The Uncompromising Lord Flint

by Virginia Heath

  He had no concept of time. He didn’t remember edging them both towards the wall or lifting her off the floor so that her face was level with his—it felt too good feeling her hands in his hair and her legs hooked about his waist while his own hands went exploring. Rational thought disappeared the second her untutored tongue first brushed against his and all that mattered were the overwhelming but intoxicating new sensations their unleashed, forbidden passion created.

  Like a starving man at a banquet he became greedy, tearing his mouth from hers and feasting on her neck. Tasting every inch of it before his lips found her collarbone and then the top of her breast. She moaned as he touched it through the fabric of her dress and he groaned when her nipple hardened in response against his palm. The garment now an inconvenient layer when he wanted to feel all of her and his breeches were now so tight they physically hurt as his ready body strained against them. She arched when he tugged down the neckline, pushing her breasts towards him, but the dratted dress was too fitted to expose her fully to his mouth and forced him to wrestle clumsily with the laces at the back instead.

  The insistent knock at the door followed by his mother’s voice brought him crashing back down to earth with a bang.

  ‘There’s tea and port in the drawing room. Shall I bring it in?’

  Flint wanted to shout at her to go away. Whether she was protecting Jess or him, her convenient interruption was as unwelcome as it was timely. She had predicted tomfoolery and clearly her outlandish suspicions were now founded because they were both breathing hard, but still clinging to each other.

  That he had lost his head so thoroughly was a worry—because he never lost his head any more and certainly not from a mere kiss—but he would happily do it all again in a heartbeat because that kiss was everything. Unforgettable and addictive, yet encased in the overwhelming feeling of rightness he kept experiencing around her. If she was attempting to manipulate him with her allure, she was succeeding and that possibility made him furious at both of them.

  But judging from Jess’s equally stunned and wide-eyed expression, she was as shocked by what they had just succumbed to as he was. Thanks to the rude interruption, she had stiffened in his arms, although was still held suspended from the floor, her hair in glorious disarray, her mouth damningly swollen from his kisses. Her eyes darkened with desire. She looked thoroughly ravished and more beautiful than he had ever seen her.

  ‘We will be there presently!’ Had his voice ever sounded so guilty or so gravelly? Probably not. His partner in crime hastily unhooked her legs from his waist and he gently lowered her to the floor. As soon as her feet touched the ground she put a good six feet of distance between them, stuffing the delightful mounds of her full breasts back into her dress and then frantically fussing with her hair, all the while refusing to meet his gaze. It was just as well. Flint didn’t have the wherewithal to disguise the awe, frustration and confusion he was feeling. Not when his body was on fire for her alone and would likely burn for her all night, and the Persian carpet beneath his feet felt unsteady.

  Something primeval within stopped him from apologising simply because he wasn’t sorry. Kissing Jess might well have been stupidity incarnate, a dangerous misjudgement and totally at odds with his mission, but it had felt right and—God help him—he wanted to do it again and would if his mother wasn’t likely to storm in at any second. Instead, inane words presented themselves and he grabbed them like a drowning man, hoping they might anchor him until his normal, pragmatic mind took over the carnal, possessive and unfamiliar, uncontrollable emotions that now possessed him.

  ‘Well—that’s enough confession for one night.’

  Then the same errant legs that had got him in trouble in the first place marched to the door and then headed down the ancient hallway towards the sanctuary of the drawing room at breakneck speed.

  * * *

  Like the biggest of cowards, Jess had jumped at the chance to take her breakfast on a tray in her bedchamber rather than venture downstairs. She had hardly slept all night and the creaking timbers of the old castle, the unfamiliar surroundings and the nagging kernel of guilt which made her continue to doubt herself were only marginally to blame. That kiss held the lion’s share and still haunted her as the maid insisted on dressing her hair before she ventured downstairs to face him.

  She had nothing whatsoever to compare it to—the overall effect of it both last night and now was unsettling to say the least. Mon Dieu! Why had her mother never warned her kissing felt like that? One minute she had been staring up at him petrified for her future, the next all those fears evaporated when his lips had touched hers and she was pawing at his chest and back shamelessly, thoroughly enjoying the feel of those big hands on her waist. Her bottom. Her breasts! When his thumbs had grazed her nipples... Ah, bon sang... She had wanted more even though she wasn’t entirely sure what more was.

  Thankfully, Lady Flint’s timely knock had prevented Jess from being a complete and shameless wanton and her hot, passionate almost-lover—because she was honest enough with herself to say she would have allowed him all of her and more—transformed into her uptight and stand-offish gaoler instantly. Blowing hot and cold once again. Confusing her. Was that on purpose? He’d spent less than five minutes in the drawing room before excusing himself to ostensibly plan the next steps of his mission—or rather reminding her that she was indeed his mission—leaving Jess floundering with his mother, who kept watching her every movement with undisguised interest while she casually sipped her tea.

  Jess had fled shortly after, pleading tiredness, and then spent hours flat on her back on the bed in bemusement while willing her suddenly heavy and insistent breasts to stop yearning for his touch. Or for her silly, naïve heart to stop worrying at the meaning behind his words. If he thought she might be innocent, then there was hope. Did she dare grasp it and trust him completely? She wanted to. Flint was all she had and...and she was coming to care deeply for him. That kiss had proved that. Beyond the passion, her heart rejoiced. Yearned. Dared to want more than just passion.

  She had precious little experience of men. Aside from the smitten guard in Cherbourg who had made it plain he wanted more, yet still jumped at Saint-Aubin’s orders even if those orders led directly to her physical punishment. She had flirted with the guard to get him to post the corrections she had made to her letters after Saint-Aubin left with the originals, citing her newest injury as the reason why they couldn’t indulge their passions and convincing him the new letter would ensure she didn’t receive another beating before the last wounds had healed. Because he couldn’t read and because he wanted her, he had complied. Despite the obvious welts across her back and bruises to her face, his patience had been wearing thin in the three weeks she had strung him along. Jess was in no doubt he would have taken what he wanted within days had the navy not unexpectedly come for her. Like Saint-Aubin, the guard had done what he needed to do to get what he wanted.

  Was Peter like that? Were all men? Jess had no dealings with males outside of servants. Even with that guard, she hadn’t really known what she was doing. It had all been bravado, all copied out of sheer desperation from her mother down to the last nuance, and all talk. The guard had thankfully never touched her beyond the occasional stroke of her face while she flirted through the bars of her cell and the thought that he might had made her feel sick from the outset.

  She had no such qualms with her handsome Englishman, as her passionate, physical reaction could testify. He had kissed her. Of that she was sure. Jess hadn’t fought it, she’d shamelessly welcomed it, but he had been the instigator. Did that mean anything? Had he only done it as a ruse to make her confide more in him? Had it been a mistake born in the heat of the moment? Did he regret it now? Was that why he had turned immediately cold and detached—or was he torn? She didn’t know and wasn’t anywhere near brave enough to ask him. There was no doubt kissing a suspected traitor put him in a difficult predicament
and pragmatically—oh, how she now loathed that word!—he would probably have to distance himself from it whatever he truly felt. If he felt anything. And perhaps that was for the best. For him at least. Jess had no idea any more what was best for her. It was hard to be rational when her entire existence seemed to involve varying levels of turmoil, none of which she apparently had any control over.

  Perhaps her intense attraction to Peter was because he was the only solid and constant thing in her life right now? She didn’t need any more heartache and disappointment. One more would break her. Deep down she knew the words he had uttered before the searing kiss had been the truth. A man in his position did not have the luxury of indulging his emotions. Whether his heart believed her or not, such a pragmatic man as he would never allow that fickle organ to overrule his thick head. Alongside that thought festered the other. That kiss might well have been a deliberate ploy to lower her defences. Which was why she must never lose her head around him again. Lord Flint had the power to break her heart.

  At the tap on the door her maid pushed the final hairpin into her creation and went to answer it. Another maid entered and bobbed her a curtsy. ‘The ladies are downstairs waiting for you, my lady. Lady Flint says they have left the men to talk business and have adjourned to the morning room for tea. When can I tell them you will be joining them?’

  ‘She is ready now,’ said her assigned maid helpfully, blissfully ignorant of the fact Jess was hiding and happy to do so for the rest of the day. Not only were Peter and his mother downstairs, when she hadn’t steeled herself to face either, but after hearing carriage after carriage arrive, she could only conclude that all his sisters and their assorted families were downstairs as well. On top of everything, she was now expected to socialise.

  Like a woman about to face her own execution, an irony that was not lost on her, Jess stood and followed the maid out, not daring to scrutinise her reflection one last time in the mirror. Last night, a quick glance had confirmed what she had suspected. Her lips had been red and swollen, her eyes overbright and her wayward hair a damning tangle. No doubt Lady Flint had swiftly worked out she had just been kissed—and thoroughly. While her hair might now be presentable, the incessant tingling in her lips probably meant they still looked swollen and the peculiar yet wholly improper ache between her thighs was guaranteed to ensure her eyes remained overbright. As soon as she saw him, then inevitably recalled exactly how she had wrapped her legs around his waist and where she had encouraged him to put his hands, the ensuing blush would be ferocious and visible for miles. Like a beacon for all to see.

  Good grief!

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Jess! You found us! Do come in.’ Lady Flint was sat holding a teacup on a large sofa, flanked on either side by two pretty blonde women who made no attempt to hide their curiosity. Opposite on another matching sofa were three more. All clutching teacups and all staring at her with smiles on their faces.

  Then her step faltered and it took every last ounce of stubborn pride not to run away with her hands over her face. Looking decidedly put upon and sat alone on a huge wingback chair was the only male. He smiled a little sheepishly and rose politely, his hands clamping behind his back in a manner that told her he felt as awkward about what had happened between them as she did. But he was here, in a roomful of inquisitive strangers, and for that she was grateful. ‘I couldn’t leave you to face them all alone, Jess.’ Then his eyes flicked to his sisters and back and he sighed. ‘As you can see, the ravens were dispatched with urgency to summon the coven and they have all flown in on their broomsticks. Lucky us.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Peter! What a dreadful impression you are giving Jess of your family. Your sisters are a delight and you know it.’ Lady Flint turned to Jess. ‘My dear girls have always been much more doting than my only son—whom I rarely see enough of and yet is always so sour when he graces us with his presence. I tried to convince him to leave us alone, but he flatly refused and now threatens to spoil our visit. We shall ignore him and still have a lovely visit over luncheon regardless. Just us girls.’ She stood and took Jess’s hand. ‘Allow me to introduce you.’

  ‘A visit? Is that what you are calling this spontaneous gathering? How charming—when we all know this is a shoddy excuse to poke your noses into government matters that do not concern you.’

  All five of his sisters ignored him and smiled at Jess as she was paraded in front of them. ‘My oldest—Ophelia. Then this is Rosalind and Portia. They popped out in that order.’ Jess nodded, more than a little intimidated at so many sisters all in one go and unsettled because he was only a few feet away, and only just remembered to curtsy before being guided firmly to the sofa Lady Flint had just vacated. ‘And finally, this is Hermia and Desdemona, my twins. Although as you can see, they are not identical.’

  Perhaps not, but the likeness of all six of the siblings was uncanny. She could see bits of Peter in all of them. The same green eyes. The same golden wheatsheaf hair. The dancing amusement lurking beneath their polite masks. ‘What lovely names. All from Shakespeare, non?’

  ‘Indeed they are.’ Lady Flint clutched her hands to her bosom. ‘I’ve always adored the theatre!’

  ‘Theatrics more like,’ Peter muttered from his pew by the fireplace. Only Jess turned her head to acknowledge he had spoken. To the rest he might as well have been invisible.

  ‘I wanted Pericles or Petruchio, but his father wouldn’t hear of it,’ Lady Flint continued undaunted. ‘He said I could only have a Shakespearean name if he chose it. He went through the complete works, ignored all my suggestions, and found Peter—a minor character at best in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—and then dug his heels in, refusing to budge.’

  ‘Thank goodness. Ridiculous names, both of them. Lord Pericles Flint! And the least said about blasted Petruchio the better. My father was a very sensible man. I thank my lucky stars daily that at least one of my parents was.’

  ‘So he became stuck with Peter,’ said Lady Flint with a shrug, obviously choosing selective deafness rather than acknowledgement, ‘which I’ve always thought is one of the dullest Shakespearean names ever. But as the Bard himself remarked, all’s well that ends well because Peter can be very dull and serious when he sets his mind to it. Have you noticed what a horrid spoilsport he is, Jess?’

  ‘Sensible and level headed, you mean, in a sea of unnecessary, overly theatrical drama. And you don’t have to answer that question, Jess. Or any other. Remember what I told you—gird your loins.’ He looked directly at her and her silly pulse quickened. His family exasperated him and amused him in equal measure. And like a fool, she hoped that speaking look meant that last night had meant something to him, too. ‘I hope you are ready for the Inquisition.’

  ‘He means luncheon,’ said Ophelia, helpfully standing. ‘It is ready and has been for ten minutes, but he insisted we wait for you here. Apparently, this room is less daunting than the dining room and secretly I believe he hoped we might all suddenly have a change of heart and eat without you.’

  ‘Which is a positively splendid idea! Why don’t you all go and eat with your horrid families instead and leave us in peace? We have work to do and surely it is obvious that poor Jess is not up to you lot after her ordeal?’

  ‘You see,’ said Ophelia, threading her arm through Jess’s, ‘so very dull and so very serious. And rude, too. As if we would eat without you after Mother has gone to so much trouble in your honour.’

  Mon Dieu! ‘There really was no need to go to any trouble. I am inconveniencing you enough already...’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s more high tea than a formal luncheon,’ interrupted Lady Flint, taking Jess’s other arm. ‘Lots of delicious finger food so we can concentrate on the conversation. My sourpuss son has another think coming if he believes I would allow you to spend the day working without some proper food in your belly. Do you like salmon? Cook does the loveliest poached salmon glazed in aspic.’r />
  ‘Er...yes.’ Although Jess had no clue as to what aspic was.

  ‘Splendid!’ That appeared to be the cue everyone was waiting for and, as one, the rest also stood and Jess found herself enclosed in a sea of perfume and muslin as she was shepherded next door, hoping that despite being blatantly excluded from the invitation, Peter was trailing behind.

  * * *

  Flint was going to kill his mother. Then he would take great pleasure in strangling each and every one of his sisters. Between the six of them, they made the meal interminable. It had started well enough—if being broadsided and bludgeoned could be described as pleasant—then deteriorated rapidly into the debacle he had fully expected it would become. Despite his insisted presence, his womenfolk were incorrigible.

  Was Jess married?

  Engaged?

  What sort of gentlemen usually took her fancy?

  What were her first impressions of Peter?

  Had they known each other long?

  Spent much time together?

  Poor Jess answered with surprising diplomacy considering the onslaught, although her eyes had kept darting to his for support despite the unresolved veil of awkwardness between them, and he rewarded her with a resigned shake of the head, knowing he should have put his foot down and stopped this stupid luncheon before it had started and suffered the petulant and noisy sulking from his meddling womenfolk. He needed to talk to Jess. Desperately, and not just about Saint-Aubin.

  After a sleepless night he knew he needed to apologise and then declare their explosive passion a huge mistake. How could he properly do his duty when all his waking thoughts were consumed with her? And, more importantly, how could he protect her to the best of his ability if he was the slightest bit distracted with lust? One heated kiss had already rendered him dumbstruck. Any more would...and that train of thought was definitely best not considered when each time he looked her way his body responded instantly.