There would be endless hours exploring each other’s bodies. He already knew Nicola was finely made, her figure trim. Jack longed to see her golden hair unbound and brushing her bottom. Her blue eyes would widen in marvel as he admired every inch of her with his tongue.
Blast. He could be having an Anglicized version of all this right upstairs in her cottage, minus the champagne. She had invited him, and he’d refused like the honorable fool he was.
Now she knew his reasons for his quasi-celibacy, and her initial shock seemed to have subsided. Apparently, she didn’t hate him for it—no one could miss the affection in her touch or the level gaze she gave him.
He captured her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one. She shivered, and he brought her closer, putting the basket down on the kitchen table so he could hold her. She fit perfectly against him, as she always did. When she was this near, it was as if a calm, warm cloud descended and enfolded them both. He didn’t really understand the effect she had on him, but he wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Not that Nicola was any sort of horse. Her face was delicate perfection, with a short straight nose, no trace of any equine tendencies. She did have a certain sturdiness, though. She was, for want of a better word, plucky. She had to be in order to cope with what she was going through. Nicola wasn’t steeped in sadness or self-pity, as he was.
Ah, she was lovely. She’d tucked a sprig of holly in her chignon, and she smelled as fresh as new-fallen snow. He placed his lips on her forehead and wished—
For what, exactly? Time standing still might work. Jack could hold her up against him as long as he wanted and no one would interrupt them. No disapproving Mrs. Grace. No useless sessions with well-meaning vicars and doctors.
In his fantasy, Nicola’s silence would simply be the result of total relaxation in his arms. Words were unnecessary when one felt whole like this, superfluous, really. What could a muttered sentence accomplish better than their arms and lips?
It was inevitable that he move from her smooth brow to her pert nose. He gave her a friendly nuzzle, then went lower still. Her lips lay open in wait. She was smiling slightly in anticipation, her eyes closed.
Jack was only kissing her good-bye, as a good friend. A very good friend. That earlier handshake was most inadequate. Anyone could shake hands—as a man in business he was forever pumping someone’s paw. But kissing Nicola was special, even if he would limit himself to a kiss.
Limits had their obvious drawbacks. Kissing was fabulous, but Jack wanted so much more. Physical contact would be very welcome. The mythical Parisian hotel suite was becoming real in Jack’s mind again, a private place for them to escape, to lie naked amongst satin pillows and fine linen sheets. Nicola’s dress would vanish and her soft pale skin would tempt him utterly. He might be so swept away that for once his overactive brain would stop bothering him and he would simply treasure the moment.
Treasure her.
Back in Puddling reality, it was just a kiss. But a long one, designed to tease and torment. Who was in charge of the teasing and tormenting was debatable. Nicola was giving as good as she was getting, and Jack felt the hot flush of lust from his scalp to the base of his spine. She had smoothed herself against him, imprinting her luscious form on his, her fingertips still at his jaw holding him in place.
Jack had no intention of moving away from this delicious agony. How long could one kiss and still remain upright? He didn’t think he had the wits to count the seconds, and he counted everything. His traitorous knees longed to collapse and take the rest of him to the stone floor. If they gave out, hopefully Nicola would follow and not hurt herself. He could cushion her fall and continue this bliss. It would be a sin to stop in a search for icepacks or plasters.
But a hard kitchen floor was not the ideal setting for seduction. Jack reminded himself he was not engaged in anything more than a kiss, anyhow; it was the bargain he’d made with his overburdened conscience. He was not going to take an innocent virgin to bed, no matter how tempting her offer.
He would just kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.
A score of kisses rippled into each other like the patterns of a kaleidoscope, blossoming into something beyond Jack’s comprehension. He was dazzled. Dizzy. Damn his knees and his principles.
Why couldn’t he kiss her to give her the ultimate pleasure? Nicola would retain the virtue she was in such a hurry to dispose of, and no harm would be done. He wasn’t worthy, but he could let her know how much he valued her friendship.
The basket would have to go before its contents were spilled. He half opened an eye and reached for it.
Nicola noticed his altered position. Unfortunately her hands came down on his shoulders as she drew away. Too far away. No more lovely lips. No more elegantly twisting tongue.
What are you doing? she wrote, panting a bit. Surely you aren’t still hungry.
“Oh, but I am.” Jack tucked the basket beneath the table, and in one swoop placed her on the clean pine surface. She looked alarmed, but he would remedy that shortly.
“I am flattered—honored—that you asked me to be your lover,” Jack said, his voice rough. “You know now why that’s impossible.”
She lifted her eyes to the beamed ceiling and shrugged.
“Allow me to be a gentleman here, resisting your very considerable charms. But I have thought of an alternate activity that should suit you nicely.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You can trust me on this. I promise you will be happy.”
She gave him a puzzled look, then nodded.
Was it best to plunge ahead without explanation? No. He would soothe her with well-chosen words. If he could think of some. The activity he had planned would sound odd—shocking—to an innocent, no matter how he couched the description of what was to come.
He pulled a kitchen chair in front of her and sat down. He was now at the perfect level. Maybe he should loosen his tie; he was feeling choked and hot already. For a second he contemplated carrying her upstairs to her bedroom, but he might not be depended upon to behave himself once he got there. It was best to be a little uncomfortable—her enjoyment was paramount.
Jack put his hands on Nicola’s knees and looked up into her clear blue eyes. The fabric of her deep red dress was good quality, but it was a nuisance at present.
“Do not be embarrassed, or think what I’m about to do is in any way…strange or unpleasant between two people who care about each other.” He put the idea of Nicola doing the same to him firmly out of his mind before he disgraced himself.
“I am going to do something to your body that you might not know about. Don’t be afraid. This will not hurt.”
The only one apt to be injured was Jack. He hoped Nicola wouldn’t kick him in the head when she came.
Chapter 15
Nicola had never sat on top of a kitchen table before. In fact, until she’d come to Puddling, she’d never spent much time in any kitchen. She knew how to manage domestic staff, of course, following her exacting mother’s instructions to the letter. Now that Nicola took care of her own evening meal—at least heating it up—she was becoming somewhat proficient in all a kitchen’s nooks and crannies, even if she murdered carrots in the peeling. She’d been very proud putting out today’s Christmas lunch.
She gazed down at Jack, whose hands had taken ownership of her knees. They were broad, capable-looking, with visible traces of the labor he’d exerted on the new cottage over the past few days.
The expression on his face was peculiar. He said he wasn’t going to hurt her. Perhaps he was about to massage her limbs. She’d tried all that in a fancy hydrotherapy spa in Scotland in one of her ill-fated efforts to reclaim her voice. There had been a terrifying Swedish masseuse who had pummeled her into oblivion but still silence. Nicola almost picked up her notebook to write that there wouldn’t be any point.
No. It might feel very p
leasant having Jack touch her, much nicer than the scary woman who had been so rough. She sat still and waited.
Inch by inch, Jack lifted her skirt, bunching the fabric between his thumb and fingers. Nicola couldn’t object—she’d wanted to strip naked earlier. She kept her legs still as the material pooled into her lap. Her petticoats had come along with it, so now her white silk stockings and their ribboned garters were exposed.
“You have beautiful legs.”
They worked anyway, now that her ankle had more or less mended. She might even do a cancan, holding up her dress. But without speech, she couldn’t joke. Her notebook was quite far away, and anyway, her hands were keeping her upright, making writing impossible.
He slid over the silk, making Nicola want to wiggle out of her shoes. She shut her eyes, focusing on his touch. Back and forth. Up and down. She was simultaneously relaxing and getting rather perturbed. An odd sensation pooled in her belly, and she had an urge to…do something.
He spread her knees, and she felt a jolt of concern. He was talking very quietly, almost whispering. She couldn’t hear him over the sudden drumbeat in her ears, but could feel his bursts of breath against her bare skin.
She opened her eyes. The top of his head was still, his hair thick and dark, with plenty of natural curl. Nicola could touch it if only her hands would stop gripping the edge of the table. She was afraid if she let go, she’d tumble off in a puddle of sharp need and land on the stone floor. Something was just beyond her ken, but she wasn’t at all sure what it was.
He moved forward and kissed her inner thigh, almost causing her to loosen her hold. Oh my. He held her flesh between his teeth gently for a few tortuous seconds, then moved up.
And up.
Nicola’s mind went perfectly blank. Jack’s hot mouth, his tongue, his fingers, were performing an act she had no name for, right at her very core. Oh, one could call it a kind of kiss, she supposed, but it was more. She should be appalled at the wicked sensation and the oh-so-vulnerable position.
That would require organized thought, a skill she was presently lacking.
His tongue was sweeping inside her with both force and delicacy, his hands parting her folds to make her open to his ministrations. She felt herself thrusting, blooming toward him, wanting that elusive thing she had sensed that was approaching all too slowly.
Jack knew what she needed and where to seek it. The stuttering ripples made their way into her blood, causing even her scalp to tingle. He tugged and teased her inner flesh with his lips, using his gentle fingers to stroke a path to her rising pleasure.
And then he kissed and pressed a place that resulted in her sharp cry. It was too much. Hot bursts shot through her body, one after another, like a dazzling meteor shower.
He stopped at once.
No! But the word was trapped on her useless tongue and came out as a ragged moan.
“Nicola, my darling! Did you hear yourself?”
She nodded, frantic. She’d heard, but that was not the sense she cared about at present. Now was not the time to begin a conversation. She grabbed his face, trying to make him return to his earlier task. She wanted more. Wanted more of whatever this was.
Wanted it right now.
“So, I can assume you like this, yes?” He gave her a rakish grin.
Shut up and finish. She was shaking too much to write it down, but surely he could read her mind. He had read her body so well.
“All right, all right. Greedy puss.” He buried himself between her legs and continued his assault on her wits and womanhood. The meteor showers returned behind her eyelids, light and heat coursed through her limbs.
He was wrong—this was hurting. Her legs stiffened in exquisite pain, her spine arching. She was going to break apart and fall from a very high distance, too high for a spinster from Bath.
Just when she thought she couldn’t bear anymore of his touches, she was tossed to heaven. Jack caught her as she came back to earth, leaping up from his chair to hold her in a fierce embrace. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she wanted to laugh.
And did.
She was stunned to silence again by the sound.
Jack squeezed her tighter. “Listen to yourself, you beautiful girl. You’ve made the most glorious sound in the world.”
But that single short moment of laughter was all she could manage. No further noises spilled out as she clung to her lover. She had a lover! That went a long way in making up for the fact she was still mute.
But not half so miserable as she used to be. Her body was alive—on fire!—and her mind might eventually follow to some semblance of coherence.
Jack took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her face with tenderness. “Are you all right?”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling beam overhead. He must know the answer to that. She cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Yes, I know. It’s sad. I want compliments. Confirmation. One cannot help it if one is a man. We are very sensitive beneath all our bluff and bluster and need constant assurances of our proficiency.”
He’d been proficient all right. Nicola drew his face down for a kiss, then flushed at the memory of where those lips had been. She’d been so very ignorant, but Jack was an accomplished teacher of what she would have deemed to be impossible. Unthinkable.
Well, obviously someone had thought of it, but had never told her. This wanton activity certainly had not been included in all her mother’s subtle discussions about courtship and the eventual marriage bed when she was engaged to Richard.
Where had Jack learned to do such a thing? She decided she never wanted to know, discovering a possessive, jealous streak that had heretofore been absent. As far as she was concerned, she never wanted him to kiss another woman like that ever.
Nicola hadn’t the right to place such restrictions upon him. In a couple of weeks, he’d be gone from Puddling and out of her life. Her eyes filled again, and his handsome face blurred.
“What? No tears, sweetheart. I want to hear you laugh again. And kiss you.”
There was such comfort in his voice. In his presence. Nicola felt safe in his arms, treasured, despite the fact he posed a very real danger to her heart.
She was falling in love with him. Hell, she’d already fallen.
And was making a great mess, weeping into his jacket. She’d known Jack all of twelve days. She’d known Richard over twelve years and he’d never made her cry, not even when he broke their engagement.
Jack wasn’t making her cry—her own frustration and confusion was. Nicola needed to pull herself together, retain her senses. She was known for being level-headed.
And perhaps a little prim.
She didn’t feel at all prim now. Looking up into Jack’s concerned face, she kissed him with every pent-up emotion she had, every blocked word, every year of useless innocence. She tasted wickedness and want and hope.
The kiss lasted as long as she could make it do so. But eventually she realized she was sliding off the kitchen table to her doom. He caught her and settled her, his hands firm against her suddenly much-too-tight corset, stepping back, his lips reddened.
“I’ve got to go home. To Tulip, I mean. If I stay any longer, I’ll forget why I shouldn’t.”
Nicola didn’t want him to go, but knew he was right.
For now.
Chapter 16
December 26, 1882
Boxing Day. If Jack had been in either of his houses, he’d be doling out gifts to tradesmen and servants. His secretary, Ezra Clarke, was taking care of all that for him this year. He’d had the opportunity to think ahead and write a great many instructions when Nicola passed his secret missives on.
Where was Nicola’s Christmas present? The real one he’d tasked Clarke to obtain, not the misshapen bush that had been forgotten after their amazing encounter on the kitchen table.
Ha. A kitchen table. Jack was losing his finesse. He’d been accused of many things by women, being a distractable sort of fellow, but inattention to a lady’s pleasure and comfort had never been one of them until recently.
It had been a reckless thing to take her as he’d done, but he couldn’t regret it. He’d heard Nicola laugh. The sound had been pure joy, better than the beautiful music that flowed from her elegant fingers.
She was altogether a remarkable woman, which is why he had to be careful. Take things slowly. He was as fractured as could be, still sleepless, still weighted down with misery, even after last night. Perhaps more so, for he’d taken advantage of Nicola’s hospitality in the most brazen way. Jack might not feel regret, but some shame had woken up with him this morning.
Nothing more could come of their relationship, at least for the immediate future. He needed to shape himself up, get whole, although how he was going to do that remained to be seen after so damn many months of inertia. Jack was stuck in a deep groove, treading over familiar territory day after day and night after night. He was boring himself witless waiting for the hopeless tangle to give inside him.
His elusive cure surely wasn’t accomplished after the nice old vicar’s visit early this morning. True, Reverend Fitzmartin was a calming, sympathetic presence—one got the feeling he’d seen a lot in his many years serving the Lord all over Great Britain, and did not sit in towering judgment. He was a recent arrival to Puddling, but seemed well-versed in its philosophy and gentle perseverance.
Maybe that was part of Jack’s problem. Everyone had been so forgiving—his mother, his solicitors, even the victims who had been so overcome after his generosity that they wept onto his shoulder and thanked him. Thanked him! For upending their lives and livelihoods. For putting them in peril. Even the families of the two dead men accepted their fate and were grateful for the remuneration.
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 10
