by Alice Gaines
She didn’t look happy. She closed her eyes as a flicker of pain crossed her face.
“Lady Rushford?” he asked.
“Somehow, I’ve managed to make my own headache worse.”
“I have a remedy, if you’ll indulge me.”
She opened her eyes a slit. “It doesn’t involve whiskey, does it?”
He laughed, the sound echoing in the carriage, and she cringed.
“Please, let me help,” he said softly. “Rest back against the cushions. This won’t hurt.”
She did and watched him as he leaned toward her, his hands outstretched. For a moment, she resembled a trapped animal, following the movements of a predator. He paused, his fingers splayed on either side of her head. “May I?”
She nodded slowly, and when he touched her temples and rubbed, her eyes drifted closed. All the permission he needed, and he took it. Leaning toward her, he massaged her scalp, tracing circles just above her ears. Her skin felt as warm as sunlight under his fingertips, and hair as fine as silk brushed against the backs of his hands. He worked slowly so he wouldn’t frighten her. With any luck, she wouldn’t realize how close they’d come to each other or how intimate this contact was. They’d already gone past the point of decency, even for a doctor and his patient. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d promised himself that he’d keep to the straight and narrow. No more seductions. No more dalliances. And yet, he wanted only to help her. The headache had truly plagued her. His touch seemed to help. Even now, she sighed as the tension drained out of her.
He allowed himself to lean even closer until surely she could feel his breath on her cheek as he sensed hers on him. He did it not for his own enjoyment. No. In this position, he could place his fingers at the base of her skull while his thumbs still rubbed her temples. Now he could work the muscles of her neck, and they became pliant under his touch.
He hadn’t mistaken her warmth. She radiated heat as if a fire burned inside her. It seeped into his bones as he sat there, far too close for modesty or even for his own sanity. Still, he couldn’t surrender his purpose to give her relief from her pain, and he massaged her more firmly until her head lolled first one way and then the other. She smiled and sighed again. “Oh, yessss.”
They both froze, and her eyes opened, her face mere inches from his. She didn’t move a muscle, neither pulling away nor pushing at him. Her lips remained parted, a temptation beyond endurance, her breaths coming in puffs from between them. His own breathing sounded rough in his ears.
Nothing for it but to kiss her. Anything less would insult her now that she’d invited him so prettily. She could still rebuff the advance. He wouldn’t force the issue if she truly didn’t want the caress.
Testing the waters, he closed the distance and placed his lips against hers. She trembled but didn’t resist, so the tremor felt more like a greeting than a sign of reluctance. In truth, he didn’t feel all that steady himself. He took more, now kissing her in earnest, and she yielded. How she yielded. With her lips already parted under his, the contact shot immediately past the innocent to the carnal.
Too late for good judgment now. And far, far too late for good intentions. He’d reform his ways tomorrow. Tonight, he’d kiss Lady . . . oh, hell, Bess. He’d kiss her thoroughly and without reservation. He still held her head in his hands, all the better to tilt it to the exact angle to best fit their mouths together. As he did that, her fingers went to his chest, curling and uncurling in the fabric of his coat. All the while, their lips tangled, retreated, and came back together with even more heat and need.
Never releasing her, he moved backward, creating more space on the seat so that he could guide her down. Her sleeve moved easily down her arm, allowing him to kiss her shoulder and then the base of her throat and then just under her chin. When she gasped, he covered her mouth with his own again, swallowing the sound. Soon, the heat in the chaise rose to almost unbearable levels as her tongue emerged to touch sweetly against his.
Dear God in heaven, he was going to know her, right here in this cramped space as they rolled through the streets of London. Already, he’d grown thick and hard in his pants. She had to feel him against her belly, but she’d done nothing to stop him.
The chaise finally accomplished what neither of them had managed. It jerked to a standstill.
“Blood—” He stopped himself before he blurted something quite unacceptable.
“Go ahead and say it,” she whispered roughly. “Or I will. Bloody hell.”
Bloody hell, indeed. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Your house, I presume.”
She also straightened and gazed outside, but her eyes didn’t seem to focus. “So it is.”
He reached to pull up her sleeve—more to touch her one more time than out of consideration—but she pushed his hand away and did it herself. For her part, she’d made quite a mess of his neck cloth.
“Please forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She stared at him as if he were the prize idiot that he, well, was. “You don’t?”
“Well, yes, of course I do. I only hadn’t meant . . . that is . . . I wanted to fix your headache.”
“You’ve done that well enough.”
Yes, and given himself a rock-hard erection in the process. One intense enough that it seemed unlikely to go away unless he took matters into his own hands. As it were.
“I only planned to massage your temples, but I should have known I couldn’t trust it to end at that. Not with such a beautiful woman.”
“I beg your pardon.” She stared at him openly, as if he’d said something absurd. That shouldn’t have surprised her. Many men must have told her something similar.
Before he had a chance to explore this new facet of Lady Rushford . . . Bess . . . the chaise door opened, and his footman stood waiting to help her descend.
“Good night, Captain Northcross,” she said.
“I’ll escort you inside.”
“No need for that.”
“But a gentleman—”
She held up a hand. “Please, no more lectures on gentlemanly behavior. You’ve been more than enough of a gentleman for one evening.”
“When will I see you again?” Damn. He really had to stop asking her that question.
She made an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. “Good night, Captain Northcross.”
*
Thank heaven Bess’s favorite mare loved to run, or surely the pace she set on her first morning back at Carlton House might have qualified as punishment. They crossed open meadows and jumped stiles as if the devil chased them. Wind slapped across her face, stinging her cheeks, and the horse’s hoofbeats rebounded through her bones. It was a glorious ride—the kind that blotted out any unpleasant memory, if only for a while. When they reached the standing stones on the next estate, Hollyfield, she stopped the horse to let it get its breath.
She must have come here dozens, if not hundreds, of times. She’d visited every morning after Bert’s death, even in the pouring rain. At the time, she’d entertained the fancy that an ancient people had put the circle here so that the earthbound could make a connection to their spirits. If she could communicate with the ancient spirits, perhaps they could pass along a message to her dead husband. She hadn’t actually composed anything aside from wishing him well and hoping that the fishing was good wherever he’d landed.
Today, she’d come with an entirely different purpose in mind. An evil one, if she could manage. Even the mare felt something amiss as she pawed and sidestepped in a restless dance so unlike her usual even temper. Perhaps she was reacting to the pressure of Bess’s legs at her flanks. Or maybe the animal sensed her anger more directly.
In either case, the mare shied slightly as Bess guided her to the exact center of the stones and stopped. Tipping her head up to the sky, Bess paused for a moment before speaking.
“I hope you know some good curses, because modern English ones don’t seem strong enough.”
If the ancient spirits heard her, they didn’t give any sign. The little ritual she’d planned would have to do, with or without their help.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper she’d crumpled, smoothed out, and then crumpled again.
“My dear Lady Rushford,” she read aloud. “I write to ask your forgiveness for my abominable behavior of the evening past. Only the worst sort of cad would take advantage of your weakened condition to press unwelcome advances on your person.”
She made a noise of disgust that resembled a very unladylike snort. Weakened condition, indeed. A simple headache hadn’t made her susceptible to him. In fact, he’d cured that ache wonderfully and had been well on to starting a very different ache . . . one she hadn’t felt for years. And if he knew anything about women at all—and he certainly seemed to, based on the skill he’d used in thoroughly seducing her with no more than a kiss—he couldn’t possibly believe she hadn’t welcomed his advances. He’d rather welcomed them himself, if the bulge in his pants had been any indication. He had to know she’d felt it against her belly. He had to know that a woman who’d been married would recognize its meaning instantly. He also had to know that she’d become as excited as he was. Which meant that every word of this note was a lie.
“I wish you’d slapped me at the time,” she read on. “I certainly deserved it. I’ve done nothing but upbraid myself for my disgraceful actions from the moment you stepped from my chaise.”
What bloody nonsense. He’d been ready to follow her inside. Though she and her husband hadn’t had the most passionate of marriages, she’d seen that drugged and hungry look on Bert’s face often enough to understand what it meant. If he’d seen her to her door, he would have found enough shelter in shadows to kiss her again. He would have followed her inside for more. And then more and more until he made his way into her bed. If he were honest with himself—and her—he’d admit that his only regret was that she hadn’t given him the opportunity. Instead, he’d written her this drivel.
“It’s my dearest wish that we may continue our cordial acquaintance,” the note went on.
Their acquaintance. If he tried to continue any sort of contact with her, she’d acquaint him with the toe of her boot, right in the arse if at all possible. Acquaintance, indeed.
“To that end, I suggest we both do our best to forget the unfortunate events of last evening. I hope we may never speak of them. I know I certainly shan’t. Nor shall I ever repeat such disgraceful actions toward you. On that, you have my word as a gentleman and a captain in His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons.
“I remain your obedient servant, Jason Northcross.”
And so he’d dismissed her. Rejected the whole encounter. Described it as beneath him. Bastard. She dropped the reins long enough to tear the paper into pieces and then the pieces into smaller pieces.
“Curse him,” she said as she tossed the scraps into the breeze. “Curse him to hell and back.”
She certainly hadn’t wanted the foolish man to touch her. If she’d put any thought to the question, she would have chosen a headache over sharing an enclosed space with Jason Northcross. Men who looked like that seldom had a woman’s best interest at heart. The twinkle in those green eyes had promised only trouble, and his lips had delivered on that promise. She should have known to stay away from him the same way she’d avoided every other entanglement since Bert’s death. She was happy with everything she had—her horses, her estate, her friends. She didn’t need a man, but damn it all to hell, now she wanted one.
The bastard. The bloody bastard. She’d figured life out. You took what you’d been given, and she’d been given a lot—far more than most women ever enjoyed. You settled for that and made the most of it. If you were as fortunate as she had been, you thanked the Almighty and got on with living life to the fullest. Dreaming about what you couldn’t have was not only pointless but would eventually break your heart.
Therein lay his real crime. Not that he’d touched her body but that he’d reached into her imagination. And now, he’d turned everything into a disgrace—something to be ashamed of and never to speak of again.
Again, her throat tightened and her chin threatened to wobble, but she would not cry. Not over the likes of Jason Northcross and his meaningless kisses. She’d married a man she didn’t love and suffered his touch without crying. She’d gone on to love Bert as a friend and then lost him without crying. She wouldn’t cry now.
Instead, she picked up the reins, urged the mare out from the standing stones, and kicked her into a gallop as she headed home.
*
A week had passed, and Jason hadn’t banished the sick feeling from the pit of his stomach. He stood, staring out the window of the library in the house in town, but scarcely noticed the bustle of carriages and foot traffic outside. He’d acted like a perfect cad, and that didn’t sit well at all. First, he’d taken liberties with the lady, and then, he’d rejected her. He’d told her he regretted kissing her, made the whole thing seem tawdry. He really ought to roast in hell for that.
The problem was, he had to end their relationship there. Flirtation, seduction, perhaps even more, if he was honest with himself—he couldn’t take it further. He needed the right wife to get Lily the right husband. If only he could have thought of a better way to end things before they got started.
Though he’d never been a saint, he’d never acted so ungraciously as he had toward Lady Rushford. Bess. You didn’t kiss a woman as he had kissed her and continue to address her by her title.
“Are you pouting again?” his little sister said from behind him.
“Grown men don’t pout.”
“Moping, then,” she said.
“Nor that, either.” He turned toward where she sat at a small table nearly covered with drawings of estates just outside of London. Their agent, a smallish fellow named Morse, stood directly behind her.
“Well, whatever you want to call it, why don’t you stop, and look at these properties Mr. Morse has suggested?” she said. “It was your idea, after all, to lease a grand house in the country.”
“It’s all for you, pet. I’ve thought and thought about it, and I’ve decided you need a special setting for your first season.”
“I don’t know why we can’t use Hadleigh,” she answered.
Aside from the fact that their family home was the setting for Thomas’s experiments that had cost the Northcrosses so much social standing, it lay far enough away from town that travel back and forth would limit their ability to entertain company.
“I want the best for my Lily,” he said. Including a duke. Jason would do everything for her that their father could have, and he’d move heaven and earth to accomplish it. Jason had hardly been around to take care of her while she grew into this beautiful young woman. He was back now, and he’d fix everything.
“Then you’d better come and look, don’t you think?” she said.
“Right you are.” He took the seat next to Lily and glanced at the drawing she had on the top of the pile. “What’s this one?”
“Danforth Cottage, sir,” Morse said from over his shoulder. “One of the nicest properties in Surrey.”
“A cottage won’t do,” Jason answered.
“Understood, sir. However, Danforth has been enlarged by the last two owners. It’s now quite grand and sits on an extensive estate.”
Jason studied the drawing. The place was indeed large, with a circular drive set before a grand set of stairs leading up to the house proper. “What do you think, pet?”
“I’ll like anything you do,” she answered.
“Of course you would. You’re far too sweet tempered.”
She laughed in that unaffected way she had. A lilting sound that always reminded him of spring. If he were on his deathbed, Lily’s laughter might bring him ’round.
“Let’s look at some more,” he said.
She pulled another picture from the pile. “This one looks rather forbidding.”
/> She had a good eye. Although opulent, the structure had a ponderous appearance with little ornamentation. If parties there took on the mood of the place, they’d be too solemn to inspire thoughts of love in his intended target . . . that was, in the young fellow who’d make Lily his happily married duchess.
They looked through a few more, which turned out to be too small, too garish, and too far away from town for his purposes. One drawing toward the bottom of the pile drew an excited “oooh” from Lily.
Mr. Morse immediately perked up. “I thought that might catch your eye.”
“What house is it?” Jason asked.
“Hollyfield, sir. It’s a lovely estate, complete with stables and every other modern convenience,” Morse answered.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Lily said.
“You like it, pet?”
“Very much.”
“The estate covers a great deal of land. Some forest, some meadow,” Morse said. “There’s even a ring of ancient stones.”
Lily placed her hand against her cheek. “Oh, my. Druids?”
“No one knows, miss.”
She covered Jason’s hand with hers. “Let’s take this one.”
Jason looked up at Morse. “Is it close to London?”
“A comfortable ride by carriage, sir. The neighbor’s a widow. An amiable lady who allows hunting and fishing on her property.”
“The gentlemen will enjoy that,” Lily said. “It’ll be great fun.”
“That’s settled, then,” he said. “Hollyfield it is.”
“Very good, sir.” Morse gathered up the drawings and tucked them into his portfolio. “I’ll have the agreement drawn up immediately.”
