Caught In His Embrace

Chapter One

Lord Pembroke's fingers worked deftly to fix his cravat as he watched her in the mirror. A half smile tugged at the corner of his lips,

"You can't lie there all day," said the young aristo, but Angelina grinned cheekily, letting the covers she held to her chest slip.

"No?"

Pembroke let his hands drop to his side as he turned back to her, cravat tied so perfectly that no one would suspect anything. He sauntered over to the bed, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress as he leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead, "No."

Her lips formed into a lovely pout, by she threw off the rest of the covers and strode to the window, looking out, naked as the day she was born.

She sighed in a terribly unladylike fashion, blowing out to displace a stray lock of golden hair that had fallen over her face, her bright gaze focused on the horizon where endless fields met a line of trees broken only by a church spire.

"You know very well that you can't stay too long, Pembroke," said Angelina, leaning against the window frame, "Aunt really will grow suspicious."

Pembroke only grinned, standing up from tying his shoelaces and prowling around the edge of the bed towards her. She squealed with mock outrage, wrapping herself in the curtain with a spin, enveloping her body with blue velvet as he stood only a fraction from her.

"But your aunt adores me, darling, I'm exactly the kind of gentleman she wants in close quarters with her beloved niece." He took a step closer, a hand going for the heavy drapes, a smirk on his lips.

Angelina arched an eyebrow, "Not quarters quite so close as this, methinks."

He laughed, "Shall we ask her?" His words were teasing, as light as the weak sun streaming through the window, but Angelina knew he meant more to it. Arthur Pembroke was the very devil incarnate, his face that of a Greek god, and in the eyes of the ton – and, apparently, Angelina's aunt – he could do little wrong.

One slip of his wicked tongue and she would find herself at the end of an aisle with him if her aunt had anything to do with it. He was a devil, yes, but a charming one.

Her eyes narrowed, and she jabbed an accusing finger at his chest. "You, sir, are here for one purpose. My fortune. I know as much and you know that I know as much, so if you wish to have even a whisper of a hope in heaven of it..." The curtain had fallen away from her in the process of her accusation. "You would do well to keep on my good side."

Pembroke grinned, "I wouldn't dream of moving to your other side."

Angelina scowled at him, but he caught her lips with his, arms snaking around her waist, understanding fully.

A fortunate thing it was that they both were more than content to continue such a flimsy, irrational arrangement.

"Ah, Annie, what would I do without you?"

"No doubt find a dozen more than willing whores to comfort you." She retorted without hesitation, fingers fumbling clumsily with the buttons of his waistcoat.

A short laugh came from him, breathless, as he shrugged his waistcoat free. Her fingers had only managed to release a few of his shirt buttons when he caught her hands, sinking to his knees. "No whore is the same as you, darling." He said earnestly, with a perfectly straight face, and Angelina huffed.

"Oh, charming. I am flattered." Angelina rolled her eyes, gasping when she felt his lips against the underside of her breast.

A cuckoo called from the open window as Angelina's head fell back, her breathing highly heightened as her hands tangled in fists in the drapes to support herself. Perhaps they did have a few more hours before anyone else of importance would wake. Pembroke seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

He looked up at her innocently, before flashing her that rakish grin, "None even begin to compare to you, darling Annie."

Good Lord, he would be the very pleasant ruin of her.

●●●

Pembroke could see her aunt waving with a smile as he climbed into the carriage. At least one person was happy with his schemes.

He waved back merrily, giving young Emily a mischievous wink. The girl giggled, clutching her doll to her chest, one thumb in her mouth. Even at the tender age of seven, it seemed she too was under his charm.

If only that charm could work so well on her cousin.

Pembroke tapped the roof with his cane twice, and was jolted back in his seat, head hitting against the panelling as the carriage went into motion. He could imagine Angelina laughing at that. Scowling, he rubbed the bruise, but any irritation soon vanished like a puff of cigar smoke as he remembered the look of ecstasy on her face when she had reached her third climax that morning.

Satisfied, he rested his head back against the cushioning, smiling up at the roof. Gods, she was wonderful.

He knew the way other men looked at her, the way they had looked at her since she was sixteen. The way they swarmed towards her at the assembly rooms, the way they practically begged on their knees for a dance on her card, the way they drooled over the dining table as they undressed her with their eyes.

And she was his. Pembroke didn't feel jealous knowing where their thoughts were, only ever mildly irritated, because he had what they would never.

He was her friend.

They had been babes in the nursery together, they had shared a schoolroom, they had climbed trees together to annoy their many short-lived governesses, and when they had got older, they had stolen port from his father's wine cellar and had played tricks on the fine ladies at the balls they would only be allowed to attend for a little while. And when Pembroke had started to show an interest in said ladies that ran deeper than seeing them as the target of a prank...

Pembroke smiled. He had been seventeen, and Angelina just sixteen when she had dragged him out of the ballroom and into the darkened drawing room, kissing him for the first time with all the fury of a jealous teenage girl. He could still remember the taste of strawberries and cream on her lips.

Since then in one way or another, they had been lovers of a kind. Not in the traditional sense of the word, at least not at first, but they had a bond that ran deeper than the lust that each had for others. Pembroke had left for Cambridge, experiencing what every young man did in the raucous years of university, and when he returned he found Angelina the object of every man's desire. It had struck a realisation in both of them. The realisation that while each could be with dozens of others, they would still find their way back to each other, back into each other's arms and beds.

They were each other's allies, something that was far stronger than any notion of romance or God forbid, love.

And now, they found themselves in a rather tricky situation. Pembroke was determined to take her as his wife for her fortune – a marriage between friends was decidedly more favourable than one between strangers – and she was most firmly set against the idea.

While more than happy to drag him to her bed (a persuasion that was, to be fair, not a chore), Angelina had set her sights on finding someone whose reputation in the ton and gossip columns was not so notorious.

Pembroke smirked. He gave it the season. She'd no doubt come running back to him, as she always did, and he was certainly not going to make it easy for her suitors.

Let the games begin.