He couldn't restrain himself any longer, mouth falling open, as she wilted forward. Catching her hips in both hands, he drove himself up into her. Miss Martin caught at the table, scattering plates and silverware in her desperate fingers as she clung to the edge. He let go of control, let himself drown in her, and it was the sweetest moment ever. Waves of pleasure washed over him as he spilled himself within her.
It seemed like forever until the world stopped spinning. Lucien let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding and eased from her body. Miss Martin threatened to slide off his lap, but he caught her and dragged her back against his chest and rumpled coat.
Picking up her fingers, he pressed a gentle kiss there. "You, Miss Martin, are exquisite." Turning her hand in his, he placed a deeper kiss in her palm. Sleepy-lashed eyes looked up at him.
Beautiful eyes.
For a moment, his head lifted and she lowered her face to his. Those tempting, utterly delectable lips were barely an inch away when he realized what he was doing.
Luc drew back and her eyes opened wide. He forced himself to smile. "Ready to lose our bet?"
Realization dawned. Miss Martin sat up in his lap. "And here I thought you ready to succumb."
Picking her up, he carried her toward the bed and spilled her onto the covers. Ianthe tumbled onto her back in a mess of her chemise and stockings, with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and just the right expression on her face. "Do you know, Rathbourne, I think I rather enjoy your style of revenge."
Part of him was tempted to tip her onto her back and kneel over her again, to lick the sweat off her skin and rip all those pretty little bits of silk off her body. He wanted her to come.
Patience. He had plenty of nights to unwrap this delicious present, and he needed sleep. He could already feel the long stretch of the day sinking into his bones like lead, the use of his long-denied magic draining him.
One couldn't appreciate a woman like this when his hands were starting to tremble.
Reaching out, Lucien pinched the candle out by her bedside. Miss Martin leaned back on her hands with her knees knocking together and her feet splayed, eyeing him as if she were mentally undressing him.
His abdomen hardened. No one was ever going to see the mess the demon had made of his body; it was bad enough letting them catch glimpses of his madness.
"Dream of me." He turned, starting toward the door, but not before he caught a glimpse of her mouth dropping open.
"Where are you going?" she called.
Bending to snatch his cravat off the floor, Lucien didn't pause. "To my bed chambers. You didn't think I was actually going to sleep here, did you?"
It was probably for the best that Rathbourne hadn't stayed.
Seconds ticked into minutes and slowly began to stretch into hours. Ianthe tossed and turned, trying to keep her mind off matters, but it was no use. Here in the warm, silent dark, she had nothing to occupy her busy mind. Nothing to distract herself with. It wasn't so bad during the day, when she could do something, anything, to try and get her daughter back... But at night? All she could think about was Louisa. What was her little girl doing? Was Louisa hungry? Cold? Was she hurt?
They'd sent her a letter that first day:
* * *
Dear Aunt Ianthe,
I am having such a wonderful time on my holiday.
Cousin Sebastian is teaching me about his roses. He likes roses, he says, but he won't let me touch them. I like the red ones. He does not do tea parties very well, either. Not like you do. He says the cups are too small for his hand, and he is very bad at charades. And I miss Sir Egmont and Hilary. It's not the same without them. And mama and papa and you. And Tubby.
Sebastian said I must write to you. I don't know why because it's your turn to visit in a week, isn't it? You always visit on the last weekend of the month.
I hope I am home by then. I miss mama. Sebastian says we will see. He said it depends upon you, so hurry up and come take me home! I want to see Tubby again. He'll have grown so much!
Love,
Louisa
* * *
The tears came then, the ones that she fought all day to hold back. The words were Louisa's. She just hoped her daughter was as oblivious as she seemed. She mustn't have been there when they killed Jacob and Elsa. That was some small measure of peace, at least.
There was no use crying; that wouldn't bring her daughter back to her, but Ianthe succumbed in a fast storm that left her face hot and flushed against her damp pillow. She curled Louisa's small, ragged bear, Hilary, against her chest and fought to conquer her breathing.
