After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  The bed was unmade, the sheets tousled as though he had not slept well. She started to turn away, uncomfortable intruding on his privacy. And noticed that both pillows bore the indentation of a head.

  She crossed to the foot of the brass bed and grasped the bars with white-knuckled hands, staring hard at the pillows. Maybe he had slept on both pillows. She crossed to the pillow on one side, leaned over and sniffed the coverlet. Sandalwood. Julian had laid his head there. She stroked the pillow lovingly.

  Eliza paused, then leaned across the bed and sniffed the other pillow. She rose abruptly, as the cloying smell of cheap rosewater assaulted her nose.

  “He has had a woman here!”

  Astonishment, anger, and hurt laced her voice. She knew men had their fancy pieces, but she had not thought Julian … How stupid of her! She had seen the sort of females in the hotel parlor and overheard the soldiers’ ribald comments. The soldiers must be inviting the ladies of the demimonde to join them in their rooms. As Julian had obviously done.

  She let out a breath she had been holding too long. That did nothing to relieve the ache in her chest.

  Eliza fought back a surge of jealous anger. Only a nodcock would anguish over a single gentleman’s rendezvous with a paid-for paramour. She had no right to criticize Julian’s behavior until he was hers. She had no doubt that when he married, he would be a faithful husband. All the same, it hurt to know Julian had not come home to her at Ravenwood. That he had stayed in London to make love to another woman.

  She hastened out of his bedroom, collapsed into a padded wooden chair close to the open window of the sitting room, and took several deep, calming breaths. Her nose was assailed by the stench of the gutters, while the strident sounds from the cobble-stoned street below jangled her nerves. She rose and fled toward the door but was not halfway there before she realized she had nowhere else to go.

  Eliza returned to the chair by the window, pulled it far enough away to avoid the worst of the reeking foulness, and settled into it to think.

  Her worst fear was that Julian would return to his rooms in the company of the demi-rep with whom he had spent the night. She did not think she could bear the comparison between herself—especially attired so indecorously in travel-stained clothes—and a beautiful, sensuous, sexually experienced woman.

  So change into your walking dress.

  At least if she were dressed like a lady, Julian might be more likely to see her as a prospective bride. It would still be difficult for her to compete with a “beautiful, sensuous, sexually experienced” demi-rep. She threw out “beautiful” and “sexually experienced.” Julian would expect neither from her. As for “sensuous,” she would simply have to rely on instinct to guide her.

  Eliza had no trouble getting out of Julian’s clothes. She brushed her hair, then pinned up part of it, leaving her face edged by wispy curls and a tangle of chestnut hair down her back.

  Her pale blue merino day dress was horribly wrinkled from having been crumpled up in the cloth bag, but she hoped it would not be so bad once she had it on.

  Getting it on proved more of a challenge than she had expected. Eliza was too used to having a maid. There was no way she could button up the dress by herself. It fell open halfway down her back, where she could not reach.

  She stood pressing the square-cut neck to her throat, adjusting the short, puffy sleeves at her shoulders, when the doorknob began to turn. She felt a spurt of panic.

  Oh, dear God! It must be Julian.

  She could not let him see her like this! She looked for a place to hide and realized how futile that would be. At some point she would have to come out and ask Julian to help her button up her dress.

  It might as well be now.

  She faced the door, her heart racing, her hand clutching the blue merino wool against her breast. And waited for Julian to enter.

  Eliza gasped when she saw who was standing in the doorway.

  Chapter 6

  Marcus stared, dumbstruck, at the half-dressed woman in Julian’s room. His body sprang to life, responding with decided interest to the female standing before him with tangled, waist-length chestnut hair cascading over her bared shoulders. Then it dawned on him who she was. And where she was.

  During the hour he had been delayed helping to right an overturned cart of potatoes, and the gentleman’s curricle that was also involved in the accident, Miss Sheringham had somehow found her way here. And been ravished.

  He felt outraged that Julian had taken such advantage of her, even if she was besotted with him. He searched the room for his friend, ready to seek an accounting on Miss Sheringham’s behalf. He would make sure Julian did the honorable thing and married her. Except, there were no dragons in sight to slay. Julian was nowhere to be seen.

  Since he could not take out his temper on Julian, Miss Sheringham got the brunt of it. “Where is he?”

  Miss Sheringham clutched her dress to her bosom. “Who?”

  “The gentleman who lives here,” he said curtly.

  “I have not seen him.”

  “Then explain why are you in such dishabille, Miss Sheringham,” he asked in a deadly voice.

  “Oh.” Her face pinkened as she grabbed at the puffed sleeves of the dress, pulling them farther onto her shoulders. She spoke with a quiet dignity that impressed him. “I was merely changing from Julian’s borrowed clothes into a dress, Captain. You burst in here before I was able to finish.”

  He heard the accusation in the last half of her speech and felt himself flushing. He never flushed. But then, he had never lost the upper hand with a woman, either. Until now.

  He had not stopped to knock before he entered. He had not even bothered to ask the hotel clerk whether Julian was in his rooms, because he knew his friend rarely rose before noon. Today he obviously had.

  “How did you get here?” Marcus demanded, taking the offensive to rid himself of embarrassment—and the sexual attraction he was struggling to control.

  “I rode here on Mephistopheles.”

  “Through London? By yourself?”

  She nodded once in answer to each question.

  He put a shaky hand to his brow. “Good lord.”

  His surprise at finding Miss Sheringham so deliciously unclothed, his anger at the danger she had put herself in getting here, and a growing hunger for the feast laid before him, gave his voice a sharp edge. “How did you find this place?”

  “Julian sent a letter to Cousin Nigel the day he arrived in London giving his direction,” she said with the throaty breathlessness of a woman in the throes of passion. But it was not passion. It was fear … and defiance. Her stance reminded him of a lioness, with claws that could scratch.

  It dawned on him that she had deceived him on purpose. “You did not think it necessary to share that information with me?” he said through tight jaws.

  She looked him right in the eye, opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and shrugged, causing her puffed sleeves to fall down her arms.

  He had never seen anything quite so fascinating as the regally tall Miss Sheringham, bare-shouldered, clutching an obviously unbuttoned day dress to her ample bosom.

  The situation was fraught with danger for both of them. He had to remind himself that she had not, in fact, been ravished. Yet. The sight of such a mouthwatering morsel at his mercy was tempting. He was experienced enough to know how to get Miss Sheringham into bed and to ensure that she enjoyed herself as much as he did.

  He reminded himself she was an innocent, a virgin. The consequence of slaking his desire for her was a leg-shackle. He was not inclined to give up his freedom, even for such a prize.

  But he imagined wrapping himself in her hair, the silky smoothness of her shoulders beneath his callused fingertips, how her lips would taste, and what it would feel like to be the first to broach her. She would be tight and hot and wet …

  He gritted his teeth at the realization his body had gone hard as a rock. If Miss Sheringham were more worldly, she would have kno
wn to get out while she still could. He was not without conscience; he had never taken an unwilling woman to bed. But he could see no reason to refuse what a woman freely offered—with a little coaxing from him.

  “Was this the way you planned to greet your cousin, Miss Sheringham?” he asked in a lazy, intimately suggestive voice.

  “Of course not! I simply did not realize before I started that I could not reach a great many of the buttons on the back of this dress. I had no intention of allowing Julian to find me this way.” She sounded angry and a little flustered.

  Julian. Bloody hell! What madness had he been contemplating? Miss Sheringham was his best friend’s cousin. Marcus had to resist temptation. He had to keep his hands off her.

  She turned her bared back to him, looked at him over her shoulder—not in the least coy—and said, “Would you, please?”

  He could not quite believe Miss Sheringham expected him to act as her lady’s maid. He knew himself too well. If he got close enough to touch her flesh, she would be lucky to escape with her virtue.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I will leave you—”

  She whirled, one hand outstretched to him. “Wait! You cannot leave. I need your help.”

  One side of her bodice fell away entirely, revealing a thin lawn chemise decorated with satin rosebuds that barely concealed the single, luscious pink bud beneath it.

  He had already started backing out the door, determined to wait downstairs for Julian’s return, when he heard male voices in the hall. Any moment he would be in exactly the compromising situation he so earnestly wanted to avoid.

  “Please,” she said. “I would rather Julian did not find me like this.”

  He caught the pleading look in her eyes, fought a battle with his better judgment, and lost. He came back inside and quickly closed the door behind him.

  He did not bother to hide his irritation at being forced into such a discomfiting predicament. He put his balled fists on his hips and said, “What kind of game is this?”

  She gathered up her dress and clutched it against her bosom again with both hands. She kept her head high, her tawny golden eyes on his, but he watched an enticing flush begin just above her nearly exposed breasts and race its way up her throat to land as two red spots on her cheeks.

  “I … this is not … I wish I could sink into the floor.” She paused, blew out a breath, and continued, “But since that is not possible, I earnestly ask your help in restoring myself to the guise of respectable gentlewoman before my cousin returns.”

  He fought back an indulgent smile and said, “When do you expect him?”

  “I have no idea when Julian left or when he will be back. I have noticed, however, that he has company.”

  “Company?”

  Her lips pressed flat. She glanced fleetingly at the tousled sheets through the open bedroom doorway.

  “Ohhhh,” he said. “Company. I see.” Apparently Julian’s ladybird had left evidence of her existence. Too bad for Julian. And Miss Sheringham, of course.

  “Would you help me, please, Captain?”

  She turned her back to him again, before he could explain why he must refuse. Then he did not want to.

  Her back and bare shoulders—what he could see of them above and beyond the fragile white chemise—were lovely. She had attempted buttoning the dress, but only three buttons at the base of her spine were closed. The rest of the dress lay open, with nearly a dozen buttons undone.

  Marcus had always been enticed more by the promise of what lay hidden from sight than by a woman’s blatant nudity. It was fun to imagine what he would find, and then to uncover the promised delights. Miss Sheringham had presented him with a charming package that was impossible to decline.

  His balled hands uncurled. He took his time walking to her, the sound of his Hessians echoing on the bare wooden floor. He saw the rising tension in her shoulders as she sensed him coming closer, saw the quiver of expectation in her flesh.

  When he reached for the puffed sleeves to draw them up, she jerked. “Shh,” he said in a silky voice. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I am not afraid of you.” She stared straight ahead, and her shoulders squared even more.

  Marcus smiled. “Very well. Stand still while I do this.”

  The instant his fingertips touched her flesh, she whirled around to face him. He was forced to let go of the button he held or tear it off.

  She backed away several steps and stopped, bosom heaving as though she had just run a race. “Perhaps I will wait for Julian, after all.”

  He gave a lazy shrug, his eyes hooded. “The choice is yours.”

  She looked down at herself, and an almost comical expression of dismay appeared on her face. “Oh, dear. I cannot meet Julian like this! Not with you here. He will never understand.” She turned her back to him for the third time. “Hurry. Please, hurry!”

  Marcus realized she had a point. Julian could return at any moment and misconstrue the situation. Nevertheless, Marcus was not inclined to rush. He intended to savor Miss Sheringham’s lovely dishevelment for as long as he could.

  Eliza kept reminding herself to breathe, but even when she did, it was difficult to suck air into her constricted lungs. How could she be attracted to such an irritating man? Why did the mere brush of his fingertips send frissons of sensation skittering down her spine?

  The answer was simple enough. It was difficult to ignore such perfection in form and features and almost impossible to believe—except that he stood before her in the flesh—that the Beau had been so generously blessed by nature. An aquiline nose. Large, wide-spaced, bluer than blue eyes under arched brows. Blond hair that fell rakishly over his forehead in a Brutus cut.

  And of course, the blatant evidence that he was physically aroused by her. She had tried not to look, but the transformation had been fascinating … and frightening.

  Hurry, hurry! I do not want to feel like this. I am in love with Julian. I always have been, and I always will be. It is only because I am so inexperienced rebuffing rakes that I am overwhelmed by these unwanted feelings. Oh, please hurry!

  The Beau took his time.

  She felt the buttons being done up one at a time, with an interminable pause between each. At this rate, it would be time for supper before he finished. She jumped when his knuckles brushed her flesh once more.

  “Be still,” he said in a husky voice.

  She wriggled her shoulders to rid herself of the pleasant tingle of feeling that lingered.

  “I cannot finish if you will not stand still,” he said. “You are going too slow!”

  His hands grasped her shoulders, and his thumbs pressed strongly against her back in a circular motion. It felt exquisite. She bit back a moan of pleasure, knowing she should not be letting him do this.

  Eliza had seldom seen the need for most of Society’s restrictions, but a chaperon would not have been amiss just now. She fought the urge to lean back against him. She wanted to feel his hands everywhere, all over her. No wonder gentlemen were required to keep their distance, if this was the result!

  “Relax, Miss Sheringham. I can see your shoulders are all bunched up.” The Beau applied more soothing pressure with his thumbs. Then his hands sieved through her hair and moved it forward over her shoulders.

  “What are …” The sound came out as a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat and finished, “… you doing?”

  “Your hair—have I mentioned it is quite lovely?—was in my way. I need to see what I am doing.”

  It sounded perfectly innocent. An inner voice warned her it was not. An instant later she felt the Beau’s lips nuzzle the crest of her shoulder.

  She started to lurch away, but he caught her by the shoulders with powerful hands. He held her firmly, but gently. She stood paralyzed. Why was she not struggling? She wanted to be free, didn’t she?

  Eliza tried to speak, to tell him to let her go, but her throat was clogged with feeling. Her breathing was erratic. Her heart pounded. “What do you wan
t from me?”

  “Only a kiss,” he said, his warm breath tracing the route he intended to follow. From her throat … to her ear … to her temple … down her cheek … to the very edge of her mouth.

  She shivered uncontrollably as his warm, moist breath caressed her flesh. She had never felt anything quite so exquisite. Eliza reminded herself he was a rake, schooled in seduction. She was willing to break the rules—to a point.

  “You have taken two kisses already,” she protested in a quavery voice.

  “One more. On the lips.”

  “I … I …”

  She would never know what answer she might have given. A noise at the door froze her in place. She stared in horror as the doorknob begin to turn.

  The Beau, apparently more experienced at having his lovemaking interrupted so precipitously, finished the top three buttons in two seconds flat and took a step to her left an instant before Julian entered the room.

  Eliza breathed a guilty sigh of relief that Julian had not caught the Beau kissing her. She saw the myriad expressions flash across Julian’s face at finding her in his rooms. Disbelief, delight, dismay. Then confusion, followed by suspicion.

  If only she had done things differently, brought a different dress, stayed in Julian’s clothes. If only the Beau were not such a scoundrel! She shot him an angry, scornful look, realizing too late how Julian might construe it.

  Her gaze skipped back to Julian, who had indeed been watching the byplay. His face darkened ominously.

  She did not need the Beau’s male perfection. She wanted only Julian, with his dark brown eyes, his black hair that needed a trim, his broad blade of nose and high cheekbones and slashing black brows. His beloved face, his features that had so appealed to her, were contorted now by doubt and accusation.

  Her nose burned, and her eyes blurred with tears. She blinked furiously. She was not the sort of miss who turned into a watering pot at the least provocation. But her meeting with Julian was not progressing at all as she had imagined.

  The Beau was first to speak. He was probably used to being caught with a lady in dubious circumstances, Eliza thought cynically.