In the worst way, just like she wanted. "Yes," she breathed. God help her, she said, "Yes, please kiss me."
And he did. His mouth crossed that last little space and settled on hers, and he proceeded to kiss her senseless. Positively senseless. The cards fluttered from her hand to the floor. Her senses began swirling, whirling, as she parted her lips and invited him in. His tongue swept her mouth, and she ached, positively ached, in her throat and her heart and, most curiously, in a place between her legs.
Still kissing her, he managed to maneuver her sideways onto his lap. She sighed and leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his neck, kissing him, kissing him. "I want to kiss you here," he whispered, trailing little kisses down her throat on his way to her cleavage. "I want to kiss you here, in the worst way."
Loving it, loving him, she tilted her head back to give him better access. And then his mouth was on a breast like she'd wanted, first kissing her through her chemise and then under it. He opened his mouth and drew in the crest, and dear heavens, it felt marvelous. Like a wanton, she arched her back, offering her breasts, offering herself, hoping he'd keep kissing them and do even more.
What she meant by more, she wasn't sure, but that curious ache between her legs was growing stronger. Stronger and hotter, more insistent. Dear heavens, she loved him. She knew she couldn't, knew she shouldn't, but she loved him nonetheless. And when he began caressing her, stroking her waist, her hips, her thighs, God knew she loved that, too.
And then his hand was underneath her dress, and he was stroking her thighs some more. Kissing her breasts and stroking her thighs, making her head swim. Making her heart pound and her breath come in little gasps. He abandoned her breast to recapture her lips, and her senses were spinning out of control. He was kissing her, stroking her, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and that curious ache between her legs was growing insistent to the point of being unbearable.
And then his hand skimmed the curls that guarded that ache, lightly, lightly, and he broke the kiss.
"Can I touch you here, Juliana? Can I touch you here?"
Dear heavens, why was he asking? She was gasping so quickly she could barely breathe, let alone talk. The ache was becoming so exquisite it seemed to be robbing her of speech.
She managed to nod, and he captured her mouth again, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance while his fingers danced below, parting her thighs and finally, finally touching her where she ached. A gentle slide of his fingers, just once, because once was all it took. He found a spot so sweet it made the breath catch in her throat, and she tumbled over a precipice, swirling, whirling, falling into pleasure fiercer than she'd ever known.
He kissed her and kissed her while she calmed, and then he kissed her again, and her head began to clear.
Dear heavens, what had she done? What had she allowed him to do? He was supposed to marry Amanda. He had to marry Amanda, or Aunt Frances would be devastated. He'd touched her in a place he should touch only Amanda, and even that only after they were married. And she'd not only let him touch her—she'd all but asked. Or rather, he'd asked her, but she hadn't hesitated to allow it. She'd nodded and kissed him, all but begging him to touch her where no man had touched her before.
She was appalled at herself. Absolutely, positively appalled. She'd wanted him to kiss her in the worst way, and she'd wanted him to touch her in the worst way, and it really had been the worst way.
He shifted her on his lap. "Are you all right, Juliana?" He lifted her chin, meeting her gaze. "Your eyes are blue," he whispered, sounding pleased. "Deep, deep blue."
She didn't want him pleased with her. He needed to be pleased with Amanda. "Obviously it's getting too dark for you to see," she snapped. "My eyes are hazel."
He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and then he kissed her again. And she let him, which made her feel better and worse all at the same time.
"It is getting dark," he finally admitted, sounding much too regretful. "We need to go find the others before the garden's gates are locked."
She slid off his lap, and he raised her chemise and bodice with gentle fingers, and then he turned her around and buttoned her dress. And tucked in the dratted, too-straight hair that had slipped from its pins. And buttoned his two buttons and shrugged into his tailcoat and knotted his neckcloth in place, haphazardly as usual. And she reached to straighten it, unable to help herself, even though she knew she shouldn't. And she let him kiss her again, a little sweet kiss that doubtless meant nothing to him but meant much too much to her.
She had to remember he would never love her. He was only kissing and touching her because they were friends and he wanted a child. He needed to become friends with Amanda instead.
She couldn't let him kiss her again after this. Or touch her again. Ever.
He gathered the cards from the table and the floor and slipped the deck back into his pocket, and then they left the greenhouse and went back to the middle of the garden where everyone else was waiting.
Aunt Frances had obviously been kissing Lord Malmsey; in the dim light of the setting sun, they both looked happy and flushed. Aunt Frances had finished packing up the basket, and Lord Malmsey had folded the blanket. He was holding it over his arm.
Naturally, the duke and Amanda had done nothing. The two of them were much too aristocratic to do the work of servants. And of course they hadn't kissed. Neither of them was flushed. No doubt Amanda had gone off with the duke purposely, specifically to avoid being kissed by James.
So Juliana had been kissed instead. And touched instead. And she very much feared she was flushed. She was appalled at herself.
It wouldn't happen again, she reminded herself fiercely. She would never again play cards with James.
"Where have you been?" Amanda asked. "David and I have been looking all over for you."
For a moment, Juliana felt puzzled, but then she remembered the duke's name was David. How could she have forgotten the name of the man she expected to marry? And when had Amanda—proper, reserved Amanda—begun calling the duke by his given name? She expected to marry James, and she was still calling him Lord Stafford.
Nothing was right tonight. Nothing. Nothing was going well; nothing was happening as planned.
Her stomach hurt.
"We were playing cards," James explained, pulling the deck out of his pocket to prove it. "All of you went off, so we decided to go in the greenhouse where it was warm and play cards."
Nobody looked suspicious. Apparently it was a reasonable explanation. Nobody, after all—most especially nobody as innocent as Frances and Amanda—would think playing cards could possibly lead to what had happened tonight.
But although that was a relief, Juliana's stomach still hurt. She had to fix everything. Somehow, some way, she had to get James together with Amanda.
"I'm going to the Pevenseys' tomorrow night," she said as they all started walking toward the Stafford carriage. "For a musical evening. I hope you'll all want to come."
What she would do when they got there, how she would get James together with Amanda, she hadn't a clue. But just getting them there would be a start.
"I would love to attend a musical evening," Aunt Frances said as she climbed in.
"I would love to attend, too," Lord Malmsey agreed, following her.
"So would I," Amanda said and climbed in next, sitting across from them.
Juliana's stomachache began to ease. She climbed in herself, taking the opposite end of the seat from Amanda in order to leave space in the middle for James. She gestured to the duke, indicating the spot across from her. "I hope you'll come, too."
"Much as I would be delighted to spend the evening with you, my dear, I think I should go to Parliament," he said as he took the place by Amanda.
How annoying. How absolutely annoying. He was supposed to sit across from her and leave the space by Amanda for James. "I should think you would prefer to attend a musical evening," she said rather peevishly.
"I abhor musical evenings,"
he said, not peevishly in the least. And then he smiled down at her apologetically, and she realized he wasn't sitting in the space by Amanda, he was sitting in the space by her. Rather close, as a matter of fact, so she probably shouldn't be so annoyed.
He was falling in love with her. He called her my dear and sent her flowers. He needed her, and this close proximity would allow her to finally start teaching him to be affectionate. She scooted a little closer, so they'd be touching.
And that was when she realized she couldn't marry him.
She wasn't going to be a duchess.
They were touching, but she didn't find it the least bit enjoyable. She couldn't even imagine letting him touch her the way James had in the greenhouse. Now that she knew what love felt like, she knew she would never have those feelings for the duke.
She felt terrible. The duke was so nice, and he was falling in love with her, but she couldn't love him back. He'd suffered hurt and rejection throughout his childhood, and now she was going to reject him again. How could she tell him? How could she cast him aside without destroying him completely?
And what about Griffin? Poor Griffin. He was going to be so disappointed; he was going to have to start looking for a husband for her again. She obviously wouldn't be marrying this season—it would probably be another year at least. How was she going to tell Griffin?
James climbed in. "I abhor musical evenings, too," he said as a footman shut the door. He took the place across from her and settled back, his legs so long his knees touched hers. How annoying when she was immersed in trying to figure out a gentle way to break this distressing news to her brother and the duke.
James smiled at her as though he could tell she was annoyed. As though he enjoyed annoying her. "No man worth his salt would choose a musical evening over Parliament," he informed her.
"A Roman proverb!" Amanda exclaimed.
"It is not!" Juliana snapped.
"It is," Amanda said reasonably, sounding very bookish. "It alludes to the practice of paying Roman soldiers with rations of salt. Our English word salary comes from the Latin word salarium, which means salt money."
"She's right," the duke said. "'A man worth his salt' has been a proverb for centuries."
Obviously he was bookish, too. How absolutely annoying.
THIRTY-SIX
LORD MALMSEY was the youngest man at the Pevensey residence.
"Where is everyone?" Amanda asked.
A rather inane question, considering the Pevenseys' drawing room was teeming with people. But all of them—save Lord Malmsey and a few doddering old men—were female. Remembering the way James and the duke had reacted to her invitation last night, Juliana sighed. "I collect most gentlemen would prefer to sit through Parliament than an evening of music."
"Except for Lord Malmsey," Amanda said.
"If it weren't for Aunt Frances, he'd probably be at Parliament, too." Indeed, Lord Malmsey had made a beeline for Frances the moment they'd walked in the door. The two of them were off in a corner, whispering, even now.
Whispering endearments, no doubt. Lord Malmsey was looking more and more in love—and more miserable that he had to marry Amanda—every day. Juliana wished more than ever that Lord Malmsey could cry off the wedding, but wishing didn't change the facts. It just wasn't possible, not if he ever wanted to show his face in society again.
Amanda clutched Juliana's arm. "I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"My father," she said, looking even more miserable than Lord Malmsey.
If Frances knew Lord Malmsey was engaged, she'd look more miserable than both of them put together. Juliana's projects all seemed to be falling apart. She still hadn't figured out how to break the news to the duke or her brother. "What about your father?" she asked Amanda.
But before Amanda could answer, Lady Stafford waltzed up. "Good evening, Lady Juliana!" All smiles in contrast to everyone else, James's mother was accompanied by Lord Cavanaugh, who, while older than Lord Malmsey, at least wasn't in his dotage. "It's a pleasure to see you here."
"I adore music," Juliana said. "I was pleased to receive an invitation to Lady Pevensey's musical evening."
"This is your first season, isn't it?" Lord Cavanaugh asked dryly.
"Oh, hush," Lady Stafford said. "Lady Pevensey's musical evenings are always enchanting." She turned back to Juliana. "Are you attending Lady Hartley's breakfast on Sunday?"
"I haven't decided. I'm supposed to have a sewing party."
"Oh, you must attend—it's the event of the season. Everyone will be there."
"Including your sisters?"
"Without a doubt. I must tell you, my sisters are thoroughly enjoying your sewing parties. They haven't called on my son for an examination in two entire days."
"I have only four sewing parties left before the baby clothes are due." Three if she went to Lady Hartley's breakfast, which she might as well do if no one would be available to attend her sewing party anyway. "I told Lord Stafford his aunts would have less time to ponder their health if gentlemen were courting them, but he said they wouldn't be interested."
Lady Stafford flashed Lord Cavanaugh, who was courting her, a fond smile. "My sisters are older and set in their ways."
"I believe they're bored and need something to do. Something to get them out of their house after my sewing project is complete."
"Perhaps you're right, dear. They've been helping me renovate one of Stafford House's bedrooms, but that will be finished soon, too. I cannot imagine what else to suggest to occupy them after that. I've tried to talk them into redecorating their own house, but they won't hear of it."
Standing on the temporary stage she'd had erected in her drawing room, Lady Pevensey clapped her hands. "If you'll all take your seats, we're ready to begin!"
"I shall think about your sisters," Juliana promised Lady Stafford before turning to find a seat. "There must be something they would find diverting."
Frances and Lord Malmsey had seated themselves in the last row, so she headed toward the front in order to give them some privacy. After this afternoon's party, she had a hundred and fifty-seven baby items completed, which meant she needed eighty-three more. That hadn't seemed an impossible task, with four parties remaining—slightly more than twenty items per party. Perfectly reasonable, especially if she made a few by herself in between. But with only three parties…
"We need to talk." As she slid onto a first-row chair, Amanda grabbed her arm. "We cannot talk in the front, right in the faces of the musicians."
Juliana didn't want to talk; she wanted to listen. Though she normally spent hours playing the harp, all her projects had left her scant time for any music of late. But her friend looked panicked. "Very well," she said, walking around to take a chair in a middle row. "What do you need to tell me about your father?"
Amanda took the chair beside her. "I've received word that he'll be arriving in three days. Early Sunday evening." She clutched her hands together in her lap, perhaps to keep them from trembling. "He's coming to see to the final details of my wedding."
Juliana patted her on the arm. "We still have time—"
"No, we don't! It's scheduled for a week from Saturday, and—"
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lady Pevensey announced, "I'm honored to introduce our first guest musicians. Miss Harriet Kent will perform Mozart's Sonata in C Major on the pianoforte, accompanied by her sister, Miss Hillary Kent, on the violin."
The room fell silent while the Kent sisters minced their way to the stage.
"A week from Saturday," Amanda repeated, "and—"
"Shh!" someone hissed behind them.
Juliana laid a hand over Amanda's clenched ones. "Wait," she whispered.
Her friend waited, tense as the younger Miss Kent's bowstrings. When the lively notes of the first movement filled the air, she wasted no time before resuming their conversation in a lower tone. "My wedding is a week from Saturday. My time is running out. I need James to compromise me—I must try again
to trick him."
"You must not!"
"Shh!" someone else hissed.
"You must not," Juliana repeated in a whisper. "That would be unethical and dishonest. We shouldn't have tried it the first time, and I won't try it again."
"We have no choice!"
"Shh!"
"Shh!"
"Shh!"
Juliana twisted in her chair to glance behind her. Several people were glaring. All women. A couple of the aging men were already nodding off. "Hush," she murmured, turning back to Amanda. "Of course you have a choice. You can choose to act warmly towards James. Once you become friends, he'll propose to you and agree to the compromise."
She was beginning to think it would never happen. Or maybe she was beginning to hope it would never happen. Because James would have to kiss Amanda before he proposed to her, and even though Juliana couldn't marry him, the thought of James kissing anyone but herself—let alone touching anyone the way he'd touched her—made her stomach hurt.
She leaned closer. "I have an idea," she whispered in desperation. She knew her friend would refuse. But she'd feel much better about abandoning the duke if she could offer a replacement, and Amanda didn't seem to want to kiss James anyway. "Would you like to marry the duke?"
"No!" Amanda looked horrified. "I told you I would never marry a by-blow!"
Whispers broke out behind them, and a few more people hissed "Shh!"
Juliana wished Amanda hadn't said by-blow quite so loud. "Whyever do you keep going off with the duke, then?" she pressed. "Why have you begun calling him David?"
"Well, he's very nice. I think we're becoming friends. But there's a big difference between a friend and a husband."
Juliana was disappointed but not surprised. She'd known all along that Amanda was going off with the duke only to avoid kissing James. "Maybe you should choose another man," she suggested. Plenty of gentlemen were still asking Amanda to dance at every ball. "At the Teddington ball on Saturday—"
Tempting Juliana (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 2) Page 24
