Kissed; Christian

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She made quite the charming picture.

  Too charming.

  He frowned.

  He didn’t want her to be refreshingly sincere and guileless. He wanted her to be coy and artificial... so that he could loathe her as he did her father and her brother.

  Christ, why the hell was he doing this?

  There was too much to be dealt with to be engaged in paltry revenge.

  So what if he’d been betrothed to the green-eyed witch? So what if the betrothal had been wrenched from him solely because he’d been disinherited?

  God’s teeth, she wore no petticoat.

  The revelation slammed into him without warning. Desire slid through his veins like warm brandy.

  Provoked by his body’s response to the sight of her, he spurred his mount down the incline, some part of him bent upon spoiling her revelry. He entered the brook without hesitation, his mount’s hooves splashing, churning water, angrily grinding stones beneath the crystalline surface.

  With a gasp of surprise, she spun to face him. “My lord!”

  He arched a brow.

  Her eyes widened in recognition. And then suddenly she was gazing up at him, her expression one of adoration.

  Bloody hell.

  “My lord,” she said again, and her eyes turned liquid. “I cannot believe you’ve come!”

  Christian knew she was addlepated—must be. There was no way she could know who he was, and still look so damned grateful to see him. But then, all she really knew was that her brother had supposedly written him and reinstated the offer of matrimony, only with a lesser dowry. “Of course I came,” he said, “did you think I would not?” Though he didn’t smile to reassure her.

  She shook her head, and actual tears sprang to her eyes.

  Damnation.

  There was no need for her to weep, was there? Taken aback by her unexpected reaction, he scowled, not quite able to tear his gaze away from her liquid green eyes; how singularly beautiful they were. As they had been that day so long ago. They’d haunted him then. Bewitched him still.

  He forced his gaze lower, to her full, sensual lips, and concluded that his business with her brother might not be so unpleasant, after all.

  Quite the contrary. She was possibly one of the fairest women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Not beautiful, precisely, though something about her made him feel she was—those eyes... and those lips that seemed made for kissing.

  She was a bold little thing, he decided. The longer she stared the greater her danger of being soundly and ruthlessly kissed. He was tempted.

  Why postpone the inevitable?

  “My lord,” she said softly, demurely, “I shall forever be in your debt!”

  “Really, m’mselle?” He couldn’t keep himself from baiting her, knowing she couldn’t possibly recognize him and look so damned grateful. “Won’t you tell me just who it is you think I am?”

  She peered up a little anxiously. “Why, Lord... Christian... of course...”

  She sounded so beautifully anxious, so very uncertain, that Christian found himself grinning down at her. “In the flesh,” he confessed, “though how you placed me so quickly after all these years, I shall never know.”

  Why was it he felt suddenly so relieved?

  Pleased, even?

  “How could I ever forget you, my lord?”

  She smiled sweetly, and it pricked at his heart.

  Chapter Three

  Jessie found herself staring unabashedly, regarding Lord Christian’s windblown locks with both fascination and scandalized horror. The truth was that he was not at all the man she recalled. Gone was the genteel boyish quality she remembered, and with it every last pretense of civility.

  Whereas decent men wore dignified headpieces and powder, he wore only his natural dark mane, bound at his nape—and heaven help her, her first impression of the man before her was that he held himself accountable to no one.

  Why had he come?

  It didn’t matter, she told herself.

  The years had changed him much, but all that truly mattered was that he had come to her rescue and she was heartily grateful despite a new tide of misgivings.

  If only he would stop staring at her so...

  “I-I was reading,” she blurted, unsettled by his mercurial eyes.

  “Were you?” The tiniest smile curved his lips. “You certainly appear to be reading,” he said sarcastically, and gazed down pointedly at her bare feet. “Perchance you have a book beneath those pretty little toes of yours?”

  Jessie’s gaze fell to her bare feet.

  Good Lord, she was a ninny hammer!

  Mortification squeezed the breath from her lungs. “Nay, my lord!” she said, her gaze flying back to his. “It’s just that, you see... well, I-I left the book upon the bank!”

  She fanned herself unconsciously. “It was rather hot, you see!”

  Lord, but it was uncomfortably warm of a sudden. Feeling more than a little foolish, she turned at once and began to make her way out of the brook. “I should go!” she declared.

  “Not on my account, I hope.”

  Jessie didn’t stop, couldn’t find the courage to do so; mortified, she continued instead toward the bank.

  “I must confess, I was rather enjoying the sight of your revelry,” he said behind her, and Jessie’s stomach lurched.

  She halted abruptly, turning to peer up at him, a little chafed by his confession.

  Lord, just how long had he stood watching before making his presence known?

  She reminded herself that she needed him and couldn’t afford to offend him. “I must have been woolgathering,” she said, unable to keep the censure from her tone. “I never even heard you approach, my lord.”

  His blue eyes glinted silver and the silence between them lengthened as Jessie scrutinized him.

  He wore a midnight blue riding coat, with immaculate white breeches that clung to his thighs so snugly, they were almost indecent. His waistcoat was blue, and his shirt a crisp white, with frilly cuffs that flared from beneath the sleeves of his coat. To his credit, his stock was neatly tied. And truth to tell, save for the dusty black boots, and his Bohemian hair, he appeared quite respectable, quite patrician, and not at all the nefarious rogue Amos had portrayed him to be.

  And yet there was something about him that was not quite civil...

  Her eyes narrowed as she followed his gaze to her hem—her knotted hem—and she gasped and scrambled to untie the knot in her gown, settling it hastily over her bare limbs, letting the fragile material she’d taken such care with only moments before soak up the brook. To her great misfortune, her mortification escalated.

  Completely at a loss for words now, she lowered her gaze to his boots. She didn’t dare look elsewhere—certainly not up into his too handsome face, for it seemed she was destined to remain apple-cheeked this morn. “My brother would not approve of us here alone,” she said. “I-I should go!” She turned at once to leave.

  “But, m’mselle,” he protested. “It was your brother who suggested I might find you here.”

  Jessie spun to face him, her gaze flying upward in surprise. “Amos?”

  His smile was somewhat cocksure. “Amos, indeed.”

  Jessie tilted her head. “How... very…” Strange she thought, but said, “forthcoming...” It wasn’t her brother’s way at all to abet the foe—and foes they certainly were in the matter of Lord Christian. It seemed her brother was bound and determined that she should wed Lord St. John. And God’s truth, he would condemn her to a fate worse than death with that man! Her proposed intended was a detestable boor—and more, the thought of his hands upon her made her physically ill.

  She was determined to prevail.

  But so was Amos.

  She peered up at Lord Christian, unconvinced.

  “And yet I did get the distinct impression he does not care for me overmuch,” he added offhandedly.

  Jessie choked on the truth of the admission. His gaze was all too knowing, and
she found she couldn’t perpetuate even the tiniest untruth under his scrutiny, not even a wee one for his own benefit.

  Curse Amos and his condescending ways, for the last thing she wished to do was to discourage Lord Christian’s suit. “Perhaps it’s true, my lord,” she confided a little resentfully, “Though I’m certain my brother is harmless.”

  He made some choked sound. “Harmless?”

  “I believe so, my lord.” She couldn’t very well tell him Amos was, in fact, a pantywaist, though she couldn’t have him believing her brother would call him out either.

  He smiled down at her, his eyes glinting. “He had me quivering in my boots this morn, hinting of pistols at dawn.” The gleam in his eyes intensified, and Jessie cast him a dubious glance, for it was impossible to believe the man before her had ever quivered before anything, or anyone.

  Ever.

  He was jesting with her, she thought... though she couldn’t be certain. “Really, my lord,” she countered, “you mustn’t take my brother’s mettle too much to heart. The truth is he trusts no one.” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “He must have determined you were quite harmless, as well, or he would never have directed you here to me, I’m certain.”

  The chit was too trusting by far, Christian decided.

  Didn’t she realize he might have said anything to gain her trust, including the truth?

  Then again, wasn’t that what he wanted? To gain her faith. Certainly it would make his task here go all the easier. Why should he care whether she was easily duped?

  He didn’t, he assured himself.

  His jaw clenched as she lifted her gaze fully to his, and he spied the uncertainty she tried so hard to conceal. It gave him a heavy feeling in his chest. “’Tis only fitting a brother should be mindful of his sister,” he told her. “Not all men are so honorable, you realize?”

  She peered up at him, arching a brow in challenge. “Nor are they all such terrible lechers as my brother would have me believe,” she surprised him by saying.

  Christian lifted a dubious brow.

  “I do not believe they are,” she asserted, and blushed profusely.

  “Really?”

  She nodded, a little less certain now. “Truly,” she persisted.

  He watched her flush creep lower, to the region of her décolletage, and his gaze lingered upon the square-cut neckline of her rose colored gown. Subconsciously her hand fluttered to her throat—an alluring gesture—and he compelled himself not to think of what it might feel like to press his lips to that burning flesh.

  Heaven; it would feel like heaven.

  The only sort of heaven he was ever like to know.

  “Well, I… I really should go,” she declared once more, and again moved toward the bank, backing away slowly, as though she were no longer quite certain whether to flee or to stay, to trust him or nay. He found he didn’t wish her to leave so soon, and so he allowed her the comfort of distance between them.

  He waited until she was seated high upon the bank, beneath the old elm, and was well on her way to replacing her slippers to her feet, and then he spurred his mount after her.

  Chapter Four

  Jessie watched him guardedly as he hobbled his mount, trying to convince herself she really should go. Instead, she sat upon her blanket, berating herself for her foolish fancies. She snatched up her silk stockings, knowing there wasn’t time to don them before he turned from tending his mount, and hid them beneath her dress, keeping an eye to his back, lest he spy her and she be mortified once more.

  “Won’t you. sit?” she asked a little breathlessly, when he turned to face her at last.

  She needed his help, she reminded herself, and wouldn’t get it by scurrying home with her tail tucked between her legs.

  Hidden though they were, she felt her stockings beneath her limbs like smoldering embers against her bare flesh.

  This was no good—this was not right! She prayed fervently he would refuse her, for she seemed to have lost the good sense to ask him to leave.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and sat dutifully upon the blanket beside her. Jessie was both relieved and mortified at once.

  What would she say now?

  Whatever would they speak of?

  He plucked a pale blade to worry between his teeth, and Jessie smiled, fighting the urge to bound to her feet and hie away like a timid schoolgirl.

  God’s truth, but his face was arresting up close—startlingly so, with those deep-set blue eyes. His jaw was thick but lean, his cheekbones high, and against his swarthy coloring, his face was shadowed by a day’s growth of whiskers. Yet it was the intense, fiery burn of his cobalt blue eyes that made her shiver and drew her gaze.

  Propping up a knee, he leaned backward upon one arm and began to suckle the tender blade. Jessie watched him, feeling both encouraged and titillated by his presence when she knew she should be heedful instead.

  She wanted to imagine he’d come for her—her knight in shining armor. She’d always dreamed he would someday. And though she’d never have admitted it to anyone, it had truly distressed her to know that he’d not cared enough to challenge her father’s mandate all those years ago.

  It didn’t matter; he was here now, and there was hope.

  Christian watched as she lifted up a small leather-bound volume, her lips curving in the most damnably tempting smile he’d ever beheld.

  He could scarcely keep himself from wondering at her thoughts as her smile deepened to reveal perfect white teeth. Like rose-blushed porcelain, her cheeks were stained with color, and the long, lustrous strands of her hair were swept up at the sides, arranged to fall in an artful tumble of midnight curls. A few escaped confinement—evidence of her delightful romp in the brook.

  He stared like a besotted youth, and only belatedly came aware of the soft rhythm she tapped upon the small volume she held and his gaze focused upon the book.

  Indirectly the book reminded him of his reason for calling today: her brother’s damnable proposal. The terms of their bargain had been spelled out for him in the library this morning. Ironically, it was there, some five years before, in that very same room, that the old duke had breached yet another contract with him, and that recollection had a rather sobering effect.

  What did he care about some fresh-faced miss?

  Her feelings weren’t his concern.

  She lifted the book to her breast, hugging it shyly, and guilt pricked at him nevertheless. He ignored it, thrusting his damnable conscience away, suffocating it with his anger.

  She smiled gently. “You see, I truly was reading, my lord.” She presented the book as evidence. “Adelard of Bath, Questions on Nature. Do you know the text, by chance?”

  Christian’s brows lifted. “I wasn’t aware it was proper reading material for a young lady,” he said bluntly.

  Her brows drew together. “Why not?” She sounded quite affronted.

  “Have you by chance read them all?” He was convinced she had not. Had she bothered, she’d never have brought up the manuscript at all. She’d more than likely be sitting upon the blasted book—as she was those stockings of hers, hiding them from his scrutiny.

  Her legs were bare.

  His heart quickened at the thought. God, but he felt like a beardless youth with sweaty palms sitting beside his first lover. What the devil ailed him?

  “Not all of them, of course,” she was saying. “Though I’ve never found a one to be improper in the least. In fact,” she informed him pertly, “I find them to be rather clever speculation and very much worth contemplating indeed!”

  “Clever?” Christian suppressed a chuckle, sensing she was perfectly serious. He found, at the moment, that the last thing he wished was to offend her.

  “Yes, of course,” she persisted. “Quite. Such as...”

  She tried for a disaffected tone, but he anticipated the coming challenge. The shrewd little wench was baiting him, he realized.

  “Do you never ponder, my lord, whether b
easts have souls? Or...” She cocked her head coyly. “Why the seats of imagination, reason, and memory are found in the brain? or why the waters of the sea are salty? or why certain rivers are not?”

  She glanced up at him, and seemed encouraged by his interest.

  “Or,” she continued, her tone flippant, “why men get bald in front?” Unable to contain a giggle, she then continued, “Or, for that matter...” Her lips twitched. “It simply boggles the mind to consider why men were not born with horns or other such weapons on their person! Do you not agree, my lord?”

  She graced him with a heart-stopping smile suddenly.

  Dark, sooty lashes framed eyes that fairly glowed with merriment, and the effect was nothing less than stunning. It momentarily snatched Christian’s breath away.

  He chuckled and cleared his throat, struggling in vain to ignore the lust that held him firmly in its grip now. “Are you quite certain we are not, m’mselle?”

  Her brow furrowed softly as she pondered his question.

  God, but she was an innocent.

  “Of course, but how can you know,” he persisted, “whether I, in truth, have no horns, or other such weapons upon my person? I very well might.”

  Once again her blush crept to her bosom.

  His gaze followed, too tempted to resist. “My guess,” he ventured, smiling darkly, “is that you do not.” He lifted his gaze. “Furthermore, my lady scholar, not all of those inquiries in that little book of yours are suitable material for impressionable young women, clever speculation or nay.” By her expression, he surmised she was truly unaware of some of the baser texts within the pages of her book. “Such as,” he added offhandedly, “why women, if they are more frigid than men, are more wanton in desire.”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “I’ve no recollection of that one at all! And you, my lord, are truly debauched to have brought it to my attention!”

  “You think so? I meant only to make a point, ma belle.”

  “Yes! I truly do!” she scolded, coming to her knees, though he noticed she did not get up for fear that he would spy her stockings. “You are quite debased, sirrah!”