A Lady Never Surrenders

by Sabrina Jeffries

  After only a few moments, he groaned, “Oh, God, stop … stop! Perhaps you’d better restrict your touching to … other parts of me.”

  “Didn’t I do it right?” she whispered.

  He uttered a harsh laugh. “Too well, I’m afraid. Some men need their pump primed, but mine has been primed for you so long…” He brushed a kiss over her breast. “Best not touch me there anymore, although you have free rein anywhere else.”

  After that, there were no words. He explored her; she explored him—his strong shoulders, his fine chest, the jaw she loved to kiss. She delighted in the feel of his flesh beneath her fingers, sinew and muscle dancing as he reacted to her touch. She adored that he couldn’t hide how her caresses affected him. He was usually so controlled and hard to read. But she could read him here, in bed, and it made her heart soar.

  So did the way he was caressing her, with firm, expert strokes, finding all the parts of her that yearned for him. She closed her eyes so she could relish every sensation, and soon she was breathing harder and harder, shimmying so wildly beneath his hand that she scarcely noticed he’d shifted to kneel between her legs until his hands drew her knees up and something bigger than a finger began easing up inside her.

  Her eyes shot open. But just as she was feeling awkward and wondering if she looked as awkward as she felt, he murmured, “You’re the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

  Instantly she relaxed. How did he always know the right thing to say? She ran her hands over his thick shoulders. “You’re quite … attractive yourself, sir,” she said, to take her mind off the thick flesh pressing up inside her.

  “Don’t mock me,” he bit out.

  “I’m not!” Was it possible he wasn’t as sure of himself as he always seemed? “You must know you’re handsome. I always thought so.”

  When gratification showed on his face, she was glad she’d said it.

  He forged deeper, eyes alight with fierce hunger. “And I always thought you a goddess.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Even when I tried your patience?”

  “You tried my patience?” he quipped.

  “You know I did.”

  Halting in his press inward, he turned solemn. “I’m afraid I’m about to try your patience, most sorely.”

  She gazed up at him, touched beyond words that he was being so gentle with her. Pulling his head down to her, she pressed a kiss to his lips, then whispered, “Make me yours. I can endure anything to be yours.”

  The words seemed to startle him, then make him grow even harder inside her, if that were possible. “We’ll see,” he murmured.

  She had no time to register that odd response before he took her mouth. As he kissed her deeply, thoroughly, he thrust equally deeply inside her.

  The swift pain made her gasp against his lips, but he just kept kissing her as he held still, letting her adjust to the tightness and the discomfort and the strange experience of being so closely joined to a man she still barely knew.

  After a few moments he began moving, slowly at first, as if feeling his way along. He stared down at her with a searing gaze that made her stomach flip over. “Are you … all right?”

  “Fine,” she lied, though it still felt odd and uncomfortable to have him inside her. Fortunately, it was growing less so by the moment.

  “I’ve imagined you like this … many times … naked, sharing my bed,” he rasped, the fervent words warming her, making her relax. “You have no idea.”

  “I have some idea,” she managed. “I imagined you, too.”

  He looked skeptical. “Like this?”

  “Well, not exactly … I didn’t know … what to expect.” Or how shockingly intimate it would feel.

  A lock of his dark hair fell over one eye, making him look more like a dangerous character and less like the formal Jackson she knew.

  “And now that you do?” he asked.

  “I like it.” The motion had started to warm her below, to spark the same tingling she’d felt when he rubbed her. “It’s like a very naughty waltz.”

  He choked out a laugh. “Yes. I lead. You follow.”

  You move between my legs.

  Oh, so that’s why people thought the waltz so scandalous! “I’ll never be able to waltz again … without thinking of this,” she breathed.

  He bent to whisper, “Then I’ll have to claim you for the next waltz.”

  She liked that word, claim.

  “And the next … and the next…” He thrust more quickly into her and her tingling heightened, twisting into something hot and exciting and infinitely more thrilling than any waltz.

  “Jackson … ohhh, Jackson…”

  “Every waltz … from now … until eternity.”

  “Yes…” She felt as if she were spiraling upward, like sparks dancing up from the fire into the chimney and out, and now she was soaring, rising with him into the cloudless climes and starry skies where all the beauty walked. …

  “Yes!” she cried as she reached that pinnacle. “Oh, yes, Jackson, yes … I’m yours … I’m yours … yours…”

  And with a fierce groan, he drove in deep and spent himself inside her. “As am I…” he whispered against her ear while he shuddered and shook over her. “Yours. Always.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hetty and Oliver were having a brandy in his study before the guests began trooping down for dinner when Minerva entered, leading Celia’s very anxious-looking maid.

  “You have to hear what Gillie just told me,” Minerva said, pushing the cowering maid forward. “I said she had to tell the two of you herself.”

  That roused Hetty’s interest, since Celia had been conspicuously absent all day. “What is it, girl?”

  When Gillie hesitated, Minerva said, “Celia does not have a headache. She has not been sleeping in her room all day with a dark cloth over her eyes.”

  Hetty burst into a laugh. “That is no surprise.”

  Gillie’s gaze shot to Hetty’s. “Beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Come now, girl, I am no fool. I know your mistress cries ‘headache’ whenever she wants to shoot. I would have made her confess her subterfuge before now, but…” She let out a breath. “I grew tired of fighting her. I figured if I let her think she was fooling me, she might not be so stubborn about everything else.”

  “Well, I didn’t know,” Oliver said with a frown. “You could have told me.”

  “Would you have done anything about it?” Hetty asked.

  “No, but—”

  “She ain’t come home, though,” Gillie burst out.

  Hetty’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? She’s usually back long before dark.”

  “Aye, that’s what’s got me worried, Mrs. Plumtree.” Gillie wrung her hands. “She left right after dawn, and that ain’t like her, either. She enjoys her sleep, she does. Then for her to be gone all day and into the evening…”

  “Not to mention,” Minerva put in, “that Mr. Pinter has been missing all day.”

  “Not missing,” Oliver said. “He went off to follow some lead just after—”

  “Dawn?” Minerva lifted an eyebrow. “Did he happen to say where he was going?”

  A roiling began in Hetty’s belly. “No. Just that it had something to do with Lewis’s and Pru’s murders.”

  “I suspect it had more to do with Celia,” Minerva retorted.

  Hetty began to suspect the same thing.

  “Why?” Oliver asked.

  “Last night,” Minerva said, “Celia confessed that she and Mr. Pinter—or, as she calls him, Jackson—have been spending more time together alone than any of us realized. Apparently, they’ve kissed a number of times.”

  Hetty scowled. Matters had gone that far between them? And right under her nose?

  “Good show, Pinter,” Oliver murmured.

  “Oliver!” Hetty chided him.

  “What? It’s plain as day that the two fancy each other. Thank God, they’re finally doing something about it. Pinter p
robably took matters into his own hands and carried her off for a picnic or a drive, since they haven’t had many chances to be alone together these past few days, with her other suitors around.”

  “Are you saying you have no problem with your sister spending an entire day alone with a man doing God knows what?” Hetty snapped.

  “It’s called courting.” Oliver eyed her askance. “Don’t tell me you disapprove. You’ve been trying to get her to marry for years. She finally has a suitor she really seems to like, and I for one applaud her.”

  “What if marriage is not what he has in mind?” Hetty spat, annoyed that her grandson could just gloss over the fact that Celia might be out there engaging in naughty activities with the Bow Street Runner.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Pinter is an honorable man. He wouldn’t ruin her.”

  “I don’t think he’s trying to, anyway,” Minerva said slyly. “I think they’ve eloped.”

  “What!” Hetty said. “Why would you think that?”

  Gillie jumped in to protest, “The miss would have said something to me if she were running off with a gentleman. I don’t think—”

  “Did she tell you that Mr. Pinter had been kissing her?” Minerva asked.

  Gillie looked troubled. “Well, no, but—”

  “I rest my case,” Minerva said.

  “I said ‘no elopements,’” Hetty snapped.

  “You were ready to waive that requirement for Gabe,” Oliver pointed out. “I don’t see why you can’t do it for Celia.”

  She glared at him. “Are you blind, Oliver? Has it not occurred to you that Mr. Pinter might want to marry your sister for her fortune?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, not Pinter.”

  His vehement defense of the man took her aback. She knew that Oliver liked the fellow, but she had not guessed how much.

  Could Oliver be right about Mr. Pinter’s character? Isaac seemed to agree with him. And she had warned the man that she would cut Celia off if he pursued her. So an elopement might mean he did not care about Celia’s fortune.

  On the other hand, it could mean he did not believe Hetty would actually hold to her threat. Or…

  Another awful possibility leapt into Hetty’s mind. “Oh, God. I am such a fool.”

  “Well, we all agree on that,” Oliver said dryly.

  She ignored her impudent grandson, caught up in a new concern. By threatening Mr. Pinter, she had thought to force him into revealing his true feelings. But what if the Bow Street Runner had simply decided to go around her? If he carried Celia off and did not marry her right away, it would force Hetty into having to consent to a marriage on his terms. Which meant she would have to give him Celia’s inheritance if she wanted to save the girl’s reputation.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that he was really in love, and they were running off together because of Hetty’s attempts to separate them.

  She shook off that disturbing thought. Snatching the girl from her family in this secretive manner was not the behavior of a man in love. Not an honorable one, anyway. “Mr. Pinter might have a more devious reason for carrying Celia off than any of us have even considered. If you only knew—”

  “If we only knew what?” Oliver asked, eyes narrowing.

  Oh dear. She could not reveal to Oliver and Minerva what she had threatened Mr. Pinter with. One of them might tell Celia, and the girl would get all up in arms about it, without seeing how Hetty’s scheme could elicit the truth.

  “Mr. Pinter lied to my face about his involvement with Celia,” she said stoutly. “He denied they had any interest in each other, all the while courting her behind my back. What is worse, he encouraged Celia to lie, too, for she reiterated his claim. That is not the action of an honorable man.”

  Minerva scowled. “You’ll never convince me that the staid and upright Mr. Pinter would behave in such a scurrilous fashion.”

  “Nor me,” Oliver said. “Besides, we are leaping to wild conclusions here. They may not be together at all. Celia may have forgotten the time and be even now trudging home in the darkness while Pinter is off on his expedition.”

  Hetty’s pulse quieted a little. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “In which case, all this speculation is for naught.”

  “Someone should head out to wherever it is Celia goes to shoot.” Oliver glanced at Gillie. “Do you know where it might be?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I never go with her when she shoots.”

  “Damn. Well, our first order of business is to find it. Then, if she’s not there, we should search the estate. Gillie, check her room, make sure she didn’t leave behind a note about where she was going to be or even about an elopement. Take Minerva with you.”

  As the two women headed for the door, Hetty called out, “Wait! Before we get our guests in an uproar over Celia’s absence, perhaps we should handle this more discreetly.”

  Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”

  “If she has not eloped with Mr. Pinter and there is no real cause for alarm, I do not want her potential suitors reconsidering their interest in her. Celia is the one who requested that they be invited to this affair. I assume she had a reason.”

  She’s trying to gain a husband so precipitously only because you’re forcing her to.

  Ruthlessly, she pushed Mr. Pinter’s words from her mind—she still had no idea what his motives were, and until she did, she could not trust what he said. “The duke is on the verge of offering for her, from what I understand,” she continued, “and I would not want to ruin that for some idle speculation.”

  Though Minerva blinked at that, she conceded the point with a nod. “Perhaps Gran is right—we should proceed with caution. I’d hate to see Celia forced to marry Mr. Pinter out of some misapprehension, the way I was forced to marry Giles.”

  Oliver eyed her askance. “There was no ‘misapprehension’ involved in your wedding, my dear. You were caught lying half-naked in Masters’s arms. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot the scoundrel right then and there. And you didn’t seem too reluctant to marry him, either, as I recall.”

  Minerva sniffed. “That isn’t the point. I just think we should be careful about alarming Celia’s suitors until we’re sure of what has happened. I suppose she might actually wish to wed one of them.”

  A sigh escaped Oliver. “You may be right.” He thought a moment, then said, “Very well, here is what we’ll do. Gran will tell everyone that my wife is in early labor. Since Maria has been resting all afternoon, no one has seen her, so that should be believable. Gran will say that I think it best that everyone go into town for an evening at the theater and a late supper. That will keep them out of our way. Isaac and Gran can be in charge of entertaining them in town.”

  “But I want to be here!” Gran protested.

  “There’s nothing you can do here but fret. In fact, Minerva should go with you.” Overriding Minerva’s protests, he went on firmly, “Keep our guests busy while we do our searching, and bring them home late. They’ll sleep until noon, and if by then we haven’t heard or found anything, we’ll send everyone home.”

  “Why don’t we just send them home now?” Minerva asked.

  “Because it will take them time to pack up, and we won’t be able to search during that time without their noticing.”

  Gran sighed. “True.”

  Oliver began to pace. He was always in his element during emergencies. “I wish we knew where Pinter had headed.”

  “John might know,” Gran said. “He spoke to Mr. Pinter at length last night.”

  After ringing the bell for John, Oliver turned his attention to Gillie. “Go search Celia’s room for notes. You can start that now—no one will see it.” As Gillie headed for the door, he said, “But first, explain to Maria why she mustn’t leave her room. Then send Jarret and Gabe down here, will you?”

  He went to the window to look out and scowled. “Gabe and Jarret can search the estate, although it’s going to take some time by lantern l
ight with no moon. If we’re lucky, Gabe might know where Celia goes to shoot. We’ll involve the servants only if we have to. We don’t want them talking to our guests’ servants about what’s going on.”

  John entered just then. “My lord, you wanted to see me?”

  “Do you know where Mr. Pinter was headed today?”

  “No, sir. He requested a list of former servants and their addresses a few days ago, and I got him confirmed information last night. He didn’t say which servant he planned on visiting, though.”

  “But he did say he was visiting one today?” Gran prodded.

  “Actually, no. He just took the list and thanked me.” John brightened. “But perhaps one of the stable boys will know.”

  “Even if he told them, he could have lied,” Gran pointed out. “Especially if he had designs on…” She cast a furtive glance at John. “Especially if he wanted to hide his true purpose.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Oliver dismissed John, then turned to Hetty. “You credit Pinter with more deviousness than I. Let’s assume, for the moment, that he told the truth. If we can’t learn from the servants where he headed, Giles and I will go to town and talk to Pinter’s clerk and his aunt. One of them might know. He might even have returned home by now.”

  “Wouldn’t he have come here first?” Gran pointed out.

  “Not if he was hot on the heels of a lead in the case,” Oliver drawled. “But now you’ve got me curious—what exactly do you have against Pinter that makes you so dead set against him for Celia?”

  The sudden shift in subject took her off guard. “Nothing, I swear!” As Oliver continued to stare skeptically at her, she said, “I happen to know a bit about the man, that’s all. And I’ve seen many of his kind through the years try to better themselves by—”

  “Marrying above themselves?” Oliver said in a hard voice. “Like Mother?”

  Hetty colored. “Your mother loved your father, no matter what else you might think about her. And though she was beneath him in rank, I made sure she was well-educated and had every advantage to make her a suitable wife to a marquess. While Mr. Pinter, until he was ten—”