’Twas the Night After Christmas
Page 8
“Damn you!” He grabbed her by the shoulders as if he meant to shake her. “Damn you to hell!”
She stared him down, daring him to do his worst.
Then he kissed her. Hard. Fiercely. On the lips.
It startled her so much that she jerked back to gape at him. “What in creation was that for?”
“To shut you up,” he said, eyes ablaze. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and the blaze became smoldering coals. He removed her spectacles and tossed them onto the nearby bed. “But this one, my dear, is for me.”
His second kiss was a revelation. The fact that he was kissing her at all was a revelation. Men just didn’t kiss her.
Of course Kenneth had done so whenever he’d come to her bed, but his kisses had always been brisk and no-nonsense, as if he was trying to get right to the point.
There was nothing brisk and no-nonsense about the earl’s kiss. It invaded and persuaded, inflamed and invigorated. His brandied breath intoxicated her, made her want to drink him up even as he was fogging her good sense. She could hardly think, with his hands sliding into her hair and his mouth possessing hers.
And when he deepened the kiss, delving between her lips with his tongue, she couldn’t prevent the moan that rose in her throat. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be held by a man, kissed by a man, even one who didn’t love her. But this was so much more even than that. It was heady, thrilling . . . magical.
She caught herself. Of course it was magical. Rogues built their reputations on magical kisses. Magical seductions.
The thought made her tear her mouth from his. “You probably shouldn’t . . . ”
“Damned right I shouldn’t.” He clasped her head in his hands, his eyes dark and fathomless as he gazed into hers. “Even I know better. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to. Or you from wanting me to.”
How had he guessed?
Probably because she’d just let him repeatedly thrust his tongue inside her mouth. And her hands now gripped his waist like those of a woman drowning.
She forced her hands to release him. “My lord—”
“Don’t call me that.” He bent his head, stopping his lips a breath away from hers. “In this room, we’re Pierce and Camilla, understood?”
For no reason she could explain, she nodded, and that was all the invitation he required. With a sharp intake of breath, he took her mouth again.
8
Pierce knew what he was doing was unwise. He might be a scoundrel and a thousand other vile things, but he didn’t attack women in his employ. He didn’t pinch the maids or sneak a fondle from the housekeeper. And he did not kiss his mother’s paid companion.
Except that he was. And he couldn’t seem to stop.
It didn’t help that she was kissing him back. It didn’t help that he knew she was a widow, that he knew she hadn’t loved her husband, that he found her enticing and clever and all those things that made him desire a woman.
He certainly desired this one. Her fierce soul made him ache to lay her down on the bed and take her with slow, hot intent until she cried out her pleasure beneath him. She smelled of honey water and tasted of cinnamon, and he’d have liked nothing more than to eat her up.
She broke the kiss again to stare up at him with that clear-eyed gaze that seemed to see deeper than she let on. “Is this how you always silence a woman?”
He brushed kisses over her cheek. “Never needed to before,” he murmured in her ear.
“So I’m the only woman who plagues you?” she asked skeptically, then gasped when he nipped her earlobe.
She was certainly the only one who’d ever plagued him about Mother. But then, he’d never let anyone else close enough to even know he had a mother.
“The only one I couldn’t silence with a few words,” he murmured as he kissed her neck. “Or with a threat to cut off their tidy allowances.”
Her breath came in staccato bursts against his brow. “Then you must know some . . . very weak-willed women.”
“Or very avaricious ones,” he said dryly. Then he kissed her again to prevent her from pointing out the obvious—that perhaps he had different rules for women when it came to money. The first time she’d pointed it out had made him angry enough.
Besides, he wanted to keep kissing her. She kissed like a woman who didn’t know her own sensual power. Most women did—even the virginal ones. The fact that she didn’t made him want to show it to her.
Graphically. Thoroughly. Over and over, until she realized what he’d known from the moment she first stood up to him—that she was one of those rare women who understood how the game was played . . . and then played it by her own rules.
He just wanted to break all the rules, even his own. With her. Now. In his bed.
So he covered her breast with his hand and kneaded it, exulting to feel her nipple harden through the fabric. For a brief, hot moment, she leaned into his caress, making him want to tear her gown off so he could tongue the sweet, ample softness of her breasts until she gasped her enjoyment.
But when he tugged at the fastenings of her gown in back, she froze and shoved him away. “Don’t.” Devoid of their spectacles, her eyes glittered a perfect cobalt blue in the firelight. Her lips were swollen and flushed from his kisses, and her chest rose and fell with her quickened breath. “That is not . . . part of our agreement.”
No, it wasn’t, and he knew it. He just couldn’t make himself care. “It could be,” he rasped, his body hard with need, and his blood running molten through his veins.
Her expression grew wary as she moved to the bed to snatch up her spectacles and don them once more. “I won’t let you seduce me just to prove that you can.”
The words sparked his temper. “Is that what you think this is?”
“You want a woman, and I am near to hand.”
“Not near enough to hand,” he said testily, and reached for her once more. But this time she darted across the room and put a chair between them.
Oh, for the love of God . . . He’d be damned before he took to chasing a woman about the furniture. Bad enough that he’d put her on her guard just by kissing her and giving her one little caress.
One delicious, intoxicating little caress that made him want more, made him want—
Devil take it all. He mustn’t do this.
As he stood there, breathing hard, fighting for control, he began to come to his senses. What was he thinking? She was in his employ. He did not attempt to seduce servants. She wasn’t even his preferred type! He liked his women tall and blond and self-involved so they didn’t peer too deeply into his secrets.
She was none of that, yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman so much. Even now, looking at her lush mouth and even lusher body made him ache. . . .
Bloody hell, what was wrong with him?
He was bored and alone and randy. That’s all. And he wasn’t about to let his uncharacteristic desire for some plague of a female make him do anything he’d regret.
Leaning back against the bookcase, he crossed his arms over his chest and forced his breathing to slow. Then he donned his rakehell facade. Because that was the safest one. The only one that felt comfortable.
“Fine,” he drawled. “We’ll do it your way.” He skimmed his gaze down her with deliberate heat. “Though I can’t say I’m happy about it.”
“It wouldn’t be wise for us to—”
“I’m aware of that.” He cast her a humorless smile. “I merely got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again.”
Her wide, beautiful eyes looked uncertain. “You said that if I gave you an inch, you would take two miles. At the time, I didn’t think you meant it, but—”
“I believe we just established that I meant it.” Pushing away from the bedpost, he noted how she tensed as if to flee, and he halted. “But I’m in full control of my urges now, I assure you.”
She gave him a tight nod. “Then I suppose I should choose another book to read to you.”
But that wasn’t why he was ending their evening. Nor was it because he couldn’t have her in his bed. The truth was, the longer she stared at him with that deeply probing gaze, the more uncomfortable he grew.
If she guessed it, she didn’t show it. Relief was the only emotion on her face. “Thank you, Pierce. I’m rather tired myself.”
Her use of his Christian name unsettled his insides. No one except his family called him Pierce. Even his mistresses had always called him Devonmont or “my lord.” He almost wished he hadn’t asked her to go against that long-standing rule; it made him feel oddly vulnerable. But he wasn’t about to take it back and have her guess why.
“You’re welcome,” he said tightly. When she headed for the door, seemingly eager to flee his presence, he added, “Tomorrow evening we’ll play piquet.”
Damn it, why had he said that?
She faced him with a wary gaze. “I thought you were returning to London in the morning.”
He’d planned to. Until she’d looked so bloody glad to leave him, so bloody scared that he might toss her into his bed and ravish her. Which was only marginally worse than her looking at him as if she understood things she couldn’t possibly understand.
You’ll dismiss me? Run back to London, where it’s safe? Except that it isn’t safe, is it? Because even I, a complete stranger, can see the noose that is choking you more and more with every day . . .
She could see no such thing, devil take her! He’d fought hard to bring himself to the point where he didn’t care one whit what Mother did. But if he left for London now, Camilla would think he did care, and that galled him.
“I need to consult with Fowler before I go, and that always ends up taking longer than I expect. Since I’ll be on the estate anyway . . . ” He shrugged.
Tipping up her chin, she stared at him with those penetrating blue eyes. “Does that mean you’ll dine with me and your mother again, too?”
Damn. She’d misunderstood him. She thought he wanted to repeat tonight’s bargain.
At his silence, she blushed and went on hastily, “Because otherwise I don’t think it would be appropriate for you and me to—”
“Same bargain as before,” he heard himself say as if through a fog. “I dine with the two of you, and you come here afterward.”
Idiot. Yet he could hardly compel her to show up in his bedchamber again, unless he wanted to be one of those loathsome employers who forced their servants into their beds. And what would one more dinner with Mother matter, anyway? He knew her game. He could remain immune to it. Indeed, he would show Mrs. I Can See Your Darkest Secrets Stuart that he wasn’t letting any damned “noose” choke him.
Camilla’s gaze softened, making him regret he’d even suggested staying another night. “All right. Same bargain as before. Though I think we should avoid the naughty books.”
“Indeed.” Just the thought of her reading more of Fanny Hill aloud to him in her sultry voice made his cock harden again. “No naughty books.”
“And no more kisses,” she said firmly.
It rubbed him raw that she thought him incapable of controlling himself. He was known for his control. “Of course.” When she looked skeptical, he managed a bored expression. “Don’t worry, Camilla. As I said this afternoon, I don’t make a practice of abusing the trust of those in my employ. We’ll merely play piquet. Or rather, I’ll trounce you at piquet.”
“If you can,” she said lightly.
He snorted. “I’ve spent a good portion of my life in gaming hells. I think I can beat a woman whose only experience at the game is with little old ladies and orphans.”
“I take it you don’t remember the name of that little old lady I served as companion to.” When he frowned, trying to recall the contents of her reference letters, she added, “Lady Stirling. And she taught me everything she knew about piquet.”
Which was plenty. The late viscountess had been one of the best piquet players in England. “Then it’s a good thing I beat her twice during my salad days.”
Her face fell. “You’re bamming me.”
“You’ll find out tomorrow night, won’t you?”
“I suppose so,” she said with a nod, and swept out the door.
A pity he would have to run the gauntlet of dinner with Mother again before he got a few hours with Camilla, who still had no idea what her meddling had wrought.
So tell me! How else can I learn if you don’t?
He scowled. He ought to do just that—tell her everything and let her see just how heartless was the woman she apparently adored.
But she wouldn’t believe him. Mother had spent the last six months persuading Camilla that everything was his fault. He wasn’t going to overturn that just by giving her a few facts. And that rankled. Because Camilla seemed to be a sensible woman who ought not to be taken in by such machinations. It bothered him that she was. That he might be missing something in all this.
Missing something? Not bloody likely.
No, Camilla was naive, that’s all. Charming and pretty, but a babe in the woods when it came to the sort of manipulative woman Mother was. Given a bit more time seeing him and Mother together, she would recognize the truth. That she’d been wrong about him and Mother and his blame in all this.
Then there would be no more reckless letters summoning him to Montcliff.
• • •
In the hall, Camilla leaned against the wall to catch her breath and steady her racing pulse. He was staying for another day, another dinner with her and the countess. Earlier, she would have exulted at a second chance to convince him that his mother deserved his attention.
Now she wasn’t so sure. Because the way he’d kissed her . . .
Oh, heavens, the man knew exactly how to kiss. There was no hesitation or awkwardness. He just seized a woman and ravished her mouth like a marauding Viking. Thoroughly. Repeatedly. With great enthusiasm.
But he’d promised not to do it again. Could she trust that? She’d never had a man desire her so intently before. And his attraction to her had not been feigned. She’d felt his arousal when he’d held her.
Sadly, she shared the attraction. She wasn’t sure why. Yes, he had an interesting face and brooding eyes and a mouth that could turn any woman wanton, but he was also childish and arrogant. Such men generally annoyed her.
It was just that he seemed so very . . . lost. Tonight, his nonchalant mask had slipped long enough to reveal the bravado beneath. He was like the orphan boys who told everyone they didn’t need parents, so they could hide how very desperately they did.
But he had a mother who loved him. Somehow Camilla had to make him see how precious that was. For the good of everyone.
Right. Selfless altruism is your only motive.
She pushed away from the wall. All right, so there was more to it than that. She wanted not to be at odds with him. She wanted another chance at feeling that warm mouth on hers and those knowing hands kneading her flesh . . .
Sweet heaven, she must be losing her mind! The last thing she needed was to make a lover out of her employer. Once an affair with him ended—and it always did with men like him—she’d lose both a lover and a good position. She couldn’t afford that.
Especially when she and Jasper had finally found a family for the first time in their lives. Kenneth had been exactly as Pierce described him. He’d spent all his time in Spitalfields helping the poor, sick, and wicked. She’d run herself ragged to help him with his work and make a home for him and Jasper and rarely received thanks for her trouble. Their home together had been mostly a prison for her. Whereas here . . .
She sighed. Montcliff was a haven. Here she got not only thanks but warmth and kindness and the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Here Jasper was flourishing. And she wouldn’t ruin that.
T
houghts of her son made her quicken her steps. She paused outside his room to check her reflection in the glass of the case clock and groaned. She looked disheveled and unsettled. Wanton. She couldn’t let Maisie see her like this.
Swiftly, she repaired her hair and straightened her bodice, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed by her employer. Her handsome, incredibly virile employer, who’d asked her to read a naughty book and then been horrified to realize it had pictures.
The thought made her smile, then curse herself for being so charmed by it.
Heading resolutely to her room, she entered to find Jasper sound asleep with Maisie dozing beside him. The girl roused as soon as Camilla neared the bed.
“Oh! You’re back, are you?” Maisie rubbed sleep from her eyes and rose to help Camilla undress. If she noticed anything un-toward, she didn’t mention it.
But Camilla couldn’t relax until the girl had left for the maids’ rooms, upstairs. Even then it took her a while to get to sleep. She kept remembering his lordship’s husky voice: Even I know better. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to. Or you from wanting me to.
That was the worst of it—she really had wanted him to kiss her. To keep kissing her. And to do even more.
She’d never been kissed with such passion. How alarming to discover that she would very much like it to happen again. Like delicious desserts, kisses provoked cravings for more at odd hours. And she’d never been good at resisting dessert . . .
Oh, she’d have to watch herself around him until she and the countess settled back into their normal life.
But that wasn’t what Camilla wanted, either. Clearly, her ladyship and Pierce were both miserable in their present state. If she could just figure out what had torn them apart, then perhaps she could . . . could . . .
What? Knit them back together? She sighed. She hadn’t even been able to turn her marriage of convenience into something solid. Why on earth did she think she could mend this very broken relationship?
Especially when she had only one more night in which to do it.