A Lady Never Surrenders

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “A day? Just another excuse to put me off so you can wreak more havoc.” She stepped into the doorway, and he hurried to catch her by the arm and drag her around to face him.

  He ignored the withering glance she cast him. “The viscount is twenty-two years your senior,” he said baldly.

  Her eyes went wide. “You’re making that up.”

  “He’s aged very well, I’ll grant you, but he’s still almost twice your age. Like many vain Continental gentlemen, he dyes his hair and beard—which is why he appears younger than you think.”

  That seemed to shake her momentarily. Then she stiffened. “All right, so he’s an older man. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t make a good husband.”

  “He’s an aging roué, with an invalid sister. The advantages in a match are all his. You’d surely end up taking care of them both. That’s probably why he wants to marry you.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “No? He’s already choosing not to stay here for the house party at night because of his sister. That tells me that he needs help he can’t get from servants.”

  Her eyes met his, hot with resentment. “Because it’s hard to find ones who speak Portuguese.”

  He snorted. “I found out this information from his Portuguese servants. They also told me that his lavish spending is a façade. He’s running low on funds. Why do you think his servants gossip about him? They haven’t been paid recently. So he’s definitely got his eye on your fortune.”

  “Perhaps he does,” she conceded sullenly. “But not the others. Don’t try to claim that of them.”

  “I wouldn’t. They’re in good financial shape. But Devonmont is estranged from his mother, and no one knows why. I need more time to determine it, though perhaps your sister-in-law could tell you, if you bothered to ask.”

  “Plenty of people don’t get along with their families,” she said stoutly.

  “He has a long-established mistress, too.”

  A troubled expression crossed her face. “Unmarried men often have mistresses. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t give her up when he marries.”

  He cast her a hard stare. “Are you saying you have no problem with a man paying court to you while he keeps a mistress?”

  The sigh that escaped her was all the answer he needed. “I don’t think he’s interested in marriage anyway.” She tipped up her chin. “That still leaves the duke.”

  “With his mad family.”

  “He’s already told me about his father, whom I knew about anyway.”

  “Ah, but did you know about his great-uncle? He ended his life in an asylum in Belgium, while there to receive some special treatment for his delirium.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “The duke didn’t mention that, no. But then our conversation was brief. I’m sure he’ll tell me if I ask. He was very forthright on the subject of his family’s madness when he offered—”

  As she stopped short, Jackson’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Offered what?”

  She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Marriage, if you must know.”

  Damn it all. Jackson had no right to resent it, but the thought of her in Lyons’s arms made him want to smash something. “And of course, you accepted his offer,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t resist the appeal of being a great duchess.”

  Her eyes glittered at him. “You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.”

  “That’s because I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I’d think that you wouldn’t either.”

  She colored. “And why do you assume it would be such a thing? Is it so hard to believe that a man might genuinely care for me? That he might actually want to marry me for myself?”

  The hurt in her words set him back on his heels.

  “Why would anyone wish to marry the reckless Lady Celia, after all,” she went on in a choked voice, “if not for her fortune or to shore up his reputation?”

  “I didn’t mean any such thing,” he said sharply.

  But she’d worked herself up into a fine temper. “Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn’t even bear to kiss me properly again today—”

  “Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t kiss you ‘properly’ today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.”

  That seemed to draw her up short. “Wh-What?”

  Sweet God, he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. “I knew that if I got this close, and I put my mouth on yours…”

  But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn’t help himself. Not anymore.

  He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her.

  She tore her lips from his. “Mr. Pinter—” she began in a whisper.

  “Jackson,” he growled. “Let me hear you say my name.”

  Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. “Y-you don’t have to pretend—”

  “I’m not pretending anything, damn it!”

  Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted.

  When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. “Please, Mr. Pinter—”

  “Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. “Say my Christian name.”

  Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. “Jackson…”

  His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn’t pushing him away, so to hell with trying to be a gentleman.

  He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room.

  So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he stalked after her.

  She didn’t stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. “Last night you claimed this wouldn’t happen again.”

  “I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he’d been craving her for months. And now that he’d suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more.

  When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he’d been coveting.

  With a shiver, she slid her hands up his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want you,” he admitted, damning himself. “Because I’ve always wanted you.”

  Then he covered her mouth with his once more.

  Chapter Ten

  Celia’s head was reeling. He wanted her? Mr. Pinter wanted her?

  Not Mr. Pinter. Jackson. Jackson.

  She released a shuddering breath as he trailed kisses from her mouth to her ear, his breathing heavy and his heart racing beneath the hands she pressed against his chest.

  He did want her. He was devouring her, dragging open-mouthed kisses along her neck and throat like a man starved. He still smelled of saltpeter and smoke—as masculine and earthy as the rasp of his faint whiskers against her skin. Desire welled up in her when he tongued the hollow of her throat.

  She’d never experienced kisses and caresses like these before, tender and searing all at the same time. She was drowning in every one.

  “Jackson…” she whispered.

  “I love to hear my name
on your lips,” he rasped against her ear. “Say it again.”

  “Jackson … this isn’t another lesson … is it?” She had to know. She had to be sure.

  “It ought to be,” he growled. “God knows you didn’t learn the first one very well, or we wouldn’t be here together, alone.”

  When he lifted her onto the table, knocking off some of the books, she gasped. “I’ve never been good with lessons.”

  He brushed a kiss over her lips. “Perhaps you haven’t had the right teacher. Or the right lessons, my lady.”

  “Celia,” she countered, burying her hands in his thick, raven hair. He had the most beautiful hair, soft to the touch, with lovely waves that spilled wantonly over her fingers. “If I’m to call you Jackson, you must call me Celia.”

  His eyes turned molten gray as they locked with hers. “Celia,” he breathed. Then he brought his hands up to flick open the buttons of her redingote and pull out her lace tucker so he could toss it aside.

  She caught her breath. “Wha-What are you doing?”

  “Continuing your lessons.” He spread open her redingote gown to expose her undergarments. “I want to taste you. Will you let me, sweeting?”

  Sweeting? That alone would have softened her resolve, for no man had ever called her such a lovely thing. But the fact that he was asking for what Ned had tried to force from her melted her resistance even further.

  “I’m willing to repeat a lesson as often as it takes to learn it,” she said, shocked by her own boldness.

  His response was to untie the top of her corset and pull the cups down to expose her chemise. She dragged in a long breath as the chill of the room made her nipples harden beneath the linen. The fire that leapt in his face was so hot it sparked flames low in her belly.

  “What lesson is this?” she choked out.

  His wild gaze met hers. “That even a low bastard can be tempted above his station when a lady is as lovely as you.”

  “A lady? Not a tomboy?”

  “I wish you were a tomboy, sweeting,” he said bitterly. “Then you wouldn’t have viscounts and earls and dukes vying for your favors.”

  Was he jealous? Oh, how wonderful if he was! “And Bow Street Runners?” she prodded.

  He shot her a dark glance that was apparently supposed to serve as her answer, for he then bent to close his mouth over one linen-draped breast.

  Good. Heavens. What deliciousness was this? She shouldn’t allow it. But the man she’d been fascinated with for months was treating her as if he truly found her desirable, and she didn’t want it to stop.

  Clutching his head to her, she exulted in the hungry way he sucked her breast through her chemise, turning her knees to water and her blood to steam.

  He pleasured her breast with teeth and tongue as his hand found her other breast and teased the nipple to arousal. Her pulse leapt so high she feared she might faint. “Jackson … ohhh, Jackson … I thought you … despised me.”

  “Does this feel like I despise you?” he murmured against her breast, then tongued it silkily for good measure.

  A sensual tremor swept through her. “No.” But then, she’d been a fool before with men. She wasn’t good at understanding them when it came to this. “If you desired me all along, why didn’t you … say anything before?”

  “Like what? ‘My lady, I keep imagining you naked in my bed?’” He slid one hand down to her hip. “I’m not fool enough to risk being shot for impertinence.”

  Should she be thrilled or disappointed to hear that he imagined her in his bed? It was more than she’d expected, yet not enough.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “How do you know I won’t try shooting you now?”

  He nuzzled her breast. “You left your pistol on the breakfast table.”

  A strange excitement coursed through her. It made no sense, considering what had happened the last time a man had got her alone and helpless. “Perhaps I have another hidden in this room.”

  He lifted his head to gaze steadily into her eyes. “Then I’d best keep you too busy to use it.”

  Suddenly he was kissing her again, hard, hungry kisses … each more intoxicating than the last. He filled his hands with her breasts and fondled them shamelessly, distracting her from anything but the taste and feel of him.

  A moan escaped her, and he tore his mouth from hers. “You shouldn’t let me touch you this way.”

  “Yet I am,” she gasped against his cheek. “And you aren’t stopping, either.”

  “Say the word, and I will.” Yet he dragged her skirts up and pressed forward between her legs. “This is mad. We’re both mad.”

  “Are we?” she asked, hardly conscious anymore of what she was saying.

  Because it felt utterly right to be in his arms, as if she’d waited ages to be there. Her heart had never clamored so for anyone else.

  “I don’t generally take advantage of my clients’ sisters,” he rasped as his hands slid to grip her thighs. “It’s unwise.”

  “I’m your client, too. Do I look as if I’m complaining?” she whispered and drew his head down to hers.

  With a groan, he covered her mouth with his once more. They kissed a long while, their breaths entwining, their hearts pounding in tandem. His thumbs swept up the insides of her thighs just above her garters, and a delicious anticipation made her lean into him, wanting him to touch her, to caress her—

  “Celia! Where are you, girl?”

  The sound came from not far away, outside the room. They both froze. It was Gran!

  She tore her mouth from his in a panic. “You have to go.” She shoved at his shoulders. “She can’t find you here. She mustn’t!” Gran would have him dismissed before Celia could even discover how he felt about her. How she felt about him.

  He hesitated, his eyes hungry, his lips parted. Then an odd disappointment flickered in his face before he pulled away and that infernal detachment of his hardened his features again. “No, indeed. Your grandmother mustn’t find you being mauled by the likes of me.”

  “Jackson—” she began.

  “I’m going,” he said sharply and strode for the window.

  Before she could call him back or protest his words, he’d opened it and passed through into the courtyard, closing the window behind him.

  “Celia, I know you are back here somewhere!” Gran cried, much closer now.

  Frantically, Celia leapt off the table and buttoned up her gown. At the last minute, she spotted her tucker on the floor and stepped on top of it, just as Gran hobbled in.

  Gran halted, then searched the room with eyes that were sharp and keen as always. “Why did you not answer me?”

  Celia forced a smile. “I did,” she lied. “You must not have heard.” What on earth was Gran doing here, anyway?

  “Oliver said that you were with Mr. Pinter in the servants’ quarters, but they said they had not seen either of you. And that all the guns were already in order and placed in their racks.”

  She clapped her hand to her chest dramatically. “Oh, thank heaven! We headed there, but then I remembered I had a book that explained how to unload the new percussion guns, so I sent him back to the house. I came here, figuring I could handle unloading the gun alone if I found the book passage I was remembering.”

  The explanation sounded inane, but it was the only excuse she could think of that was remotely convincing.

  Gran didn’t look convinced. Her gaze dipped down. “Do you generally look through your books on the floor?”

  “Of course not. You startled me, that’s all. I knocked them off.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she went on the offensive. “And how did you know where to find me, anyway?”

  “One of the servants told me to check this part of the north wing—she said she had discovered that someone had been burning coal in one of the fireplaces.” Gran’s gaze narrowed. “Eventually I find out everything that goes on in this house, girl. Do not think to hide anything from me.”

  Celia fought not to swallo
w and give herself away. Gran was like a shark when she scented blood in the water. “And what would I hide from you?”

  “That you and Mr. Pinter are up to something.”

  “He’s investigating my suitors—nothing more.”

  Gran swept her gaze around the room again. “I hope that is true. He cannot afford even the appearance of impropriety.”

  “Impropriety? I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  Her grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Do not play the fool with me. This is not the first time you have been off alone with him. You must consider how that looks.”

  “To whom?”

  “To everyone. He cannot afford to have people gossiping about you and him—”

  “No, of course not,” she said bitterly. “Because then you’d have to dismiss him, even after all he’s done for our family.”

  Gran’s gaze turned steely. “Actually, he cannot afford it because he is very near to being appointed Chief Magistrate. Any appearance of impropriety toward a client’s sister might scuttle that appointment.” Gran searched her face. “Unless, of course, he married the woman. A rich wife of rank would enhance his chances.”

  It took all of Celia’s control to appear unconcerned, though her heart clamored in her chest. Jackson was in line for an important appointment? Why had he never mentioned it?

  Because he knew what you’d think of his overtures. Because he knew it would put you on your guard while he was pretending to desire you madly.

  No, she couldn’t believe that his sweet kisses and caresses had been calculated. They’d been too reckless, too impassioned. Could such a thing really be feigned? He’d always been forthright with her—it wasn’t in him to misrepresent himself.

  Was it?

  She forced a smile to her lips, determined not to let Gran’s words affect her until she could learn the truth. Gran was known for her devious strategies. This might merely be one more of those.

  But to what purpose?

  “I don’t know why you think Mr. Pinter would be caught in an impropriety with me, of all people. He can’t stand to be in the same room with me.”