by Suzi Love
“That was…so…so much more…more than I ever dreamed being with a man could possibly be.”
He snorted, leaned back, a spent man. “That, my innocent, was a teaser, a miniscule taste, of the pleasure to be enjoyed between a man and a woman.”
She pushed up to sit beside him. Her hand touched his face, a gentle caress which undid him as much as any of her explosive screams of appreciation.
“Forgive me, for my selfishness.”
Unable to see her face, and unable to comprehend the meaning behind her words, he frowned. “It’s never selfish to find pleasure at another’s hand, love.”
“No, but you didn’t…you didn’t…”
Her hand touched his chest and trailed downwards, towards his waistband, where it lingered, drumming and touching, a tantalizing inch from his bulging and painful erection.
The witch would assuredly kill him tonight, one way or another.
“Ahem!” He flattened her hand with his, held it motionless while he fought to haul back on those continually slipping reins, and regain his composure. “I didn’t find my own release, is that it?”
“Yes. And don’t laugh at me, Richard. I may be a beginner pupil, but I do know men find it extremely painful. Um, if, ah, they don’t do…you know, what I did.”
“Ah, yes, you’re a quick study, my sweet. Passion runs hot in your Jamison blood.” He placed a tender and lingering kiss in the center of her palm. Cleared his throat. “Although my gratification may have been postponed, I nevertheless gained an enormous amount of satisfaction hearing, and helping, you reach your peak. To know you were so aroused, so eager to experience those things with me, here, for your first time. Well, it swells a man’s head. Makes him feel ten feet tall. And with you, it was special.”
“You mean because we called a truce? Our pretending to be friends instead of arch enemies.”
“Not that, no. Deep down, you and I have always understood our bond, even if no one else has. We know it’s too strong to ever be broken. Our families believe it to be a catastrophe our temperaments clash so often.” Lifting her hand again, he trailed kisses from her wrist upwards along her arm. “For my part, I find our arguments are often the most exciting part of my day.”
“After tonight, I agree.” Her sigh puffed out against his palm. “Our times together can never be called boring.”
Feeling around, he groped for their clothes. Leaning over to help him, one bare breast brushed his cheek. A mistake, a huge mistake, with his nerves so on edge, with his arousal still in full force. He stiffened and groaned. Planted his palms firmly on the blanket and willed himself not to lift them, not to touch the lemon-scented flesh so close to his nose. One long sniff was all he allowed himself before he turned his head, pretended it hadn’t happened, though the memory of a sweet-smelling breast pressed to his cheek would see him toss and turn during many a night to come.
Daylight seemed too far distant.
Too many long tense hours to pass before then. So the moment the sky lightened and the surrounding blackness started to recede, he shook Laura awake, perhaps more roughly than necessary. Better to distance himself now and indicate, in the clear and precise fashion he excelled at in business dealings, how they would proceed when facing the outside world. Reality awaited them and, loathe as he was to step into it, he knew they must, and quickly.
“Wake up. It’s time to go.”
He waited until she stirred and opened her eyes, looked up at him.
Pushing herself into a sitting position, she reached up as if to touch his face. “You can see me this morning.”
He nodded. “A little. My vision is blurred, though I can now distinguish shapes, which is a blessing.”
“Thank goodness. Hopefully, that indicates no lasting damage.”
“Indeed. Though, if I was blind, my sisters would no longer be able to accuse me of burying myself in newspaper stock reports each morning.”
She stared at him, blankly.
He sighed. “I meant it as a jest, Laura. Obviously, there’d be major inconveniences to my being blind. But come now.” He offered his hand to help her stand. “We need to find our way out of this rubble before those men return. If the find no bodies, they may convince themselves, and their employers, that the lights in the office were nothing to be concerned about. A trick of the moonlight.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He sighed, and hoped for that small piece of good fortune as well. Normally, he held an almost arrogant confidence in his own abilities to unravel the intricacies of puzzles. Generally, he could fire his mind in several directions at once, a handy trait when he needed to think like others. Such as the two criminals who’d too soon be unbarring the warehouse’s door.
“Their coarse language,” she was saying, “indicates they live in one of the areas around Cheapside. Perhaps nearer the docks.”
He heard in her voice a frown, knowing she’d puzzle over their inflections until she decided in exactly which area they resided. Her ear for voices was as remarkable as her nose for scents. Many times he’d witnessed her astounding a group of acquaintances by detecting the precise area in which they’d passed their childhood. And after listening to a mere few minutes of their speech.
“Your skill amazes me.”
He pictured her shrug, the one she gave whenever he, or her multitude of persistent admirers, paid her compliments. And again, her sense of inferiority stirred his irritation with her. “Why will you not accept compliments with good grace? Why don’t you ever believe I mean the ones I offer?”
Her trill of laughter annoyed him further, with its obviously false note. “Richard, I’ve listened to you pay compliments of the same ilk to numerous other ladies. Naturally, I assume yours to me are offered in the same vein as all the others. Pretty words spoken to entrance. To lure with your charms. To draw the next conquest to your bed, for another meaningless encounter.”
“Ha! I didn’t speak pretty words last night, yet you succumbed to my charms, quite willingly, as I remember it.” He let his anger deflate. “And, my love, our encounter was far from meaningless. At least, on my part.”
He heard her loud swallow. Waited for a word of agreement, a crumb thrown to a waiting hungry bird.
“Let me bathe your eyes before we leave.”
Ah, his wishes weren’t to be. He tried to catch her hand, but grasped only air. Blast this woman. Another conversation he’d not wanted to start, yet when started, he became obsessed with seeing it through to the end. With hearing a truthful answer from her. And yet another time, when she’d avoided a direct answer with an adroitness born of extensive experience evading rakes and roués and every other sort of unsuitable men her brothers warned her away from.
Yes, yes, especially him. So why, then, did he continue to wait for her to speak a kind word to him, a word of encouragement, and a word of truth?
She bathed his eyes with blessedly cool water and led him by the hand through the maze of upended crates and spilled barrels. Sight came and went in bursts of gray and white, shapes moved and sometimes formed into substance, but without her guidance he’d have turned black and blue from tripping over obstacles. Even so, they banged shins and stubbed toes often enough to cause them both considerable discomfort.
“Now, I’m putting my trust in you to lead us out. Trust in yourself, Laura. Use your remarkable gift and open your senses to the smells around us. I know you can distinguish the scents, separate the smells. Fruits, vegetables–”
“Wine. Barrels of wine along the walls.”
He stayed quiet beside her several times while she did what he’d asked, opened her acute senses, and inhaled the odors swirling around them. Then, when she decided which way they should go, he followed as meekly as a lamb.
Greatly relieved to reach the tunnel’s end, they halted in increasing morning light to haul in lungful after lungful of fresh clean air. They repeated the process several times before righting themselves, and their clothing, and retracing t
heir step down the alley. Luck was on their side, as the narrow streets remained deserted, allowing them to walk, heads down, as if they belonged in a dirty alley in dockside, towards the adjoining street and his still waiting coachman.
Not until Laura was delivered, unharmed, at her kitchen door, and to all intents and purposes unobserved, did he take his first free breath. He’d deliberately kept his farewell brief, unbending and formal, while he’d repeated his familiar mantra.
Better to keep his distance. Better she thought him incapable of sustaining any real emotion. Better she recalled his fondling as a remedy to her fear of the dark. Better she clung to no dreams concerning the future.
He spent the entire carriage ride home, plus the hours remaining of night before he rose from his bed, plus a long breakfast at which his sisters required his presence, berating himself. Convincing himself he’d acted correctly. For both of them. The course he’d chosen, allowing her a sample and then retreating, had been the right one.
A gentleman’s path. The noble road from the one more experienced in such situations. The only route he could travel, and still leave Laura free. Free to make future decisions about a future husband based on her initial taste of seduction. Free to pursue happiness with another man. A man who would be better suited…
Bloody hell!
If he couldn’t even deceive himself into accepting the utter rot he’d been advocating, he’d little, or no, hope of fooling Laura. A woman who saw through all his outer trappings faster than her elder sister calculated a complicated column of mathematical figures. Easier than Lottie attracted men. Quicker than Aunt Aggie’s grab for the plate of cream cakes.
Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Lady Laura Jamison was the singular female capable of peeling away his outer layers and exposing his secret. She was the one woman who attacked every obstacle in her path, including him, with the doggedness of the train engines her brother designed to chug up hills.
He retreated from her, often, through fear. Cold, raw terror of her seeing his entire naked self and not liking what she saw. Rejecting him as no other woman had ever done. To himself he admitted it. He wanted her, needed her. But he’d resolved never to have her, not in that way, not trapped in marriage with him. Not tied forever to a man who could barely read the words on a page by the time he was twenty. To someone as courageous and intelligent as her, he’d never admit his failings.
Her scorn would kill his soul.
Chapter Thirteen
Laura lay back in her bed, reveling in the comfort and softness after so many hours spent in a cramped position on a cold hard floor. However, something seemed different, and left her lonely, unsettled. She knew what that sensation of loss meant, yet remained afraid to name the sentiment, even to herself. Richard made her feel whole, safe, and yet wanted, all at the same time.
Ooh! She thumped another hollow into the middle of her pillow, unable to doze, and wished Becca slept in her old room and could be roused for some middle-of-the-night sibling confidences. When she’d surrendered to Cayle, her elder sister had given into passion, experienced great pleasure, even while she’d remained stubbornly determined not to marry the Duke.
Now it seemed to Laura she was destined to follow her older sister’s example. She longed to give in to passion, too. Each time Richard touched her, the yearning grew stronger. Yet, because of some asinine male twisted logic, he pulled back at the last moment. If only she could do what Becca did, and force Richard’s hand.
She needed help. Leaping from the bed, she grabbed her robe, slid her feet into slippers and ran down the corridor, flinging open Lottie’s door.
“Wake up, little sister. Time for another Jamison plot.”
Lottie’s head rose from beneath the coverings: tussled, blonde, and unbelievably beautiful.
Laura pointed at her. “Yes, that’s what I need. You must tell me how to achieve that look you carry about always. The one for a glimpse of men grovel at your feet.”
Her sister flicked back a swathe of curls and frowned. “What look?” She glanced at the window. “The sun is barely up. Must we have this discussion now?”
“Yes, it’s vital that I start on my campaign straight way. Before anyone else digs their claws in to deeply.”
At that, Lottie shot straight upwards in bed, reaching for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders.
“Well, it’s about time you decided to take stronger action regarding Wonderful Winchester. Before that conniving countess…” she gave an exaggerated shudder, “…sucks the soul right out of his body.”
“You’ve been writing another gruesome chapter in your gothic novel, haven’t you? No, don’t bother answering, Guilt is written all over you face. You know Michael is terrified his baby sister will turn into one of those garish women who haunt the library circles around the City, begging to be allowed to read their latest masterpiece aloud. The type that stays awake all night hunched over a writing tablet, and creates lurid tales of murder and mayhem that scare little children.”
Lottie clasped her stomach and rolled from side to side on the bed, laughing uncontrollably.
“Thank you so much for that oh-so-charming and deflating description of me. And Papa worried that my looks may give me an inflated opinion of myself. No chance of that with four siblings.”
Laura waved a hand in the air as she grinned at her stunning sister. “I shall allow you to wallow in the compliments gentlemen pay to your looks, but only a concerned sister would prevent you from becoming too full of your own self-importance.”
They stared at each other, then collapsed into uncontrollable gales of laughter.
After they had finally recovered, Laura said, “Now back to planning my strategy. And by the by, that uncanny thing you do,” she circled her finger next to her temple, “with reading minds. It can also be very sinister. You knew, even before I spoke, that my plot concerned Winchester and that…that feline pants chaser.”
Her sister merely nodded, not explaining as usual. Lottie expected the family, if no others, to accept her gift without question. The family were also privy to the number of hours Lottie spent attending lectures and pouring over scientific and philosophical treatises on every aspect of phrenology and many other emerging sciences. Instinct might lead Lottie into conclusions about people’s actions and wishes very quickly, but it was intense hours of study and hard work that enabled her to predict accurately the outcomes of these actions.
“I’ve been considering the idea that I could do the same thing as Becca did. It worked wonderfully well for her.”
Lottie chuckled. “That thing which would include driving Winchester to the edge of insanity and then, when his mind is in complete turmoil, seducing him into your bed, and then waving him goodbye? That thing?”
Laura jumped up and down on the bed and grinned. “Yes, exactly that. Richard will be so stunned by my seizing the initiative and seducing him, that he simply will not have time to do his normal move.”
Lottie titled her head to the side and considered. “And what is his normal? Oh, I see. You mean the way he constantly advances and retreats in your presence.
“Precisely! One moment the man is like another over-protective brother, sermonizing on everything I do, arguing over every inconsequential subject–”
“And the next he rides to your rescue like a gallant knight on a white charger.”
Lottie clasped her hand to her breast and sighed in theatrical fashion.
“So distressing to have a gentleman who is so besotted with one, that he regularly makes a complete cake of himself in front of his family and peers by rushing in where angels fear to tread to ensure your safety. So distraught is he at the mere thought that some harm or distress may come to the woman he loves, that he follows her like an avenging angel and draws his sword to face all combatants.”
Laura glared at her sister and ignored her playacting. “Rubbish. You are confusing me with Becca, when Cayle charges in to play her white knight. Richard is more like a … a c
onfused military regiment. Not knowing when to advance and when to retreat, and messing up the whole situation because he’s forever tripping over me in his comings and goings.”
“Oh, dear, poor Richard. A military regiment. How amusing. The one thing he does have in common with one of those is that he has more intelligence in his little finger than many regiments of men have between them.”
“I will give you that. His grasp on situations is unbelievably quick. His decisions are made like lightning.”
“Except when it comes to courting our Lively Laura, it seems.” Aunt Aggie’s voice startled them as she walked slowly into the chamber.
“Auntie,” Lottie said. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She settled her considerable derriere into Lottie’s bedside chair before she spoke again. “We shall all endeavor to help you…ensnare the man you want, Laura, especially if it is Winsome Winchester.”
Laura groaned. “Perhaps it is a bad idea. Much as I want to experience a little…” She broke off and glanced at her aunt, her liberal-minded aunt, but still her supposed chaperone.
“Yes, yes, Laura. We do understand what it is you want to experience and naturally, I feel obliged to warn you of the consequences of letting things go too far with any gentleman. But in this instance we are discussing Winchester, who has always been a particular favorite of mine–”
“Auntie,” Laura interrupted. “We do recall that it was you who named him Winsome, and we do understand how much you admire him, but–”
“That is the point I am trying to make, if you do not rush me.”
Both girls covered their faces and groaned. Luncheon would be served before Auntie reached her point.
Lottie faced her aunt with a sweet smile. “We need to formulate our plan for Laura, Auntie, as we would not want you to miss your breakfast.”
“Oh, no, no. That would never do,” the older lady fussed. She turned to Laura. “You have spent many, many hours trying to put into practice your theory and sniff out a suitable husband, by using the pheromones in his odor. Or should one call it his scent?” She fluttered her hand. “No matter. And I understand why you girls hold such strong desires to test the waters with men before you will even considering marrying any one of them. The women we meet at the Society share so many horrid stories about their marriages and other…uh… relationships, and they all agree on the one fact that, when a woman marries she becomes the possession of her husband.”
