Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,67

of his thumb along the arch, in slow firm strokes, and she relaxed into the pillows. The weight of her leg rested in his palm where he cupped her heel. He slid his palm up her smooth rounded calf and raised her leg, the glimpse of shadow between her thighs begging for his attention. He ignored its call and massaged her delicious sole and the plump little heel with both thumbs.

She sighed with pleasure.

Gently he lowered her leg to the sheets, angling it wide, and picked up her other foot. No resistance this time—indeed, she was eager to place her foot in his hands. He poured more scented oil in his palm and massaged it in. He frowned at the red mark on the smallest toe. ‘What happened here?’

‘The shoes. The ones I wear on stage, they pinch.’

He frowned, but said nothing. She would not be wearing those shoes again. He kissed the tiny blemish and she chuckled softly. ‘Kissing it won’t make it go away.’

‘But it can make things feel better,’ he said, flashing her a grin, then returned that foot to the bed, her legs spread wide as he smoothed his hands up her shins, pushing the hem of her nightdress higher to expose her knees.

Lovely long limbs, skin kissed golden by a sun it had never seen, yet somehow remembered. Reverently he kissed the rounded bone and grazed his fingertips along the delicate flesh of the small indent behind. A little gasp rewarded his efforts and encouraged him on. Both hands slid up the inside of her parted thighs, the skin velvety soft beneath his palm, the muscle tender, yet lithe. A feast for the senses. He couldn’t recall another woman whose feet and legs were so utterly beautiful.

He cast her a smile designed to seduce, and she smiled back with all the mystery of a woman whose passion lay just below the surface, waiting for one man to release its power. What he had experienced so far was only a fraction of what burned inside her. He would have the key to the rest.

He explored her thighs, the places that made her legs fall further apart, the spots that tickled and made her flesh jump and brought forth her low throaty chuckle.

Lust rode him hard. The urge to sink into her depths, to drive home to the hilt and make her cry out, had him grinding his teeth as he fought for control.

He eased her nightdress up to her waist and exposed the delights of her feminine flesh nestled within the dark bush of midnight-black curls slick with the evidence of her desire. He parted the folds of tender flesh and found the centre of her pleasure, the secret source of bliss.

She drew in a sharp hiss of breath as he caressed that tender nub. The small sound played havoc with his iron control, sucking the air from his chest and firing his belly as if he was the forge and she the air fanning his flames.

‘And your last name?’ he asked softly.

Chapter Twelve

On the brink of flying apart, at the edge of shattering, he was asking her something. For a moment, Rosa couldn’t make sense of his words.

He leaned forwards and licked and then sucked the place where his fingers were moments ago. She almost died from the spiralling pleasure. She wanted to die, to soar free of her body. But somehow he kept her tethered to him, enslaved to his tongue and the rough edge of his beard against her thighs.

A soft warm breath drifted across her heated flesh, bringing no relief, but a promise. ‘Tell me your family name, Rosabella.’

‘Pelham,’ she gasped, willing to do anything to be sure he wouldn’t stop now. Not when the end was so near.

He circled his tongue and she wanted to scream as he nudged her so close to the edge, then stopped.

‘The truth, Rosabella.’

‘Cavendish of Pelham,’ she surrendered. ‘I swear.’

He stilled, raised his head. Something hot flared in his eyes. Fury. ‘Earl Pelham is your father.’ He said it flatly as if the answer was moot and she had admitted to some dreadful crime.

She moaned and grabbed at his shoulders, trying to draw him against her fevered body. ‘He is my grandfather.’

His lips drew back in a grimace. ‘God help me. That I did not expect.’

The bitterness in his voice chilled her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It means the matter is closed, child or not. The shackles are fastened.’

Before she could question him further, he had renewed