The first he understood.
The second he…didn’t.
Kincaid had always enjoyed women. Their gentle voices. Their soft curves. Their silky curls nestled between plump thighs. That enjoyment had led to the loss of his virginity at sixteen when he’d fumbled his way through tupping Betsy Graham in the hayloft above her father’s forge. Not his best performance, but he had always been a quick learner. His past mistresses certainly never had reason to complain. Suffice it to say, Kincaid considered himself to be well versed in passion.
He knew what it felt like.
He knew what to expect.
Yet his attraction to Joanna was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
Even with Lavinia.
When he and Joanna had kissed, it had been almost carnal in nature; raw and pulsing, like a carnivore demanding to be fed. A fitting analogy, seeing as he’d snarled like a wolf when her velvety core had clenched, hot and wet, around his fingers.
On a groan, his head fell back and hit the pillow. What the bollocks was he going to do?
Not think about her, he ordered himself fiercely.
If he didn’t think about her, then he wouldn’t want her. If he didn’t want her, then this war between his head and his heart could finally cease.
It was a sound plan. The best his drunken arse could come up with, at any rate. It even worked…until he fell asleep.
And dreamed only of Joanna.
Chapter Twelve
Joanna smelled the scotch before she entered Kincaid’s office. Woodsy with an underlying hint of peat moss, the scent of it filled her nostrils as soon as she stepped into the foyer. Her brow furrowing, she left her cloak and hat on as she made her way to the door. It was partially ajar, and her brisk knock pushed it all the way open to reveal the usual cluttered disorder. As well as Kincaid, only partially clothed, sprawled on the bed in the corner.
With a gasp, she slammed the door shut. The sound struck the silence like a gunshot, and she cringed when she heard the unmistakable thump of a body striking the floor, followed by a strangled curse.
“Fuck,” Kincaid groaned, his voice muffled by the wood between them. “Sterling, is that you?”
“I’m—I’m afraid not. I am terribly sorry,” Joanna apologized as she hesitantly opened the door. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t realize you were,”—passed out drunk in your office without a shirt on—“indisposed. I can return later, if you’d like.”
“No,” he said, to her immense surprise. “Come in.” Grimacing, he managed to push himself up into a sitting position before he leaned back against the bedrail and covered his face with his hands. “You don’t happen to see a shirt anywhere, do you? And coffee.” Amber eyes shot through with red peeked hopefully at her from between his fingers. “I’d pay a king’s ransom for a cup of coffee.”
Joanna did not see any clothing strewn about, but there was half a cup of coffee on the corner of his desk. “Will this do?” she asked, holding it out to him. “It’s cold. I could make a—”
“It’s fine,” he said, snatching the ceramic mug out of her hand.
She watched, bemused, as Kincaid guzzled the coffee down before staggering to his feet. When he squinted, she immediately guessed what the problem was and began to look for his spectacles. After a brief search, she found the wire-rimmed glasses underneath his pillow.
“Here,” she said. “These should help.”
He accepted the spectacles and slipped them on, then blinked and frowned at her as his gaze refocused. “I…thank you, Miss Thorncroft.” As a ruddy flush began to spread up his neck and into his face, he averted his stare to a spot on the wall several inches above her head. “I apologize that you have to see me like this. It’s inappropriate, and inexcusable. If you’d be so kind as to leave—”
“I am not going anywhere,” she interrupted. This may not have been how she’d planned to begin their day together, but she wasn’t about to let him shoo her away like a pesky fly. For nearly half the night, she’d stayed awake. While Evie slept, her soft snores resonating through the bedroom like the rising and falling of the tide, Joanna’s thoughts had been centered on Kincaid. And what she would do when she saw him in the morning.
Her plan had been to boldly enter his office, command his attention, and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that they were no longer going to ignore each other or what had happened between them.
No more hiding.
No more pretending.
They needed to put their emotions out in the open, and let what would happen…well, happen.
But she couldn’t make any demands of him now. It’d be the equivalent of kicking a sad puppy. A sad, miserable puppy that smelled like scotch and looked as if it wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Which meant that if she wanted him to acknowledge the feelings that she knew existed between them, she would have to be subtle about it.
Unfortunately, subtlety wasn’t exactly her strong point.
“What was that?” she asked when he mumbled something unintelligible.
“Stubborn,” he enunciated clearly. “I said you’re stubborn, Miss Thorncroft.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Kincaid glowered. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“No, oddly enough it never seems to be. Oh, there’s your shirt.” Spying the garment crumpled underneath the bed, she knelt down and picked it up. The shirt smelled of him. Were he not staring at her with daggers in his eyes, she might have been tempted to bury her face in the folds of the soft fabric and inhale his scent.
“I’ll take that,” he said stiffly. With great reluctance, she handed it over and watched, nails digging into her hips, as he quickly dressed himself, his fingers working nimbly to push the buttons into place. But try as he might, he couldn’t secure his right sleeve cuff. After observing him struggle for nearly a minute, she rolled her eyes and stepped forward.
“Let me.” Bending her head in concentration, Joanna easily slid the pewter button through the tiny hole. “There you are, all done.” But she didn’t move away, and neither did Kincaid. Her attention drawn to a long, narrow scar on his wrist that had silvered with age, she gently ran her thumb across the mark.
“What happened?” she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. He stood impossibly still, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only indication he was still breathing.
“I needed to break a window,” he said.
“With your hand?”
“There wasn’t a hammer available.”
“It must have been very painful.” Acting on impulse, she lowered her head and ever-so-gently pressed her lips to the small scar. “There,” she murmured. “All better.”
Above her Kincaid let out a hiss. “Miss Thorncroft.”
“Yes?” she said softly, tilting her chin up. The piercing intensity she saw in the depths of his eyes sent her pulse skittering. Sitting behind his desk with his spectacles and his journal, Kincaid could have easily passed for a mild-mannered professor. But when they were face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, there wasn’t anything the least bit mild about him.
“We swore we wouldn’t do this again,” he said roughly, even as he reached out and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, the back of his fingers brushing along the curved edge.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Her belly quivered in anticipation.
“Maybe you swore,” she said. “But I never make promises I have no intention of keeping.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Joanna…”
It was the first time he’d spoken her first name, and it felt exhilarating to hear it spill from his lips. It felt good. It felt…it felt natural. She wanted to hear him say her name again. And again. She wanted to hear him say it in a shout. She wanted to hear him say it in a whisper. She wanted to hear him say it as his mouth glided along her skin and she came alive beneath his touch.
His eyes still closed, he rested his temple against hers in a g
esture that was achingly vulnerable. “We cannot.”
She was filled with the urge to wrap her arms around him and draw him to her breast. To soothe him as one might a child. Because while his reasons for always yanking away at the last possible moment were still unknown to her, something was clear: Kincaid was in pain. The deep, wrenching pain that only came after a great loss.
Joanna had learned what that pain felt like after her father died. And again, when she’d learned the secrets her parents had kept hidden from her. It was not a burden she wished on anyone. Least of all Kincaid, who may have been gruff and surly on the outside, but whose heart was pure and true. If she could have carried some of the weight, she would have. But to do that, she needed to know what demons haunted him.
“Why?” she asked gently, splaying her hands across his chest. “Why can’t we?”
On ragged breath, he lifted his head. “Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“With everything that’s happened, it is the only thing that does seem right.” She went to cup the side of his face, but he caught her wrist.
“No,” he said hoarsely, dragging her arm away. “I won’t repeat past mistakes.”
“What kind of mistakes?”
His eyes met hers, and the bleakness she saw in his gaze tugged straight at her heart. “The kind I cannot afford to make again.” He released her arm, stepped away, and raked his hands through his hair, fingers disappearing in the tangled locks of brown. “Miss Thorncroft, I’d like you to leave. We can reconvene on the morrow.”
And they were back to Miss Thorncroft again.
How utterly disappointing.
“I am not going anywhere.” Marching briskly across the room, she poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the edge of his desk. “You are going to drink this, I am going to make fresh coffee, and then we are going to go about our day as usual. You may not want me here. But I’ve a job to do, and so do you.”
If Kincaid refused to kiss her (and he called her the stubborn one), then the least he could do was honor their agreement. Which meant until their trial period expired or the ring was found, she was to stay on as his secretary. A position she could hardly fulfill if she wasn’t in his office.
Subtlety, she reminded herself as she thrust the glass at him. Subtlety…and patience. Just because Kincaid wasn’t ready to admit his feelings for her didn’t mean he did not have them. They were there. She was sure of it. As sure of anything she’d ever been in her life.
And maybe she was impulsive, to want an affair. Maybe she was even foolish.
But she was also determined.
Because of Kincaid, she knew what it felt like to be aroused. To be wanted. To be desired. And she wasn’t going to just give all that up and return to her humdrum courtships with suitors like Charles Gaines.
No matter how perfectly practical they were.
“You’re an exceedingly difficult woman, Miss Thorncroft,” said Kincaid darkly as he accepted the water.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” The corners of his eyes crinkling, he brought the glass to his lips.
If Joanna didn’t know any better, she’d think he was actually grinning.
“I’ll start the coffee.” As she left the room, she could feel his eyes burning a hole in her backside with every step she took. A small, catlike smile teasing her mouth, she gave an extra tilt of her hips as she went through the doorway and all but heard him groan.
Her smile widened.
Poor handsome, emotionally aloof detective.
He really didn’t stand a chance.
*
Joanna worked through the morning, sorting through piles of old missives and bills, while Kincaid tallied numbers and wrote letters. They were quiet, but it was a comfortable sort of silence, and more than once she glanced up to discover Kincaid staring at her, his gaze oddly contemplative.
Shortly after lunch—buttered bread, thin slices of leftover roasted mutton, and cold pudding—which they ate together in the sparsely decorated dining room, Kincaid put on his long jacket and hat and reached for his journal.
“I have a call to make,” he said brusquely. “You can finish what you’re doing and see yourself out. I don’t have anything else for you to do today.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He gave the curved brim of his bowler an absent tug. “To question the staff in a case I’ve agreed to take on for a personal friend. I should not be long, but I wouldn’t want you to wait for me to return. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
She really didn’t, which was why she hastily grabbed her burgundy frock coat and followed after him. Wherever Kincaid was going, that was where she wanted to be. Mostly because she found herself perpetually drawn to him, and a little bit because she wanted to see what Kincaid’s job consisted of when he wasn’t behind his desk. Compared to alphabetizing paperwork, questioning servants sounded downright thrilling.
Not shockingly, Kincaid was less than pleased.
“What are you doing, Miss Thorncroft?” he asked when she caught up to him on the front path after giving James a farewell scratch behind his ears and a tiny piece of leftover mutton.
“Accompanying you,” she replied cheerfully before she preceded him through the gate and onto the sidewalk. A light breeze stirred the air, teasing the tiny wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. She had “forgotten” her bonnet in the office, and no inclination to retrieve it. Evie was adamant that too much sun stained the skin with freckles, but Joanna rather liked the tiny collection of dots across her nose and cheeks.
“I do not recall extending you an invitation,” Kincaid said, casting her an irate glare over his shoulder as he secured the gate.
“Which is why I invited myself. I am your secretary.” She knew it was naughty of her, but Joanna did so enjoy annoying him. She loved the way his eyes flashed when he was angry, revealing tiny fragments of gold in the irises that only appeared when his temper ran high. She loved the way he ran his hands through his hair, leaving the ends disheveled. And she especially loved the heated way he stared at her, as if he didn’t know whether he wanted to strangle her…or kiss her.
“No,” he said flatly. “Out of the question.”
“I won’t get in the way,” she said, batting her lashes. Flirting may have been a foreign concept but, in this battle of wiles and wits, there was no weapon she wasn’t willing to try. “I won’t even say a word.”
Kincaid snorted. “I find that hard to believe.”
“All right, maybe a few words,” she allowed. “But I truly believe I’d be very useful.”
“And how is that?” he asked, not bothering to disguise his skepticism.
She lifted her chin. “For your information, I am an excellent judge of character.”
“An excellent judge of character,” he repeated.
“Indeed. For example, even though you act like a gruff, growly bear, I know that, deep down, you are a good, honest man. I also know that you always strive to do the right thing, even when that means taking on the case of an American who cannot afford to pay you a penny.”
The gruff, growly bear frowned at her. “A decision which I am beginning to seriously reconsider.”
“And,” she continued, nonplussed by his surliness, “I know that you are far more enamored of that penniless American than you let on. In fact, I think you might even like her. Very much. You’re simply afraid to admit it.”
His jaw clenched. “I can assure you I am enamored of no one, Miss Thorncroft.”
Joanna leaned in close. “It’s all right,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t tell.”
He glowered at her.
She grinned at him.
“Very well,” he said at last. “You may accompany me—”
“Splendid!”
“—if you can remain quiet and keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“That should not be a problem.” Her head tilted. “Although, what if�
�”
“No.”
“But I might have a—”
“No.”
“What if they talk to—”
“No.”
She huffed out a breath. “Fine. I’ll hold my tongue and stand in the corner, just like a well-behaved lady should.”
“You’re many things, Miss Thorncroft,” he said wryly. “Well-behaved isn’t one of them.”
“Thank you.”
He stared at her for a moment, his amber gaze impossible to read. Then he held out his arm. “You’re welcome.”
Side by side, the penniless American and the growly bear set off down the sidewalk.
Chapter Thirteen
Their destination was Mayfair, a district in West London that bordered Hyde Park. Predominately comprised of tree-lined streets and brick townhouses, it was an affluent area for those who could not afford Grosvenor Square, but were far wealthier than the poor souls condemned to the rookeries in the East End.
Kincaid led the way to a home with a blue door. Tall and narrow, its walkway was in need of a good sweeping and the mortar between the bricks was beginning to crumble but, otherwise, it was in fair condition, discernable from the other houses only by the color of its entrance.
He knocked, then glanced at Joanna out of the corners of his eyes. “Remember, you are—”
“Not even here,” she said sweetly.
“Why are you being so agreeable?” Suspicion flickered in his gaze. “What are you planning?”
“Why do I have to be planning something?” Their walk, while not long, had been brisk, and she was beginning to perspire beneath the weight of her coat. Shrugging out of the garment, she laid it over her arms and regarded Kincaid with an innocent smile. “You needn’t worry. I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior.”
His expression darkened. “That’s exactly what worries me.”
Joanna made a scoffing noise. “You hate me when I don’t listen, and you hate me when I do. You’ve placed me at a severe disadvantage, Kincaid.”
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 17
