A Daring Deception

by Trentham, Laura

  He covered her hand with his and slipped them inside his jacket and waistcoat so her hand was over his heart with only the thin lawn of his shirt separating them.

  “What shall I call you?” she asked huskily.

  “Simon.” In the word was a command for her to repeat it.

  “Simon,” she whispered.

  Sensation skittered down his spine. Was it a premonition or simple pleasure? Either way, it was as electrifying as being struck by lightning. “May I use your given name?”

  Her tongue darted over her lips, and her gaze dropped to where her hand covered his heart. Surely, she could feel it trying to claw its way out to her. “You may call me Abby.”

  Laughter and conversation grew louder as two grooms made their way back up the wide aisle. Simon opened the stall door of the dark gray mare and pulled Jessica inside, shouldering the beast aside to reach the far corner. Luckily, the stall had been mucked recently, and fresh straw was underfoot, muffling their movements and sweetening the air.

  Space was scarce. She notched herself into the corner, and Simon faced her, bracketing her with his hands on the stall walls. The moment veered intimate, and it was all he could do not to dip his face to hers and nuzzle the wave of hair at her temple. Could she sense the ties binding them ever closer?

  “Do… Do you…?” The words emerged on her quickened breaths.

  Did he want to kiss her? Lift her skirts? Lay her down in the hay and nestle between her legs? A resounding yes to the three most pertinent questions roiling in his head.

  “Do you… enjoy riding?” The unexpected question left him reeling for an answer, and into the silence, she whispered, “Horses, I mean.”

  In turns confident and nervous, Miss Abby Blackwell was a delight. He could tell he held the upper hand in terms of experience, but he refused to hold it over her. That didn’t mean he couldn’t tease her.

  “I do enjoy riding. Having that sort of power between your legs is heady stuff. And yourself?”

  “I’ve never ridden. Papa promised to teach me, but he died before he could keep his promise.”

  Her wistfulness tugged at something inside him he’d thought he’d outgrown. He’d missed out on much childhood joy after his parents’ deaths. The dukedom had weighed heavily on the shoulders of a seven-year-old.

  “Would you like me to teach you to ride?”

  “Yes, very much.” The excitement in her voice dimmed. “I could not sneak away for such frivolity during the day. If I were caught…”

  She needn’t say more. A man like Goforth would sack her without a reference. “There’s a clearing not far from here, and the full moon is nearly upon us. We could meet tomorrow evening after you’ve finished your duties. I’ll saddle the gentlest horse in Drummond’s stable and keep you on leads until you’re comfortable.”

  She hesitated but finally nodded. “That is kind of you. Thank you, Simon.”

  Once again, a tingle traveled through him hearing his name on her lips. “It will be my pleasure.”

  “I don’t understand this,” she said softly.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning and dropped his forehead to hers. “I don’t either. I wish—” He bit his lip.

  “What? Tell me.” She took hold of the edge of his waistcoat and tugged him closer.

  “I wish I weren’t a duke. Or you weren’t a lady’s maid.”

  “You wish we were equals.”

  Put like that, he felt lower than a worm. “We are equals in every way that’s truly important. I suppose I wish things were easier. Clearer. Does that make sense?”

  She chuffed a laugh, but it held no humor. “More than you realize. Things are muddled for me too, but there is one thing I know for certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to kiss me. One kiss to remember.” She tipped her head back in the sweetest offering he’d ever beheld.

  Unable to deny either of them, he shifted closer, keeping his hands braced on either side of her, his lips moving within inches of hers. The horse chuffed and shuffled as if Simon’s impatience was contagious.

  He stopped himself. It was the most impressive exhibition of strength he’d ever demonstrated. Considering how often he’d been sparring with Rafe, the tremble in his biceps was unexplainable. “Hold on a moment. Do you forget I promised you last evening I wouldn’t kiss you?”

  “No. You promised not to seduce me. A kiss is merely… a kiss.” She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it agonizingly, arousingly, slowly.

  “A kiss between us will never be merely a kiss. It will be a prelude to much more.”

  “All I can offer—all I can afford—to give you is a kiss, Your Grace.”

  “Then I accept, but you must be the one to kiss me. I will not be accused of taking advantage of you.” Even as he said it, guilt niggled. He was a duke, and she a lady’s maid. No matter who instigated a kiss, he was most definitely taking advantage of her. “And by God, call me Simon.”

  Abby pushed herself out of the corner and lay her hands against his chest. “Simon,” she whispered.

  Her touch was featherlight, yet it burned all his good intentions to ash. It was all he could do not to pull her body flush with his and take what he wanted more than anything in the world, yet like a trained horse, he waited for her signal.

  One of her hands drifted up his chest to his shoulder, alighting only a moment to chart the dip and curve before continuing its trek to his nape. Now it was more than his biceps that quivered. A shudder went through him from scalp to toes. Her fingers threaded through his hair and tightened. She tugged his head down the same time she rose to meet him.

  Her lips pressed softly against his and held still. A different sort of jolt went through him when he realized she didn’t know what to do. Her kiss was all innocence. How had some young handsome footman not coaxed a kiss from her before now?

  No one had kissed her. Possessiveness he had no right to had him smiling against her lips.

  She pulled away slightly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “Not wrong.”

  “Then why are you laughing at me?” The hurt in her voice arrowed into his chest and reverberated.

  She tried to take a step to the side, but it was too late. The reflexes he had honed the past few years sparring and boxing with Rafe and Damien had him reacting with a swiftness that made her gasp. He pulled her close with an arm around her waist, notched his knee between her legs, and cupped her face with his other hand so she couldn’t avert her face.

  “Trust me, what I’m feeling has nothing to do with humor.”

  “Then what?”

  She had been honest about what she could offer him—a kiss. What if he were honest about what he could offer her? A house and servants and his bed. She could hire her own lady’s maid. He would squire her to the theater and the opera and even to functions that welcomed the demimonde.

  No, such overtures during her first kiss would be untoward. She needed to understand a little of what sharing his bed would mean for her.

  “I was merely marveling at the fact you’ve never been kissed.” He touched his lips against hers once more, this time taking advantage of her gasp and sucking her bottom lip between his. The noise she made on her exhale was between a moan and a grunt of protest.

  “H-how did you know?”

  “May I show you?”

  “So when the next duke comes calling, I’ll know how to kiss him?” As off balance as he suspected she was, she still managed to inject more than a hint of spirit.

  “Exactly so.” He equaled the tease in her voice but vowed there would be no other man. Ever. She just didn’t know it yet.

  He slanted his mouth over hers, moving his lips in soft nips and suckles. Her arms weaved around his neck, and she melted into him with what was unmistakably a moan this time. He trailed his hand from her cheek across her arm to glide down her torso, his fingertips grazing the fullness of her breast. His cock, which had never pos
sessed a sense of decorum around her, hardened to rival a marble statue.

  He shifted his hips backward, but she followed him, not allowing an inch to separate them. It felt too bloody amazing to protest, and he rocked his hips against her.

  Arousing, earth-shattering, life affirming, sweet—words couldn’t do the kiss justice. It was made all the more potent as her needy lips moved over his. She mimicked him and nipped at his bottom lip. He stifled a groan.

  “Did I hurt you?” Her lips never left his, and he felt more than heard the worry in her question.

  “No, but you are driving me mad.” He dipped his tongue between her lips, a reconnaissance to judge her reaction.

  She recoiled for an instant, her wide eyes blinking into his before her lashes fluttered shut and she fused their mouths. This time, her tongue darted against his lips. He gladly allowed her access and deepened the kiss, his tongue making a more leisurely foray into her mouth.

  Her hands turned frantic, slipping under his jacket and pushing it over his shoulders. He shrugged out of it and let it fall on the stable floor, not caring if it was trampled underfoot by man or horse.

  He shuffled his hands through her hair, unplaiting the mass. Her hair was soft and wavy and tumbled halfway down her back. The picture of her nearly naked in the pond flashed into his mind. He cursed the shadows, wanting to see the sun spark in her hair and the pale beauty of her skin.

  They swayed as if music played, and he shifted them until her back was against the stable wall and her soft breasts were crushed against his chest. She wore no stays, and he could feel the hard buds of her nipples through the silk of his waistcoat.

  He trailed his hands up and down her body from the curves of her bottom and hips, through the dip of her waist, to the soft undersides of her breasts. His hard cock pressed into her belly. His body reacted to hers like a callow youth exposed to a woman’s soft curves for the first time. Yet because he was experienced, he also recognized the firestorm of passion between them was unusual and not something to be taken lightly or for granted.

  Her breaths came in gasps. She pulled on his cravat and shirt as if she were desperate for his skin. He could have her on her back with very little persuasion. He could sink his desperate cock inside her heat and ride them both to ecstasy. She wouldn’t protest. In fact, she might even beg him for relief, for it was obvious she had no experience with the passion set ablaze inside her. His cock pulsed its wishes.

  He would never forgive himself if he took advantage of her innocence. With effort, he reined in the desperation urging them on. She squirmed against him, her nails biting through his shirt. A half sob escaped her throat. He shushed her, still sipping on her lips but softer now, soothing.

  “I know. I know,” he murmured.

  “What have you done to me?” She let her head loll against the wall, and he couldn’t resist pressing a kiss against the quickened pulse in her neck.

  “We could only build this fire together, sweetheart.”

  “It’s not always like this?”

  It had never been like this for him. Want and need and caring inextricably bound. “No, it’s not always like this. We seem to be combustible.”

  A laugh full of bite came from her, but she didn’t push him away. “That seems about right. Combustible with destruction to follow.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.” He tightened his hold, hugging her close and kissing her temple.

  “How else could it possibly end, Your Grace?” Her formal address cracked the illusion of intimacy. The silence built, and she added, “I would be destroyed.”

  As a child, his parents had taken him and Minerva to the seaside. It had been a rare journey together as a family, and Simon had taken great delight in the new sights and smells. Even a hint of salty air jettisoned him back into that moment. Used to the placid waters of the lakes and streams on their estate, Simon had been eager to explore.

  His father had encouraged him to swim in the ocean. Against the calls of Minerva, who wanted him to come back to the safety of the dunes on which she stood and watched, he’d ventured deeper and deeper into the water, feeling brave and indomitable. A wave had crashed into him, tumbling him this way and that until he didn’t know up from down. He’d thought he might drown, but the wave suddenly spat him out onto the wet sand.

  That’s exactly how he felt right now. Reality tumbled him hither and yon and left him short of breath and not knowing what to do or say. He dropped his arms and took a step away, missing her already.

  How could he reassure her when she was perfectly correct? As a duke and a man, he would walk away with his reputation untarnished and no complications. Miss Blackwell, on the other hand, would be ruined and left to deal with the consequences.

  “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, and then he compounded the moment with a lie. “It was merely a kiss, Miss Blackwell.”

  She sighed. He’d disappointed her somehow and barely stopped himself from apologizing again. Or falling to his knees and begging her for… What? Her body? Reckless. Her heart? Impossible.

  “I must return to my room before I’m missed, sir.” She sidled around the horse and out of sight. The soft snick of the stall felt like the slam of a door.

  He was alone. For now. But he would see Miss Blackwell again. For in the buzzing aftermath, he understood, even if she didn’t, that what they’d shared wasn’t merely a kiss. It was a reckoning.

  Chapter 11

  Jessica pressed her hands against her cheeks and ran to the kitchen door. Her slippers were meant for the smooth floors of ballrooms, not an uneven lawn with roots and rocks. The ache in her feet was nothing compared to what was happening to her heart. What had she done?

  It was merely a kiss.

  Were all kisses so intense and hot? Did all kisses strip away inhibitions and sense? She didn’t think it was merely a kiss, but then again, she had nothing to compare it with. Was she simply naive?

  For a wild moment, she considered finding Henry Mitchell and testing her theory. Except she was already certain she wouldn’t have to fight the urge to rip Henry’s clothes off to get to his skin. Her body wouldn’t buzz as if she’d downed a bottle of brandy.

  She slipped into the kitchens. Mrs. Potts and two girls were kneading dough. The cook glanced up with a smile, which reversed itself upon seeing her. Before Jessica could make good her escape to hide under her covers, Mrs. Potts gave the dough one last punch before marching over and blocking the entrance to the servants’ hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Did that rascal Henry find you?” Her whisper was low but promised retribution to poor Henry.

  “Uh, no. He didn’t.”

  Mrs. Potts’s eyes narrowed as if she didn’t believe her. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s a fine night. Everything is—”

  “Fine?” Sarcasm twisted Mrs. Potts’s mouth, and she examined Jessica from head to toe.

  Were Simon’s handprints branded on her body? Was her heart tattooed with his name for all to see? It certainly felt that way.

  Mrs. Potts’s expression softened. “If nothing is truly amiss, you should get yourself up to bed.”

  Jessica nodded and didn’t hesitate to make her headlong escape, too frantic to even care if anyone spotted her. She locked her door and plopped down at the dressing table. The looking glass revealed a girl—no, a woman—she barely recognized.

  Her hair was tumbled around her shoulders, and her lips were swollen and red. Her eyes sparkled with shock and desire. Her breasts were overly sensitive, still begging for his touch. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. No wonder Mrs. Potts had questioned her. She looked tumbled.

  But it was more complicated than that. She hadn’t stood mute and let him kiss her. She had been as much the ravisher as the ravished. She had clawed at his clothes and put her tongue in his mouth. She covered her face and curled over.

  He was a duke. A duke who thought she wa
s a lady’s maid. She had ravished and lied to a duke. Was that a hanging offense in England?

  After stripping out of the brown dress, she crawled under the covers in her chemise. Restlessness invaded and pushed even the hope for sleep away. Tomorrow, she might not need to blacken the circles under her eyes.

  Her embarrassment succumbed to her burning arousal. Under the covers and in the dark, she touched her lips, still tingling from memories of Simon’s possession, and then skimmed her hands lower to her breasts. He hadn’t taken full possession of them, but dear Lord, she’d wanted him to. The glancing caresses hadn’t been enough to satisfy her.

  She groaned, hugged a pillow close, and turned over. It was madness. There was no way her connection to Simon led anywhere but off a cliff. Continuing to meet him as Abby Blackwell would lead to her ruination. She was innocent but not stupid.

  Her only option was to quit pretending and accept her life as it was. Lonely. Desperate. Painful.

  When the veil of sleep claimed her, she dreamed about her mother. Not as she was during her final, terrible years under Goforth’s thumb but as she’d been during the years with Jessica’s father. Memories melded with hopes to paint a picture of happiness and peace. Yet when she awoke, she wasn’t filled with warmth but dread. Her mother’s happiness had been fleeting.

  She needed to set aside the tantalizing pleasure Simon offered and concentrate on avenging her mother and destroying Goforth before he bartered her away and got his hands on Blake. A liaison with Simon was more than a distraction. It could ruin any opportunity she had to upend Goforth’s plans for her brother. Her vow to protect Blake at all costs was one her soul couldn’t afford to break.

  Even if it cost her a chance at happiness.

  She rolled out of bed, her wan appearance a boon for her disguise. A soft scratch at the door signaled the arrival of the real Abby Blackwell. Jessica let her in. The maid was looking fresh and well rested, her hair braided and pinned up, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. Her duties were much reduced at the house party.