her face and he brushed his lips over hers, before running his tongue
along the seam of her mouth. She was completely oblivious to the fact that the door was
unlocked and there was no way to disguise the fact that his hand was under her skirts
should they be interrupted. It struck him, then, that perhaps she didn’t care. Her tongue
darted out to wet her lips and he touched it with his own. Her grip tightened as he
pursued his advantage, pushing between her lips until she moaned her surrender.
He brushed his fingers against her inner thigh and smiled against her mouth. “No
drawers. I should have guessed.”
“Too constricting,” she whispered.
She was filling his senses—the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the sight of
her breasts, rising and falling beneath the light fabric of her gown. The sound of her
breath, coming now in little gasps. And her scent—she wore no scent but her own,
which awoke something primal in him. She smelled of arousal. Of the hot silken flesh,
wet and juicy, between her thighs.
He had thought that he might frighten her with his hunger. That she would have
second thoughts and retreat to her room to lock the door against him. He was a
gentleman, but his needs were anything but refined. She pressed herself against his
thigh and he groaned with the promise of it. She nipped at him and the blood rose in
his veins.
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He pushed her hair over her shoulder and pressed his lips to her collarbone. “If you
don’t want this, you need to go now.”
“I know what I want,” she whispered, angling her head to give him access to her
throat.
Her words stirred him and he felt the need to show her, again, what she was
agreeing to. There would be no mistake. He was primed and in no mood for maidenly
protests should she change her mind. He slipped his hand between them, his fingers
flexing as he reached her bodice. He took her breast in his hand and squeezed, rough
enough to hurt. She made a sound in her throat that was all eagerness and desire. He
slipped his fingers over her bodice and pulled it down, releasing her breasts. The red
silk of her gown framed them like works of art, ripe fruit arrayed for a still life. Except
no artist could capture the lush heat of her curves or the dizzying scent of her arousal.
She wrapped her arms around his neck to hold herself upright and when he bent
his head to her breasts, she arched toward him. Her nipples had flushed with color,
darkening to the same rosy shade as her lips. He wondered, with a surge of lust, at the
color of the slick flesh between her legs—shell pink and tender, or ruddy and swollen.
He took her nipple between his teeth and bit her. She cried out and tightened her hold.
He pushed a knee between her legs and she shifted to accommodate him. With one
hand, he reached for the hem of her dress and hauled it to her waist. Unhampered by
her clothing, she moved closer and Dare felt her hot center against his thigh.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he whispered, as he slid an arm beneath her and lifted her
against him. “Is that what you want?”
With an effort, he tilted back his head. She was balanced against him, only one foot
on the ground. She had lost her slipper again, for he could feel her foot rubbing against
his calf. Her eyes were dark in the meager light of the candle, her lips parted. Dare
wanted, with a need that stunned him, to feel those lips encircling his cock.
“Is this what you want?” he repeated. “Say it.”
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She nodded, and he gave her a little shake. “Yes. Yes, it’s what I want. Are you
satisfied?”
“Not in the least,” he ground out. “Go to my room. I’ll follow in a moment.”
He allowed her to slide down his leg, and she took a little hop to regain her balance.
She steadied herself against his chest. He took her hand, small in his own, and bent to
retrieve her slipper.
“Here.”
She looked at it for a moment, as though she didn’t recognize it. Then she gave a
little laugh, put a hand on his shoulder, and lifted her foot. Her gown was scandalously
short already and her maneuvering revealed a length of calf that made his mouth go
dry.
She straightened and pulled at her bodice. Aware of his regard, she filled her hand
first with one breast, then the other, and slid them back inside the confines of her gown.
He itched to press his lips to the smooth skin, to suck her nipple into his mouth, to close
his teeth around the swollen tip.
She turned and snatched her shawl from the floor where it had pooled, a shimmer
of cashmere.
“Last door on the left. I’ll follow in a moment.”
When the door closed on her, Dare ran a hand through his hair. He refilled his glass
and took a long drink. His heart rate slowed. Five minutes. He would give her five
minutes, despite his eager cock.
* * * * *
Dare had not lived a celibate existence since Emily died. But he prided himself on
control and kept his passions on a short leash. He had ample practice, living with
Emily. He had had high hopes for his marriage. Emily, delicate as a porcelain doll,
flirted shamelessly with him, and their stolen embraces seemed to promise so much. He
had been careful with her, gentle and considerate the first time. But she had lain
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beneath him, stiff and afraid, giving him a tremulous smile and conveying to him, in
every grimace and stifled sob, her loving fortitude. He was relieved when, seven
months later, she told him, small hands clasped over her belly, that she was carrying his
child. Their tacit agreement that he would refrain from visiting her bed was a relief to
them both. The idyll ended abruptly, eight months later, when she was delivered of a
stillborn son. And then she bled. And Dare thought he had never seen so much blood,
never known that a human body could contain so much of what became a dark,
creeping stain on the bedclothes.
He had gone then and found a woman. And he had taken her roughly, thrusting his
anger and frustration and grief into her body. The shame, afterward, was almost too
much to bear—the shame of inflicting his dark passions on Emily, of his complicity in
her death, of going from her deathbed to the bed of some nameless woman who, like
his wife, remained silent while he rutted like an animal.
And now, there was another nameless woman. An exotic woman. Feral. She had
said it herself. He could see it in the curve of her jaw, in the smile that spoke of a sort of
wildness that was kin to his own. She would welcome it, the marks he would give her
on her sun-dark throat, the bruises his passion would leave on her upper arms. She
would welcome his tongue and his cock and his brutish body. She promised to be a
match for him.
And her five minutes were up.
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Chapter Two
She was unfastening her dress when he entered the room. She stood beside the bed,
radiating arousal and desire, her fingers poised over a row of pearl buttons. Her shoes,
now a familiar sight, lay discarded on the floor. Her hair, unbound, spread across her
shoulders and drew his eyes down the curve of her breast.
He closed the door and turned the key in the lock, then removed his cravat, his long
fingers impatient with the knot.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
She shrugged a shoulder and the gaping bodice of the gown slid down her arm, her
nipple a shadow against the darkness of her skin. She raised a hand to her other arm
and pulled at the fabric, revealing the lush mounds of her breasts. He drew in his breath
and tossed away his cravat. His waistcoat followed and he began to unbutton his shirt,
never taking his eyes from the glorious body that she slowly revealed.
She reached behind her back and loosened whatever it was that held her gown
together. With a puff of fabric, it slid down her body to pool on the floor at her feet, a
drop of blood-red silk. She stepped from the nest of clothing, leaning against the
bedpost to kick her foot free.
She was dressed only in her stockings, which clung to her calves, accentuating the
lean muscle. He followed the contour of her leg to the crook of her knee. He thought of
pressing his lips there, of extending his tongue to taste her skin while she knelt on all
fours. His gaze rose to the silken ties that held her stockings in place. If a man put his
hand there, he would be only a breath away from the butter-soft flesh between her
thighs.
Her brown eyes dilated as he flung off his shirt. He tolerated her shameless
scrutiny, watching as her eyes slid over the muscles of his chest, across the flat plane of
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Erica Anderson
his belly and down, to where crisp dark hair hinted at pleasures to come. Her gaze
came to rest upon the bulge in his trousers. His body responded with a surge of lust.
She came toward him and knelt at his feet, her face inches from the waist of his
breeches. The pose was submissive, giving him the opportunity to imagine how it
would feel to dominate her, ordering her to open her mouth, making her suck him into
the warm depths of her throat.
She made quick work of the buttons and he had to swallow his gasp when she
wrapped her fingers around his cock. She gripped him the way he liked best, firmly,
without any maidenly apprehension. And then she leaned her dark head forward and
extended her tongue to touch the tip, where the sign of his arousal glistened in the
candlelight. She pushed back her hair, as though she knew he wanted to watch. Wanted
to see every flick of her tongue, every pull of her wet mouth.
She took a few inches of him inside and made a sound of satisfaction, as though she
had been hungry for his cock and was now satisfied. She sucked, and the light friction
of her lips made him draw in his breath. He extended a hand to her head and wrapped
her hair around his fist. She sank back down, taking him deeper into her mouth and he
closed his eyes at the sensation. He could hear the moist sounds of her lips and he
thrust gently against her. She wrapped her hand around his buttocks to hold him to her,
and he felt her fingers delve into the dark crease of his arse.
He jerked and she murmured her encouragement, sliding her lips smoothly up and
down, following her mouth with her fist, exerting the pressure he needed. She was
sleek and golden in the light, more muscular than he had expected. He thrust against
her again and she tightened her hold on his buttocks and spread her knees for better
balance. He imagined what lay beneath the auburn hair at the juncture of her thighs,
imagined her velvety center and the head of his cock sinking into her heat. He groaned
and tightened his hold on her hair.
She pulled back again and extended her tongue so she could lap at the head of his
cock. His eyes drifted closed and he allowed his head to fall back. She knew exactly
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what he wanted, how he liked to be held, how much pressure to exert to achieve the
most exquisite sensation. Almost as though she were a practiced whore. His mind
rebelled at the thought. There was nothing of the sordid in this, nothing so crass as an
exchange of coin.
He drifted, his breathing deepening. She was taking her time with him, languid in
the movements of her tongue. It heightened his pleasure to know that she wanted this.
Wanted to pull his cock into her warm mouth, loved the slide of his skin between her
lips. The noises that she made only served to arouse him, a low hum of satisfaction
punctuated by the slick sound of suction.
Emily had kissed his belly once, bending her head in a gesture of affection and his
cock had leapt to attention. She had turned wide, embarrassed eyes to him and he had
nudged her head toward his cock. “Oh, Christ, Emily. Suck me. Take me into your
mouth.”
She had hesitated, and he had taken advantage of it to flex his hips, his cock
bobbing closer to her face. She took him between her shaking hands, her touch so light
that he had groaned for more. He flexed his hips again, and she bent her blonde head
forward to take the tip of him between her lips. “That’s it, darling.” He had tried to
encourage her, extended a hand to rub her bottom, and she had allowed herself to sink
a little deeper onto him.
He made the mistake of thrusting, pushing his cock just a little deeper into her
warm heat and she had recoiled, scrambling off the bed.
He had thrown an arm over his face and cursed himself for frightening her. For
inflicting his beastly needs on her. What had so entranced him before marriage—her
virginal sweetness, her chaste kisses—had become a curse, lovemaking an exercise in
restraint, his every movement bounded by her fear.
But the woman kneeling before him—the woman who moaned and licked and
sucked—would let him do what he wanted to her. She would not shy from his desire to
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Erica Anderson
bury his cock in her throat, to thrust his fingers deep into her cunt, or—God help him—
to part her buttocks and shove himself into her arse.
“Do you like this?” Her voice was a wicked whisper against the flesh of his thigh.
He groaned his response, inhaling deeply through his nose and tugging at her hair.
The slide of her tongue had become an agony, pulling him inexorably toward his
climax. He wanted more, wanted the hot pull of her lips to go on and on. Yet if she
continued for another moment, he knew he would shatter. He wanted to come in her
mouth, burst into a thousand pieces against the wet heat of her tongue.
“Stop,” he gasped, releasing her hair and attempting to withdraw. “If you don’t
stop, I’m going to…”
Her grip tightened on his buttocks. “I want you to.”
He felt his erection swell at her words. He pushed forward again, seeking the hot
haven of her mouth.
Indira focused her attention on the movement of her lips and her tongue. She drew
on the heated flesh that slid back and forth in her mouth, pulling him ever closer to his
climax. She loved the sense of power and control she felt as she clutched his hips and
took him deeper, encompassing the hard evidence of his desire for her.
His fingers dragged at her hair, the tension almost painful. He wanted—intended—
to withdraw, to pull away from her and spill himself into the bedclothes. But she
wanted to feel the hot wash of his seed in her throat, feel the convulsion of his climax
against her tongue. And she wanted him to know, for no reason that she could imagine,
that she was no lady. That the delicate sensibilities of gentlewomen of the ton were as
foreign to her as a London ballroom. That she was the kind of woman who knelt on the
floor of an inn and drew the hot length of a stranger between her lips.
She heard him murmur a warning, felt him shift his stance, begin to withdraw.
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“I want you to,” she said, closing her hands around the tight muscles of his arse.
Pour yourself into me. Take my mouth with your cock.
Then he was coming, deep in her throat and she swallowed, and swallowed again,
taking all of him, every drop of him, until he had nothing left to give.
He stood, chest heaving, his hand still fisted in her hair. His cock slid from her
mouth and she pressed her forehead against his thigh, her breath coming fast and
ragged. Then he was pulling her to her feet.
She closed her eyes and heard the sound of him wringing out a towel. Then he slid
a hand around the nape of her neck and gently wiped off her face. The gesture touched
her, letting light into a dark and shriveled corner of her heart. His eyes were dark in the
firelight and she could not fathom what went on behind them.
Dare collapsed onto the bed, pulling her with him. She landed on her back and
threw back her arms, insensible to the amount of space she occupied. He lay, eyes
closed, as his breathing returned to normal. Her scent was on him, his cock still
twitching with the aftermath of her exertions.
She bent her knee and arched her foot. He rested a hand on her thigh, felt the
muscle flexing beneath his fingers. He ran his palm up to the soft skin at the juncture
between her hip and thigh, drawing lazy circles. She shifted, restless beneath his hands.
He knew why.
He rolled over, propping himself up on his elbow, feathering a caress up and over
her hip. Her lashes lay dark against her skin and her expressive lips were slightly
parted, as if she had just gasped in surprise or arousal. He welcomed the chance to
study her, to watch the way the candlelight lit her features—the shadow of her nose, the
high, smooth planes of her cheeks. Her hair curled around her ears and spread across
the pillow, a river of burnished strands. She was beautiful, but not in any conventional
way. She would look out of place in the gilt ballrooms of town. Her skin would
overpower the insipid pastel silks and satins of well-bred ladies. There was nothing
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Erica Anderson
demure about her. Neither her speech nor her movements suggested refinement.
Rather, she had the easy grace of someone more accustomed to action and speed,
someone who exalted in open spaces.
He wondered if she slept. Her breathing was slow and regular.
Dare ran his hand down her thigh again, sliding his fingers inward. He felt her
moist heat before he even reached her cunt. Her bent knee allowed him access to her
swollen center, where he sifted his fingers though the curling hair framing her sex. He
rested his palm atop her thigh and eased his thumb between her folds. She tensed, and
he paused. He waited until he felt the air leave her lungs, then he began a slow circling
motion on her slick flesh. She moaned, her fingers curling into the bedclothes.
Dare pressed his lips to her hip, extending his tongue to draw a moist path across
her skin. She arched her back and he felt her skin tighten beneath his lips. He moved
down, to the base of her hip and caught the faintest scent of her arousal. He felt his cock
swell at the thought of pushing between her wet folds, sheathing himself in the tight
clasp of her cunt.
She was making encouraging noises low in her throat and he smiled against her
hip. “I want to taste you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her leg. He rolled over and spread
her thighs, catching sight of her face. She was biting her lip, but her eyes were open,
watching him from beneath shuttered lids.
Very deliberately he bent his head, holding her gaze, and extended his tongue to
touch the skin low on her belly. She convulsed beneath him and gave a soft cry.
He slid his fingers through the wetness between her legs, slick and creamy.
Spreading her thighs wider, he eased a finger into her tightness. She gave a low sigh of
satisfaction.
He spread her silken folds with one hand and eased another finger into her cunt.
She angled her hips to give him better access, her warmth encompassing him. He held
her open and bent his head, probing at the sensitive flesh of her clit. Her body twisted,
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Not Quite a Lady
her mouth forming soundless syllables as she reached for what he offered. He licked
her until she began to gasp, her breathing uneven.
“Do you want more?” he whispered against her thigh, easing his fingers back and
forth. She was wet and swollen with need. He licked up the underside of her clitoris,
and she jerked against him. He held her still, one muscular arm banded across her belly.
She was gasping, a whisper of unfamiliar sounds. One of her hands was buried in
his hair, the other clutched at the bedding. He felt her thighs tremble with the strain.
He withdrew his fingers and spread the lips of her cunt, darting his tongue in and
out to tease her, to bring her closer to the place she had taken him. When he took her clit
between his lips and sucked, pulling her lightly against his teeth, she arched off the bed,
driving her feet into the mattress.
“Come inside me now,” she urged, but he shook his head, gently, from his position
between her thighs.
“Not yet.” He couldn’t get enough of her, of her slick arousal, of her heated
response.
“Yes,” she insisted. “I can’t…I can’t, ah…”
He released her clitoris and replaced his mouth with his thumb, rubbing the tight
knot of her arousal. He held his fingers at her entrance as he shifted, maintaining the
pressure that she sought. She caught him around the waist and dragged him against
her.
Her lips curved in a wicked smile. “Now,” she gasped. “Inside me.”
He stroked his thumb against the bundle of nerves nestled between her folds and
her eyes widened as she convulsed against his fingers, her gasp a cry of release. He bent
his head to press his lips against hers even as she trembled with the aftershocks. She
met him with unabashed hunger, pushing her tongue into his mouth, showing him
what she wanted. “It’s not enough,” she said, each word accompanied by a ragged
pant. “I need your cock.”
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Erica Anderson
He wanted to posses her, to swallow her whole. He held himself up on one elbow
and leaned back, gliding his hand over her face. She closed her eyes and he ran his
thumb over her lips. She twisted her head and sucked him into her mouth. Opening her
eyes, she drew on his thumb as she had drawn on his cock. She raised both hands to his
wrist and positioned his fingers where she wanted them. She took each finger in turn,
licking and sucking. The sight of his thumb disappearing between her lips caused his
cock to harden between her thighs.
He tugged at her nipple and she arched, offering her breast to his mouth. He took
his time, running his fingers gently over her full curves. He liked large-breasted
women, women with luscious tits he could fill his hands with. He slid his hand beneath
her breast and lifted, thumbing her nipple, which tightened between his fingers.
Keeping his eyes on her face, he bent his head and extended his tongue. Her lids
fluttered closed. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his hand, feel the soft
rose-colored flesh of her aureole on his tongue.
He sucked her nipple into his mouth and tugged. She moaned, reaching between
her legs, searching for his cock. “Not yet,” he said, shifting his hips. She gave a groan of
displeasure that became a gasp when he took the tip of her breast, gently, between his
teeth.
He shifted his hips again so that his cock was pressed against her slick flesh. He
pushed himself up and slid back and forth against her. She twisted her hips, trying to
increase the contact. Leaning on one elbow, he took himself in hand and pressed firmly
against her clitoris.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She sighed, pulling his face back down to hers. “Yes. Inside me. I can’t wait.
Oh, God.”
He pressed his palms into the bedclothes on either side of her head and lifted
himself above her. His cock was hard for her again and he teased her with it, sliding
against her slickness.
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“This?” he asked again, teeth gritted.
“Please,” she gasped, biting her lip. “Inside. Now.”
He positioned himself. “Now,” he said, and thrust himself deep into her cunt.
“Now.”
She gave a long sigh of satisfaction, eyes closed, lips parted. He held himself above
her, his chest rising and falling with the effort of holding himself still.
After a moment, she opened her eyes and caught his gaze. “I can feel every inch of
you,” she whispered, curling her fingers over his shoulders.
His ground himself against her in response. “You’ve got such a tight little pussy.”
He withdrew and pushed back inside. She tilted her hips to meet him. “Hard,” she
cried. “Harder.”
He withdrew again, then swung his hips and ground his teeth, taking her hard, as
she wanted. She gasped at the penetration. “Again,” she whispered. “Oh, yes. Again
like that.”
He fucked her, without an ounce of delicacy or finesse. “Is this what you want?” he
bit out, through clenched teeth. “A hard fuck?”
“Yes,” she answered, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Yes, like this.”
He grunted his response, and a drop of sweat beaded on his temple and fell to her
collarbone, where it slid down the curve of her breast. On an odd impulse, he bent his
head and licked it from her skin. Her eyes had been closed, but now widened, and she
shoved her hips against him.
He gritted his teeth and pumped her harder, taking her without mercy, as he had
never taken Emily. She reached down between them and spread the lips of her cunt,
then shifted her hips. He obliged, changing the angle so that he could rub his cock
against her.
She threw back her head, exposing her throat to him. And he fucked her until they
were both gasping with the effort, straining toward the promise of satisfaction. He
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Erica Anderson
heard the tone of her gasps change, to become one extended moan. She was close, and
he wanted, more than anything, to give her what she needed. He ground his hips
against her and she met each thrust with her own strength. She cried out, her eyes shut
tight, face pressed hard against the mattress.
He felt her begin to convulse, and with another thrust, he hurtled over the edge,
taking her with him as he fell, the bright light rushing up to meet them.
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Chapter Three
“The woman. The one in the parlor. Yesterday.”
The innkeeper paused, uncertain of what the question was.
“Where is she? Where did she go?”
MacGillivray’s eyes lightened with understanding. “Yessir. She was up early this
morning. She took the post. Toward London I expect.”
“What was her name?” Dare resisted the urge to shake the man. “Surely you know
her name.”
“No, sir. Can’t say that I do. Never seen her before.”
Dare turned away in frustration and cursed himself for an idiot.
He had awoken to an empty bed and had lain staring at the canopy. It was only
when he rolled over and pulled her pillow to his nose that he was certain it had
happened. That she had happened. Her scent lingered.
He assumed she was breakfasting, so he had dressed leisurely. Part of him, not the
better half, hoped that she was gone. Conversation over the breakfast table on the
morning after a night of passion was awkward, and he didn’t want to deal with not-so-
subtle questions about whether he had a current mistress.
To his surprise, she was already gone and he could continue his journey into
Oxfordshire without delay. He was not inconvenienced after all.
The encounter seemed unreal in the light of day. He had no name for her, a fact that
both troubled and relieved him.
When he returned to his bedchamber to pack his valise, he spotted a book on the
floor next to the bed. Her book. From last night. He flicked it open to the title page. The
Feathered Game of Hindostan. He flipped through it, slowing to examine the color plates
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Erica Anderson
of birds bright with plumage of emerald green and yellow ochre. He snapped the book
shut and stuffed it into his valise. He took a final look around to make sure he hadn’t
forgotten something. A piece of tatty string lay on the table next to the bed. He picked it
up with a spark of anger that caught him off guard. It looked like the sort of thing used
to weave nets by fishermen.
Or sailors.
Dare plucked it off the table and slid it into his pocket.
* * * * *
“So I spoke to Maria, and we agreed that the most likely connection was through
your great-grandfather. Indira Stuart’s great-great-grandmother was your great-
grandfather’s brother’s wife.”
Dare made the appropriate noises of interest and applied himself to his eggs. He
would have a couple of hours to work on the speech he planned for Lords before he met
with his secretary at ten. This evening—damn it—was Almack’s, and Sabina was
already twitching with anticipation.
“I have still not determined the origins of the Scottish connection,” his mother
continued, “and she displayed not the least bit of interest in it herself. Her manners are
somewhat original. But her skin! Dark as a crofter’s!”
“What was that?” he asked, suddenly alert.
His mother turned gentle eyes on him. “Dare, you don’t imagine that I think you’re
actually listening, do you? There’s no need to pretend.”
Sabina snickered and the dowager countess shot her a look.
“Who are we talking about?”
“Indira Stuart, you annoying creature. She’s just back from India.”
“India?” Dare repeated.
His mother raised her eyebrows. “I daresay you’ve heard of it. Sometimes it’s in the
newspapers.”
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Dare made a sound of irritation.
“Why is she in England?”
“Oh. Well, her father died last spring and she has come to handle his estate. By an
odd coincidence, the property is in Oxfordshire—”
“What did her father do?”
Lady Dare gave her son an appraising look. “I must say, I’m quite bewildered by
your interest. Something to do with birds.”
Dare sat back in his chair. “Tell me her name again.”
“Stuart. Scottish, as I said. And the most remarkable Christian name. Indira. Indira
Stuart.” The countess frowned. “Now that I think on it, I’m not sure that’s a Christian
name at all.”
Indira. Dare wasn’t surprised. It most certainly wasn’t a Christian name, but it
matched. Exotic, like her. The name of a woman who thought that books with titles like
The Feathered Game of Hindostan were enjoyable reading. The name of a woman who
hated wearing shoes. Or corsets.
These thoughts were still occupying his mind when his mother continued,
gesturing to the letter beside her teacup.
“I’ve just received a letter from her. Apparently there is some confusion regarding
the estate. Miss Stuart writes to ask for the name of my solicitor.”
Dare raised his eyebrows. His mother smiled at him innocently.
“You’re returning to Abingdon this week, aren’t you my dear?”
“I am. I believe that I might have time to call on Miss Stuart.”
“How good of you, Dare! She lives just beyond Wantage, so I daresay you can be
there and back in an afternoon.” Lady Dare patted his hand.
“But what about Wednesday?” Sabina said.
Dare and Lady Dare turned to her as one. “Wednesday?” echoed Lady Dare.
“Almack’s,” said Dare grimly.
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“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back in plenty of time to escort you, dearest. And if not, then
surely Henrietta’s brother will dance with you.”
Sabina frowned. “Kit doesn’t take me seriously.”
Dare stood and made his bows before slipping out the door. “Ah, well,” he heard
his mother saying, “he’s just back from the continent and doubtless thinks you ought to
be in the schoolroom still.”
* * * * *
The maid who answered the door looked frightened and Dare moderated his tone.
“I am Dare. I’m here to see Indira Stuart. My card.”
The maid stared at the engraved card as though she had never seen one before.
“I don’t think Miss Stuart is at home to visitors,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She
made a curtsey and backed up, only to start at the sound of voices raised in anger
coming from somewhere inside the house. Her eyes widened, and she tried to shut the
door.
Dare pushed one booted foot against the door jamb. “She’ll see me,” he said.
Shouldering past the terrified maid, he strode down the hall.
“Let me go, you disgusting worm!” Indira Stuart yanked her arm out of the grip of a
man who topped her by at least a foot. She stood, jaw clenched, in the middle of a
shabby parlor. “Leave. Right now.”
“I can leave,” said the man, who was not at all discomposed by her outburst. “But
I’ll be back for what I’m owed.”
“I don’t owe you a penny!”
Mr. Bothwell gave her a nasty smile. “You and I both know that the law’ll see it
different. I managed this property the entire time your father was off, Lord only knows
where. And I spent my own blunt to replace the chimney and put in a bridge when the
last one washed out. And now I want what’s owed me.”
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Not Quite a Lady
“But that cannot amount to the value of the house!” Indira said, her voice rising.
“We’ve been over this a dozen times.”
“Now that’s what you don’t seem to understand,” said Mr. Bothwell. “You pay me
my sixty quid, and I’m happy to go.”
“Sixty pounds is outrageous! It can’t possibly have cost that much. Besides, I
haven’t got it.”
Mr. Bothwell shrugged. “Not my problem. See here—I’m doing you a favor by
taking this pile off your hands. It’ll clear the debt. You can have the furniture.”
“That is out of the question.”
“I’ve told ye before—I’m willing to take my pay in other ways.” He leaned forward
and pinched her, hard, on the breast with his meaty fingers.
She slapped him across the face. “Get out of my house, you stupid badir chand,” she
spat, her chest heaving.
He advanced and grabbed her by the back of the head. “There’s better uses for that
mouth of yours than spouting heathen babble,” he said, jerking her toward him. She
gave a howl of pain and fury as he dropped his mouth to her ear. The sensation of his
moist breath made her skin crawl.
“Now you listen to me,” he hissed. “You pay up, or I’ll take my money from you on
yer back.” He shook her and she screamed in outrage, tearing at his hands.
He pushed her onto her knees, holding her down by wrapping her hair around his
fist. Though she scratched and clawed at his hand, the gloves he wore protected him
from her nails. She could not break his hold on her, and in her attempts to scramble
away, she was inevitably brought up short. She was shrieking in rage when he put his
hand to his crotch and unbuttoned his breeches.
“I been thinking about cramming my cock in your face since I laid eyes on you. Ye’ll
remember this ‘til I come back tomorrow.”
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Indira redoubled her efforts, knocking over a table, reaching for anything she could
use against him. He pulled out his cock and pumped himself. “Now open that pretty
mouth of yours,” he snarled, pulling her head toward him.
She bared her teeth at him, thrashing while he held her, trying desperately to use
her own weight to topple him.
“Stop struggling, you bitch!” He slapped her across the face and she rocked back on
her knees, momentarily stunned.
He returned his attention to his cock, but their struggles had brought Indira within
reach of the bibelots that had crashed to the floor when the table went over. Her fingers,
grasping, finally seized upon a sterling silver candlestick. She pushed herself up from
the floor and swung, underhanded, toward his crotch. He realized, just in time, where
she was headed and stumbled backward. But the force of her swing shot the candlestick
past his privates, onward, toward his head. She caught his jaw from below, and heard a
sickening crunch. He fell backward, her hair still clutched in his fist.
She scrambled to get loose of him, her breath coming in gasps, when she felt
someone behind her. Before she could turn, she was hoisted up and pulled away from
the wreckage. This new attacker wrapped muscular arms around her chest from behind
and held her tight against him. Her arms were pinned, so she began to thrash and kick.
“Indira!”
She connected, painfully, with another piece of furniture. “Damn it, Indira. Stop!”
She bent her head to bite at the arm banded across her breasts, but her attacker
pressed a gloved hand to her mouth and jerked her off the floor so that she had nothing
to kick, her slippered feet meeting no resistance.
“Stop! Indira, you hellion! It’s over. Stop it!”
She continued to swing her feet, but her strength was draining away faster and
faster. She was trembling from exertion and only her unreasoning fury kept her
upright.
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Not Quite a Lady
“Indira.”
For the first time, she recognized her own name. His voice pulled her out of the
place she had gone.
Dare?
She blinked and he loosened his hold on her. He allowed her to slide through his
arms to lean against the settee. She felt him move behind her to crouch a few feet away.
His jaw might have been chiseled marble. The force of his gaze helped her to focus.
“Indira?”
“Dare?”
“Yes. I’m here.” He didn’t touch her. Instead he remained perfectly still, watching
her with the attention one gave a wounded animal. His voice reminded her of someone,
and it grounded her.
A muscle at the corner of his mouth tightened. His lips were pressed together in
such a way that she could tell he was gritting his teeth.
Her breathing was beginning to return to normal, but her hands still shook with her
rage.
“Indira?”
“Yes.” Her voice was stronger.
“I’m going to pick you up now.”
She tensed, and he didn’t move. “No. I’m fine.”
She pulled herself up, onto the settee.
“Is he dead?” The words were like grit in her mouth.
Dare stood slowly, his eyes riveted to her face, as though she might shy from him.
He turned to look at the pile of detritus that lay behind him. “Regrettably, no.”
She considered this. “I wish he was.”
Dare gave a soft laugh. “You’re a bloodthirsty woman, Indira.”
She frowned.
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Erica Anderson
“That was a compliment.”
He went down on one knee in front of her and pushed her hair out of her face with
a gentle hand. His fingers curved around her cheek and she flinched. His dark eyes
narrowed.
Alerted by his expression, she lifted a hand to her face. Her fingers came away
smeared with blood. She ran her tongue across her lips, finding the places where the
skin had split.
He lifted a hand. “Hold still.”
Instinctively, she pulled away.
She heard him sigh. “Indira. I want to look at your lip. Hold still, please.”
She made a conscious effort to remain still while he bent her head back to catch the
afternoon light. “It won’t be pretty, but I don’t think there’s any serious damage done.”
She leaned back, unnerved by his inspection. “I’m fine. Let me go.”
He frowned, but released her. “Lift your foot.”
“My foot?”
“Yes,” he said patiently. He passed a hand beneath her arch and tilted his head. “I
think you’ve broken at least one toe.”
“Really?” She tried to frown, but the movement caused her jaw to throb. She hadn’t
realized it was possible to break one’s toe.
He looked up from his study of her foot. “I’ve seen men come out of boxing rings
with less damage.”
“Did they win?”
He smiled then, and she was struck again, as she had been that night at the inn, by
how very handsome he was. She thought to touch him—in thanks, perhaps—but
thought better of it, curling her fingers into her palm.
* * * * *
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She awoke late in the day, when the sun hung low and the landscape was gilded.
Dare sat in a chair next to the bed, watching her face.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you to wake up.”
“What?”
He repeated himself. “Perhaps you did hit your head on something.”
She made a shooing motion. “Don’t be obtuse. Why are you here? In Oxfordshire.”
“I live here.”
Her usually lively face was so blank that he took pity on her.
“I came to see whether you needed my assistance.”
She scowled, but that caused her lip to split. She touched the tip of her finger to her
mouth. It came away with a smear of blood. “I don’t understand.”
“It appears we are distantly related, through some complex series of connections
that escapes me.” His eyes were fixed on her mouth, his expression grim.
She considered this for a moment. “How did you find me?”
He snorted. “I didn’t. You had completely disappeared by the time I realized you
were gone.”
“Then how?”
“My mother is the Dowager Countess of Dare.”
It took her a moment to place the name. “I visited your mother. A month ago, I
think. In London.”
“Yes, and then you wrote to her for advice about how to handle that piece of filth,
Bothwell.” Dare swore under his breath with some fluency. Indira was impressed.
“She asked me to call upon you on my way back to London,” he continued,
standing to move toward the window.
“Oh.”
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Erica Anderson
“Oh, indeed.”
“You arrived at a good time,” she said ruefully.
He turned, giving a harsh bark of laughter without an ounce of humor in it. “Even
better had I arrived a quarter of an hour earlier. You left me nothing to do but mop up.”
She would have laughed at that, except it would almost certainly make her face
hurt.
“Where is he?”
Dare’s face hardened. “He is under lock and key and my solicitors are dealing with
the property issue.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She watched him, her gaze never wavering from his face. “Will you be returning to
London soon?”
“I expect so.”
The idea gave her an odd pang in the center of her chest. “Give me enough time to
write a letter to your mother.”
Dare paused. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
She would have protested, but as she shifted on the bed, she finally realized what
she was wearing. “Oh. This isn’t mine.” She plucked at the voluminous white cotton
night rail trimmed with lace and tiny pink flowers that she wore.
“I suspected it was not.”
She looked down at herself in consternation. “I would never wear something like
this.”
Dare remained silent. She shot him a questioning glance, and he relented.
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Not Quite a Lady
“Though it is surely inappropriate for me to either have knowledge of such things, I
suspect your attire belongs to the doctor’s wife. She felt that there was
nothing…suitable for a convalescent in your clothespress.”
In fact the doctor’s wife had pressed a hand to her bosom when she opened the
clothespress, and flushed an alarming shade of red. She had spoken to her husband in
an undertone, then gone downstairs. When she returned, she had what Dare privately
considered to be a sartorial abomination. He was, nevertheless, very curious as to the
contents of the clothespress.
“That was very kind of her,” said Indira, doubtfully.
Dare snorted.
Indira looked up. “As I said, I would be grateful if you would delay until I have
written a letter to your mother. I assume it is to her that I owe your timely arrival?”
Dare was caught by the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said again.
“And why not?”
“Because I plan to take you back to London with me.”
Indira’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed. How kind of you to inform me.”
Dare raised his own brows in a haughty expression that usually served to end
debate. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, in an icy voice.
Dare gritted his teeth. “You can’t stay here. Not while the status of the estate is
uncertain.”
“Then I shall take a house in town.”
“You can’t stay there by yourself, either.”
Indira blinked at him. “I shall do as I please. Though why I should have to explain
myself to you, I’m sure I have no idea.”
“You may explain all you like, but you’re still coming to London.”
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Erica Anderson
“I don’t recall inviting you into my house,” she said, barely keeping her temper in
check.
“It doesn’t appear to be your house,” Dare shot back. “And without my help, you’d
be out on the street. Unless of course, you have the wherewithal to pay my solicitor?”
It was a risk, he knew, but a calculated one. He had made discreet inquiries in
London before he departed, and it appeared that the Stuarts, though of good stock, had
little in the way of assets. According to Dare’s sources, the small Oxfordshire property
was the extent of Indira’s inheritance.
He watched as she swallowed, the blood pulsing in her temple. She was furious,
and Dare knew that his gamble had paid off.
“No one told me that I had become your chattel.”
Dare exhaled and attempted to moderate his tone, gracious in victory. “You have
little choice in the matter. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable? Bloody hell! Manhandled twice in one day.” She threw back the
bedclothes and slid out of bed. “I have changed my mind. I shall not need your services
as a postman after all. You need not postpone your return to London.”
She padded to her clothespress and yanked out a shift, then proceeded to shrug out
of the white cotton night rail. Dare would have protested, had he been able to speak.
Indira appeared indifferent to his shock, for she lifted her arms and slid on the
undergarment. Dare could only watch as her ample breasts disappeared from view. In
the low sun of the afternoon, her skin shone with a warm glow. He sat, transfixed by
the sight of her sleek, muscled body.
Indira pulled a gown and stockings from the clothespress and returned to the bed.
Dare made an effort to focus as she pulled up her shift, revealing one long leg. He
swallowed as she bent and began working the stocking over her foot.
“Be careful of your toe,” he said, then mentally cursed his own idiocy.
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Not Quite a Lady
She glared at him. “Neither my toe, nor any other part of my body is any of your
concern.”
Dare snorted, but she ignored it, returning her complete attention to her stocking.
He was caught off guard by the wash of heat that spread through his chest. His cock
swelled at the sight of her upper thighs, and he remembered what lay between them,
how slick and wet she had been when he entered her. How the scent of her arousal had
drawn him to her.
“You cannot stay here,” he said resolutely, turning his attention to the matter at
hand.
She pretended not to hear him. She worked the stocking over her ankle and Dare
was distracted by the arch of her foot as she flexed it.
“I shall do as I please.”
Dare gritted his teeth. He was unaccustomed to having to explain himself. “Perhaps
you do not understand,” he said, speaking as one does to a small child.
She turned the full force of her gaze upon him and narrowed her eyes. “You are
mistaken. I understand completely. You appear to believe that you have some claim
upon me. Let me take this opportunity to assure you that you do not.”
She slid the stocking over her calf and Dare’s mouth went dry. He turned away,
attempting to think about something other than the silken length of her legs, or the
auburn curls that peeked from beneath her shift.
“You have no choice in the matter,” he said.
She laughed and extended her leg to pull the stocking over her knee and up her
thigh. Dare watched, transfixed, as she pulled her shift higher, so that it bunched
around her hips. Sweet heaven, had the woman no sense of decency?
He remained silent as she made a bow with the silken ties. She appeared completely
oblivious to either his fascination or her own state of undress. Without a word, she
pulled on the other stocking. Dare swallowed the surge of desire that rose in his chest.
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Erica Anderson
He needed to change his tactics, or he would be forced to bind and gag her to get her
back to London. The thought was grimly satisfying.
When she stood, he rose with her. She turned to him, a defiant set to her jaw. He
held her brown eyes with his own and then, slowly, so she knew what he was doing, he
raised his hands to her shoulders. Was it his imagination, or did her breathing hitch?
He wrapped his fingers around her upper arms and pulled her roughly toward
him. She lifted her face to his own, silently daring him to sway her.
He took his time, bending his head, watching for her to flinch. She stood, immobile
in his grasp, like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter. His lips met the marble seam of
her own. She stood stiff and unyielding in his arms, silently resisting. He took her
bottom lip between his own and nipped lightly, then ran the tip of his tongue across it,
licking the blood from her torn flesh. He felt her shift. He pressed his open mouth along
her jaw and felt her inhale.
He made his way around to her ear, lifting the weight of her hair to give himself
access. When he licked the soft skin beneath her earlobe, he felt her sigh against him.
And then he knew he had won the day, for she lifted her arms to encircle him and
turned her face to his own. He caught her to him, taking her lips with punishing ardor.
She responded with the same, opening to his tongue. The heat of her mouth
encompassed him and he shifted to bring his cock into contact with her body.
She arched, rubbing her nipples shamelessly against the wool of his jacket. He
pushed beneath her shift to fill his hands with her breasts, thumbing her nipples until
they tightened into hard buds.
Her breathing kicked up a notch and she wrapped one stocking-clad leg around his
calf. Her heat burned like a brand through his clothing. He caught her beneath one knee
and hauled her up to spread her over his thigh. She gave a gasping moan and ground
herself against him.
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Not Quite a Lady
He lifted her then and turned to press her back against the wall. She snarled at him
and bit at his lip, digging her fingers into his hair to pull him to her. He held her
immobile with his body as he unbuttoned his breeches.
“Yes,” she breathed, leaning her head against the wall, arching as she rubbed her
breasts against him.
“I’m going to give you my cock,” he ground out, taking himself in hand.
She tilted her hips, eager to take him inside.
“You’re coming to London with me,” he said in a tense whisper.
Impatient, she reached down and grasped his hand. “No. I’m not.”
He brushed his fingers over her cunt, and she arched. “Yes. You are.”
She twisted her hips, trying desperately to find the head of his cock. “No.”
He eased two fingers inside her. “Yes.”
Her eyes drifted closed as he began to work his hand against her.
She shook her head even as she released a long sigh of satisfaction.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he said against her ear.
“No,” she gasped. “Damn you. You’re no better than that chodu, Bothwell.”
His nostrils flared and he pushed his fingers deeper into her cunt. “Did you want
this from Bothwell?” He found her clitoris with his thumb and flicked the swollen flesh.
She shuddered and moaned and pushed her hands under the fabric of his coat, digging
her nails into his chest.
“Were you hot, like this, for Bothwell?” he said, withdrawing his fingers and
replacing them with his cock. He gripped her hips and lifted her.
She wriggled against him, trying to take him inside. “Be quiet, Dare. Just…fuck
me.” Her eyes were wide open and he caught her gaze with his own.
“Yes,” he said and slammed into her, his eyes on hers so that he saw them widen as
he fully sheathed himself. “Maybe you need a good fuck to make you behave.”
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Erica Anderson
“Badir chand,” she hissed and pressed her head against the wall, her eyes drifting
closed.
He wrapped his hands around her thighs and lifted her to withdraw, only to slam
her down again on his cock. “I’m going to ignore that,” he said, gritting his teeth. “But
don’t repeat it, unless you want to be spanked for your trouble.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but only gasped, trembling with the force of his
penetration. He withdrew as she wrapped her hands around his shoulders to hold on.
He pumped her mercilessly, back and forth on his cock, the strength of his thrusts
slamming her against the wall.
She cried out with the force of it, and he grimaced as his climax neared. Her shift
had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the soft, lustrous skin above her breast.
“Damn it, Indira. Come for me.” He bent his head and latched his teeth onto the flesh
curving from shoulder to neck. He felt her squeeze his cock, relentless, refusing to take
what he wanted to give her. “Damn it!” he swore, grinding against her. She squeezed
again and he surrendered, pouring his seed into her body, his throat working, teeth
bared.
She clutched his shoulders, her nails digging through the fabric of his shirt.
“Chutia,” she whispered.
He remained silent, angry at her for refusing to take her own release, furious at
himself for taking his own. His chest heaving, he leaned his head against the wall.
He let go of her thigh and she slid, still panting, down his leg. Her legs were too
shaky to hold her, and he passed one arm around her waist to brace her. Dropping his
face into the crook of her neck, he nuzzled her roughly, his own scent mingled with
hers.
She pushed him away and dressed quickly, brushing a hand across her mouth and
smearing the blood from her lip. She murmured another fluent curse, then braced her
arms on the vanity, its delicate gilding incongruous after their passionate encounter.
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Not Quite a Lady
She lifted her eyes to the mirror and simply stared at her reflection for a moment, before
she whirled and left him.
Indira ran down the stairs and out the front door, stopping only to grab her shoes,
which she shoved on as she went. She had to get out of the house, away from him. Her
pussy throbbed and ached. She had won that encounter, but it had cost her. She needed
to think. And to think, she needed to be outside. She headed down the lane, only then
noticing that she had neglected a bonnet. No matter. The hats were as nonsensical as the
torturous corsets. She clenched her internal muscles, frustrated and wanting.
London was not part of the plan. Going anywhere with him was certainly not part of
the plan. But she was afraid that he was right. She had no money. The estate was the
entirety of her inheritance, but she hadn’t a cent to pay Dare’s solicitors. Damn him for
being so dictatorial and managing.
She leaned over, picked up a stone and hurled it toward a tree farther down the
lane. It made a satisfying thump when it hit. She had no money and knew no one.
Without Dare’s assistance, she would be homeless. And even if she had the funds to
pay for a legal wrangle over the property, there was no guarantee she would win.
She fumed, powerless and longing for home. She felt like some strange, exotic bird
here in the country, where she became a spectacle merely by walking down the street.
She had worn one of those ridiculous contraptions on her head when she last walked
into town, but there must have been something wrong with it, because every person she
saw stared. The eyes of women widened as she passed and she could feel their stares
boring into her. The eyes of men did something different, looking boldly at her face
before their gazes dropped to her breasts.
Stupid of her to think that she could pass as an English lady, with her odd accent
and dark skin. Even her walk, a ground-eating pace that allowed her to cover all sorts of
terrain, signaled her strangeness.
The sound of hooves made her turn. Of course it was him.
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Erica Anderson
He reined up beside her and dropped to the ground, passing his horse’s bridle over
the beast’s head.
She turned and continued walking, but he kept pace beside her. Damn the man. If
she had known who he was, she would never have seduced him. Stupid to have let her
desires dictate her actions. But she had wanted him. And he had wanted her. It had
seemed so simple.
She had found him intriguing the moment his broad shoulders had appeared in the
inn doorway. He radiated masculinity and moved with controlled power, as though
something wild and threatening rode just below the polished surface. And she had been
drawn to him, like a hapless moth to the flame.
That one night at the inn had been extraordinary. She could not stop herself from
thinking about it, remembering how his hands had burned their way across her body,
how he had licked and sucked and consumed her. It made her pant just to think of it,
and she shot a sideways glance at him to see whether he had noticed.
His jaw was set, but he did not touch her. His mount nudged his elbow and he
murmured soft words to the horse which, unaccountably, infuriated her. To think that
he could be gentle with a horse, but treat her like some wayward child. She stopped
walking and stared pointedly across the fields.
“Indira,” he said, his face bowed over the long muzzle of his horse. He stroked the
velvety nose. “I spoke hastily.”
She stared harder, pulling her anger around her like a cloak, but recognized his
words for what they were—an apology of sorts. From a man who never apologized for
anything. She turned.
He looked up, straight into her eyes, and the line of his jaw stood out beneath his
tanned skin. He straightened, and she was struck again by just how big he was. Broad
shoulders, muscled legs and, oh, if only she could forget that delicious cock.
She exhaled through her nose. “I have no money.”
“I know,” he said, his gaze steady.
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Not Quite a Lady
She struggled to mask her surprise. He had known, the entire time, that he had the
upper hand.
“I looked into your affairs before I left London.”
She bit down hard on her lip. “Damn you.” How she hated this. Him. This cold,
colorless country. It was different in India—she knew how to manage there. But here—
this was his world, and she didn’t know the rules. “You know I don’t have any choice.”
He remained silent.
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and caught his gaze straying. She liked
the way the smooth cotton of her chemise felt against her skin. It reminded her of how
his hands had felt sliding down her arms, then the surprise of his rough, calloused
fingers against her nipples.
She sighed. “I am not like you,” she said at last. “I do not belong in ballrooms. Or in
society. I am not a lady. There is nothing for me in London.”
He snorted. “Do you think so little of my consequence? Think you I cannot gain you
entreé to any ball or fête of my choosing?”
“I do not want to go to such things,” she said. “And surely your consequence would
make that requisite.”
He gazed into the distance. “You may please yourself.”
She watched him, suspicious. He turned back to her. “I give you my word.”
Even now, Indira felt herself react to his deep voice, felt her eyes drawn to his
capable hands as they stroked the horse’s nose. She had a vision of those hands against
her thighs, her legs spread for his tongue.
“How long do you think it will take to settle my father’s affairs?”
His dark brows drew together. “At least a month.”
Indira gave an irritated huff. “I…do not mean to be ungrateful, but I am not used to
being told what to do.” She raised defiant eyes to his own. “So do not expect me to
pretend to obedience.”
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Erica Anderson
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Of course not. You’re a complete
barbarian.”
She flung her head up at that and saw that Dare was twitting her. He really was
insufferable. “Thank you,” she said, begrudging every word.
He acknowledged this with an imperious tilt of his head. “There is no need, I assure
you. I’m accustomed to dependent relatives.”
He thought her a dependent relative, did he? She stilled and with icy deliberation, lifted
her brows. He inhaled and his eyes clouded for a moment. She fancied that he regretted
his words. But despite her patience, he made no retraction.
Indira lifted a finger to her lip. It was bleeding again. Dare reached forward as
though to wipe away the blood, but she drew back.
“I will not inconvenience you for long,” she said. “I assure you, my dependence
vexes me far more than it could you.”
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Not Quite a Lady
Chapter Four
“My dear Miss Stuart,” said the dowager Lady Dare as she stepped into the parlor,
a bright-haired girl behind her. “What a pleasure to see you again. I hope you are not
exhausted from your journey.”
“Not at all,” said Indira, rising. “I only regret that I must inconvenience you.” She
shot Dare a look over Lady Dare’s shoulder.
“How could you think such a thing? Dare has not been tactless, has he? He is rather
used to having his own way.” This interesting turn to the conversation was interrupted
by Sabina, who sidled around her mother and gave Indira an enthusiastic hug. “Dare
hasn’t told us anything about you,” she cried. “And I missed your visit the last time. I
was out in search of trim for a bonnet. It is so difficult to find the right ribbon
sometimes, don’t you agree?”
Sabina took Indira’s hands and sat down. “Do you know this is my first season in
town? I have met so many people, I can hardly remember all their names. Except for
some of the gentlemen. Especially the handsome ones. I find I haven’t any trouble
remembering who they are.” Sabina jumped up and grabbed a vase from a side table.
“Just look at these, Miss Stuart. Tiny pink roses. Don’t they smell divine? They
came just this morning. From Mr. Stanley. I think him very nice, but Dare says he hasn’t
a farthing. It is too bad, don’t you think?”
Indira, bemused, nodded and leaned forward to smell the nosegay. She could feel
Dare’s presence behind her, sense him looming, a dark shadow in the otherwise bright
room.
Sabina set the vase aside and took up Indira’s hands again. “You must come with
us to the Jessup’s gala tonight! It’s so exciting to have a new relation, don’t you think? I
have to use lemon water on my freckles. I don’t know if it will work for you, but…”
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Erica Anderson
“Sabina!” said Lady Dare, sharply. “Your manners have gone begging!”
“But I only meant that…”
“Hush, Sabina,” said Dare, and she subsided at once.
“I’m sure we all know what you mean, my dear,” Lady Dare said. “And I’m sure
Miss Stuart is entirely too exhausted to go anywhere but straight to bed after dinner.”
Indira would have protested this, for the ride from Wantage had been quite
enjoyable, once she had convinced Dare to hire her a mount. But she thought silence a
better strategy, given that Miss Dare seemed quite competent at conversing with
herself.
* * * * *
Indira was surprised that evening by a knock on the door followed, a second later,
with the appearance of Sabina. Indira looked up from the book she was reading as
Sabina sidled around the doorway as though on some secret mission.
“Miss Stuart,” said Sabina, hurrying toward her. “You don’t mind me coming to
visit you, I hope. Mama says I’m to let you rest, but I don’t think you look very tired.”
“You’re quite right,” said Indira, laying aside her book. “I’m not tired at all.”
“Oh, good! Because I have ever so many questions for you. Are you really a
heathen? Dare says you are, but I’ve never met a real heathen.”
Indira tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to stifle an unladylike snort. “He said I was
a heathen?”
“Yes,” said Sabina, leaning forward eagerly. “And Mama said you’re not Christian
either, because you have such an odd name. Is that true?
“Well,” said Indira, “it’s true that my name isn’t English. Or Christian. It’s Hindu.”
“Hindu?” whispered Sabina, though it was clear to Indira that she had no idea what
that meant.
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Not Quite a Lady
Indira tried not to smile. “Yes. It’s the name of an Indian goddess. She is also called
Lakshmi. She’s the goddess of good fortune.”
Sabina’s eyes widened in pleasure. “How lovely for you, to be named for a goddess.
My name comes from some old Roman tribe. It’s not nearly as interesting as yours. Who
cares about people who have been dead for a hundred years? I’d love to be named for a
goddess.”
“Yes, well,” said Indira. “It’s not so unusual a name in India, but it can make things
difficult here.”
“Oh,” said Sabina. “Yes, I can see how that might be. Especially if you’re a heathen,
too.”
“Did Dare really say that?” Indira asked.
“Well, yes. But you shouldn’t mind it. He’s unpleasant most of the time. I’ve never
known a heathen person before.”
Indira laughed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not actually Hindu.”
“Oh,” said Sabina, frowning. “Does that mean you’re not heathen?”
“Not exactly. I rather think Dare meant something else.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure I don’t understand Dare at all, though he’s my brother. He can
be frightfully proper. And he doesn’t like Mr. Stanley. Did I tell you that? It’s too bad,
because Mr. Stanley is rather nice.”
“Mr. Stanley? The one who sent you the roses?”
“Yes!” said Sabina, clapping her hands. “I like him very well. And he is a good
dancer. But…do you sometimes find, Indira—you don’t mind if I call you Indira, do
you?—do you sometimes find that a gentleman can be too nice? I think it would be
lovely if Mr. Stanley kissed me, but he hasn’t. And I’ve even asked him to. It would be
quite lowering if he wasn’t so proper.”
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Erica Anderson
Sabina climbed onto Indira’s bed and pulled a pillow into her lap. “You must meet
him and tell me what you think. He is a very good dancer, and he smells nice, which I
think is important. Don’t you?”
Indira agreed that it was, remembering the scent of Dare’s warm skin. How he had
smelled of strength and masculinity.
“And you must meet Kit. He’s just back from the continent, so I know that you’ll
have lots in common. He dances very well, but he’s actually quite horrid.”
Indira tilted her head in inquiry.
“Yes, he is, though you wouldn’t think so to look at him. He treats me as if I’m still
in the schoolroom. As though I’m going to throw up on his waistcoat. I did. Once. But it
was years ago. And besides, I’d eaten some green apples, so of course I was sick.”
“You threw up on him?”
“Yes,” said Sabina, giving her a hurt look. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No, of course not. It does seem unkind of him to remind you of it.”
“It is unkind! I’m glad you think so. Dare just laughs when he says it, though I’ve
asked him to tell Kit to stop. He’s hateful!”
Indira wasn’t sure whether Sabina meant Dare or the dreadful Kit, but the girl’s
eyes had become suspiciously watery. “Men can be quite hateful,” she said, rubbing
Sabina’s shoulder. “But most of the time, I rather think they don’t realize it.”
Sabina sniffed. “Really?”
“Really. I’m sure he’s just teasing you. And Dare is your brother, so of course he
finds it amusing.” Indira hoped this was true. She’d never had a brother, so she was
only guessing.
No one had ever asked her for advice, so it was something of a surprise to have a
red-eyed Sabina looking at her so earnestly. Indira struggled to comfort her. She patted
her back in what she hoped was a reassuring way.
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Not Quite a Lady
“You must pretend that you don’t care what he says, and perhaps he’ll stop doing
it.”
“But I do care!” wailed Sabina.
“Yes, I know,” said Indira, “but he mustn’t know it.”
Sabina gave another sniff. “I suppose I might try it.”
“You must tell me if it works. Men are strange creatures, so sometimes it’s best to
experiment to find out what works best.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Sabina, brushing a hand across her eyes. “I wish I had
as much experience with men as you do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I can see that you’re not afraid of Dare at all. Even though he does scowl.
Emily was afraid of him, but she died. She was nice, but Mama said she was too timid.
You don’t seem timid at all.”
“Emily?”
“She was his wife. She died when she was having the baby. It was very sad, because
Emily was beautiful and everyone said that they were a handsome couple. But she
jumped every time Dare said a word to her.”
Indira turned away to hide her surprise. Dare had been married. The thought
unsettled her, though for no reason she could think of.
“He doesn’t ignore you like that.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t attending. Who doesn’t?”
“Dare,” said Sabina, as though speaking to a small child. “He mostly ignored Emily.
It was as though he didn’t even know she was there. Mama called her a mouse. But he
looks at you all the time.”
“Oh?” Indira tried to swallow.
“Haven’t you noticed? Sometimes I think he wants to eat you up. Just like a lemon
ice.”
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Erica Anderson
Indira opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The image of Dare’s dark head
buried between her thighs rose to mind.
Sabina seemed not to notice. She slid off the bed, then leaned forward and hugged
Indira. After a moment of surprise, Indira hugged her back. “I’ve always wanted a
sister,” said Sabina in a wistful tone. “Perhaps we shall become the best of friends and
share all our secrets with each other. Oh, I can’t wait until you’re not tired anymore and
can come with us to a ball.”
“Thank you. I’d like that very much,” said Indira, surprised at how much she meant
it.
* * * * *
Several days of constant activity followed, in which Lady Dare and Sabina insisted
that Indira accompany them to dressmakers and milliners and glovers. By the end of
the week, she had carriage dresses, morning dresses and evening gowns. She was
caught between a desire to live as simply as possible and the need to appear presentable
in public. “Presentable” to Lady Dare required vast amounts of clothing, most of it
ghastly expensive. Yet Indira was somehow gratified by their interest and attention. It
was a new experience for her, to be fussed over and made much of.
Indira had protested at first, agreeing to one dress for daytime and another for
evening, but Sabina was horrified. “You can’t wear the same dress in one week. Mama,
tell her she can’t!”
Apparently, it was simply not done.
Though Indira cared little for the fripperies, she had been absolutely immovable on
the issue of color, adamantly refusing the pastel pinks and robin’s egg blues favored by
many of the season’s young ladies. She found unexpected support from the dressmaker,
who agreed, somewhat to her surprise, that mademoiselle would be best served by
richer colors. Thus, when she descended to dinner that evening in a hastily altered
gown, she was pleased to see Dare’s eyes darken when he caught sight of her.
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She wore a dress of gold silk with crimson trim, the bodice cut low over her bosom.
When she entered the drawing room, Dare rose, his gaze sweeping from her elegant
topknot along the slender curve of her throat to dwell pointedly upon her breasts. She
allowed him to look his fill, and she lifted her chin. When he at last met her eyes, she
felt the throbbing start, low in her belly.
Since both Lady Dare and Sabina were habitually late, Indira lifted her hand to her
décolletage, running a finger along the edge of her bodice. “The silk is very fine,” she
said. “I will bankrupt you with the cost.”
Dare narrowed his eyes. “The cost be damned.” He came forward to take her hand,
his fingers closing possessively over her own. “You will have half the bucks in town
slavering over you, you know. I anticipate pistols at dawn.”
Indira shook her head. “Not on my account,” she said. “I agreed to this only to
please your mother. I had not thought she could be quite so…”
“Persuasive?” finished Dare. “I am glad she was, if this is the result.”
“Don’t,” said Indira. “Don’t mistake the gown as anything but window dressing.
I’m not a woman of your sort.”
“Of my sort?” he asked. “And what, precisely, is my sort?”
Indira turned to look at him. “You know what I mean. I don’t belong here.” She
gestured with one hand and Dare noticed again how dark her skin was, how she fairly
glowed in the candlelight. “I cannot say what I think, for fear of offending your mother.
I cannot walk like a normal person, for this dress constrains me.”
“And the corsets?” Dare prompted on some wicked impulse. “Do they bother you
as well?”
“You know they do,” she said, giving him a defiant look.
He deliberately dropped his eyes to her breasts, his gaze taking in their curving
fullness, pushed high and presented for his delectation like exotic sweets. As he
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watched, her nipples hardened, and he was caught off guard by his response. His cock
stiffened and his mouth had gone suddenly dry.
“You see,” she said, in an undertone, “it is the covering up that arouses you. Not
what lies beneath.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” he said, his voice rough. “I find it all arousing. A
bit of silk and satin doesn’t change that. But you must understand that I cannot act on
such impulses anymore.”
“Oh?” she asked. “Because I am a—how did you put it—a dependent relative?”
“And so you are.”
She gave a sniff of derision that would have been perfectly at home in any ballroom
in London. Dare wondered whether she realized how well her natural confidence
prepared her for the petty rivalries of the ton.
“Ah. And your sense of honor somehow forbids you from taking your pleasure
from a dependent?”
“You know damn well it does.”
“I see. But unknown women at public houses are perfectly acceptable.”
Dare turned and prowled to the end of the drawing room, desperate to put as much
space between him and Indira Stuart as was physically possible. What had possessed
him to stare at her like that? He had been resolute in his determination to treat her as a
guest of the family. And his lordship did not tumble honored guests, no matter how
desirable they were. He regretted taking her at the house in Wantage—he had known
who she was by then, but had still surrendered to the urge to back her up against a wall
and fuck her senseless.
What was his mother thinking to dress her in a gown cut so low, in a bodice
designed to show off the enchanting swell of her breasts? She wasn’t husband hunting,
for God’s sake. Every man who saw her would be thinking exactly what was running
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through his mind now—how she would look naked, all that auburn hair spread out on
a pillow, her thighs open, slit dripping with arousal.
Dare cursed, though it did nothing to lessen the bulge in his trousers. A gentleman
did not fuck houseguests. Only a beastly degenerate would do such a thing. But the
past week he had felt like a starving man sitting at a table of delicacies, none of which
were within reach. He had passed her bedroom door two nights in a row after sitting
up late in the study, trying to drink himself into a stupor. He was too old for it, he
thought. He hadn’t the appetite for drinking to excess anymore, nor for the blasted
headache the morning after. Instead he had gone to bed, but not before pausing before
the burnished oak that led to Indira’s rooms. For a moment he considered knocking,
wondering whether she would welcome him under his own roof.
What a blackguard he was. She had nowhere else to go, she would feel obligated to
take him to her bed whether she wanted him or not. He needed to find another woman
on whom to slake his lust.
* * * * *
Indira was enjoying the Wingate ball more than she had expected. London society
had proven interesting. Rather like exploring a new landscape with a logic all its own.
New smells, new sensations and new creatures. The ton ladies in their elaborate gowns
reminded her of nothing so much as a flock of parrots, flying from perch to perch,
gliding and preening. Their gowns were a feast for her eyes after the murky grays and
dirty whitewash of London.
Across the room, Dare was magnificent in his black and white evening wear.
Earlier, in the drawing room, she had itched to unknot the cravat at his throat, to press
her lips to the nape of his neck. Pull each long, elegant finger into her mouth.
She knew that her presence in his house vexed him. She was a constant reminder of
the one instance in his structured life in which he had allowed lust to overrule reason.
He desired her, and she had been desired before. But she found the incongruities
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between what he did and what he thought he should do to be irresistible. So she didn’t
bother to ignore her own desire to twit him when the opportunity arose.
In truth, she was feeling more than a little bit tetchy. Dare had been rigidly polite to
her the entire week, and she hadn’t found the opportunity to invite him to her bed. In
an uncharacteristic bout of uncertainty, she had even wondered whether he still found
her desirable. His response to her gown had answered that question.
Indira glanced across the crowded ballroom. Apparently Dare’s consequence was
sufficient to gain her the acceptance of even the most stuffy ton hostesses. Nevertheless,
Indira was not immune to the speculative glances and raised eyebrows that her
presence inspired. Lady Dare ignored them and Sabina was heedless of all save
attractive young gentlemen and the condition of her person. Dare, however, was neither
as sanguine as his mother nor as oblivious as Sabina, and Indira caught him scowling,
more than once, at knots of ladies engaged in sotto voce gossip.
“Come, Indira,” said Dare, taking the glass of ratafia from her hand and setting it
aside. “You have played the wallflower long enough.”
She was on the dance floor almost before she realized what he was about. “I don’t
recall agreeing to dance, Dare.”
“I purposely didn’t ask,” he replied smoothly.
She huffed her displeasure.
“Would you have said yes if I had?”
“No,” she admitted. “And now I shall doubtless embarrass you. I don’t know this
dance.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, positioning her hands. “You need only follow my lead.”
“Of course,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”
He smiled down at her as he wrapped his arm around her waist. She noticed, not
for the first time, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that appeared when he
laughed. A small sign of vulnerability that somehow made him more attractive.
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“Close your eyes,” he said. “You might even enjoy yourself.”
“And give you an unnecessary advantage? I think not.” She felt his eyes on her
breasts and shivered in response.
“Tut, tut, Indira. Always on guard.”
“It seems wise, under the circumstances.”
“Oh?” he asked. “And why is that?”
Indira didn’t answer at first. He had no idea how easy it would be for her to settle
into a life here—to become accustomed to waking up in the same place, to be sure of
shelter and clothing and food. Oh, life with her father had been exciting, each day
unpredictable. But as Indira grew older, she had yearned for some measure of stability.
That was what Dare offered and she found it dangerously tempting. So much so that
she had begun to remind herself, each morning, that this life was not real. The gowns
were on loan, the easy living a temporary luxury.
Soon she would be back in India living as she always had. She had never
considered any other alternative. Until now. And it left her unsettled in the most
visceral way, for this life was an idyll that would come to an end as soon as the
property matter was settled. In the meantime, it was important that she not become too
accustomed to the comforts Dare could provide. And most certainly she must not
become accustomed to Dare himself. Best to take her pleasure of him and leave it at
that.
“I don’t completely trust…this,” she said at last, in answer to his question.
“This?”
“London. You. It’s all too easy.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the problem,” he said, pressing her closer to avoid another
couple.
She savored his closeness for a moment, the taut flexion of his muscles against the
softness of her breasts.
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“I don’t know quite how to explain it. But my life in India was nothing like this. It
was quite…difficult sometimes.”
She gazed at the buttons of his shirt, determined not to meet his gaze.
“Difficult how?” he asked quietly.
For some reason, the words caught in her throat. Perhaps it was his concern—it
made her weak, made her want to confide in him. Life with her father had been difficult.
There was never enough money, for one thing. Indira had earned their keep more than
once by translating Hindi for the East India Company.
“Well,” she said, making an effort to keep her tone light, “Father didn’t care to stay
in one place very long, so we were always betwixt and between. And money was
something that only occurred to him when there wasn’t any.”
Dare remained silent, but she thought perhaps his grip on her fingers had
tightened.
“So you see, I’m not accustomed to having…”
“…Someone take care of you?” Dare finished.
She stiffened in his arms. “I suppose you could say that.”
He felt the change in her body, a new rigidity that signaled her discomfort with the
topic. He whirled her around a servant bearing a full tray of glasses and decided to shift
the conversation. “You know, you’re quite a graceful dancer. Are you sure my mother
hasn’t been giving you lessons?”
She relaxed fractionally. He could feel it through her gown where his palm lay
against her hip.
“I never said that I didn’t know how to dance—only that I didn’t know this dance.”
“Ah,” he said, pulling her close again. “You waltz well enough.”
“It’s not as though waltzing is particularly complicated,” she said. “It’s nothing like
the Indian dances.”
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He arched a brow in question.
“Waltzing doesn’t require much balance. You don’t move your head or arms. Odissi
is much more complex and,” she said, a bit smugly, “no one leads.”
“So you do know how to dance,” he insisted, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Not by Indian standards.”
He looked down at her, curious. “What do you mean?”
“To dance odissi properly, you must know the meaning of each step. All the dances
have stories, so if you don’t know the story, you only have half a dance.” She tossed her
head to indicate the other dancers. “Not like waltzing.”
“And you know some of these dances?”
“Some,” she said, but he detected a certain evasiveness in her reply.
“How did you learn? Surely English schoolmistresses don’t teach Indian dance.”
She shot him a look. “No.”
“How then?”
She lifted her chin and he thought for a moment that she would refuse to answer
him. “You would be scandalized if I told you.”
“I doubt that,” he said, giving her a skeptical look. What the devil? She was reluctant
to tell him.
In truth, the more he learned of her, the more fascinated he became. But her
unconventional life left her open to the censure of the ton. Good God, if they knew half
the things he knew.
He looked down at her. She was staring fixedly at his cravat, not even concentrating
on where to put her feet or how to position her arms. She had a natural grace, a sort of
ease with her body that he had sensed before. She even walked beautifully.
How had she learned it? Or rather, he reflected, how had she not learned it? Not
learned to pose and simper and display herself to advantage like a well-trimmed
bonnet. Not learned to be modest. Not learned—he inhaled sharply—to take her
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pleasures in the darkness beneath the bedclothes like a frightened virgin. In another
woman, he might have called it shameless. But in Indira it was something else entirely.
She was without artifice, and that, alone, was enough to seduce him. Even her
lovemaking was unconstrained—she embraced the physicality of it and something
within him responded. Something raw and primal.
“I learned to dance from my father’s…chinaal,” she said at last, the final word
almost a whisper.
He waited. And somehow he knew what was coming. It began to make sense. She
began to make sense.
“I don’t know the English word. She was the woman my father…fucked.”
Dare swallowed. Whore, she meant. Her father’s whore.
“Her name was Bharani. She was with us for several months.”
“I don’t think it matters how you came by your dancing,” he said. “Though I don’t
know that I’d tell Sabina that, lest she decide to take up opera dancing in order to get
out of quadrille lessons.”
He had meant it as a jest, to make her smile, but she only gave him a look that he
couldn’t decipher. The music was ending as Dare led her through the final steps before
he was forced, given their interested audience, to release her.
Couples were still milling about the dance floor when Sabina appeared, a
proprietary grip on a handsome blond man.
“You look very well together, Indira. Dare is not too tall for you, which is a good
thing, because sometimes he tends to overwhelm his dance partners. Especially with all
that black. I think he looks quite fearsome.”
“Sabina,” the blond man interjected. Miraculously, the flow of words stopped.
“Perhaps you’d be so kind to make me known to your cousin.”
“Oh!” she said. “Sorry. I forgot. This is Indira Stuart. She’s named for a heathen
goddess. Aren’t you?” She gave Indira a smile. “This is Kit, who was just…”
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“Don’t behave like a ninny, Sabina,” said Dare.
Sabina rolled her eyes. “This is Sir Kit.”
The man bowed. “It’s actually Christopher Kendall. My pleasure to make your
acquaintance. You’ve given the old biddies plenty of fodder for the evening.”
Indira gave a rueful laugh, but Dare’s face hardened.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Sabina, cutting in. “Or if it is, they’re only admiring
your dress. Don’t you think she looks well, Kit? I picked out the crimson trim.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Christopher, who cast an admiring eye at Indira. “Is your dance
card full, Miss Stuart?”
Before Indira could reply, Sabina straightened. “Oh,” she said, and a frown
appeared. “Well, it is Indira. So I suppose that’s all right, then.”
Sir Christopher turned bemused eyes upon her. “Is it? I’m grateful for your
approval.”
Sabina gave a little huff and subsided, just as Dare was about to remind her of her
manners. Sir Christopher, he saw, seemed to have her well in hand.
“Miss Stuart?” said Sir Christopher, offering his arm.
Dare relinquished her somewhat reluctantly. Kit was safe enough, though Dare
hadn’t missed the appreciation in the other man’s eyes. And he wasn’t looking at the
trim on her gown, either.
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Chapter Five
“For God’s sake, Sabina, stop using your fork as though it’s a dagger,” Dare
snapped and gestured for a footman to remove his plate.
“I’m not,” she protested, giving him a hurt look. “You know I don’t care for squab.”
“Of course you don’t, my dear,” said Lady Dare. “Squab can be quite awful. Do you
recall whether we’re engaged for tomorrow night?”
Indira threw her a surprised look. Lady Dare had a prodigious memory for social
events and rarely had to consult a calendar.
“Really, Mama,” said Sabina, “you know we’re promised to Lady Jessup.”
“Ah, so we are,” replied Lady Dare. “A pity Sebastian won’t be able to accompany
us.”
Indira was caught off guard by her disappointment at the prospect of an evening
without Dare. She looked forward to dancing with him. Though she had become quite
comfortable attending parties and galas, she liked that he was nearby. More often than
not, she would catch him staring at her from across the room. He rarely smiled on those
occasions when she met his glance. Only acknowledged her with the smallest tilt of his
head before turning back to his conversation.
Those looks made her stomach flip. And they made her conscious of her body in a
way that she had never been before. It was almost as though knowing he was there
made her nipples tighten. She concentrated on her squab and allowed her mind to drift,
wondering whether he was as frustrated with his ridiculous refusal to bed her as she
was.
She had realized, earlier this week, that he was trying to avoid touching her. When
they climbed into a carriage or passed each other on the stairs, he always angled his
body away from hers.
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Typically perverse, Indira made every effort to brush against him. He tried to
ignore her for the most part, but yesterday she had used the cover of her skirts to rub
her foot against his calf. They were returning from a musicale, which Indira had found
unaccountably boring, and she had made sure she sat next to him in the backward
facing seat of the carriage. She had spread out her skirts so that they covered his lower
leg, then slipped off her shoe and rubbed her stocking foot against the hard muscles of
his calf. She heard his sharp intake of breath and then he turned resolutely to look out
the window. He could have shifted away from her, but he didn’t, which Indira took as
an encouraging sign.
She had leaned over him, as though she had seen something interesting out the
window and took the opportunity to stoke her hand over his lap. He was rock hard
beneath his breeches and Indira gave a little shiver of arousal. He swore under his
breath. Taking her arm as though to steady her, he shifted out of reach. Later, as she
stepped out of the carriage, he gave her a glare, but Indira detected, beneath his
irritation, something hot and desirous.
* * * * *
Two nights later, she was absorbed in her own thoughts when Dare emerged from
the crowd with a glass of champagne for her. He seemed disinclined to talk, so she too
remained silent. It was one thing that she liked about him—he provided a space for
silence in a crowd. A respite from talk and chatter. Though she liked Sabina and Lady
Dare very much, they seemed to have a horror vacui when it came to conversation,
filling every empty space with words.
Out of the corner of her eye, Indira could see Lady Dare approaching, trailed by a
tall man in scarlet regimentals.
Indira turned to smile, but her breath caught in her throat. She felt the blood drain
from her face.
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“My dear,” said Lady Dare, “I’d like to present you to Major Marcus Fitzroy. Major
Fitzroy, this is…oh, dear. Indira, are you quite all right?”
She felt Dare’s large hand at her elbow, but she shook him off. “I’m fine,” she said,
“just surprised to see the major again.”
Lady Dare looked back and forth between Indira and the major. “Oh, so you know
each other? How felicitous! I thought you might have something in common. The major
is just back from India, and he’s Sally Jessup’s nephew so of course I wanted to introduce
you.”
“You’re too kind, Lady Dare,” said the major, though his eyes did not shift from
Indira’s face. “As you have guessed, Miss Stuart and I are already acquainted.”
“I did not realize you were in England,” Indira said, struggling to keep her voice
even.
“You could not be more surprised than I,” he replied. Though the words were said
lightly, the severe set of his lips betrayed his anger. Behind her, Indira felt Dare tense.
“I believed you were dead,” he said in an undertone. “It is both a relief and a
pleasure to find you still among the living. And in London, no less.”
Dare’s jaw tightened. What the hell?
If she was a cat, Indira would have arched her back and started to hiss, which
unsettled Dare more than he liked to admit. He was tempted to put an immediate end
to the conversation. But as there was no way to do that short of cutting the major
directly, Dare contented himself by running an insolent gaze over the army man.
He was tall, though Dare was pleased to see he topped the major by at least an inch.
A scar, Dare guessed the result of a sabre cut, bisected one of Fitzroy’s cheeks. His
blond hair was sun-bleached and carelessly arranged—just the sort of thing that
appealed to young ladies. Worse, Dare knew, felt it in his gut, that Fitzroy wanted
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Indira. Wanted her in his bed. Wanted her for his own. Dare felt a rush of something in
his blood, something that aroused primitive instincts to protect and possess.
At the suggestion of a tête-à-tête, Indira felt Dare’s animosity intensify. “On my
honor, my lady,” said the major, turning to Lady Dare. “I promise to return her before
the end of this dance. Had I known she was in town, I would have called weeks ago.”
Behind Indira, Dare radiated displeasure. His tension unsettled her, doubled her
own anxiety.
Glancing at Dare’s face, Lady Dare smiled a little uncertainly. “I shall be just here,
my dear, should you need me.”
Indira gave her a stiff smile and allowed the major to draw her toward a settee in
the corner.
She could feel Dare’s glare though the fabric of her gown as she walked away and
she had to resist the urge to turn to look at him.
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she said. “I didn’t think to write to you before I left India.”
“You were in Nusserabad, weren’t you? Surely you could have told someone,
passed on a message.” Fitzroy’s lips had settled into a grimace. He was angry, and
barely concealing it. But she had promised him nothing, didn’t owe him an explanation.
“I think you mistake the nature of our relationship,” she began. But he wasn’t
listening.
“Do you know how many people died at Nusserabad? When I didn’t hear from
you, I thought you must be among them. Dead, like your father. No one knew anything.
And you let me go on like that. Jesus, Indira. What were you thinking?”
Indira looked away. “I had to come to England to take care of the estate.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
She raised her head. “What? And ask to sleep in the barracks?”
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“Damn it! I would have taken care of you. I’ve been thinking for the better part of a
year that you were dead.” Major Fitzroy exhaled, his fingers closing around the fragile
stem of his wineglass as though he might snap it.
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I didn’t intend for you to think anything. I thought that you
would forget about what happened.”
“Forget it?” Fitzroy’s features hardened. “Is that what you think? That I’d dishonor
you and then leave you to face the consequences?”
“You didn’t dishonor me, Marcus,” Indira said. “What we did was my choice as
well as yours.” She paused, wondering if she ought to say it. It would likely give him a
disgust of her, but perhaps then he would give up the idea of marriage. She steeled
herself. “It isn’t as though you were the first, Marcus.”
Fitzroy closed his eyes as though trying to regain control. The scar on his cheek
whitened with the effort. “That—what went before doesn’t matter. You were young.
Your father didn’t exactly set a good example.”
“Marcus, I won’t marry you.”
“You don’t exactly have a choice, Indira.
This is a matter of honor. My honor, as
well as yours.”
Indira rose, her hands trembling in her anger. “Your honor is your own concern,
Marcus.”
He stood then, too close for Indira’s comfort. She stepped back and raised a hand,
ready to push him away. He took her wrist, his deft fingers closing around the delicate
bones. “I don’t believe you’re a whore, Indira. So stop acting like one.”
Her eyes widened and she yanked her hand away. “I’m not going to dignify that
with a response,” she said under her breath. She clenched her hands into fists, tempted
to strike him. Then she turned on her heel and strode away, moving swiftly through the
crowd.
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Dare took another draught of his champagne and wished for something stronger.
He had restrained himself so far this evening, but the sight of Marcus Fitzroy’s hands
on Indira had nearly sent him hurtling across the room. Fitzroy had fucked her. Of that
Dare was certain. He could see it in the proprietary way Fitzroy looked at her, as
though he were appreciating a recent purchase.
Dare wanted to break something, to let loose the tension that thrummed through
his body. And he wanted to take Indira as far away from Fitzroy as possible so that he
could mark her, indisputably, as his own. But she wasn’t. And even Dare didn’t delude
himself that her status as a dependent allowed him such liberties.
With an effort, Dare turned his dark eyes to the dancers whirling through a reel.
Mrs. Finley was here tonight. She had sent him a come-hither look from across the
ballroom, and he was minded to respond. His cock had become more demanding of late
and Deirdre had always been an enthusiastic partner. When she next caught his eye, he
gave her the barest of nods. She smiled her reply, and Dare drained his glass.
* * * * *
Mrs. Finley stripped off her gloves. “Can I get you some brandy, Dare?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen you in some weeks.”
“No,” he said, ignoring her not-so-subtle reprimand. “I don’t have much time this
evening.”
“Dispensing with the niceties, are we?” she observed. “I need your help with this
gown.”
Dare moved behind her, started to unbutton her. Then he wrapped his fingers
around her shoulders and pulled her, hard, against his erection. She bent her head back,
wiggling her rump against him. He pressed his lips to her throat for a moment, seeking
the scent of her skin. But she smelled wrong somehow. Pleasant enough, but wrong.
She turned, her eyes troubled. “Dare…”
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He turned her around and thrust his tongue into her mouth, nipping and biting at
her lips.
“You want it like that, do you?” she asked as he pressed his lips to her jaw.
He gave a growl, deep in his throat and pulled her arms behind her back so that her
breasts were thrust upward. He yanked down her bodice and sucked a nipple into his
mouth. She cried out, writhing against him. “I like it when you’re rough with me,
Dare,” she panted.
He lifted his head and pushed her, not very gently, toward the bed.
“Get on your knees,” he said. “I don’t want to talk.”
She climbed onto the bed, pulling her skirts up to her waist. Dare moved behind
her, ran his hands over the well-formed mounds of her arse and unbuttoned his
breeches. “Dare, I’m not ready for…” He laid one large hand on the base of her spine
and delved between her legs. But his touch was rough, preemptory.
“Dare…” she said, then jerked as his fingers slid into her cunt. She pushed back
against him, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction. “Oh, that’s…good.” Deirdre wriggled
her hips, a movement Dare found unaccountably irritating. He withdrew his hand. He
wasn’t in a playful mood tonight.
Deirdre gave a yelp of protest when he moved to shove his cock into her. He
tightened his hands on her hips.
“Stop it, Dare!” She jerked away from him and yanked down her skirts. “What’s
gotten into you?”
He glared at her for a moment, then buttoned his breeches and stalked to the
window. He braced his hands on the window frame and stared into the darkness.
After a moment, she got up and followed him, reaching out a tentative hand to
touch his shoulder. “What is it?” she asked softly.
He reached back, took her hand and squeezed—a wordless apology. She stroked
his fingers with her own, waiting.
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“I shouldn’t have come, Deirdre,” he said at last.
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Chapter Six
Indira woke early and dressed as quietly as she could. She had left the window
open, but sometime during the night, someone had closed it. Her room was hot and
stuffy and she needed some air. Her encounter with Marcus had disturbed her, and she
wanted to think. She remembered a bonnet this time, and tied a careless bow.
A sleepy footman straightened as she arrived at the front door. “A park, ma’am?
Are you meanin’ Hyde Park?”
Indira got the directions from him, but refused when he suggested, his face
reddening, that she might want an attendant.
Then she was down the front steps and off, thankful that it was a sunny day. The
sound of birds drew her into the trees as soon as she entered the park. And when she
closed her eyes and sank to the ground, she could almost convince herself that she was
somewhere else. Some place where the air smelled differently and the rain came hard
and corsets were optional.
* * * * *
“No, my lord, she’s already gone.”
Dare frowned over his coffee. “Gone where? She knows no one in town. Check
again.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but she was asking after the park.”
Dare looked up and gave an exasperated sigh. “Did she take anyone with her?” he
asked, already certain of the answer.
“Er, no, my lord. Jameson would have…”
Dare raised his hand to stop the butler in mid-sentence. “Never mind. No doubt
Jameson did his best.”
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Ten minutes later, Dare trotted through the gate to Hyde Park. He should have
known she’d take any opportunity to get out of the house.
He scanned the park, trying to imagine where she would go, then dismounted and
handed the reins to the groom. “Wait here.” She’d want cover, somewhere that she
couldn’t be seen. Somewhere she could hide.
When he found her, she was lying on her back in the grass, bonnet discarded, hair
unbound and spread like a halo around her head. He moved into her field of vision.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing.”
She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted up at him. “I’m listening to
birds.”
Dare raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You left the house without an escort,” he said,
making an effort to keep his voice even.
Indira remained silent. She closed her eyes and Dare watched, mesmerized by the
rise and fall of her breasts. He wanted to kneel at her side, right now, and yank down
the bodice of her gown so he could fasten his lips around her nipple until she was
panting with eagerness. Instead, he clenched and unclenched his hand around his
riding crop.
He took a steadying breath. “If you had met someone, alone as you were, there may
have been a misunderstanding.”
That caught her attention. “A misunderstanding?”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “Combined with the fact that you aren’t wearing any
undergarments.”
“I’m not?” she asked, eyes widened innocently.
“You know damn well that you’re not,” said Dare.
Indira raised her brows. “What does it matter to you whether I am or not?”
Dare stifled the first words that came to mind. “Such attire suggests…availability.”
“Oh,” she said, letting her lids drift closed. “Is that all?”
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“‘Is that all’?” he said, nostrils flaring. He reached down to drag her to her feet, but
she rolled, pulling him over so that he came down hard on his knees. “Damn it, Indira.
This is not the time for games. I’ve an appointment at ten.”
She pulled herself up to kneel in front of him. Framing his face with her hands, she
angled her head and pressed her lips to his own. He responded in the way he’d dreamt
about the night before, pulling her into his arms and taking her with his mouth. But she
had no desire to be dominated. She pushed his jacket back over his shoulders, then
leaned into him, catching him off balance and bearing him to the ground.
She pulled up her dress and swung a leg over his body, then came up on her knees,
pressing his wrists beneath her own. Slowly, she bent over his face and licked the seam
of his lips. Dare groaned and pulled his hands free to slide them down to her calves as
she knelt above him. He worked his hands under her skirts and she lifted to
accommodate him. Then her mouth descended on his, insistent and demanding. He
opened his mouth to her and she swept inside. “We can’t do this,” he said, when at last
she pulled back. “Not here.”
“Then where?” she murmured. He could feel the tip of her tongue circling the shell
of his ear. She knew exactly what she was doing, he thought. Seducing him. With a
vengeance. She didn’t care a whit about noblesse oblige. She made that clear with the
press of her thigh, the promise in her voice. He caught the scent of her arousal and it
stiffened his resolve, despite the distraction of his nether regions.
“Not here. Not anywhere,” he growled, deep in his throat. But still he slid his hands
past her knees and up her thighs, his thumbs caressing the petal-soft flesh on the inside
curve of her leg.
She sighed against him and buried her face against his shoulder. “Touch me,” she
whispered. His cock twitched and swelled in his breeches and he shifted beneath her.
It had become difficult to recall why, exactly, he wasn’t supposed to touch her. Just
a little more, and he would pull away. She wanted this, needed this. He understood
need. Understood the aching fullness of her desire, could smell it in her arousal.
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When his fingers reached her sex, he found her drenched and ready. She moaned,
and he pushed between her folds with his thumb. Her breath came hot and ragged
against his throat and she ground her hips against him.
He would not take his own pleasure of her, he decided. Surely, there was no harm
in bringing her relief, letting her drench his fingers with her slick cream.
He spread her open with one hand and eased a long finger into her cunt. Just one.
She gave a sigh of satisfaction as he penetrated her. Her cunt was hot and tight and
Dare savored the sensation of her flesh enveloping him. She shuddered, her entire body
quivering with the intensity of her desire. He slid another finger deep and her hips
jerked, out of her conscious control.
“Be still, Indira,” he whispered. “Be still, or I won’t touch you.” Shouldn’t touch her.
Only with his hands and fingers, then. And his mouth. He would give her his mouth,
lick her into submission.
She moaned in reply, words that he didn’t understand, and crossed her arms over
her breasts, as though trying to hold herself together. She bit her lip with her neat white
teeth and Dare was reminded of how she had drawn those teeth down his length, only
to tease him with the tip of her tongue when she reached the ruddy head of his cock.
He circled her folds with his thumb until he found what he was looking for and she
let out a tiny shriek.
He stopped at once. Indira bit down on her lip harder, the effort of keeping silent
somehow heightening the excitement and pleasure. He caressed her, sliding deft fingers
back and forth in the slick fluids of her sex. God, but she was tight. He wouldn’t last
above a minute inside her.
“Dare, o meri jaan.” She gasped and pushed her hand inside the bodice of her gown.
Dare almost came in his breeches at the sight of her dark fingers pulling the bodice
down until her breasts tumbled out. She lifted them in her own hands, rolling the
nipples between her fingers.
“Damn it, Indira,” he ground out. “I told you not to move.”
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“Do you want me to stop?” she whispered and extended her tongue to lick her own
breast, then gave a little jerk of her hips to remind him of where she wanted his
attention.
“I want to taste you,” he said, when he had regained his wits.
He stroked her clitoris with his thumb and she cried out, grinding her heat against
his hand. He gave her a bounce with his own hips and she eased herself forward on her
knees until she was straddling his chest. “Get on your hands and knees,” he said, giving
her a push.
“Oh!” she gasped when she realized what he was about. She leaned over his head
and wiggled forward on her knees.
“That’s it,” he said, encouraging her. “Lift up your dress.”
She yanked up her dress to give him access. With deft fingers, he spread her cunt
wide open, and her legs almost gave way. Then he positioned her hips over his mouth
and extended his tongue, swirling it between her folds until she was gasping with the
effort of holding herself up.
Dare relished the taste of her, fluttering his tongue over her clitoris. He could feel it
when she tensed, could hear her soft, rhythmic cries. The words were foreign to him,
but the sentiment was one of pleasure. He worked her mercilessly, holding her steady
so that she couldn’t shift when he darted into her cunt with his tongue. She was hot
against his mouth, slippery with need.
He licked her again, extending his tongue to reach from the base of her slit to the
tiny knot of sensation nestled between her swollen folds. He burrowed into her softness
and she shook so hard that he had to wrap his hands around her thighs to hold her still.
He savored the sight and scent of her tender cunt, spread wide so he could plunder her
with his mouth. Her pink flesh was so slick and swollen that he paused for a moment,
concerned that he was being too rough. But she moaned when he stopped, so he delved
deeply, thrusting his tongue as far into her body as he could go. She cried out as he
filled her, digging her fingers into the grass.
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In moments, he had her twitching, straining against his tongue as she reached for
her release. He moved her ever closer to the edge until her desire became a wordless,
rhythmic chant. When he felt her tense, one last time, he pushed his fingers deep into
her cunt and sent her up and over, holding her while she rode his hand, bucking and
sobbing and convulsing around his fingers. Her cry aroused something dark and
primitive within him, her soaking cunt all the evidence he needed that she was his
alone.
He held her still in the aftermath of her climax, licking tenderly at the evidence of
her recent passion until at last her arms gave way and she collapsed, shimmying down
his body to bury her face against his shoulder, murmuring in a language he did not
understand.
* * * * *
Indira stood with Jason Stanley and watched the dancers. She could feel Dare’s eyes
on her and she tamped down her frustration. Their interlude in the park had been
nearly a week ago, and Dare was behaving as though it never happened. Yet he
scowled at every man who danced with her and seemed to be in a generally unpleasant
mood. All the time.
Still, it was impossible to deny her attraction to him or her desire to take him to her
bed. He had snapped a reply to her earlier today, and it only served to increase her
already heightened awareness of him. Even now, she felt the aching need for him in her
pussy. Wanted to suck his big cock into her mouth until he groaned her name.
She turned away and focused instead on Mr. Stanley. She had grown to like his
quiet ways and sense of humor. She had thought him shy at first. But it turned out that
he chose to speak rarely, and then only to say something clever. She rather suspected
that he attended these parties just for the entertainment provided by watching the other
guests.
Mr. Stanley shook his head. “I wonder that Kit indulges her so.”
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Indira spotted Sabina flirting shamelessly with Sir Christopher as he led her
through the figures of a country dance. “She can be very amusing. She’s like a younger
sister to him,” said Indira, repeating what Lady Dare had said just this evening.
Mr. Stanley shot her an inquiring glance. “Do you think so? I’m not so sure.”
“Oh?”
“Miss Dare is not quite the henwit that she lets people think.”
Oh, this was becoming interesting. Mr. Stanley took a draught of his wine. “You
should try luring her into saying something intelligent. It’s quite good sport.”
This promising line of discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Major
Fitzroy. “Miss Stuart.” He bowed. “You don’t mind, Stanley, if I take Miss Stuart for a
promenade, do you?” Fitzroy took her hand and placed it on his arm.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Stanley, though his eyes narrowed. Indira hadn’t the time to
think why before Fitzroy whisked her away.
Christ. Would the season never end? Dare leaned against one of the decorative
columns in the corner of the room. He meant to keep an eye on Sabina, but his eyes kept
straying to where Indira stood with Mr. Stanley. She was impossible to miss. The color
of her gown—a deep emerald green—was impressed in his memory. He could spot her
from across the room. He could pick out the cadence of her speech among a hundred
other voices.
Stanley had made a habit of asking her to dance, but Dare didn’t feel his hackles
rise the same way they did whenever the blasted major appeared. Fitzroy seemed to be
on every guest list Dare was, and they had run into him with maddening frequency.
The major had danced more than once with Sabina, and though Dare watched them
with an eagle eye, he found nothing to complain of in the major’s behavior. Lady Dare
found him quite charming and was mystified that Dare had taken an instant dislike to
the man.
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He stifled a yawn. Last night he had tossed in his bed, unable to drive from his
brain images of Indira with Fitzroy. He wondered how he had fucked her. Had Fitzroy
licked her tender cunt until she cried for release? Had he taken her from behind,
bending her lithe body over until he could slide deep inside? Christ, had he fucked her
arse?
Dare shifted, conscious of the thick ridge beneath his breeches. Being in a constant
state of arousal was damned uncomfortable.
He watched as the dance ended, incensed to see the major cut through the crowd
and disentangle Indira from her conversation with Stanley. A woman with a ridiculous
plumed turban stepped into his line of sight, and when she finally moved, both Indira
and Fitzroy were gone.
* * * * *
“Miss Stuart.” Dare’s voice cut through the gloom like the snap of a whip.
She jumped at the sound and turned toward the door. How had he known she was
here? She tensed, knowing instinctively that he would be displeased to find her in a
darkened room with Fitzroy. Why he was in such a temper, she dared not contemplate.
“Sabina is feeling unwell and requests that you attend her,” Dare growled.
The excuse was so patently false that Indira frowned. The silence that followed, and
the stillness of Major Fitzroy, alerted her to the tension between the two men.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. In a swish of skirts, she stood. “Major. If
you will excuse me, I am being summoned.” She glared at Dare.
The major had risen with her. Dare moved into the firelight, his face betraying some
emotion that Indira had never seen before. Major Fitzroy stepped around her to face
Dare, anger radiating from his body.
“No need to play lord of the manor, Dare.”
Dare arched a brow and looked down his nose at Fitzroy. “She, at least, has an
excuse for her behavior,” said Dare. “What, sir, is yours?”
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“I was unaware that I owed you any explanation,” said Fitzroy, bristling.
“Think again,” Dare shot back.
The two men stood toe to toe. Despite the fact that they were nearly equal in height,
there was no mistaking the two men. Fitzroy’s scarlet regimentals appeared dashing
and showy next to the lustrous ebony of Dare’s tailcoat, and the sun-bleached blond of
Fitzroy’s hair shone when compared to Dare’s dark crop.
Fitzroy was breathing hard and Dare was clenching his fists, clearly spoiling for a
fight.
Indira could only watch, fascinated by the dangerous games of possession that men
played. They appeared to have forgotten her presence, like two great birds of prey
fighting over a mate.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Dare. “Do you intend to compromise her into
marriage?”
Fitzroy recoiled. “Damn you, Dare. I offered her marriage.”
“What kind of gentleman,” sneered Dare, “offers marriage after he’s sampled the
wares?”
Indira stepped back, shocked.
“I don’t think I’m the only one, Dare,” Fitzroy retorted. “Unless I miss my guess,
you were under her skirts the minute she arrived in London.”
Dare’s nostrils flared and Indira sensed that his anger had become fury.
“Marcus!” cried Indira, indignant. “Don’t be an ass!”
“Marcus?” Dare turned on her with a snarl.
“For God’s sake,” said Indira, raising her voice. “Marcus asked me to marry him. I
refused.” She stepped in front of Fitzroy to glare at Dare. “Damn it! Listen to me!”
Very deliberately, Dare wrapped his hands around her upper arms and moved her
to the side. The major bared his teeth and the tension in the room ratcheted up a notch.
Fitzroy held out an imperious hand. “Indira, come here.”
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“You have no claim on her, Fitzroy. She comes with me. And if I find you—”
“Stop! Both of you!”
Dare shot her a savage glare. “I’ll deal with this.”
“That’s right, Dare. Manhandle her. You’re a goddamned brute,” spat Fitzroy.
“Marcus!”
“She’s under my protection—”
“And that gives you the right to offer her carte blanche?”
Indira was shaking with anger and she tried to push past them to reach the door.
Dare spun on his heel. “Indira!”
She turned, her gaze skipping from one to the other and back again. “I wish to go
home. You may either escort me, Dare, or I’ll take a hackney.”
“You can’t take a hack,” said Fitzroy, and Indira noticed that Dare had opened his
mouth, almost certainly to say the same thing.
She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. Then she whirled and
yanked open the door. It slammed behind her, leaving them both in the half light of the
fire.
When Dare caught up with her, Indira was already in the foyer, waiting for a
footman to help her with her wrap.
Dare snatched it out of the hapless servant’s hands and pulled it over her shoulders,
his jaw set. He helped her into a cab, filling the door with his own big body. He was
intimidating in such a small space, the way his hands wrapped around the polished
wood frame, the way his broad shoulders blocked out the light of the torch held by the
footman. Indira caught sight of his long fingers, now encased in fine black gloves and
was reminded of how he had used those elegant fingers to spread her for his tongue.
She looked away, determined to ignore him.
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Dare banged on the roof, then leaned back against the squabs, extending his arm to
take up the entire bench. The planes of his face were like chiseled marble and the taut
curve of his mouth told her how angry he was.
“What is Fitzroy to you?” he asked when they were underway.
Indira turned to stare at him. It was unnerving how his big body dominated the
dim confines of the carriage.
“Damn it, Indira. He behaves as though you’re his mistress.”
She turned back to the window.
“Are you? Is that what you are to each other?” He leaned forward, as though he
might take her by the shoulders, but then stopped. The jealousy that had been
simmering in his blood for the last two weeks was threatening to overpower his good
sense. The truth of it was hard to admit—that the thought of another man touching
Indira’s body infuriated him. The image of someone else making her pant and sob and
tremble made him want to howl.
With an effort, he unclenched his fists. He had to get her away from Fitzroy. The
man wasn’t going to stop. He realized that now.
There was one way—the only way—to make sure she didn’t marry Fitzroy. So
simple—how was it that he had not thought of it before? It wasn’t as though he needed
a wealthy wife. And Indira had a respectable pedigree. Her time in India had ruined her
reputation, but his consequence would make that of negligible import.
“Indira,” he said, his gaze intent. “Marry me.” She would be his then, and Fitzroy
could go hang. She would be his to pleasure. His to fuck.
The look she turned upon him would have turned lesser men to stone. “What?” Her
voice was incredulous.
“Marry me,” he said again. “My fortune is yours. It’s the obvious solution.” Good
God, the thought of her in his bed was intoxicating.
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“The solution to what?”
“Come now, Indira. We can live wherever you like—I have a manor house in
Sussex, as well as the property in Oxfordshire. If the house in London isn’t to your
liking, I shall buy you another.”
“Are you insane?”
“We could go to Scotland. You would love the highlands. I have a property outside
Inverness.”
Indira shook her head. “I can’t marry you, Dare. You don’t want me any more than
Marcus did.”
The look he shot her was incredulous. “Of course I do. How can you doubt it?” He
reached forward to take her hand, and she reluctantly allowed it.
“I know I haven’t gone about this the right way. I should have a ring for you.”
Indira yanked her hand out of his grasp. “No! That’s not it. I don’t care about a
ring.”
“Then what?” he asked. “Only tell me, and it’s yours.”
Her eyes widened in incredulity. “You can’t be serious. Listen to yourself!”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. He sat back against the bench.
“Perhaps you might explain, Miss Stuart, why you find this proposal to be so
ridiculous. Most young ladies of my acquaintance would be thrilled to receive such an
offer.”
She only stared at him, speechless. Did he know nothing of her? Did he truly think
that promises of property in Sussex and a townhouse in London would make a
difference to her?”
“I thought you understood,” she said softly, unable to keep the bitterness from her
voice. “I don’t want your money or your land or your ring. That’s not what this is
about.”
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“Then what is it about, Indira?” he shot back. “What more do you want?”
She felt her lower lip begin to tremble, and she bit down hard to stop herself from
coming apart. “Let me tell you what I don’t want, Dare. I don’t want to be your
plaything, some sort of expensive toy to pleasure you.”
Dare’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought you shared my
pleasure.”
She gave a little cry of frustration. “That’s not what I mean at all, and you know it.
What we do…what you do to me…it’s never been like that with another man. But it isn’t
enough. Pleasure isn’t enough.”
“I see,” he interrupted, his tone icy.
She gave a little shake of her head. “You don’t see. Have you even thought about
the kind of countess I would make? It would be disastrous.”
He raised his eyebrows in an expression that suggested her fears were nonsensical.
“You can be trained.”
“Trained?”
“Of course. Do you think I would begrudge you your lack of polish?”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. The realization that she had completely
misjudged him horrified her. And it confirmed her worst fears—that she was
completely alone. She had known, since her father died, that there was no one else in
the world who cared for her. But she had been able to keep this knowledge buried
during the voyage back to England. And then she had met Dare. And his mother. And
Sabina, who had become almost like a sister. And it had appeared that perhaps she
wasn’t alone exactly. But this evening, with Dare’s words, the knowledge blazed like a
torch before her eyes. She was alone.
She swallowed the lump that threatened to choke her. The overwhelming
disappointment brought home to her exactly how much she had begun to rely upon
him, how much she had begun to trust him.
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“This has all been a mistake,” she said. “I should never have come. Never have
slept with you.”
His nostrils flared. “I shan’t importune you…again.”
“You…badir chand! Why do you willfully misunderstand me?”
He turned his dark gaze upon her, the fury in his eyes enough to burn her to ash.
She had to look away, escape from his intensity. “You want a glittering hero, is that it,
Indira? Well, you can have Fitzroy. You should have just said as much.”
Her eyes widened, incredulous. “I don’t want Fitzroy.”
“Then what?” he said, leaning over, taking her by the arms and shaking her. “What
the hell is it you want, Indira? A little cottage somewhere in the country where you can
fuck whomever you want? Because I can do that. I can buy you your own fucking
brothel if you want.”
She slapped him then, a hard, resounding thwack that shocked them both.
Then she was yelling at the coachman to stop, but it wasn’t fast enough. She flung
open the carriage door and jumped out, stumbled, but caught herself. Without giving
Dare a chance to catch her, she was gone, running down an alley, into the shadows.
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Chapter Seven
Dare spent the night in the study. He had tried to drink himself senseless, but had
realized—after the second glass—that it was pointless. He had spent the half hour after
Indira jumped from the carriage in a near panic, pacing the hall after sending footmen
out in all directions. When at last she opened the door, he had to stop himself from
pulling her into his arms. She was breathing a little faster than usual, but other than
that, she appeared completely unharmed. For some idiotic reason, this made him
angrier. She had stared at him, jaw set defiantly, and then moved past him toward the
stairs. He reached out—to stop her, to comfort her or, God help him, to apologize. But
she had flinched.
He needed to suffer, he thought. Needed to relive every second of the evening, to
go back over each word to determine what had gone wrong. Where he had made his
first mistake, only to compound it with a host of others, one by one, until he drove her
away.
Somehow this had become much more complicated than one night at a country inn.
His behavior last night shamed him. He had acted like a bloody animal, maddened by
the rut.
When he heard the household begin to stir, he dragged himself to his feet and up
the stairs to knock on the door to her room.
She answered it herself, backing away from him, letting him step inside, but telling
him, with every movement of her body, that she had gone far away, somewhere he
could not follow. She turned back to the bed where her small valise lay. Her gowns—
the beautiful silks and satins that she had worn the last few weeks—were neatly
arranged in the clothespress. She took up a shift and folded it, placing it with great
deliberation in her traveling case.
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He knew that she would go, knew that he had crossed some invisible line. But he
had still hoped. The sight of her meager belongings going one by one into her valise left
him with nothing.
“Indira,” he said hoarsely.
She stopped and straightened. When she turned to meet his gaze, he saw her eyes
widen at his appearance. He knew he looked terrible. His cravat hung limp around his
neck, his waistcoat bore a stain.
She waited.
“I have a place you can go.”
Her lips hardened, and she turned back to her packing.
“No,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just a place to stay until the property in
Wantage is settled. It’s a small estate near the coast.” He paused and swallowed. “There
are only a handful of servants there and a steward who visits infrequently. I will leave
you be.”
She continued to pack. He ran a hand distractedly though his hair. She was refusing
to look at him. Her face was blank of all expression. He felt her slipping away. Felt the
panic begin to rise in his chest. An idea struck him and he took a breath. “There are
birds there. Seabirds.”
The words made something catch in her chest. His distress—so palpable—unsettled
her. She wanted to relent, to go to him. Instead, she recalled the words he had used in
the carriage. Remembered the way he had spoken to her.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because his voice took on a desperate
edge. “At least take my coach. Indira, please. You don’t have any money.”
“I have ten pounds,” she said, though that was an exaggeration. “I’ll repay you for
the clothing as soon as…if the property in Wantage can be sold.” The truth of it was
that if she left now, she would be living on the streets.
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The only other option was to marry Fitzroy. If she could just swallow her cursed
pride and accept him. But she knew that together they would be miserable. Because she
did not understand honor. Did not know how a man could give up his life to such a
thing.
But Dare—Dare who was arrogant and imperious and powerful—Dare she
understood. She knew whatever it was in him that was deep and raw and basic. She
recognized it, and it called to her. To her shame, something in her thrilled at the thought
of this man possessing her. Of giving herself up to him. Of letting him dominate her.
But not like this. Not in anger and jealousy. She would rather take her chances on
the streets.
“Please, Indira. The manor house is yours, for however long you want it. Take it. I
understand…why you can’t stay here. I’ve behaved like a bloody fool. At least go
somewhere safe.”
She turned, the words she wanted to say sticking in her throat. She tried again.
“Thank you for the offer of the house. I am…grateful.”
Dare exhaled heavily. He bowed. “I will see to the carriage.”
“Wait.” She lifted a hand, as though to touch him, but then drew back. “Thank
you,” was all she said.
* * * * *
Indira walked the cliffs, watching the seabirds wheel and glide below her. She
found a good place and stretched out, resting on her forearms and leaning over to
watch the birds land on what seemed a sheer cliff face. Despite their dull colors—so
different from the brightly feathered creatures she knew in India—the birds fascinated
her. Dare had been right about that. The thought brought a lump to her throat. She
hadn’t imagined that she would find it so beautiful here. She had come to appreciate the
landscape, even rocky and sparsely vegetated as it was. The harsh winds and the salt
spray appealed to something raw and wild in her. Something that Dare had recognized.
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She closed her eyes and listened. If she tried hard enough, she could hear the cries
of the newborn chicks. Sometimes she came out and took notes on the birds, as she had
done with her father. It felt familiar, and it made her think of something other than Dare
and what had happened in London.
She turned over and threw an arm over her eyes. If she was being honest, she
would admit that she missed him. Missed his touch, yes, and the pleasure they had
shared. But more than that—she missed the gut-level recognition of a kindred spirit. Of
someone who knew her for what she was.
She watched as the wind drove the clouds across the sky. She had had no word
from Dare, nothing in the past two weeks. It was both a relief and a disappointment.
She had thought…no, she had hoped…ah, well. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from
Dare. Only that it wasn’t what he had offered.
She had written to Lady Dare the moment she arrived in Sussex and had enclosed a
note for Sabina. She had thanked her and apologized. And Lady Dare had sent a reply
so full of kindness and concern that Indira had had to put the letter aside for a moment.
Sabina, too, had written. Her letter was full of hurt and confusion. Indira had not
replied, and knew herself for a coward.
An hour later, she let herself into the kitchen. The first time she had done it, the
cook and the scullery maid had been scandalized. She had ignored their shocked faces
and asked for tea and cakes, seating herself at the scarred, well-scrubbed table.
Although Dare apparently believed the manor house to be of negligible size, Indira
found it almost overwhelming. The first night she had taken a meal in the dining room
had been a miserable affair, with a footman standing in the shadows while she self-
consciously tried to consume three separate courses.
The next night, she had gone to the servant’s dining room and asked for a place
there. The silence among the staff had been intimidating, but she had, by way of
explanation, told them that she was unfamiliar with English ways, having grown up in
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India. The housekeeper had unbent enough to welcome her to the table, and they had
all eaten in silence for several minutes.
Then the scullery maid had ventured a question about elephants and Indira had
obliged with a story. And that had done it. Even the butler, newly elevated to his post
and so exceedingly proper, had warmed to her. It helped that Indira had no idea how
proper servants were supposed to behave, and the staff had found it excellent
entertainment to instruct her.
She could almost imagine living this way, staying here, at the house on the cliffs,
amusing herself by watching birds and wandering the rocky beaches. So when Evers
presented her with a letter on a rainy afternoon, she was caught unawares. She slid it
open and extracted a single sheet, written in Dare’s own hand.
Dear Miss Stuart,
I have news regarding the disposition of the property in Wantage, which I should like to
make known to you. As I shall be in the district attending to other business, perhaps you would
be so kind as to receive me on Thursday next. I remain your devoted servant,
Dare
Indira searched, in vain, for any sign of affection or longing. She read and reread
the handful of lines, a lump in her throat, an aching heaviness in her chest.
“Is the messenger awaiting a reply?” she asked.
“He is, madam.”
“Tell him that I shall be pleased to receive his lordship on Thursday next.”
“Very good, madam.”
When Evers had gone, Indira rose to look out the window. She should be happy to
see her time here coming to an end. Elated that the estate question had been resolved
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and she would be free to board the next ship to India. Why, then, did she dread seeing
Dare, while at the same time yearn desperately for any word of him?
* * * * *
Dare waited, impatiently, for the return of the messenger he had sent to Sussex.
Indira’s reply mattered more to him than he wanted to admit. He had ruined half a
dozen perfectly good pieces of foolscap before he had settled on the wording of the
letter. It was made worse by the fact that Fitzroy had visited him two days ago,
inquiring after Indira and leaving, furious, ten minutes later, when Dare told him that
she was gone.
He had accused Dare of pressing his affections upon her. The worst part, Dare
admitted to himself, was that Fitzroy was right. He had taken advantage of a penniless
woman, taken his pleasure of her. Asked her to marry him for his own nefarious
purposes. Thoughts of Emily rose in his mind—of how he had married her, without
love or passion—only a desire to get a child on her, to continue on as he always had.
He didn’t give a damn if he had a child of Indira, though the thought of a son or
daughter with her sleek grace appealed. He understood now what Indira had meant
that night in the carriage. Pleasure wasn’t enough. If that had been so, his return to Mrs.
Finley would have assuaged this aching need. Instead, he found himself unable to sleep
at night and distracted during the day. Even worse, he feared that Fitzroy had gone
down to Sussex to offer for Indira again. And that this time, she would accept.
He opened a drawer and pulled out her book on Hindostan. He kept it near him
like a talisman, as though with it he might be able to conjure her. By some magic, she
would appear, his vitriol forgiven.
He knew, with an almost painful dread, that she would return to India. She and
Fitzroy. The estate matter had been even simpler than he had thought. The time it had
taken was all in waiting, as it appeared that Bothwell hadn’t a shred of evidence for any
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of his claims. Dare’s solicitor had found it almost amusing, as though his considerable
talents—and fees—had been wasted.
Dare had delayed sending to Sussex with the message until all the paperwork had
been completed, every signature witnessed. But now it was done. The property was
hers to do with what she would. In truth, there was no need for him to speak to her
personally. And he had no business in Sussex other than her. But he had used the
excuse, if only to see her one last time.
* * * * *
Thursday dawned sunny and beautiful, in marked contrast to Indira’s mood. She
dressed in her own clothing, though she now realized how unfashionable it was. She
wore it almost in defiance, as though to prove to Dare, once and for all, that she was not
for him. Could never be for him. It struck her, not for the first time, that he was not the
one she most needed to convince.
When he appeared, riding down the lane, Indira had to grasp the window pane to
hold herself steady. He wore no hat, and his hair was burnished like the feather of a
rook in the sun. He rode his horse with unconscious grace, elegant in buckskin breeches
and polished Hessians. She turned away, determined to focus on something other than
how Dare affected her.
It seemed hours before Evers announced him to Indira, who had seated herself in
the parlor. She stood when he appeared in the doorway. He came toward her and took
her hands with unaccustomed gentleness, curling his fingers around her own. She
stifled her response, trying not to let the warmth of his hands melt her resolve, refusing
to let the concern in his eyes weaken her. Her pride had taken a battering in London,
and she was loath to give Dare any more advantages. Loath to let him know how much
she had missed him.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said, his voice even deeper and more resonant than
she remembered.
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“It is I who should thank you,” she replied. “You have been…very kind.”
Dare’s jaw muscles tightened. “I shall not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say
that the property in Wantage is yours.”
“As easy as that?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “It was a simple matter. I believe my solicitor felt the
case almost beneath him.”
It seemed strange, that something so important to her could be of so little
consequence.
A silence fell.
“What do you intend to do now?” Dare asked at last.
“I suppose I will sell the property.”
“And return to India?”
“Yes,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. The muscles at the corners of his mouth
tightened visibly.
“I will, of course, assist you in any way that I can. It would not be difficult to sell
the property. My solicitor tells me he has had an inquiry from the landowner next
door.”
“Oh?” When the estate was sold, she would have no reason to remain in England.
No reason to see him again.
Her eyes stung and she sought for a distraction. She would not humiliate herself in
front of him, would not allow the concern she saw in his eyes to weaken her. “Let me
ring for tea,” she said, relieved to hear that her voice was steady. “Unless you’d prefer
something stronger?”
Dare must have detected the forced cheerfulness in her words, for he stood with
her. “Indira.”
“Tea, then,” she said, taking a step toward the door, desperate to get out of the
room before her legs collapsed beneath her.
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“Indira.”
She turned, only to meet his broad chest. She put up her hands, then curled her
fingers into her palms to keep from touching him. He took her wrists gently in his grip.
“Indira,” he said again, more softly. “Don’t go.”
She wasn’t sure she knew what he meant. Did he mean not go to India? Or not go
now, to ring for tea?
To her horror, she felt herself begin to tremble. She pulled away and went to the
door, leaning her forehead against the jamb for a moment.
To Dare, she appeared more fragile and vulnerable than he’d ever seen her and it
tore at his heart. He knew that if she left, something of him would go with her. “Please,
Indira, stay. Stay. In England. Here, in Sussex. I will deed you the house.” Don’t go.
Don’t leave me.
She turned. “I don’t understand.”
“I want you to be safe,” he said, reaching for the words that would convince her. “If
you won’t have me as a husband, at least let me provide for you as I would any other
family member.”
Indira eyed him suspiciously. “You mean as a dependent, don’t you?”
He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. At last, he gave a weighty sigh.
“Let me do this, Indira,” he said softly. “At least this, if nothing else.” She had reduced
him to begging. For God’s sake, did she want him on his knees?
“Why?” she asked, turning from the door. She leaned against it, her hands behind
her, as though she had to prevent herself from reaching for him.
Why? Because he was the head of the family. Because it was his responsibility. But
it was simpler than that. Indira was no orphaned ward or spinster aunt. She was the
woman he loved. And he could not live without her. Did not want to live without her.
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Love. It felt as though a kind of fog had lifted, for he now had a word for all the
tangled passions that had plagued him—the lust that was more than lust, the desire that
possessed his days and nights, the need that had taken root in his bones.
She was the only one for him—her hair unbound, her faded dress, her feet, bare as a
child’s. It did not matter that her manners were forward or her speech direct. Nor that
she preferred being left to her own devices to the ballrooms of the ton.
Dare looked at her, saw the strain in the set of her jaw, the tension in her brow. This
mattered to her, he realized. It mattered to her why he wanted to give her a home. The
knot in his stomach began to unravel and everything fell into place. At last a name for
the strange sense of unreality, of disconnection that had been his day-to-day existence
since she left London. Love.
“Dare?” Her voice recalled him to the room.
“Why?” he asked softly. “Because I cannot bear the thought of you returning to
India. I cannot—I do not want—to live without you. I’ve fallen in love with you, Indira. I
think since I saw you the first time, sitting there in MacGillivray’s parlor.”
He stepped forward, more sure of himself now. He would convince her of his love;
he would explain to her what she meant to him. He cupped her cheek in his hand,
stroking with his thumb.
“I don’t want you to leave, and I want you…I want you in whatever way you’ll
have me. If you won’t marry me, then we’ll find another way. Only—Christ, say
something, Indira.”
He wanted to take her by the shoulders, make her answer him. Yet he dreaded her
response, dreaded the death of this awful hope.
She lifted a hand to cover his own large one where it curved around her face. She
looked at him, her eyes wary. “You cannot mean this, Dare.” She swallowed, as though
it was suddenly difficult to speak.
“Is it Fitzroy?” he asked, keeping his voice even. “Have you already agreed to
marry him? I’m too late, aren’t I?”
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Dare pulled away, hands clenched. “I never thought to be bettered by Fitzroy, God
rot his soul. And honor is cold comfort, in the end.”
He laid his palms flat against the frame of the window and hung his head.
Idiot. He was a damned idiot, to let his pride and jealousy drive her away. He was—what
had she called him?—badir chaud, son of a buffalo.
He laughed, the sound rough and without humor.
Indira moved forward, hesitant. His face, so pale and stricken, frightened her. She
never feared for herself, but she had learned, over the past weeks, what it meant to care
for someone else. She had wondered—she could not help herself—whether Dare was
well. Whether he went out to the opera with Sabina. Whom he danced with at the next
ball. And more prosaically, whether he came home for an evening meal, whether he
stayed up late at night, working in his study.
How his life in London had gone on without her.
She stretched out her hand and rested it on his shoulder. “Dare.” She ran her hand
back and forth over the rough wool. “Sebastian.”
It was the first time she had ever used his given name. He stiffened beneath her
hand.
“Sebastian,” she said again. “I am not engaged to Fitzroy. I thought you knew that.
I would rather take my chances in India than shackle myself to a man to salve his
honor.”
Fitzroy had indeed come down to Sussex. And he had demanded, for over an hour,
that Indira marry him. Jaw set, she had merely waited him out, silent in the face of his
insistence. At last he had shaken his head and dropped onto the settee, completely
bewildered. She had asked Evers for brandy then, and Fitzroy, who drank very rarely,
had taken his glass and pounded it down like a desperate man. And then he had left her
and she had known that this time, he would not be back.
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Now, a week later, Dare took her wrists in his hands. He searched her eyes, as
though he was not quite certain whether to believe her.
She turned her hands in his grip to take his fingers tightly in her own. “I do not love
him. I never did.”
She released his hands and lifted her own to his face. “I’m very afraid that I love
you.”
He closed his eyes. “Say it again, so I know it’s true. Say it again.”
“Open your eyes, Sebastian. I love you.”
And then he was crushing her in his arms, hauling her against his chest, unable to
get close enough to her. “Oh, God, Indira. I thought…I thought. It doesn’t matter what I
thought. Not now.”
She burrowed her face under his jacket, pressing herself against him. “I want to
touch you, Sebastian. I want your skin against mine.”
She felt his breathing hitch, felt him swallow. “I want that, too. Indira. Jesus, I feel
like a man just saved from drowning.”
“Come then,” she said, pulling away and taking him by the hand. “Come and love
me.”
They undressed in the warmth of the afternoon with purpose and care. He savored
every inch of thigh revealed, the expanses of smooth skin unveiled. When at last they
were both naked, he came and lifted her in his arms. He laid her out on the bed and
looked down at her. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I don’t even have a word for
what you are to me. I only know that I need you.”
She held up her arms to him and pulled him down on top of her, savoring the
heavy heat of his body. He wrapped his arms around her until her breasts were pressed
flat against his chest, but it wasn’t enough. She pulled him closer, cradling his head
against her throat.
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He did not kiss her, not yet. He ran his hands lightly across her body, across the
golden skin of her arms, taking each finger to his mouth to kiss. Then down the soft
curves of her hips, as far as he could reach. She moaned beneath his hands, her own
fingers busy at the nape of his neck, sliding under his hair to pull him toward her. His
scent enveloped her and she pressed her nose to his skin as though she might take his
very essence inside. She opened her mouth against his shoulder, took the muscle
between her teeth and bit just hard enough to mark him as her own.
He moved down her body, taking her wrists in his hands and pressing them to the
bedclothes. Then he rose above her, his eyes on her own, as he took her nipple in his
mouth. She sighed, a long, contented sigh of surrender, as he sucked the turgid flesh.
Her nipples were already tight with arousal, knots of sensation that responded to every
whisper of his breath, every lave of his tongue.
She delved between his legs to lift him, hard and heavy, in her hands. Bending
forward, she pressed kisses to his chest, all the while her hands stroking, caressing him.
His chest rose and fell beneath her fingers and she savored the heat of his skin. It
warmed her, not just in the places where she wanted to welcome him into her body, but
elsewhere, in those cold places where her heart lived. Where she was always a
motherless little girl with too-dark skin and an odd accent. In those places where an
unfashionably dressed woman without the proper manners lived. Alone.
And Dare, with his big hands and languid kisses went to that place and found her
and warmed her. She kissed her way down his body, nuzzling the crisp curls on his
chest, inhaling the scent of him, until she reached her goal. He shifted, tensed and then
groaned as she pressed the tip of her tongue to the glistening pearl at the end of his
cock. She licked, delicate as a cat. And then he was bearing her backward on the bed,
covering her with his body, pressing her wrists into the sheets as he kissed her. She
writhed beneath him, desperate to touch him with her hands, her breasts, her thighs.
She wrapped her calves around his legs to pull him closer. His tongue lapped and
teased until she thrummed, tense and wanting beneath his hands.
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101
“Now,” she whispered, her hands in his hair while he worshipped her breast. “I
want you inside me.”
Her limbs felt weighted, drugged with sensation. Only one thing mattered, and that
was the throbbing ache between her legs, where she was wet and wanting. “Inside me,”
she said again.
She felt him smile against her skin. And then the gentle touch of his fingers delving
between her folds where she was slick with desire. “Not yet,” he said softly and she
gasped when he found what he sought with his thumb. He began with the lightest of
touches and she pushed her hips against his hand, wanting more, wanting to be filled
with him.
“Shhh,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. And she calmed for a moment, but
the embers that had lain dormant had caught flame. The warm pad of his thumb was
the tinder that set every nerve afire. She threw back her head and arched her back,
heard her own gasps coming faster.
He leaned over her and she opened her eyes to his smile. He watched her as he
eased a finger deep into her cunt. She jerked against him. It was lovely, what he was
doing to her, but she wanted more, wanted to be filled with his cock. “Sebastian,
please,” she murmured, “more.”
He withdrew his fingers, and with a gasp of relief, she felt the head of his cock at
the entrance to her body. “Oh, yes. Now, please.”
“I love you, Indira,” he said and slid deep inside. He held himself still above her,
his elbows locked as he gazed down into her flushed face. She looked up at him, raised
a hand to his cheek.
Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to her palm and began to move. And at last, she
was filled with him. Filled with the raw heat and power of him. Filled with his hard
length, the evidence of his desire. And at last, filled with the heart-deep knowledge that
she was home.
About the Author
Erica Anderson lives in Alaska, where she keeps warm by writing erotic romance.
When she’s not writing, she teaches anthropology and archaeology at the university
level. She loves travel, her cadre of rescue cats, and spending time outdoors gardening
and bird-watching. She reads historical fiction, Regency historical romance, space opera
and fantasy.
She’d love to hear what you think of her stories. Really!
Erica welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email
address on her
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