“That’s a terrible idea,” Rosie said, aghast. “Chudleigh Crest has no society to speak of! This is my last chance to meet someone suitable—”
“Eligible bachelors are far and few between in Town at the moment. Like everyone else, they’ve gone to their country seat. I think a little rustication would do us all good.”
“But Mama—”
Sophie’s wails rose in volume.
“It’ll be best for all of us. Trust me, dearest.” With that gentle yet implacable decree, Mama left to tend to her other daughter.
~~~
“I am sure a bit of shopping will lift the spirits, Miss Primrose,” Odette said the following afternoon as they alighted in front of the Bond Street shop.
A devotee of shopping, Rosie couldn’t rouse even an iota of excitement as she and the maid approached Madame Diderot’s atelier. The ton literally owed its fine feathers to the famed plumassier’s art.
“What good will feathers do me in Chudleigh Crest?” Rosie’s breath formed puffs of despair in the chilly air. “The only attention I’ll attract there is that of the local inhabitants—the dashed grouse and pheasants who’ll want their plumage back.”
“I believe Madame Diderot’s plumes come from more exotic game, mademoiselle.” Looking as if she was trying not to smile, the dark-haired French maid opened the door, and Rosie went inside.
No matter the time of day, the plumasserie was dappled in shadow due to the strings of feathers festooned overhead. Plumage from every kind of bird and in a rainbow of glorious hues fluttered as the door closed. The scent of dyes, wax, and something earthier tickled Rosie’s nostrils as the proprietress came from behind a counter.
“Mademoiselle Kent,” she said with a curtsy, “what a lovely surprise to see you!”
Rosie wondered at the woman’s high color. Usually Diderot was as pale as a ghost.
“Likewise, Madame. Odette convinced me to brave the cold to attain a replacement. I lost the white ostrich feather at a masquerade,” she said apologetically.
“You are in luck. Today I received a special shipment which included several heron feathers.”
At the mention of the prized species, Rosie perked up. “I should love to see them.”
“They are in my specimen preparation room, which is a bit cramped. You would not mind your maid waiting here?”
At the words “specimen preparation,” Rosie’s belly had lurched. Being fastidious by nature meant that she was rather squeamish. The image of bloody carcasses flashed in her head, and she said uneasily, “There aren’t any specimens being, um, prepared, are there?”
“Not the animals, mademoiselle. Just the feathers.”
“All right then,” she said with relief. “I’ll be back, Odette.”
She followed the plumassier to a backroom. A large work table cluttered with specially shaped knives, scissors, and other implements of the trade dominated the space.
Diderot opened a door at the side of the room. “After you, Mademoiselle Kent.”
Rosie stepped inside the small chamber—and froze.
“You,” she said furiously.
Chapter Seven
The sight of Primrose tore into him like a bullet of sunshine.
His rationality—all the reasons he’d given himself for arranging another meeting—bled away. Her impact on him went beyond that of her beauty. It was more than her corn-silk locks, her rare green-gold gaze, her figure so fetchingly displayed in a blue pelisse and gown edged in ermine.
It was her. The sum total of who’d she become. The transformation of his brave little chick into a passionate, willful woman devastated his senses: she affected him as no woman ever had. If the kiss at the Pantheon hadn’t made him aware of the true nature of his feelings, then he was a fool. And a greater fool still if he gave into those yearnings.
He no longer saw Primrose as a sister; he had no right to desire her as a woman.
Which was why he’d arranged this meeting, he reminded himself. To make his apologies. To disentangle himself from a situation that, contrary to his intentions, was placing her reputation in greater jeopardy than ever before. Bad enough that she’d suffered for the inconstancies of her aristocratic admirers; imagine if it became known that she’d been kissed by a goddamned pimp.
For her own good, he had to retreat, to return to his strategy of protecting her from afar.
He gave a subtle nod to Madame Diderot. She discreetly closed the door, leaving them in the privacy of the stock room, a small space with boxes piled along one wall, a table tucked up against another. Drying feathers fluttered on clotheslines overhead.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kent,” he said.
Her icy stare would have frozen a lesser man. “How did you know that I would be here? Did you bribe Madame Diderot?”
Tread carefully.
From the inner pocket of his jacket, he withdrew the ivory feather he’d taken from her at the masquerade and held it out. A peace offering. “I figured sooner or later you’d be in need of a replacement. And bribery was unnecessary in this instance. Madame owed me a favor.”
Primrose snatched the feather from him. “Well, if you’ve come to lecture me on my behavior again, save your breath.”
“Actually, it’s my behavior I wished to discuss. I owe you an apology.”
Her eyebrows winged.
“What happened at the Pantheon...” He cleared his throat. “I was entirely at fault.”
“Without a doubt,” she said coolly. “You ruined yet another opportunity for me to meet with Lord Daltry.”
“Will you leave off Daltry for a bloody moment?” Taken aback by his own vehemence, he forced himself to say in calmer tones, “I wasn’t referring to the earl but the kiss we shared.”
He’d imagined how she might react to his apology. Profuse blushes. Stammering denials.
Her shoulders hitched in a careless shrug. “It was just a kiss.”
“Just a kiss?” He had to check himself. Again. “How many times have you been kissed?”
“You ought to know. After all, you’re the expert on my behavior.” She wandered to the table. Her back to him, she lifted a magenta feather from its surface. “The advantage of being a hussy is that one doesn’t fall into a swoon over something as inconsequential as a peck.”
“It was more than a peck, and you know it,” he said shortly. “And don’t call yourself a hussy.”
“I’m just quoting you. And, by the by, one must wonder at your familiarity with hussies.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her head angled in his direction, her smile as sharp and delicate as a scalpel. “You so readily identified me as one, so it speaks to your experience with the breed, does it not?”
“I do not discuss my personal affairs,” he said stiffly.
“And that makes you a hypocrite, sir, since you seem to have no compunction meddling in mine.” She set the feather down, looking bored. “Now is there anything else you wished to discuss? I have other appointments today.”
He prided himself on his self-control, his ability to keep a cool head. He’d seen and done too much to let anything or anyone get under his skin. But he’d overestimated his forbearance—or underestimated Primrose. He’d embarked on this time-consuming, effort-intensive quest to protect an unspoiled girl; instead, he was confronted with this insouciant brat.
Irritation simmered. She didn’t want his help? Then he’d wash his bloody hands of her.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he bit out.
“I shan’t. This will be our last meeting, I hope?”
A scathing rejoinder was on the tip of his tongue. But then she turned, and the heightened sheen in her eyes slammed into him like a battering ram. His wall of anger crumbled, and he was moving toward her before he knew it.
She retreated a step, hissed, “Stay away from me!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice pitched low. “I meant no insult.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re
like the rest. You think that because of my reputation, you can treat me any way you wish.” The hitch in her breath stabbed him like a blade. “That I’m a strumpet you can dally with and toss aside—”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, “I think the opposite. You’re a jewel.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“It’s the truth. You’re beautiful, but more than that, you’ve courage and spirit to spare. You light up any room you walk into. Any man would count himself blessed to have you by his side.”
Something flickered in her face. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You’re precious, Primrose,” he said hoarsely. “Beyond words.”
“If what you’re saying is true,”—her voice quivered—“then why does no one want me?”
The naked vulnerability in her gaze tore down the remnants of his resistance. He closed the distance between them. At the whiff of her unique floral scent, need clawed his belly.
“I want you.” His words were raw, guttural. “So goddamned much.”
Her lips parted, her lashes fluttering.
He didn’t know who made the first move, but in the next heartbeat she was in his arms, his mouth descending hungrily upon hers. She kissed him back with equal abandon. Her sweetness laid waste to his good intentions, and the kiss raged into a fever.
~~~
Rosie felt herself being lifted onto a table, her back propped up against a wall. Things fell—but the world could have come crashing down for all she noticed. Because there was only him.
This man who wanted her.
Who said she was precious.
Who made her feel treasured—and safe.
Fear’s hold on her loosened. Guided by instinct, she kissed him with all the passion awakening inside her. Eagerness and inexperience made her a bit clumsy, but it didn’t matter because he was in control. Masterfully so. No one had ever kissed her with such finesse before. With such care. His mouth courted hers with discipline and skill, and longing sizzled through her.
When he tossed aside her bonnet and crowded into the lee of her thighs, she shivered with primal delight. It felt right; everything about him did. His dark male taste, his spicy scent, his virile strength. Her hands clutched his hard shoulders, her knees bracketing his hips, and still she was desperate to get closer. When his mouth left hers, she made a sound of protest. His soft laugh heated her ear… then he drew the lobe into his mouth. Shock faded to bliss as he suckled the sensitive flesh. His tongue flicked back and forth, the caress hardening the tips of her breasts, causing a flutter between her thighs.
Desire made her dizzy. She could barely breathe.
And she wanted more.
As if he knew what she was feeling, his lips coasted over her jaw and neck, pleasure ruffling up her spine. His hand slid beneath her pelisse. She was wearing countless layers, but somehow he found where she was aching, his strong touch titillating the taut peaks of her breasts, rubbing them against the cage of stiffened fabric.
It was exquisite. Torturous.
Tension twisted her insides. Panting, squirming against the table, she didn’t know how to get relief. But somehow she trusted that he did.
“Help me,” she whispered. “Please.”
~~~
The bright, desperate need in her eyes was his undoing. Hell, she needed to come—badly. And release was something he could so easily give her.
He kissed her, licking deeply into her sweetness. At the same time, he dragged up her skirts and petticoats, his hand clamping on her drawer-clad thigh. Beneath the fine linen, her sleek muscles trembled, and he continued upward, finding the slit in the cloth.
She tensed, her knees pressing against his hips.
“Don’t hide, sweeting,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful.”
“I oughtn’t—”
“Let me take care of you. I’ll give you what you need. Trust me, Primrose.”
Her golden lashes fanned upward. Gold swirled with green… and her legs slackened.
Pleasure shuddered through him at her trusting acquiescence… and that was before his finger passed through the slit. Christ Almighty. Her pussy was soft, wet, unbelievably lush; behind the placket of his trousers, his cock shot up as if injected with steel.
He reminded himself that this wasn’t about his pleasure; it was about hers. He had a sudden flash of insight: with Primrose, the two could be one and the same. Sex could be an act of sharing rather than a mere exchange. Arousal pumped his blood, his erection jerking.
Reverently, he slid his finger up her plump crease, and she gasped when he found her pearl, rubbing it, painting it with her own dew. Watching her expressive face, he varied pace and pressure and stroke to maximize her pleasure. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than her sex-flushed cheeks, her bottom lip catching beneath her teeth as she approached her finish.
It didn’t take long: she’d been on the edge from the start. When she went over, he claimed her mouth. Her cries reverberated through him, shaking his foundations.
~~~
As Rosie slowly floated down to earth, several facts entered her awareness. One, she’d just experienced earth-shattering pleasure—a kind that she’d never even known existed. Second, the gentleman responsible for her state was standing between her thighs, his face buried in her neck, his heavy breaths heating her ear. Third, she was disheveled: a fallen curl dangled in her eye, and she was wet between her thighs.
Surprisingly, she couldn’t rouse herself enough to care. Embarrassment and shame—her constant companions—were conspicuously absent. In their place was a languor she’d never known before, a sense of rightness that made no sense… but there it was.
Trust me, Primrose.
Some deep instinct had told her that she could. And so she had. He might not be titled or rich or any of the things she’d been looking for in a husband—and she didn’t care. For the first time, she wanted something more. Something that she’d felt in the presence of this man from their first meeting. Something so primal and absolute that she couldn’t help but believe in it—and herself.
So this is what all the fuss is about. What Polly, Mama were trying to tell me…
Wonderingly, she touched his hair; the bronze waves slid through her fingers like rough silk. He lifted his head, and, staring into his coffee brown eyes, that gloriously handsome face, she was mesmerized by that pull of recognition. As if she were a dreamer trying to get back to the world she’d left behind.
“Tell me your name,” she whispered. “I must know.”
He hesitated. “Andrew.”
Andrew…. Andrew… The name danced like joy through her. Why?
“How do you know me? Because you do,” she said.
“Primrose, I…” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, her heart flip-flopping at the tender gesture. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
His words sent a quiver of anxiety through her.
“But you’ll have to tell me eventually. I mean, after what we… what just happened…” She trailed off at the harsh set of his features.
“I’ve acted unforgivably. Again.” He pushed back from her, dragged a hand through his hair. “It was wrong, taking advantage of you as I did—”
“You told me I could trust you!” She jumped off the table, shoved her skirts into place. Panic hammered in her chest. Please, please, please don’t be like all the rest. “Aren’t you… aren’t you going to do the honorable thing?”
Their gazes held, and her stomach plunged.
“Offering you marriage would not be the honorable thing to do,” he said quietly. “Other than money, I have nothing to offer you. I don’t have a title, and I don’t come from a distinguished family—or a family of any sort, really—and my reputation… it’s far from respectable.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, “about any of those things.”
“But you do. Or you will, once you find yourself without the privileges of your world. At the moment, you’re just blinded by
desire—damn me to hell.” He swore with startling fluency, his expression ravaged. “I deserve to be strung up for introducing you to such things—”
“Then why did you?” she cried. “It’s because you think I’m a hussy, isn’t it? Because I’m a tart who is so unworthy and low that even some… some nobody can dally with me and walk away without consequences!”
“That’s not true. Like I said before, you’re an angel, but I’m not worthy—”
“It’s not me, it’s you?” Rage entered the fray. “If you’re going to lie, at least have the grace to do it with a modicum of originality.”
“I’m not lying,” he said tersely.
“Just answer one question: are you, or aren’t you going to marry me?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “For your sake, I cannot.”
“Then the devil take you!” Snatching up her bonnet, she marched to the exit. She heard him say her name an instant before she slammed the door behind her.
Chapter Eight
Past
“You’re… you’re really leaving, Andrew?”
Primrose stood in the doorway of his shabby room in yet another shabby inn. In one hand, she gripped the rag doll he’d bought her months ago at the fair. She and the doll were rarely parted, and both were bedraggled from weeks on the flit. Primrose’s blond hair hung in limp, unwashed plaits, the doll’s yarn locks similarly dulled by dirt. Threads unraveled from both of them.
The trembling in Primrose’s voice, coupled with the brightness of her eyes, constricted his chest. But he’d made his decision; after the fight with Kitty last night, there was no turning back.
“It’s for the best,” he said.
He continued packing his possessions into a battered valise. There wasn’t much. Not after the fiasco of Kitty’s plan had taken the rest of his savings and nearly both their lives. As it turned out, those who dealt in pleasure in the countryside were as lethal as their city counterparts. The local brothel owners had made it clear that no upstart bawd from London was going to poach on their territory.
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 7
