Ravishing Ruby (14 page)

And Derek would need her to hide, to take only those pieces that he had left over.

That would never be enough.

And she would never settle for too little.

She had seen what happened when women did not demand what they needed, did not take it as their due.

She would never be like that, never.

She kissed him again. This moment was honest. This moment was real.

His arms tightened, holding her closer, one hand sliding down to cup beneath ass.

And then he stood, one single, elegant movement, lifting her high—the strength of those thighs, those arms. They left her breathless.

He stepped over the edge of the tub, grabbed a linen towel and placed it over her, and headed for the stairs to his chamber.

She put a hand up, stopping him. “No, the other stair.”

“What?”

“The stair to my room.”

“I…Fine.” He turned and taking the steps in great strides, two at a time, strode up to her chamber.

He paused at the door; she could feel his question, but she reached out and grabbed the handle, pushing it open.

He stepped through.

She could feel his pause.

Only a single candle lit the room. The one high window hidden behind closed drapes. The bed high and plush, but not wide. She'd never had a man here, and she did not require space to spread and sprawl. The bedding was rich, but simple. Thick white brocade with only the barest tint of blue. In this light she doubted he could even tell that it was not simply white.

He stepped forward, set her upon the bed, came to rest beside her. He asked no questions, but took her lips again—and she let herself go, let herself melt.

He lay back upon the bed and she spread herself atop, damp flesh on damp flesh. His lips left her lips and moved to her cheek, then to her chin, her neck. He paused and nibbled, not quick and playful, but dawdling and discovering. His teeth nipped. His tongue soothed. And he tasted her flesh, her skin, but something more. Could you tell a person, tell their character, from a taste? She would have thought not, but in that moment all seemed possible. She lifted her head from him, arching her neck, slid up his body, brought her breasts within reach of his mouth.

He lifted his head, flicked the tip with his tongue. She rewarded him with a low sound of pleasure.

He repeated, then moved to the other nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth.

He suckled hard and then gentle and then hard again. A hand stroked her other breast, large circles covering the full globe. So slow. So careful.

This was so different than every other time they had come together. There was nothing frenetic, nothing hurried.

She lifted her head and lay a soft kiss upon the top of Derek's head, wrapping her arms tight around him, holding him to her bosom. If only she could stay like this, keep him here forever.

Another kiss, and then she opened her arms, released him.

He raised his head, stared up into her eyes, his face still and searching.

There were no answers to be had. She leaned forward again, placed her lips against his own, and held them there, relishing the feel of him against her, the satin of his skin against her own.

He moved slightly, catching her lower lip between his teeth and pulling.

A jolt of anticipation ran through her, pausing at all the crucial bits.

This was the moment that he would crush her to him, take command, and then passion would take over.

Only, he didn't. He nipped hard at her lip, but then pulled back and pressed a butterfly's wing upon it. And then another. And then he was covering her face in the smallest of flickering kisses.

One for each eyelid. The tip of her nose, of her chin. One high on her forehead, just at her hairline. One on each cheek. She caught his head, held him still, and looked, just looked.

His hands rose to her breasts, cupping their fullness, while his thumbs strummed over her nipples, slow, so slow. She wanted more, but she didn't want anything to change; she wanted to be always in the moment, always caught just as desire began to thrum in earnest through her body.

Her hips shifted, her legs sliding to rest on each side of him. She could feel his cock, heavy and seeking, resting just behind her. And still there was no hurry, no frenzy.

Another kiss on the lips, mouths parted together, tongues tasted. She braced her hands upon his shoulders and slowly moved her hips back, not pushing him into her body, but rather moving over him, letting her body glide along his length, slicking him with her juices and relishing the hardness against her sensitivity.

He pulled in a single deep gasp of air, but made no other move. She pulled forward again, lining up her clit to take full advantage. Slow. Easy. Again and again.

Positioning herself upright, she arched her back, pushing her breasts forward.

Back and forth. Back and forth. His hands rose again, came to her breasts just as before, the thumbs brushing over her nipples in that same easy pattern, matching the movement of her hips.

Desire grew. She could feel the fires building, but she paid them no mind. Back and forth. Back and forth.

So good. So easy.

Her eyes remained locked with his, watching for every shift of expression, each nuance of pleasure.

She saw his strain, his need, saw the demons that wished to break free, but he made no move other than that soft rub of thumb. Her nipples strained against him now, growing full and swollen. She didn't look down, but she imagined they were nearly as dark as when he pinched them tight.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up. A fire was burning deep in her belly, the need for more growing and expanding.

Back and forth.

Derek's hand clenched upon her breast, a muscle jumped in his jaw. He, too, was near the end.

She lifted her hips and reached down to grasp his length.

That muscle jumped again.

With care, she positioned him and then eased herself down. She moved slow and easy, but without a hint of tease.

This was no game, if it had ever truly been one.

The cords of his neck pulled tight as she picked up the rhythm again, but this time her movements rose and fell.

“I am sorry, but I need more,” he said, before he grasped her hips, lifting her and turning them both until she lay splayed upon her back and he rose above.

He pressed in deeper. She writhed beneath him, wanting.

He pulled out—and then just when she was ready, when she knew it was all about to happen, he slid back in slowly, so slowly. No thrust. No pound. Just easy and slow. She'd never felt her body respond fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch. She was aware of every bit of him, could feel the throbbing vein, the ridge around the head. Deeper. Deeper. She'd never felt anything like this.

“God, you are beautiful,” he said, his words whispering about her.

Looking deep into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts, she lifted her hips to meet him, tilting them forward to bring him even closer.

Derek had never known a moment like this. Normally, after assuring his partner's pleasure, he was ready for his own as quickly as it would come. But now he savored every second.

It felt so good to be inside her, the warmth, the heat. It was a wonder his eyes did not roll back within his skull.

Not that he could have borne to stop looking at her. Had a woman more beautiful ever existed? The light flush on those pale cheeks, the brilliant blue eyes that saw right into him, the flecks of dark playing about the edges of the irises, the lips, so swollen with his kisses, so welcoming. And the hair, those blond curls, so light and free that they wrapped around him of their own accord.

He eased in again, feeling her clench all around him.

So good. So sweet.

His toes curled with the effort to keep it slow, to not let this moment pass.

He pulled back, eased himself at an unhurried pace, the strain beginning to tell. His balls were so tight, so ready. If he didn't give in soon, he might explode whether he willed it or not.

She groaned beneath him as he lowered his hips again, felt her body draw at him, wanting more.

Out again. In deeper.

He could hold out no longer. He thrust hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt.

Ruby arched up from the bed. “Now,” she whispered.

And he gave in to it, gave in to the need, let it break upon them in a storm.

Her hips rose, tilted. God, he was in deep. He withdrew. Pushed back, felt his balls slap against her.

Harder. Faster. More. More.

He felt her rise, felt the spasm, and then the next.

Her head thrashed against the pillows, and then, eyes wide, her gaze met his and he saw the pleasure take her, saw her lose herself in the climax.

And he followed. His body jerking and thrusting, filling her, giving his all to her.

And then it was over. So very over.

He fell beside her on the bed, their sweat blending as their bodies just had.

Over.

He turned on his side to stare at her, felt her do the same.

She reached toward him, her lips pressed out until they met his own.

One soft kiss.

One lovers' kiss.

One passionate kiss.

And then she pulled back, turned away. “You should go,” she said.

And he knew she was right. It did not mean the words did not sting, did not cut, but he knew they were right.

He slid from the bed, picked up the linen towel from the floor and draped it about his hips.

Taking one last look at her, at the lush curves spread across the surprisingly narrow bed, at the moonlight hair spilling about her—and at those eyes, those eyes that had shared his soul for the briefest of endless moments, he turned and left, slowly taking the steps down to the bath chamber. He grabbed his clothing from where it had fallen and pulled it on.

How had it come to this? He had not meant for it to end in such a fashion.

They should have had more time, should have had a chance for proper goodbyes.

But could any goodbye be better than this?

He didn't know. He ran his fingers through his hair. God, he just didn't know.

He mounted the stairs to the room he had been given for the night, but stopped no longer than it took to gather his coat before exiting, heading down to the hall, and then out to the street.

It was over.

She was over.

They were over.

Ruby felt the tears begin to flow, streaming down her cheeks and onto the pillow. She made not a sound, but could not stop the slow cascade.

It hurt. It hurt so much more than it should.

She'd known from the beginning that he was not for her, but still his departure shook her.

Would it have been better if she had not known that he went to another? She curled into a tight ball.

Anne was her name. Why did she have to know that? It stung to put a name to her, this woman his family wanted for him.

And him? Did she believe that he did not care?

It did not matter.

She rubbed her face on the pillow, trying to rub the pain away along with the tears.

She was a strong woman. Feeling like this was unacceptable. She'd never needed a man to be complete. Only now she felt as if a piece of her had been ripped away.

And tomorrow was Sunday.

The tears became a torrent.

Her grandfather would demand an answer. And whatever she said, it would be another piece of herself lost. Could she give up what little family she had, the normalcy she had? It was hard to imagine having no life but that of Madame Rouge, to spend her whole life within the house. She could keep the apartment she used to change in, but that would quickly feel pathetic. The dingy rooms were not a destination, merely a transition.

But how could she give up Madame Rouge and become simply Emma? Emma didn't truly exist anymore; she was as much a creature of fantasy as Afya. Emma did not know the ways of men, did not understand how cruel life could be. Emma still believed in love and foolery. No, Emma could not exist for long alone.

Perhaps her grandfather was bluffing. He had no other descendants. She hesitated to call herself his heir. If he cast her out, as he had her mother, what would he have left?

But he had cast out her mother. Ruby had never been sure why she'd been welcomed.

Perhaps her grandfather had been desperate. And if he'd been desperate then, when he'd welcomed the bastard baby into his arms, why should that have changed?

But her grandfather didn't bluff. She'd watched him often enough with merchants and traders, never backing down from the conditions and prices that he set. He might bargain a little, but once he'd reached his limit it was fixed. There was no more negotiation.

So give up Madame Rouge or give up Emma.

It was so unfair. She'd given up Derek. How could life demand more?

But life always demanded more.

Pulling a pillow over her head, she blocked out the remaining light. There was nothing to do but wait for morning. Tomorrow would take care of itself soon enough.

One hundred and eighty-six brass buttons. One hundred and eighty-seven brass buttons. Ruby dropped them into the box one after another. One hundred and eighty-eight buttons. The easy monotony of the task soothed her troubled mind. Soon it would be time to talk to her grandfather, but not yet.

Now she could do nothing but count buttons. Two hundred.

She closed the box and pulled another one toward her.

One button. Two buttons. Three buttons.

So far the count had been honest. Her grandfather had received every single button he'd paid for.

Perhaps that would put him in a pleasant mood. Probably not.

Nothing would put him in a good mood except for her agreeing to his demands. And there was no way she could do that. Only how could she not?

She closed her eyes, let her fingers still.

At least her grandfather didn't seem any more eager than she for this conversation. She'd been afraid he would demand to talk the moment she'd walked in, but instead, barely looking at her, he'd set her to counting buttons.

It was far more mindless than looking over the account books, but perhaps that was not a bad thing. It was unlikely that she could have concentrated today.

Did her grandfather regret his ultimatum? He'd never expressed affection as her grandmother did, but she'd always sensed he'd cared for her. So did he regret it?

Perhaps, but on a deeper level she knew it did not matter. He had said the words and would not back down. She could remember seeing him glance wistfully at her mother as she stood across the street, waving goodbye. But never once had he motioned for her to cross the street or even gifted her with a smile.

No, if the old man said the words, he would stick to them.

So what did she do?

Was she prepared to walk away from the little family she had?

No. It really was that simple.

But could she give up being Madame Rouge, having more independence than any other woman she knew in London?

No. She could never go back to being sheltered and cared for and—and commanded. She was not that girl any longer.

Her mind was moving in circles, had been moving in circles since the moment Derek left late last night.

Bloody fuck.

Although she knew every curse word in the book Ruby rarely indulged, but now it felt good to think the foulest words she knew.

There must be a way out. There always was. Plans began to flit through her mind. What if she married Wyeth and made her grandfather happy? Could she then demand that the company be signed over to her? No, if she were married it would be Wyeth's company. And from what she knew of him he would never let her have control.

“Are you done with those buttons? You seem to have paused.” As if summoned by her thoughts Wyeth appeared over her shoulder.

“I was merely indulging in a moment of private thought.”

“This is not the time for that.”

She blinked at him. If she had been one of her father's employees she might have understood his tone, but she was here because she wished to help. Surely that did not deserve reprimand. The temptation to give him a curt reply was great. He certainly did not know how to court a bride, assuming he did wish to wed her. She had only her grandfather's word that he did.

“Do you need the buttons quickly? Is somebody waiting to acquire them?” she asked once she'd reined in her emotions.

“No, but idle hands lead to the devil's work.”

“I can assure you that my hands are rarely idle. I was only trying to think of the answer to a question my grandfather had asked.”

“I hope it was not about the accounting. I believe that numbers may tire the female brain.”

And yet he wanted her to count buttons? She stared at the pile of shiny buttons, losing all pleasure in the simple task. “I enjoy balancing the books. It soothes me.”

“That would be most unusual.”

At least he didn't accuse her of lying. Turning, she looked up at him. Was she reading too much into his words because of her own foul mood? It was hard to be sure, but then it was hard to be sure of anything at this moment. “Was there something else that you wished, Mr. Wyeth?”

“Only to tell you that Mr. Scanton wishes to speak with you once you are finished with the buttons. He is up in his office.” He patted her arm with his hand and turned and stalked away.

Yes, she probably was being unfair. He had not spoken meanly and had only said what most men thought. Even her grandfather did not truly approve of her looking over the accounts. He was just too thrifty to pay somebody else when she was competent. He might wish she wasn't, but he would still take advantage.

And now she was unfairly judging him. He'd never made her feel unworthy—only that was not true. She constantly felt that she had to earn his affection, to prove that, despite everything, she knew how to behave. This idea of marriage was not really new—it was merely the latest piece in a long chain.

God, she wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else. Normally she loved the warehouse, but now it seemed one more prison.

Twenty-five buttons. Twenty-six buttons.

Forcing herself to continue the count, she dropped button after button into the box.

Where would she be if she could?

An image of Derek appeared in her mind, laughing as the sea spray rained down upon him. She'd never seen him at such a time, but she knew the image was right—and more than that, she knew she wanted to see him, laughing as the waves pounded all about.

If she dreamed of tangled sheets and silken robes, of the steamy shower bath or even of the settee, she would have understood, could have pretended it was all about passion and desire. That is was merely a physical thing.

It was harder to keep up that pretense, even within her mind, when all she wanted was to see him laughing and happy.

Although, silken sheets and hot, steaming water had seemed to make him very happy.

A desperate sense of self-preservation made her push the image away.

He was not hers. He could never be hers.

It might feel as if her soul were ripping in two, as if a piece of her had been taken, never to be returned, but she would survive. She always survived.

Women did not die of heartbreak.

She dropped another button into the box. Blast, she'd lost the count. She could fake it. All the boxes had been correct so far and this one seemed no different. But that was not her way, and never had been.

Emptying the box, she began again. At least it would provide a few more moments before she must answer her grandfather.

One. Two. Three. Four…

Unfortunately even that task could only take so long. And if she was too honest to not properly count a box, she was also too honest to needlessly count one twice. Lining up the boxes, she called over a worker to return them to the shelf, then, standing, she brushed off her skirts and stared up at her grandfather's office, almost suspended over the work floor.

It was time. She still didn't know what words she would say, but there was no more room for delay.

Gathering her belongings, she straightened her back and headed to the steep stairs. Whatever came of these next minutes, she would not let her grandfather see her fear, see her despair.

When she reached the top, she rapped once upon the door.

“Come in,” her grandfather called.

She opened the door and stepped in.

“You look pretty today,” he said.

“Grandmother missed you at services,” she replied. “You know she does not like it when we work on the Sabbath morning.”

“But she does like the fripperies I buy her. The work must be done when the work must be done.”

It was an argument that they'd had before and would have again—assuming they still spoke after this meeting. “You are right that she likes her ribbons and pins, but I think she would like even more if you appeared more often for Sunday dinner.”