Arranging the silverware in the dining room was not a task Joanna disliked, but she could not keep her mind on it. In the mirrors reflecting the light from the busy London thoroughfare outside, the shiny spoon bowls, even the heavy silver sugar-shakers and the salt cellars, she saw herself slipping and what the consequences could have been. However, she kept enough of her wits about her to ensure the room appeared at its best before she left, softly closing the door behind her.
The dining room lay at one end of the building, near the door that was once part of the servants’ network but was now permanently locked. The staircase had been declared unsafe, but it had been so since she had arrived, and still was no nearer repair. She would have to use the door leading off one of the bedrooms, or follow the passage around to the landing.
She would face it. Mr. Lightfoot had assured her the landing was safe. Cautiously she stepped out, and when she reached it, slid her shod foot along the place where she’d slipped a few days before, where a small part of the marble showed past the edge of the new carpet. It felt like the rest of the hallway used to, polished, but not too slippery.
A footman, stationed on the landing, raised a brow. “Seems somebody slipped, so they had the carpet laid. We can’t be having that, can we?”
She murmured a vague agreement and passed on, climbing the stairs to the comte’s private drawing room. He would dismiss her, she was sure of it. Why else would he ask for her?
Chapter Six
Anticipation filled Joanna’s veins with a chill that made her want to rub her arms, although she wasn’t cold, precisely. Unless she was cold from the inside. She had to force herself to go on, to stand before that door and knock. The peremptory “Come!” did nothing to settle her nerves.
With her head lowered, she went in. “Close the door,” he said.
She did so, but with a little hesitation. Respectable girls did not enter rooms with gentlemen and leave the door closed. Of course, she wasn’t a respectable girl, but a servant.
He was standing before the window, staring out into the street. His head, his mane of glossy fair hair tied back in a black velvet bow, moved very slightly, but the rest of his body remained still. He had his hands thrust in his breeches’ pockets, the sapphire blue skirts of his grosgrain silk coat roughly pushed back. Lace foamed from his wrists.
When he turned to face her, his features were shadowed by the bright light behind him. A solitaire glinted in his carefully folded neckcloth. He could have been a marble statue, except he was vivid with colour.
Hastily, she curtseyed. “Mrs. Holdsworth said you wanted to see me, my lord.” She’d already transgressed by meeting his gaze. She’d looked away, but the meeting of eyes had registered. “I’m glad to see you well.”
“Why should I not be?” Irritation snapped in his voice.
“No reason, sir.” She faltered, then took a calming breath, forcing her mind into working. She had better say what she meant to, otherwise she would never get it out. “I was concerned for you. A moment later and it could have been you slipping. You might have fallen right down the stairs.”
“So might you.” He spoke softly, but the hard note in his voice made her even more nervous than she’d been when she entered the room. Any more and she might be sick in front of him. Unthinkable in this perfect space.
He moved then, walking slowly toward her, his face coming into clearer view. He was watching her, his eyes darker than usual—or was that because of the dazzling light he’d exposed her to by moving away from it? His jaw was tensed, his walk that of a stalking beast, one concentrating on its prey. She’d seen cats with that expression, intent and watchful. His heels struck the bare floor with a sound that tolled her doom until he hit the oriental rug she stood behind. Any minute now he would tell her to leave his club and not return.
“It’s kind of you to think of me,” he said. He moved closer still, until he stood before her. Their bodies did not touch, but if either of them breathed too deeply, they would.
Reaching up, he tugged the string of her cap undone, his movement so economically swift she could do nothing to prevent it. Her hair, already tousled by her run, fell down, her tight bun not as firm as usual. Some remained pinned up, but enough fell to curl on to her shoulders.
He caught his breath, the gasp mingling with her harsh breathing.
He removed her glasses, his fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched back, then stared at him, heat rising to her cheeks.
“I knew you were a beauty,” he said. “Why else would you make such efforts to disguise your looks?”
She swallowed. “You cannot mean that. I pass unremarked and disregarded. You should not—”
“You should not try too hard to appear nondescript. You are a beauty, I say, and I am a connoisseur.” His lip twisted at the corner, deepened, and a crease appeared beside it. “I have known many women in my time, so do not deny it to me.”
But she did. She had to. “I’m no beauty. I’m a normal person.”
“Do not contradict your master.”
“You’re not my master.” She put up her chin, meeting his eyes boldly. “No man masters me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The inherent threat should have alarmed her, but it only made her more determined not to let him cow her. Warmth filled her mind, from a source she could not detect, as if it had come from outside herself. She did not recognize it. Then it was gone, like an inner blush that left without trace. “I take it you no longer wish for my services?” It would come as a relief not to see him every day. Already she was dwelling too much on him. “Sir,” she added, gazing straight into his eyes.
He lifted his finger again, stroked her cheek very slowly. “You’re telling the truth,” he murmured, so close the heat of his breath warmed her face. “But not all of it.”
“Nobody tells all the truth.” She thought of her father, who developed the truth, coloured it, and sent it out in the world to earn his living. But she said nothing of that. She would leave and take her secrets with her.
“You’re right, nobody does. But there is a difference between not telling the whole truth and deliberately holding back secrets.” He watched her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him stare her down.
Throwing her head back, she met him, stare for stare. “I do not. I have not lied.” Although he was right, she had not told him everything. This man was dangerous, far too much for her to play with him. She would not. She would find easier prey.
“Is your name really Joanna?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
“Joanna Spencer?”
“Yes. I thought…” She didn’t know what to think. His proximity confused her, sent her mind into a spin, spiralling down her body to the juncture of her thighs, where she heated and dampened.
He smiled and stroked her cheek again. It was all she could do not to press into his touch, to beg silently for more. His heat seeped through her, warming any residual chill, but the nervousness remained. She could not move.
“Your skin is so soft,” he said. “It begs me to touch it. It has from the beginning. Like the ripest, plumpest peach.”
She should not allow him to do this, or say such things, but the lonely core deep inside her body opened and blossomed at those words. Men passed her by. It went without saying that she had no dowry, nothing to offer a man in marriage, so she had closed the door on such thoughts, except for dreams she could not control. She made a last effort. “You should not do this, sir.”
“I know. I do not make a habit of it. But you—you intrigue me, Joanna Spencer. I want to know more about you. Like why you did not tell me, or anyone else in this house, that your father owns the Argus.”
A sharp gasp escaped her and she spun away, intent on reaching the door. She would leave and never come back, and pray that he didn’t follow her.
He lashed his arm around her waist and turned her back to him.
They were pressed chest to chest, the fabri
c of her coarse gown meeting his smooth, fine silk waistcoat. Her mind racing, she said nothing, but met his gaze boldly. “Everyone has to earn a living,” she said when she had finally worked out what to say.
He watched her, waiting for something, she did not know what. His cheekbones were tinged with colour, his eyes back to their light silver, disconcerting and beautiful. They were both breathing deeply, as if they’d run up St. James’ Street and back.
“Would you rather I earned it another way?” Without allowing him to speak, she went on, anger sparkling through her. “Oh yes, I see you would.”
Something in his eyes flared, and then she could see no more as he closed them and dragged her closer, bringing his head down.
Then he kissed her.
His scent was of lemons, a tinge of the sea, and pure, wild, masculinity. It wreathed around her, its intensity overwhelming her efforts to remember who she was, who he was, and pull away. His lips pressed against hers, firm and full, pressing so she had to tilt her head back.
Flattening her hands on his chest, the metallic threads of the embroidery rasping against her palm, she shoved. He did not move, didn’t even seem to register her protest. He continued to kiss her, but kept his hands around her waist, holding her close, but not roaming. His fingertips dug into the fabric of her jacket, the pressure insistent, into the flesh beneath, burning as if they were naked and he was claiming her.
One kiss, what harm would that do? She couldn’t pretend she did not want it, had not lain awake in her narrow bed dreaming of this, but he should not, she was a respectable woman…the protests became mere echoes in her mind.
He touched her lips with his tongue, and as if he’d commanded it, she let him in.
A low growl vibrated through her mouth as he licked in, touching her tongue with the tip of his, plunging deeper, then tracing the roof of her mouth so delicately. Responsive tingles shivered through her whole body, reaching the very tips of her toes.
God help her, she was lost in him. Clutching his shoulders, she gave herself up to what she wanted, his mouth on hers, marauding her.
When he released her, all she could do was rest in his arms, panting, eyes wide. Moving one hand up to her shoulders, he supported her, watching her, his eyes glittering. “You were saying?”
“I don’t sell my body,” she managed, through a haze of scrambled thoughts.
“I see. In that case, what do you sell?”
That glitter held anger, but she had no idea why. Unless he disliked being thwarted, of course. Most gentlemen felt that way. Well, he was not the only one.
Her anger simmered under the arousal she had no idea what to do with. Her nipples tingled and her most secret parts felt swollen and wet. Nobody had evoked that instant response from her. He’d played her like a puppet, and that knowledge added to her anger.
How dare he assume she could be bought? “Servant girls are the recipient of many insults, my lord, but none as egregious as this.”
When she tried to pull away, he held her firmly. “I don’t make a habit of taking servant girls, especially ones in my employ.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “But whatever else you are, you are in my employ, are you not? What if I tell you that you are no longer working for me? What then?”
Fury rose like a tongue of flame inside her. “Is this your way of dismissing me?”
He smiled wryly. “No, it’s my way of seducing you.”
Before she could protest, he kissed her again, sealing his mouth to hers. She should push him away, she truly should. Lifting her hands, she tried to do just that, but when she touched the back of his head, she threaded her fingers through his hair instead, tugging it out of the velvet bow that fastened it back. It was silky and seductive, like the rest of him. With a moan, he plunged his tongue deep, and she went flying.
No, not flying—he’d bent, tucked his arm under her knees and picked her up. She should not allow this, but her resolve had turned so soft that it might melt away completely. He lifted his lips from hers, glanced around, and moved backward, taking a seat on the large, blue sofa and laying her across his lap.
By now Joanna was mindless with desire. She burned for him. Reaching up, she tugged his head down to hers. Before his mouth took hers, his lips quirked. “It’s the same for me,” he said before he kissed her again.
What did he mean by that? The same as what? He couldn’t possibly feel as helpless as she did, nor as lost. He’d done this before. She had not.
Willingly she opened her mouth to the onslaught of his. Tipping her head back, she found support on the arm of the sofa. Her fichu loosened as he tugged it free of her bodice, his mouth left hers and he kissed her throat, lingering at the base of her ear, nipping her earlobe and licking the pain away.
“Ah!” When he sucked her earlobe and raked it gently with his teeth, thrills coursed through her, down and along her skin, making her moan with increased sensitivity. He kissed down her throat, nuzzling with lips and tongue, the slight prickle of his beard giving her delicious contrasts to the softness of his lips.
“Yesss,” he murmured when he touched the hollow at the base of her throat and she flinched. “You are so responsive, sweetheart. You feel so good. Say my name. Call me Amidei.”
“Amidei,” she breathed.
“It sounds so much better on your lips.” His voice slurred, and he kissed along the edge of her bodice, nudging the rigid edge down with his chin. The impossible softness of his hair poured over her hands in a cool cascade.
A sharp pull at the bottom of her jacket and her breasts popped free. She would have pushed them at him, eager to discover what joys he brought her next. Lifting her leg, she wound it around his lower body, annoyed when her skirts prevented her from doing so.
He kissed around her left nipple, raising its sensitivity to impossible levels, and then sucked it.
Joanna shot up from the sofa, not in protest, but in reaction. She had never allowed anyone to touch her there before, and now she knew why. Vulnerability was the least of her concerns. She lost her mind, what there was left of it.
Threading her fingers through his hair, combing it with her fingers, Joanna let one hand drift down over his coat, the fine silk coolly slippery.
Caressing and kissing her breasts, he still managed to drag up her skirts, enough to get his hand underneath. Now she whispered “Yes,” as he stroked up her leg, his hand pressing against her thigh, the first man’s hand to do so. His nails dug in slightly, and his head was buried between her breasts.
“No!” His voice was sharper, louder, echoing around the room. Shouldn’t she be saying that?
Cold air hit her when he pulled away so abruptly she felt like a fish landed on the riverbank. All at once awareness rushed in. She became aware of her state of undress, of what she nearly did, what she was still doing. Her instinct was to reach out for him, but he moved away and turned his back.
Covering her breasts with one arm, she frantically searched for her fichu. Sitting up, she shoved her breasts back into her bodice, none too gently, until he crooned something to her. He had turned around. Although dishevelled, he was correctly dressed, while she was fully marauded. One garter had come loose, her fichu was gone and she had shamelessly all but begged him to take her.
Shock arced through her. Grabbing her fichu from the floor, she shook it and flicked it around her shoulders, trying to tuck it back in, but her hands trembled too much for her to control her actions.
The comte dropped to his knees and took the fabric from her. “Let me.” He folded and tucked where she could not, and neatly folded it back where it belonged. Mortification spread hot fingers through her, and her tears ran down her face.
Halfway through his task, he glanced up at her, consternation in his eyes. “My fault, this was entirely my fault.” Cupping her face with both hands, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs. When she would have closed her eyes, so she did not have to look at him, he shook his head slightly. “No, don’t hide away. Face this. Face i
t with me.”
Even this close, he was so beautiful she could hardly bear it. Beautiful in a hard-edged, masculine way. He moved with grace, but it was the grace of a man used to wielding a sword. He dressed well, but was not a slave to his clothes. He had a bright, quick intelligence that few people could match. All these things she knew, the surety sinking into her mind with a certainty that would not be denied.
She gazed back and swallowed. “I have never done anything like this before. That is, I don’t know why…”
He nodded, a short jerk of his chin. “I know. I meant to share a few kisses with you, that’s all. Not this. You set a fire in me, one I can’t resist, and I’m guessing it’s the same with you. Now, do we act on this, or do we stay apart?”
“Will it go away?” She was making it sound like some kind of disease.
“I can’t promise that, but it will subside to bearable.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheeks. His mouth flattened, the lines tightening. “I will not take you in a frenzy. I will not allow you to say that it’s all me, that I forced you to it. And I will not do anything you do not want me to do.”
“How do I know what I want? I’m not experienced, I don’t know what is expected, or what happens!”
“If you dislike something, or if you don’t want to do it, say so. Or I can read your body.” Groaning, he got to his feet. “Forgive me. I should not even be speaking to you this way.” He crossed the room to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and smoothed his hair back. Plucking a comb from his pocket, he plied it vigorously. Too vigorously, perhaps, as his hair crackled and strands rose, sparked by the friction.
He spoke to her while he was putting himself to rights. “You’re a respectable woman, I can see that. My only excuse is that I want you too much. You’ve unbalanced me. I never imagined that I could become so carried away by a few kisses.”
Deftly, he smoothed his hair back and tied it. The bow was not quite as perfect as before, but then, she had crumpled it when she’d tugged it free. Next he turned to his neckcloth.
Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 Page 6
