He caught her reflexively. Her arms cinched around his neck, her cheek pressing to his, close enough for him to feel the faint scratch of walnut bits she’d cleverly used to give herself whiskers. But no matter the clothes, the wig, or the whiskers there was nothing remotely masculine about her. Not even the odors of tobacco smoke and bitter coffee rising from her gentleman’s clothes. Her soft essence was there. And he breathed it in deeply, feeding her scent into his lungs, satisfying a craving he’d had all night. But it only left him wanting more.
He wasn’t aware of moving, or of shifting her across his lap until he buried his nose in her cravat. Then, startled by his own actions, he lifted his head and pretended to brush a speck of lint from her shoulder. “What was your favor part? Roderick reciting horrendous poetry from the tabletop, or Beasley vomiting into his hat across from us?”
It was important to concentrate on something unsavory or else he might think about the enticing woman in his lap too much.
“All of it. Every moment.” She tossed her head back and laughed, the bright, unreserved sound charging the air. “I spent an evening disguised as a man! Could have been discovered at any moment. The guards called. Me led away in irons. And yet, with you beside me, all my worries faded away. I was wholly immersed in a rush of excitement, and the utter freedom to do whatever I liked.” Her soft breath puffed against his cheek, inviting him to turn his head. And when he did, she smoothed his hair back from his temples and smiled, her eyes bright and tender. “Quite a heady experience.”
He was having one of those right this moment. She was so close. Close enough that he could taste her sweet breath on his tongue, and he wanted more of it, too.
Yet ever since their kiss at the opera, he knew it would be a mistake to indulge. Briar Bourne—whether swathed in satin or garbed in superfine wool—was exceedingly hard to resist. A damned terrifying realization.
His hands moved down to her waist, prepared to set her on the bench across from him.
“Wait,” she whispered, holding fast to his shoulders. “Mustn’t forget our bargain.”
Later, Nicholas would wish that he had acted the gentleman and set her down, regardless of the enticing offer. Or that he’d told her that there was no need. That escaping the coffee house unscathed was all the payment he desired.
Instead, he held still, every nerve ending in his body thrumming in anticipation. Then she brushed her lips over his and, all at once, he was lost in the soft crush of her mouth, the languid slide from corner to corner.
“Oh, Nicholas, I’ve missed your kisses,” she whispered against his lips, tasting him.
He groaned, willing his pulse to slow, to stay in control. “Continuing your academic study?”
“Well . . . I haven’t been entirely honest with you about that.”
His breath stalled, the twinge of an old wound starting to drum inside his ears. The thought entered his mind that she was going to tell him she’d been kissing other men. That this had all been a ruse to make a fool of him. He’d heard words like that before. And he was unable to stop a sudden rise of jealousy, fierce and possessive, his hands gripping tighter over her hips.
She lifted her head, cupping his jaw with her small hands, her gaze alarmingly serious.
“I’m actually rather fond of your kisses,” she said with the sincerity of a convicted criminal offering a last confession. “I’ve been pretending otherwise, because I was afraid that, if you knew, you would stop. But it’s been burning me up inside not to tell you.”
As her confession took root, he was unable to form a response. Every stored breath rushed out of his lungs at once. He should have known better than to imagine the worst. This was Briar, not Marceline.
“And there’s one more thing, too,” she continued, leaning close to press whisper-soft kisses along his jaw, chin, cheek . . . “I’ve been fond of them from the very beginning. What I like especially is this spot right here, where my nose nestles into the nook beside yours. You have a rather exceptional nose, perfect for nuzzling.”
He closed his eyes, feeling a rush of something other than jealousy, stronger than lust, and whatever it was terrified him with its intensity. So he did what he had to do.
Sliding a hand to the nape of her neck, fingertips nudging beneath the coarse wig, he kissed her. Deep. Driving away all thoughts and immersing himself in the slow, wet slide, the tangle of tongues. But it wasn’t enough.
He needed to feel her without the disguise.
Ridding her of the wig, he didn’t stop until he’d pulled the pins from her hair and let them fall to the carriage floor, loosening the tight coil. The silken locks cascaded through his fingers, warm and fragrant, her pleased sigh stealing inside his mouth. And he swallowed it down like a greedy addict, arousing the need for more, more.
He fitted his fingers to her scalp, massaging, burying his nose in her hair, breathing her in. She smelled good—here, and beneath her jaw, this little valley between her lips and chin—everywhere. He wanted to put her in a hookah and smoke her for hours, lounge back on silken pillows and take in long, languorous pulls.
Clearly, he was on the verge of insanity. And like a madman, he peeled off her coat with a jerk, then worked the knot of her cravat free, baring her throat so that he could press his nose against her flesh, inhale like it was his first breath. And his last.
“I think about kissing you more than I think about chocolate,” she said, panting another confession. “I think about the scent of your skin and the sharp bite of your whiskers. The intimate taste of your breath against my lips, filling my mouth, my lungs. The way I breathe your air and you breathe mine. And I think about all the people who’ve ever been kissed and how they must be feeling the same way, dying a little bit for every moment they aren’t kissing.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t think on it,” he said, his voice hoarse with desire. He hadn’t had any spirits tonight, but he felt utterly drunk, supremely smashed, guzzling down every word, gorging on them.
“How can I not when you do such wondrous things with your lips? And your tongue . . .”
Her words drifted off as he opened his mouth over her rabbiting pulse, laving and suckling that tender spot.
“I’m jealous of every morsel that passes your lips. Oh bother, I think I said that aloud. Pretend you didn’t hear the bit that makes me sound like I’ve escaped Bedlam.”
He must have gone insane as well because he liked hearing it. “Say anything you like. Tell me everything.”
Deftly, his fingers unfastened the row of her waistcoat buttons and nudged it off her shoulders.
“I suppose I should feel a rise of nervousness right now,” she said on a raspy breath, her hooded gaze seeking his as her hands coasted up the seams of his lapels. “And yet, all I can think of is that it’s hardly fair that I should have such an efficient valet, but you do not.”
He grinned as she tugged at the knot of his cravat. “But I don’t need a valet, love. You’re the one changing back into your dress. I’m merely assisting.”
Earlier, he’d told Adams to drive through the park, fully intending to step out to allow her privacy. But Briar surprised him with her kiss and now he was in no rush to leave.
“Such the good Samaritan, helping the wayward divest of their clothing,” she teased. And before she could wrap her arms around his neck again, he drew out the tails of her shirtwaist and lifted it over her head.
In the dim yellow light, bleeding in through the shades of the carriage lanterns, he saw her bound in strips of white linen from ribs to breasts, milky swells straining above the edge with each rapid breath. He paused to savor the sight of her, quieting the urgency sprinting through him for just a moment.
She took the opportunity to lean in and kiss the underside of his jaw, sliding the silk free, nibbling her way down to the hollow niche beneath his Adam’s apple. She rasped her tongue against his flesh. “Mmm . . . you taste of salt and heat. Do you taste like this everywhere?”
As if
fully intending to find out, she shifted on his lap, wriggling, the curve of her hip grinding against his cock. He groaned again and pulled her closer. Rolling his hips, he was lost in a heady jolt of hedonistic pleasure. And still, he wanted more. With Briar, he wasn’t certain he would ever get enough.
Hungry, he took her lips again, hard, tongues seeking, hands drifting over her ribs to cup her breasts. She pushed herself into his palms, arching back. He rasped the pads of his thumbs over the taut, eager buds, swallowing down her fevered whimpers, the back of his throat tingling with raw need. Tugging down the linen, he exposed her to the night air, pausing long enough to admire the creamy perfection, the pale pink centers, the ruched tips.
Then he closed his mouth over her flesh, her skin sublimely soft, supple, and . . . “You taste like a confection. Are you this sweet everywhere?”
She clutched his head as he sought the other velvety tip to verify his findings. “Tell me if it’s true. Don’t ever stop.”
Never, he thought urging her closer, skimming his hand down her stomach, over the fall front of her ridiculously snug trousers. He settled over her core, the wool warm, damp, and inviting.
She gasped, and shyly tucked her face against his neck, but did not move away from him.
“Have you changed your mind already?”
“I should. Oh, Nicholas, I should . . .” she murmured, her hips hitching helplessly against his palm.
“Do you want me to stop?” While he waited for her decision, his fingertips wandered aimlessly over the contours of her sex, stroking, teasing.
She covered his hand with her own, pressing firmly against the heavy, frantic pulse between her thighs. “Not yet.”
And what kind of man would he be to deny her?
Catching her lips, he nipped them closer on a rush of tenderness. She likely didn’t know that she was teaching him how to please her. In turn, he showed her even more possibilities. Though it was a new experience for him to delve beneath the placard of a pair of trousers to find soft, feminine curls beyond the cutout that was designed for a man’s member. But that thought quickly left his mind when he cupped her, his fingers meeting slick folds.
She gasped again, her head falling back on a wanton mewl as she parted her thighs for him. “Let’s stay inside the carriage. Just the two of us. We’ll live here, feasting on each other for days. Months. Years.”
Yes, yes, it could work. He saw the scenario take shape as his fingertip nudged between her flesh, circling the tightly furled bud as his mouth dipped to sample her breast.
She held him there, hand at his nape, her nails digging deliciously into his scalp. “The rest of the world will disappear. Nothing exists outside these doors. We’ll sleep on the benches, in each other’s arms. And when we are hungry—ah . . . Nicholas . . .”
He nudged the tip of one finger inside, her body snug and drenched and clenching sweetly. The lush scent of her musk added to his addiction. His nostrils flared on an intoxicating breath, his pulse quickening, desire shuddering through him. He wanted to take his time, spending hours pleasuring her, hearing her wanton sighs. But when his name left her lips—knowing that his was the only name—suddenly he was too eager to feel her come apart.
He edged in deeper, knuckles wedging inside to the hilt. Observing every breath, every subtle shift, he rolled his palm against her. She held his wrist, desperate, frantic pleas spilling from her lips. He kissed his way back to her mouth, murmuring all the wicked things he wanted to do, where he wanted to taste her, how she would feel against his tongue, dissolving like meringue . . .
She came apart in a heady rush, shattering in his arms, her cries like music filling the carriage. At once, he was filled with a sense of primal satisfaction. And yet, the echoes of her ecstasy brought him to a jarring awareness of where they were and what he was doing.
Debauching a virgin inside his carriage.
She collapsed against him, panting, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder. And his finger was still buried inside the tight clench, his cock pressed against the ripe curve of her hip.
Unable to help himself, he took his time before leaving, drawing out the last of her tremors, and imagining what he would be doing next if his conscience hadn’t just got the better of him. But thoughts like those were dangerous.
Their kissing bargain had suddenly altered into something far more intense than he could have imagined in the beginning. Perhaps it was time to consider keeping his distance.
Yet since his exercises in restraint hadn’t worked thus far, likely it would be best if he removed himself from London altogether. Even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re a very naughty valet, aren’t you?”
He nipped the lobe of her ear. “Only with you, love. But now it’s time to get you home, or else there won’t be much of your innocence left.”
* * *
Briar twisted sideways on the carriage bench, her back to Nicholas as he tucked the last of the pins—at least the ones they could locate—into her hair.
“There,” he crooned, a finger trailing softly down the nape of her neck and setting off a series of pulse-thrumming tingles. He had very clever fingers. “Having never dressed a woman or styled her hair, I think I’ve done a fair job of it.”
He’d insisted on setting her back to rights, stating his belief that she would turn shy if he left her alone in the carriage to dress herself. And he was likely correct. Even now, she could not stop blushing over the things that she’d said and done, and all the glorious, wondrous things she’d given him liberty to do.
“Then, perhaps, you would also make an excellent ladies’ maid.”
Leaning closer, his finger was replaced by his lips as he pressed kisses down her neck and along her shoulders. “I can well imagine hours in your bedchamber, dressing you, then undressing you, bathing you . . .”
She laughed. “I am old enough to bathe myself.”
“Mmm . . . but where is the fun in that?”
He tugged her back against the solid wall of his chest, folding his arms around her. And it was so easy with him that she didn’t know why she’d felt shy at all. That was gone now, drifting away as she relaxed into him, the carriage ambling slowly toward home.
“And so that’s what kissing leads to, hmm?”
“Some of the time,” he said, his lips against her temple, his voice tunneling through her as the pad of his thumb made lazy sweeps against the underside of her breast. “There are lots of other things, too.”
She closed her eyes, entranced by the rhythmic motions, half wishing they could do everything all over again, or even . . . try something new. She was positively wanton! But she loved every minute with Nicholas. With him she had the freedom to make mistakes, to get drunk—like she had that first day—to be completely, unabashedly herself. She didn’t know the reason, but perhaps it was because he was always so unreserved. No topic was unapproachable. No question judged. Because of him she knew what it felt like to make her own decisions based on her own desires, and it was so lovely. She wanted to stay in this place for as long as she could.
But it was late, and she would have to do her best to sneak into the townhouse unnoticed. If not for that, and the list of tasks and responsibilities waiting for her, she might allow herself to dream. To fall in love . . . just a little.
It would be easy to fall for Nicholas, after all. Too easy, perhaps. In fact, if she were honest with herself, she might already be in love . . . just a little.
Or perhaps a lot.
Chapter 22
“What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Briar had known that it was only a matter of time before Ainsley found out about the challenge. It was one thing to find a bride for a wealthy earl. But a rake? Well, that was a different matter entirely, and one in which the eldest of the Bourne sisters would never approve.
Unfortunately, what had begun as a quiet brook of rumors, carrying in new
applicants after the evening at the opera, was now a tidal wave of gawkers, more interested in hearing gossip than in becoming clients.
“What is Lord Edgemont looking for in a bride, precisely?” Miss Carrigan asked, following Ainsley down the hall.
In the process of carrying a tray to the parlor, Briar suddenly stopped, the cups and saucers clattering together. Ainsley stopped, too.
Turning slowly, her gaze flitted past Miss Carrigan and trained on Briar with an archer’s accuracy.
“So it’s true, then?”
Only four words, but they dropped like stones, weighted by disappointment. Apparently, Ainsley had heard the rumor before now, but must have given Briar the benefit of the doubt. Which made admitting it all the more difficult.
“It was a matter of upholding our family’s honor,” Briar said with a tense smile, not really believing her excuse. Especially when it was her own blunder that had tarnished it in the first place.
Ainsley crossed her arms, her dark brows lifted, mouth tight. “And? Any progress?”
Briar swallowed and adjusted her grip on the tray, which had suddenly become inordinately heavy. “Not exactly.”
She highly doubted Ainsley would be thrilled to learn about the lessons. Or the fact that Briar might have accidentally begun falling in love with the object of the challenge. And that, every time she thought about finding a woman Nicholas couldn’t resist, she felt a primal urge to club any potential candidates over the head with a candlestick. Which really did not bode well for the completion of her task, or for the future legendary status of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency.
Ainsley strode past her and stepped into the parlor. “If any debutante is here to fill out an application solely for Lord Edgemont, I’m sorry to say that he is not a client of ours, and as far as I am aware, not looking for a wife.”
The flood of gawkers, Miss Carrigan included, left in a wave of disgruntled murmurs, leaving a sea of crumbs and empty teacups in their wake.
Ainsley walked back to her office and closed the door, without uttering another word.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 22
