Anna Campbell - Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed

For pride’s sake and to avoid damaging scandal, both William and Roberta kept the misery of their union a domestic secret. Jonas Merrick could have no idea of the damage he threatened to the innocent when he accepted Lady Hillbrook’s vowels. Or perhaps he guessed and didn’t care.

So now Sidonie waited in Jonas Merrick’s bed like a sacrificial lamb. She guessed this was Merrick’s room, although the only evidence of his occupancy was a set of heavy silver brushes on the dressing table, and some subtle scent lingering on the linen and in the air. When he’d kissed her downstairs, he’d imprinted himself on her senses in a way she couldn’t define. And didn’t like. His touch had left an invisible mark. That frightened her almost as much as what was to happen in this glittering chamber. When she pictured him crushing her into the mattress with his powerful body, a scream swelled in her constricted throat.

Her surroundings offered no reassurance. Instead, they added to mounting dread, even as they puzzled her. This was the most bizarre room she’d ever seen. Gold proliferated. On the ornate old-fashioned furniture, the sconces along the walls, the glinting metallic thread in curtains and carpets. Everywhere Sidonie saw herself reflected in battalions of mirrors. Instead of paintings, gilt mirrors lined the walls. Cheval mirrors in each corner. A mirror above the dressing table, over the chest of drawers, between the doors of the armoire. Most surprising—and daunting—was the large oval mirror suspended from the tester above her head.

This proof of her mercurial host’s vanity baffled her. His careless dress didn’t indicate overweening conceit. Surely any normal man would shrink from dwelling so obsessively upon his disfigurement.

Reflected high above, she saw a pale girl lying straight and still as a cadaver under the heavy cover, gold of course. Thick brown hair was severely pulled back from her face and one fat plait snaked its way across her chest. A girl lying alone. Mr. Merrick seemed in no hurry to pursue his conquest.

At first, Sidonie had perched on a chair. When she’d started to shiver in the damp muslin, she’d changed into her night rail. As hours passed, marked by the ormolu clock on the cabinet, she’d shifted to the bed. Why draw out the preliminaries? There was no escape from the endgame.

Sourly she wondered whether Merrick would demonstrate more ardor if instead of an inexperienced stranger, her pretty sister awaited. But of course he hadn’t lured Roberta here because he wanted her. He’d concocted this scheme to score points against his cousin, Lord Hillbrook. This was just the latest spiteful gambit between bitter enemies.

Tightening her grip on the covers, Sidonie struggled for fatalistic calm. But courage faltered when she imagined Merrick shoving himself inside her. Would he expect her to undress? Would she have to…touch him? Would he kiss her again? Absurdly, that seemed the greatest threat of all. His kiss left her flummoxed. It had been chaste as a child’s buss upon the lips. Although the fact that Mer-rick was long past childhood robbed the act of genuine innocence.

She’d never been kissed before. Not by a man. Not with desire.

How sad that her first kiss occurred in such sordid circumstances. Sad and insidiously shameful. Because she hadn’t hated his kiss, even though she should. Mer-rick’s kiss had left her intrigued rather than outraged. What would it be like when he took liberties beyond mere kissing?

No, she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t…

Easier said than done when she lay in Merrick’s bed.

Although her host had long ago lost any legal right to use the Merrick name. He should by rights employ his mother’s surname. Jonas Merrick was son to Anthony, the late Viscount Hillbrook, and the Spanish mistress purporting to be his wife. When the viscount’s younger brother successfully challenged the supposed marriage, Jonas was declared bastard. Upon Anthony’s death, his nephew William inherited the Hillbrook title and the feud between Jonas and his cousin, stemming from boyhood, had only become more vicious.

Sidonie shivered. William’s reaction when he learned his bastard cousin had tumbled his wife—surely this scheme’s object was that William would find out—was unthinkable. Remembering that Roberta’s very life depended on what happened in this bed bolstered Sidonie’s purpose. Until the heavy door opened and Mer-rick prowled into the candlelit room.

A deeply feminine fear, thick and heavy as tar, coalesced in Sidonie’s stomach as she surged up against the headboard. Merrick appeared impossibly large lounging against the door, arms folded across his lean chest. Candlelight flickered over his ruined face, lending him a devilish mien.

Wearing nothing more than shirt and breeches, he should be freezing. He must have a superhuman resistance to cold. Even with the fire blazing in the grate, Sidonie was grateful to have the covers to keep her warm. And to conceal her from his gaze. Which was daft. He’d do considerably more than look at her before the night was out.

He regarded her with the same searching curiosity she’d noticed downstairs. She had no idea what went on behind those deep-set eyes. He tilted his chin toward the tray on the dressing table. “You didn’t eat much.”

“No.” Nerves killed appetite. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, when she’d choked down a piece of toast and some tea. She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth and forced a calmness she didn’t feel into her voice. “You were kind to send it up.”

He shrugged as if it was nothing. During recent years Sidonie had seen little evidence of kindness and she knew to value it. He’d sent up hot water, too. After travelling all day, she’d felt tired and worn. Ridiculous how a wash restored her spirit.

“Don’t interpret my remark as a complaint, but this is a nonsensical thing for you to do.” He studied her as if he meant to winkle out her deepest secrets. One of those secrets gave her more power over him than he’d ever guess. Foreboding flooded her, knotted a belly already tight with fear. The knowledge she possessed was dangerous and she knew to her bones that Merrick made a bad enemy.

She pushed upright, clutching the gold covers to her chest. “By nonsensical thing, you mean sleeping with you?” she asked acidly.

A wry smile rewarded her sharpness. He had a nice mouth, expressive, generous enough to hint at sensual expertise way beyond her ken. “What happens when you marry? How will you set your lack of maidenhead right with your husband?”

Her jaw firmed and she spoke with absolute certainty. “I’ll never marry.” She braced for protest. Most people found it inconceivable that a woman would choose spinsterhood.

“I see.” His expression remained neutral. “I imagine Roberta’s experience has put you off the idea. In the interests of justice, I must point out that William is a poor example of my sex.”

She raised her chin. “Most of the men I’ve met have been poor examples. Selfishness, arrogance, and bullying appear inalienable elements of the masculine character.”

“Tut. I blush for my gender,” he said lightly.

“You’re hardly an exception,” she said bitterly.

“Sadly true, dear lady.” He straightened and strolled across to the tray. “Now what have we here?”

She frowned after him in confusion. His manner expressed no urgency. She’d been sure he’d insist upon having his wicked way the instant he arrived. That couldn’t be chagrin she felt at his lack of dispatch. But there was something lowering in rendering one’s virtue to an unrepentant rake, only to find him reluctant to do his worst.

Merrick wasn’t living up to lurid expectations. Roberta had described a fiendish seducer, a man of surpassing hideousness. When she first saw his face, Sidonie had been appalled, mostly because such scarring could only result from excruciating injury. Now, even after their short acquaintance, she saw past the scarring to the man beneath. That man was no monster. His features intrigued more than mere handsomeness. His was an interesting face, full of vitality and intelligence. Striking.