“Enough talk,” she said. “Tomorrow will come too soon, and we both have problems aplenty to sort out. Tonight is for pleasure.”
And esteem, and—oh, why not be honest?— for love. Madeline loved Jack Fanning in a way a girl could not, with respect and acceptance for the man he was, and knowing that with love sometimes came disappointment.
Jack crouched over her, so she was pinned beneath the blankets. “You’ll notice I sleep without bed curtains. I’m less likely to wake from a nightmare and think myself back in that cell.”
“I have nightmares too, Jack.”
Rather than endure his well-meant queries, Madeline resumed kissing him. Jack brought variety to kissing, unlike other men of Madeline’s acquaintance. She couldn’t characterize him as a nibbler, a tongue-tangler, a choir boy…
He was inventive and attentive, both, never pushing Madeline beyond the pace she was comfortable with.
“Get under the covers, Jack. I want to wrap my legs around you.”
He rested his forehead on her chest. “I’m trying for some finesse here, Madeline. I must acquit myself well with you.”
Daft man. She stroked his hair. “Acquit yourself under the covers. Now, please.”
She felt him smile, felt him take a little taste of her cleavage. “You said please.” He was under the covers in the next instant, and somehow, Madeline was straddling him. “If you are inclined to direct matters, then this position allows you more control.”
So it did—at first.
Madeline plundered Jack’s mouth, teased him with her sex, and generally enjoyed herself with a man more than willing to be enjoyed.
Then Jack started using his hands—free, when he lay on his back—to caress Madeline’s back, her hips, her chest, her arms…
“My breasts,” she muttered between kisses. “Touch my breasts.”
“Manners, Miss Hennessey.”
“Please, damn you.”
Oh, he was a wretch, a wonderful, creative, determined wretch. His hands teased, his mouth… his mouth on Madeline’s breasts was a revelation.
She’d not been properly loved before becoming intimate with Jack Fanning. He gloried in pleasuring her, elevated arousal to an art form, and had no self-consciousness about indulging his own pleasures.
His hands on her hips urged her up, as he scooted down against the pillows.
“What are you doing?”
“Being tenacious, also selfish. Grab the headboard.”
“Why should I—?”
Dear God. What he did with his mouth probably had no description in English, it was so wicked and wonderful. Madeline moved minutely, riding the pleasure, until Jack used his right hand to cup her breast.
Nothing, nothing in Madeline’s experience compared with the sensations that befell her in the moments that followed. She moaned, she thrashed, it was too much, and she couldn’t get enough, and instant by instant, Jack knew exactly how to keep her falling endlessly from yearning into satisfaction.
When she hung over him, dazed and panting, he stroked her hip, slowly, soothingly, maintaining a connection when Madeline wanted to hide beneath the bed. She climbed off of him, and scooted under the covers.
“I can’t believe that just happened.” Madeline went unresisting into Jack’s embrace, which seemed as good a place to hide as any. The best place, at the moment. The only place.
“I can’t believe it took this long for that to happen, when you so clearly enjoy it. I do well with some direction—my skills are rusty, and leaving me to guess isn’t… I want to please you, Madeline.”
If that was a demonstration of rusty skills, Madeline was in bed with a terror. “How can I give direction when you’re familiar with terrain I didn’t know existed?”
He kissed her temple. “The landscape is beautiful. We’ll explore it together.”
No, they would not. Not after tonight. Rather than begin that explanation, Madeline gave in to cowardice, and let sleep claim her.
* * *
The hour was nearing midnight, and Jeremy lingered at the card table and wallowed in melancholy rounds of solitaire. She had touched these cards, his Lucy Anne who wasn’t his.
The nasty trick about solitaire was that winning was possible, in theory. That theoretical dream of victory kept the cards turning by the hour, and hope remained, despite defeat after defeat.
The door opened with a soft click, and Jeremy anticipated a nightcap with Jack. That’s what brothers did late on a winter evening—shared a drink, a hand of cards, a few observations about the politics of the day, a manly grumble about the upcoming assembly.
Jeremy was almost sure that’s what brothers did, most brothers. Jack was too busy being a magistrate to indulge in much fraternal socializing. Jeremy didn’t resent his brother’s devotion to duty, exactly, but a fellow—
“Reverend Jeremy, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Lucy Anne—to blazes with the Miss—stood near the door in a nightgown and robe, her feet clad in thick wool stockings.
Jeremy rose from the card table. “At this hour, do you suppose I might be just plain Jeremy? I’m playing solitaire, continually vanquishing my own aspirations to victory. Would you care to play a hand or two?”
She was not properly dressed, and Jeremy was fascinated with those wool stockings. Where were the lady’s slippers? And yet, she was in every way modestly covered, and if she married Jack, Jeremy would have to fortify himself against future holidays spent in close proximity to his brother’s wife.
Jack might not be interested in the lady, but when had the groom’s preferences signified, if the groom’s mama and the bride were intent on getting him to the altar? Jack was the dutiful sort, while Jeremy was the… sort to be fascinated with wool stockings.
Nowhere in the Commandments was a fascination with a lady’s stockings prohibited, and yet, the way they revealed the contours of Lucy Anne’s feet condemned Jeremy to purgatory. Slender feet, narrow, graceful, and Jeremy speculated that her toes—
“I came for my embroidery,” she said. “We’ve been playing so much whist lately, I haven’t had a chance to work on my stitching.”
“One could say we were whist-full.”
Lucy Anne stalked across the room. “One could say I’m exasperated. How am I supposed to court a man who isn’t even home much of the day?”
Jeremy had wondered if Jack was avoiding Lucy Anne. What mattered an old leather satchel likely misplaced by its owner, or a few lumps of coal turning to mud?
“Lucy Anne, did Mama instruct you to court Jack?” This point had been troubling Jeremy, because Mama was not shy about hurling thunderbolts of opinion—at the servants, her friends, her matched chestnut geldings, or her children.
“She most certainly did. Mrs. Fanning said to make myself agreeable to her offspring, and she’d look with favor upon any resulting offers of marriage.” Lucy Anne paced before the hearth, her hems swishing such that Jeremy was tormented with a view of more than her wool-clad feet. “I’ve been cheerful, I’ve been charming, I’ve been patient, I’ve been as perishing agreeable as I know how to be, and Jack Fanning could not be less interested.”
A man who studied Scripture by the hour was attuned to the nuances of language. Nothing in Mama’s edict had singled out Jack as the only eligible party. Had that been by design?
“I’m interested, Lucy Anne.” Fascinated, besotted, top over tail, intrigued. Let the reputation of the great hero compete with those sentiments, or try to.
She came to an abrupt halt, her skirts swinging about her ankles. “Interested in… me?”
“In you.” In her bare toes, her kisses, her smiles, her laughter, and her determination. Jeremy was very interested in her determination. He’d not been a monk at university, and a determined woman had a charm all her own.
“I’m not…” Lucy Anne turned toward the fire. “I’m not pious. I’m not… churchy. You’re such a perfect, dear, kind, compassionate, tolerant… I’m not like you. I’m
frivolous. Harmless. Your brother could use a cheering influence, but you’re… you don’t need a woman for that.”
Harmless, she was not. Not beneath the mistletoe, and not late at night, swathed in frustration and honesty.
Jeremy came closer, the better to see her features when he was honest too. “I’m not pious either. The bit with the vestments and singing is all fine, but it’s the churchyard part I truly enjoy. Hearing how people have been getting on, whose heifer had twins, which young sprout has lost his front teeth. I think you’d excel at taking an interest in people. It matters more than you’d think.”
She stared into the fire, which had burned low owing to the lateness of the hour. “Friendliness isn’t piety, Jeremy. I know how people can be about a vicar’s wife.”
What was this fixation on appearances? “May I kiss you, Lucy Anne?”
“You’ve kissed me before. For a man of the cloth—”
Hearing no objection, Jeremy pressed a soft kiss to the lady’s cheek, and she turned into his arms with gratifying alacrity. For long, sweet moments, he explained—kiss by kiss—that love took many forms, and the love of a man for his prospective wife was one of the most enjoyable manifestations, provided the lady was similarly enthralled.
“My profession isn’t complicated,” Jeremy said, gathering Lucy Anne close. “I’m to help people be kind and honest, and part of that is being kind and honest myself. I like being a vicar, but it can be lonely. I will be better at my calling, and happier, if you will be my beloved companion. Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Lucy Anne drew in a long, shuddery breath, which didn’t bode well for Jeremy’s future. He kept his peace, though, because no wife at all was better than a reluctant wife. Women had little enough choice in life, for the most part, and this one decision must not be wrested from them.
“I’ve been sick,” Lucy Anne said, “sick to think that I’m supposed to resign myself to a life as Jack Fanning’s invisible wife. He’s all business and duty and haring about. He doesn’t sit and play cards with the ladies because he enjoys our company. He tolerates us when he’d rather be on the king’s business. I can’t help but think he’d rather be back in India, wearing strange clothes and riding elephants. I’m boring, and he’s…”
“The hero of Parrakan,” Jeremy said. “You aren’t being entirely fair to Jack, but don’t let me stop your tirade. I hope you will consider my suit as something more than a consolation for Jack’s lack of interest.”
Jeremy would insist on that, for everybody’s sake, including Lucy Anne’s.
“You will think me wicked,” Lucy Anne said, stepping back. “Do you recall when I asked you for kissing lessons?”
Jeremy would recall those kissing lessons into doddering old age. “I do.”
“I sit across from you at the card table, hour after hour, trying not to stare, Jeremy Fanning. Your eyes are so kind, and your hands… I have the naughtiest thoughts about your hands. No man was ever a more perfect height. No man ever had a more charming smile or a more sonorous voice. You will love me when I’m old and querulous. You will be the sort of papa every daughter should have. You will—”
“I will be the sort of husband you’ve dreamed about,” Jeremy said, feeling a bit heroic himself. “I promise you that. Jack can be our wealthy relation who spoils our children, but we’ll be the family who treat him like family, not like some visiting nabob. I wish we could make an announcement at the assembly, but I must speak to your father.”
Lucy Anne wrapped her arms about Jeremy’s waist. “I wish we could be married right now.”
So did Jeremy. He settled for kissing his intended, because truly, no words could come close to the sense of joy and well-being Lucy Anne’s acceptance sent beating through his veins.
Jack would be happy for them, by God, or Jeremy would instruct the hero of Parrakan in the basics of brotherly love.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
Jack held Madeline while she slept, as if keeping his arms around her might anchor him in the midst of an emotional gale. To love her to exhaustion, to show her pleasures previously denied to her, left him prouder than had any feat of diplomacy or victory in battle.
Despite her confident airs and competence in all household tasks, Madeline Hennessey was uncertain, shy, and in a sense, inexperienced.
He’d remedy that oversight.
Madeline stirred, her hand brushing over Jack’s belly. Arousal went from simmering to boiling with that single caress.
“Go to sleep,” Jack murmured. She was weary, after all.
Madeline lifted her head from his shoulder. “You don’t want to go to sleep.” Her insight came by virtue of her hand wrapped about his cock.
“I want you to have the rest you need, Madeline. Too many people have been selfish where you’re concerned.”
Madeline let go of him, and Jack mentally cursed gentlemanly scruples for the wretched inconvenience they were. Then a single finger traced his most sensitive flesh.
“I’ve had a lovely nap, thank you, Jack. I’m ready to conclude what you so inventively started. Shall I put my mouth on you?”
He’d last about two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and have half as much finesse as Charles II on a frisky day.
“Let’s save that pleasure for another time, when I’m not mad to be inside you.” Though when would such a time be? Jack’s interest in sex had never overly troubled him, but his interest in Madeline Hennessey was unrelenting.
“You’re mad to be…?”
“Inside you,” Jack said, shifting over her. “Desperate, crazy, mad. Have been for days and nights. You think I’m off chatting up the lending library patrons for my health? I see you, and I want to put my hands on you. My mouth, my anything.”
Madeline wrapped her legs about his flanks. “So why don’t you?”
He obliged, joyously, exuberantly, with an abandon he’d thought he’d left in India. Madeline met him kiss for kiss, sigh for sigh, and caress for caress, until Jack was nearly incoherent with need.
“Madeline?”
She rubbed her breasts against him. “Hmm?”
“Now?”
Such were her reserves of self-possession that for a moment, she traced the scars on Jack’s back, an odd there-and-not-there sensation.
“You know I esteem you greatly, Jack Fanning? I’ve never respected a man, never liked a man, never desired a man as much as I do you. I want you to know that.”
Jack eased forward, a consolatory pleasure, because respect, liking, esteem, and desire fell short of his own sentiments.
He’d been held prisoner under dire conditions. He’d walked between warring parties unarmed. He’d defied orders and risked court martial when honor demanded it. Surely, for the woman in his arms, he could show some courage?
“I love you, Madeline,” he said, sinking into her heat. “With everything in me, I want to be close to you, protect you, grow old with you, raise children with you. I want to pleasure you until you scream, share your laughter, and dry your tears. Marry me.”
Her answer was to lift into his thrusts, to lock her ankles at the small of his back, and move with him in a harmony so close, Jack felt the lovemaking throughout his being. This wasn’t simply pleasure, this was… love. The physical and the metaphysical in an oscillation of emotion and sensation that transcended time and even identity.
He wasn’t Jack Fanning, he was simply Madeline’s lover, the perfect complement to her, and she to him. For a sweet, luxurious eternity, he remained joined with her, until Madeline increased the pace, and asked more from him.
He gave it to her, lavishing pleasure upon her until his own control teetered, and Madeline took the initiative away from him entirely. He tried to pull back, but she was strong, and held him to her with her legs.
“Madeline, I can’t—we mustn’t.”
“Stay with me.”
Madness, but Jack hadn’t the wits left to refuse her. Never had he felt su
ch an intense union, of all parts of him joining with all parts of his lover, until what remained was pleasure, wonder, and a sense of having glimpsed an experience beyond the earthly realm.
When Jack could push thoughts through his mind again, he and Madeline lay cocooned beneath the covers, panting in synchrony. Madeline kissed his cheek. Jack rested his forehead on hers.
She might not be entirely his, but he was absolutely and forever hers. “Marry me, Madeline. Please.”
If she refused him, he’d love her all over again, though it might kill him. Her refusal would deal a worse blow than death.
“I’ll marry you,” she said, easing her legs from around his waist. “But you might have to arrest me first.”
* * *
Madeline could not lie to a man who made love like… like that. With everything in him, wholeheartedly, unreservedly. Jack didn’t swive, fornicate, shake the groundsels, dance the mattress hornpipe.
He’d made love with Madeline. Broken her heart and mended it all at once. Now it was her turn to break his.
He lifted up enough that they slipped apart. “If you’re trying to dispel the mood, Madeline, talk of arresting you is an impressive start.” He kissed her nose, got off the bed, and disappeared behind the privacy screen.
When he returned to the bed, he passed Madeline a damp flannel. “Unless you’d rather…” He gestured toward the privacy screen.
Holy naked cherubs, he was bold. Madeline made do beneath the covers rather than trek across the bedroom in her natural glory. She passed the cloth back to Jack, who tossed it over the screen. The wet plop of flannel on porcelain sounded as Jack climbed back under the covers.
Her lover had good aim.
“Marrying me is not a crime,” he said. “Why would I arrest you?”
Madeline was apparently to answer this question with her backside tucked intimately against Jack’s… against Jack.
“I’ve committed crimes, plural. I’m not proud of that, but you’re the magistrate, so it falls to you to arrest me. I’m confessing.”
Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Page 25
