“Stop,” he said after the fact. “Don’t.”
“Not until you are honor-bound to marry me,” she addressed the far wall.
Her body glowed pale as fine Derbyshire porcelain. His eyes caressed her sleek waist and curved hips. The tuft of fair hair between her legs tantalized him. Her breasts puckered to tight peaks under his overheated scrutiny.
A better man would not sully her by feasting his eyes, his conscience rebuked him. But a condemned man is allowed one last meal, a wheedling voice cajoled. So he stared his fill before letting his eyelids close.
The sight of her rumbled seismically down his spine to lift his irrepressible lower self upward in his unmentionables. His man parts came to life just in time to mock his mostly honorable intentions.
She heard him mutter curses and turned to look. Her gaze dropped to his falls while they filled out. Her mouth formed a kissable ‘o.’ Her neck and cheeks warmed with a rosy flush. “Is that typical?”
“Never ask a man that,” he choked. “A gentleman mustn’t lie—but in my case, modesty demands it.”
Her eyebrows lifted in a wordless question.
“I’m not freakishly bigger than typical,” he mumbled.
“Shall I have Cushing come to fetch Mr. Stoker now?” she asked and reached for the bell cord by the head of the bed.
“No!” Seelye cried, contradicting the part of him that hoped to become this vixen’s plaything. It was the randy, frisky, swollen part rebelling against all gentlemanly compunctions. “There’s no going back if you do this, Jane,” he said. “Think. Your feelings for me—”
“Are not what they used to be,” she finished his sentence.
“You don’t want to be forced into marriage, do you?”
“No, but you’ve made me promise to marry someone when I return to London, so there you are. You understand the concept of noble sacrifice,” she said. “This is mine.”
“I won’t debauch you,” he said, voice cracking. “I have only good intentions.”
“I believe you but will Cushing or Mr. Stoker when they arrive to find you—?” Her eyes flitted to his crotch.
“Don’t you pull that bell cord.”
“I’ve tried reasoning with you, Seelye,” she said. “Now, I must fall back on old habits. Like it or not, you’re going to ruin me.”
“Like it or not? It’d be any dying man’s last wish.” Seelye clamped his teeth shut before he blurted out something more incriminating. Or denied it with a lie. Instead, he glared balefully upward while his manhood strained to stand tall and salute the glorious creature before him.
How often had he imagined Jane naked in the privacy of a bedroom? Or imagined making her his, taking her in his arms, pressing her to a mattress and delving into her warm, wet, welcoming body? Out of guilt, he might pretend it wasn’t her he sated to sweaty ecstasy. He might also deny the frequency of those fantasy couplings or downplay their significance as ‘just what men do.’ But not now.
All his pent-up desire flooded the north, east and west of his nervous system with mortifying consequences due south. Every errant, guilty thought about Jane caused more congestion in his rampant member.
“Does that mean you’ll—?” she asked softly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t cooperate.”
“I don’t mean to,” he said and shifted his hips away from the candlelight.
“In that case, I think it best if you were less dressed, too.”
She snatched at his shirt to yank it from his pantaloons. The friction of the long shirt tail teased his sensitized glans and made him writhe like a worm on a hook.
“Stop that, you!” he cried.
“Will you call off the duel?” She gave another torturous tug.
“I won’t.”
“Then you leave me no choice,” she said and kept pulling.
“And what choice have I? I’m damned if you do raise the alarm and damned if you don’t,” he said, now thoroughly provoked.
For weeks, nay months, he held himself back, denied his desire for her. A kiss here or there only sharpened one’s appetite and this was too bloody much.
“Take care, Jane, you’re about to set match to fuse on a long-primed cannon.”
She climbed onto the mattress anyway. Despite his evasions, she undid his pantaloons and exposed his steeply-tented cotton smalls. A damp spot bloomed at his tent’s peak and all the fight went out of him. His bollocks tucked to churn in earnest. He tried to distract himself by calculating the least culpable scenario when discovered:
Erect and trussed to her bed? Certain disaster.
Trussed and flaccid, having ejaculated in his smalls? Probable disaster.
Trussed, playing dead with neat, quiescent generative organ, his only ray of hope. And so he prayed—prayed—for a eunuch’s unruffled composure.
Thankfully, Jane kept her hands off him while he struggled inwardly.
When finally he dared look, her eyes were dilated to black trimmed with Delft blue ribbons. She made no move toward the bell pull, she had fixated on the arrow of blonde hair that led from his chest over his belly to where it disappeared into his steepled smalls. However innocent, she was, staring at him that way did nothing to promote inner peace.
She licked her lips nervously, which roiled his aching bollocks more but not enough to shove him into catastrophe.
“Are you fair-haired everywhere?” she asked and sifted her fingers through his tawny chest hair before slowly tracing the trail lower.
He stammered something witless, too busy striving for calm.
She stopped to ask, “Will you resist me?”
His crack of laughter was as inappropriate as all his other involuntary responses to yet another bollixed-up mess of his making. He felt his balls rumble their final warning. There was no doubt he’d go off soon and spectacularly, but so be it.
“Jane!” he gasped in shock. And pleasure.
She had him in hand, her grip just firm enough to hold off his climax.
“Seelye?” Her voice made him twitch in her grasp. “Will you help me? I wouldn’t want to break you.”
“Nor would I like to be broken,” he wheezed helplessly.
With her free hand, she pushed away his clothes to reveal him from thick root where she held him, to glistening tip.
“If we are to join, I must somehow—” She straddled his thighs and frowned in concentration. “I wish it were more obvious.”
“It will hurt a great deal,” he said to scare her. “It can be crippling.”
A flicker of doubt shaded her expression, but no sooner had it appeared than it was gone.
“You, sir—” Her voice grew huskier as she rose to her knees to press him between her legs tentatively. “—love to exaggerate. A woman’s body is formed for childbearing. There is a passage here.”
He groaned in fresh agony. She was slick and warm where she held him to part her cleft. Worse, she was cautious and took her time. She was nothing if not careful in her self-exploration.
It was Hell’s own torment and just punishment. He tried to remain unmoved and ignore the jolts of sensation that made him sweat and dig his heels into the mattress. She was at it for hours—or so it seemed—till his last nerve frayed.
Just then, she pressed him to the yielding place where only a whisper of skin lay between them.
“There, Jane! For pity’s sake, there,” he capitulated in ignominy.
She regarded him with suspicion at first, but she pressed him ‘there’ again, testing her maidenhead till she winced in discomfort. It pained her, he could see, but he also recognized her determination to accomplish her task.
“If you do this, you’ll regret it,” he said, breathing hard.
She clenched her eyes tight and lowered herself with a sharp inhale. He barely penetrated her, but she was certainly ruined. She hissed through gritted teeth and sank another increment down his swollen shaft. His own involuntary shifting brought him deeper inside her.
“Stop moving. It hurts
,” she said and braced her hands on his chest. Her body gripped him more tightly.
“In time it will ease,” he panted.
“Do you mean deflate?”
“I do not,” he huffed. “I refer to your discomfort.”
To stave off climax, he turned his thoughts to the broken-down sofa in his current lodgings.
The down and feathers cushions were both flat and lumpy. Sitting on it caused a musty miasma—
“You have ruined me, do you agree?”
He hummed.
The tatty fabric’s greasy spots were dark with age—
“And you are a gentleman—”
His mother’s expression seated on it should render any man limp—But no.
“You’ll do the honorable thing, won’t you?” Jane asked quietly and let her body sheath his throbbing shaft.
He sensed the direction of her questions but few rational faculties functioned at this point. No man could possibly discuss anything coherently when balls-deep in bliss and struggling to avoid ejaculation. The way her body tightened on him scrambled all thoughts, however discouraging he strove to make them. The only fact he could articulate was that Jane instinctively pleasured a man out of his right mind.
Too soon, she said, “It’s not so bad now.”
His mind cleared and he knew he must end this safely for her.
“It could be better, but you’ve hobbled the only one who knows what he’s doing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Will you try to escape?”
“Too late for that.” And he meant it.
When she shifted forward to untie his hands, he slipped from her body still rampant. Clever Jane had used a sailor’s knot she learnt from Jacob Plimpton. It held fast till loosened with a pull just so.
If he were a different sort of man—a wastrel lordling, for instance—he’d skip the duel and learn to live with the humiliating stench of cowardice whilst married to one of the richest, prettiest, most surprising women in all England.
But he was not such a man.
With that resolved, he hooked an arm around her waist and pinned her. With a few thrusts into his own fist, he spent himself. Jane lay beneath him, shy and confused, until he collapsed beside her and gathered her close.
“Jane,” he said into her hair, “you’re mad as a hatter but I am growing fond of you. I must amend the codicil before I go.”
“Go? But you must marry me, Seelye. You said so yourself.”
This was the moment he dreaded.
“And so I will, once I’ve let George have satisfaction. But first, I must meet Mr. Daly.”
Her eyes shuttered in the silence between them. She flung herself away from him and off the bed. She had her dressing gown wrapped about her by the time he’d buttoned his falls.
“I never want to see you again,” she said with glacial dignity.
“Please, Pest,” he said to her back, “don’t jinx me.”
Chapter 43
In which an early morning meeting misfires.
In shock, Jane rolled off the bed in which she’d lost her virginity moments ago. She snatched up her dressing gown, flung her arms into it and held it closed.
The enormity of what she’d done landed like a crushing weight upon her. His passion had left her thighs damp and a little sticky. Humiliation and fury overtook rational thought.
“I never want to see you again,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Please, Pest, don’t jinx me.”
Feeling ice in her veins, she would not turn to look at him, though it might be the last time she’d see him alive.
He left without another word.
She flung herself into bed sore from their coupling and wept into the pillows. That is, when she wasn’t striking them with her fists.
In her fury, she seethed: Let him die if that’s what he prefers. I’ve done all I can. He’s made his choice and it wasn’t me. Why must I always make a fool of myself over Lord Seelye Burton?
Soon after, inconvenient quibbles demanded her consideration. What were her motives for seduction? Was it to save him or to bind him to her? What choice did she give him? Avoid the duel like a coward, or go, die, and abandon her like a scoundrel.
Seelye deserved better.
When she calmed, she made sense of his decision. Hadn’t she once said that an honorable man follows rules and a good man does what he must, no matter what? It was poor Seelye’s burden to want to be both. And she loved him for that.
He mustn’t die thinking I hate him. He must not die.
Jane called for a horse to be saddled long before she heard the carriage roll up and watched Seelye and Mr. Stoker leave in it.
She tied her own stays and slipped into her pasty-selling skirt and cambric shirt. Over it, she wore her pelisse. She braided her hair loosely and pocketed the pistol she’d brought on the trip.
When the carriage cleared Ballynahinch’s distant gate, she dashed out to find a hack ready for her at the stable. The groom lifted her onto the side saddle. She started at a trot to warm the horse before she urged it to a gallop.
Morning mist dampened her head and shoulders riding cross country. She kept the carriage in sight and slowed when it pulled up next to another by an open field where two men waited. She slid from the saddle. Once Seelye and Mr. Stoker left their carriage, she approached to spy on the men beyond.
Through the misted carriage glass, Jane watched them walk to meet the waiting Irishmen. A short man counted out fifteen strides away from Seelye and Mr. Stoker. A silver-haired man walked soberly to the spot.
The seconds retreated to a point midway between the duelists but well out of the line of fire. Mr. Stoker held a white handkerchief fluttering in the breeze.
“Before we begin, sir, may I ask you again to accept my apology. I will not shoot—”
Poor Seelye was trying to persuade his opponent to forego the duel. The Irishman remained unmoved and impatient.
A steady drizzle began to fall. Two grim men faced each other, arms bent at right angles with pistols in both hands. The runner raised the handkerchief.
She gathered up handfuls of her skirt and ran as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. The pocketed pistol’s weight bumped against her thigh with each stride. She slipped on wet grass here, skidded in mud there, to reach Seelye in time.
No one noticed her at first.
She yelled, “Mr. Stoker, no!”
Seelye swung round, looking as thunderous as the heavens above. Dark smudges shadowed his steady, green eyes.
“Stop there, Jane.”
She ran up to him, blinking away raindrops.
“I won’t stop,” she said. “Bibendum will be safe, we’ll think of something else.”
“I made you a promise. I will not let anyone kill him for sport now.”
“What’s this?” came his opponent’s petulant cry. “Get her out of here!”
“A moment please, Mr. Daly,” Seelye called back calmly.
“You’d rather that man—” Jane flung a hand in the Irishman’s direction “—make sport of killing you instead?”
“At least it’s a fair fight.”
“Not if you refuse to defend yourself.”
“I can if I wish. Bibendum cannot,” he said gently.
“You care more about a bear than—” she might’ve said ‘me’ but it would’ve wounded him, “your life?”
He brushed a fingertip down her damp cheek, following the trail of a tear. “Waterworks, Jane.”
“These are tears of rage. I’m furious with myself and you. I shouldn’t have made you choose. I should’ve known the choice you’d make.”
“If I had a choice, it wouldn’t have been this. You must go now. You’ll get soaked through if you stay any longer. Wait for me at Ballynahinch.”
“I’ll only go if you’ll come with me,” she said.
“Still haven’t outgrown your impossible phase. Ah, well.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”
&nbs
p; At that, she slapped him.
From the opposite side of the field, Daly cackled something to his second before yelling peevishly, “I’m guessing she won’t miss you. Let’s get on with it.”
“If you won’t listen to me, perhaps he will,” she said, and spun away from him.
“Jane, stop!” Seelye cried and to his opponent, “Hold your fire, for God’s sake!”
“I would speak to you, sirrah,” Jane called out, striding straight for the Irishman, skirt in hand. She reached him, leaned on his shoulder, and gasped to catch her breath.
The man’s white eyebrows flew up.
“Now see here, good sir, there must be a way to avoid bloodshed,” she began reasonably.
“He’s at fault and I’m a fair shot, so it’s doubtful, ma’am.”
“You would fight a duel just to hunt down a defenseless animal?”
“Defenseless, you say! That bear’s a menace to everyone, saw that for myself. So yes, I would,” he retorted more angrily. “No one and nothing is safe so long as that beast runs loose.”
“He’s a tamed performing bear.”
“Says you.”
She gripped his arm. “I beg you, sir, be reasonable.”
He shook off her hold and yelled to Seelye, “So this is English honor? Call off your hellion, you damned cheat.”
“He does not cheat and I am no ordinary hellion,” she said, dangerously calm. She threw back her shoulders to enunciate, “I am Lady Jane Babcock, the Duke of Bath’s sister. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
At the mention of her name, his eyes cut to her. From his startled expression, he did recognize it. And for once, Jane was thankful for the ubiquity of her reputation.
“I have, my lady,” he said slowly.
“Then you know my temperament is, shall we say, unpredictable.”
“Heard a thing or two, yes,” he allowed, uncertain where the conversation tended.
“That man you’re about to shoot. I would much rather you did not.”
“It’s a duel, ma’am. Now, leave us be.”
“You would kill an unarmed man?”
“He’s got pistols same as me, ain’t he?”
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 36
