Best to spearhead his campaign against insanity. It was now or never, and never was an unacceptable response.
“I suggest we kiss.” Her sharp intake of breath could only indicate he’d surprised her. “Do you agree?”
“Your answer was not what I expected.” Her eyes flared the slightest and a becoming shade of pink colored her cheeks.
“Sometimes things turn out better than expected.” He closed the distance between them, anxious for a closer view of her fetching embarrassment.
“I find that’s rarely true.”
He almost missed the words, said so softly under her breath.
“Close your eyes.” If she obeyed his command, the kiss could get underway, his ravaging passion satisfied, and all back to business easy as that.
Blue eyes settled on his and she gave a delicate shrug. “I don’t think—”
He angled his head closer, his mouth above hers. “Don’t think.”
He took the objection from her lips, swallowed it, forever forgotten as he threaded his fingers through her hair, the pins pricking his skin in their hurry to the floor, but heedlessly he continued, wrapping the lady in a consuming embrace that kept their mouths together, the taste of her kiss the addictive flavor he craved. She wrapped her arms around his neck and offered the slightest whimper, more surrender than protestation, so he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, begging for entry and the lady complied, her body soft and pliant, tightly held against his, hard with need.
He began with a retreat, hopeful she’d take the lead, groaning with desire when she did, the caress of her sweet kiss a mixture of shy vixen and coy seductress. She flicked the tip of her tongue against his lips, and every slow slide and silky caress, every curl of her kiss as it wrapped his, sent shocks of hot desire to ignite his veins like fire to paper, all consuming, devastation left in its wake. Her kiss destroyed and emboldened him, and he wanted more, fancied it with an intense yearning that threatened his control or dangerous lack thereof.
He withdrew, separating them with a gasp, their breaths comingling, his chest heaving, and he slid his hands to her shoulders, bracing her or maybe steadying himself.
A faint smile came out to play and her raspy whisper touched his face with heated amusement. “You’re incorrigible.”
He accepted the words as a compliment and grinned. “It’s one of my best qualities.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she whispered closer, her mouth hovering near his. “What about your kisses?”
“Good point, Miss Shaw, very good point.” He captured her mouth, his turn to dominate and conquer, as he wrapped them close; his hands sweeping down her sides, settling at her hips, the fabric of her gown no match for the smooth curves he discovered beneath. One hand skimmed her back, down to her bottom where he molded her closer still, a perfect fit, certain she perceived the extent of his ardor. The devil knew his body was rock hard.
With effort he left her mouth, the silky caress of her hair brushing his jaw as he spilled kisses down the column of her neck to the delicate skin at her nape and with a quick tug, across her bare shoulder. His decimation of her neckline, lowered to an unseemly and utterly delicious depth, made him groan with desire, his mouth hot and ready to discover more, devour more, if lovely Miss Shaw permitted.
His hands spanned her waist, his thumbs below her ribs and he held her there, timeless, motionless, drawn back to appreciate her tousled loveliness. This is how she’d look in the throes of passion, in his bed, across his pillows. Prim Miss Shaw, in all her disheveled well-tumbled beauty.
She met his stare, wide-eyed and kiss-swollen, and lowered her arms from where she’d grasped his shoulders, one hand accidently brushing against the placket of his trousers. He groaned with unfulfilled pain-pleasure. He no longer wished to stand still. He needed to move, to surrender to the unbearable ache consuming him inch by inch. With two long strides, he carried, dragged, her body against his, and across the room, where he spun her slowly, depositing her in the upholstered chair, his lips never leaving hers, their bodies sealed as he dropped to one knee.
How aptly the image suited, his show of reverence for her affection and esteemed permission.
“Would you like more kisses, Miss Shaw?”
It was a ridiculous question. His breeches were tighter than a vise with no release in the damn near future, but he would never disappoint her now or ever. He surveyed her boneless posture, comfortably pliant against the back cushion in a love puddle of soft skin and silk skirts, not at all the well-postured leader of the league. He nearly chuckled with the irony of it all, but it came out a husky growl instead.
“Yes, please.” She said the words as if a command and if it was at all possible, he grew harder.
He braced his hands on the arms of the chair, lowering his lips for a taste of hers. She sighed, a little contented noise that reverberated in his chest and settled in his groin and when she clasped his face between her palms to secure his mouth to hers, he could no longer think. He slid one hand across her skirt, to the floor where he dipped below the edge of her gown, already hitched to a scandalous height, her slender ankle bared. He continued the kiss, imagining the unseen beauty, wanting to kiss and lick a path from toes to nose and back again.
With a hand that trembled, he removed her slipper and traced the arch of her foot, his fingertips gliding over her silk stocking, the lightest touch, and when he reached the back of her knee, she broke loose from their kiss, sagging against the chair in utterly restless pleasure. Her eyes were closed as if in complete surrender, she’d accept whatever he offered.
God damn, where would he draw the line?
Only the devil knew.
She was a gentle, well-bred miss, and he a gentleman, currently consumed with driving need and poor decision skills.
What was he to do?
“Jasper.”
She shouldn’t have called his name, not that way, in a dulcet voice, half plea, half summons, but ever so lovely.
His hand had stilled at her calf, the other white-knuckled on the arm of the chair and he nuzzled her neck, inhaling her delicate fragrance, all the more enhanced by their heated exchange, begging himself to show some decorum but unable to yield. He stroked his fingers, with more pressure now, over her knee and upward, where the top band of her stocking met precious skin, her bare thigh. She trembled beneath his touch.
He had to stop. He truly needed to. He knew that and told himself with one more touch, he would.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, her fingertips firm through his linen shirt, gripping with a delicious urgency that granted acquiescence. But she couldn’t be thinking clearly, his mind fogged by passion and temptation and unrelenting desire, still a portion of good sense remained and that sliver of sound judgment demanded he stop.
He splayed his palm across her inner thigh, and she quivered, her skin melting into the heated press of his hand, her soft silk a contrast to the tight edge of her stocking. He should strip her stocking down, push her skirts up and taste her delicate skin. He should…good lord.
At last he found sanity, despite he hadn’t searched with purpose, and he pulled away as if burned. He swallowed any words he might have muttered, his breathing uneven, his heart pounding and his mind left to wonder how deliciously wet Miss Shaw had become.
“Jasper?” This time it was a raspy question and he answered by matching her eyes, sensing the connection and understanding every emotion without either of them uttering a word.
She struggled, then straightened in the chair and he awkwardly smoothed her skirts, replacing her slipper and finding a slight smile as he finished the task.
There was nothing for it. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, but he would not hurt her for the world and that truth resounded with clarity.
He loved her.
He loved her well and thoroughly.
Something was wrong with her.
Locked in her bedchamber, Emily undressed without Agnes’
assistance, dismissing the maid with the same haste she wished to dispatch her conflicted emotions after returning home from Bond Street. What mortifying excuse had she mumbled before gathering her things and fleeing the office? She was no coward, or so she’d thought. Perhaps, deep down, she was, after all.
Now locked behind the door, she unbuttoned her day gown, twisting in agitation to accomplish the task and release the ties, dropping it to the floor next to her discarded stockings and slippers.
She’d allowed Jasper intimacies, the wanton inhibition enough to singe her conscience and swamp her in endless shame, yet no matter how she attempted to chastise her wicked behavior, another part of her, some dark secret unexplored portion of her soul, couldn’t regret what she’d done.
And that truth scared her above all else.
She stripped all three petticoats, the light cotton threatening to tear as she anxiously removed the garments, passing them off to the bed’s counterpane, anxious to shed the layers of fabric and emotion that suffocated her more with each logic-defying conclusion.
Jasper held the power to melt her resolve with nothing more than a kiss…or the inexorable pleasure of his hand on her thigh. She trembled with the memory, a delicious ripple of sensation weaving through her ribs to settle much lower. She unlaced her short corset, wriggling with the inconvenience, at last loosening the stays enough to gain freedom. She stood in her chemise, facing the mirror for several breaths as if seeing a different person than the Emily she’d believed herself to be. Conflicted, she curled upon the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees as if to gather close her usual control.
What had she done? Another stroke of his fingertip along her stockings and she would have shattered into myriad pieces as fragile as the porcelain figurines that adorned her vanity, forever changed.
Just like her mother.
Broken.
Gathering her legs closer to shut out the ugly conclusion she was not nearly as strong or determined as she pretended, Emily held her breath a long minute, her eyes clenched tight. She no longer understood her purpose, to live life without the encumbrance and restrictions of love, to carve a path and establish an independent existence. Yet here she lay, yearning for a man she hardly knew, a man who somehow spoke to her heart without uttering a word.
The tangle of emotion terrified and enthralled her. She wouldn’t fall into the trap which snared her mother and kept her caged, her voice unheard, with sorrow so great it crippled her mind.
Yet better sense rebelled against this well-worn excuse. She wouldn’t allow the heartbreaking past actions of her father to dictate her future. The ordered pieces of her logic no longer fitted. Nothing made sense any more, her heart and mind at odds.
Still, if she allowed herself to envision a life shared with a man who respected her opinion, challenged her intelligence and ignited her passion, she knew without fail, Jasper was her heart’s choice. The knowledge enthralled her to the depth of her soul, while simultaneously scaring her more than the threat of mistake.
“Emily? Are you awake?” Her mother’s voice, clear and alert, sounded through the door panel, followed by a sturdy knock.
Emily watched the knob turn as she swiped at her eyes to dash away any telltale emotion and sat up. “Yes, Mother. Please come in.”
“Mary said you rushed past her on the stairwell and dismissed Agnes before she could assist you. Is something wrong? Has someone upset you?”
With belated realization, Emily swung her eyes to the basket in the corner finding relief when she secured the brown blanket remained neatly in place. With her mother’s sullen mood of late, Emily worried she’d grown complacent or worse, careless with the letters, but no, everything remained in place. She turned toward her mother, who’d watched with keen attention.
“I’m fine.” She swallowed past the lump of emotion in her throat and traced the grooves of the carved bedpost with her finger.
“It wasn’t that gentleman with the crested carriage, was it? You can tell me if something is wrong, Emily. I miss our talks.” Her mother’s expression softened, her words and intentions both forthright and startling.
How ironic, that her mother would display such lucid interest and attentive concern when Emily couldn’t confide her troubling thoughts. She’d missed her mother’s kindness and endearing comfort. She’d missed her mother. Yet any misstep might send her whirling into agitation, an angry downward spiral long lasting or perhaps, never ending. Fear kept her mouth closed, despite a whirlwind of memories unraveled inside.
“Why don’t I ring for tea? We can sit at the window seat and share a pot.” Emily rose from the bed and gathered her wrapper, knotting it at the waist with an enthusiastic tug before she stooped to push aside her discarded dress garments.
“I would like that.” Her mother smiled, focused and genuine, and in a daring moment of hope Emily believed her.
Chapter 23
Emily’s optimism carried to the following morning. She’d slept through the night without a dream to disturb her rest. She rose early and donned a simple teal day gown before inviting Portia, Thomasina, and Cynthia to meet at Hyde Park. They’d share a morning constitutional and lively chatter. It was time she relied on her friends for more than presentations and occasional company. She needed advice and it would take all three of the ladies to help her understand the conflicted emotions bombarding her every minute.
As planned they met at the marble fountain near the west end of The Serpentine. Several mute swans cluttered the walkway and couples meandered, finding respite in the lovely surroundings. The foursome followed the walking path, bordered with bilberry and a low stone wall, their animated conversation filling the air until they reached a clearing where three wrought-iron benches were arranged for conversation.
“Emily, come sit and tell us what is troubling you. It must be important to prompt this secretive outing or we wouldn’t be assembled in the park when we could meet at the office or your home.” Portia broached the subject Emily suspected everyone considered but hesitated in mentioning. “Is it your mother? Has her condition worsened?”
Condition. Such an innocuous word. Her friends barely knew the half of it, confessed only at her most emotional moments and then regretted later. “No.” She shook her head to confirm her answer. “Mother’s behavior of late has improved, although I often feel on the edge, as if the slightest change can topple our makeshift happiness as easily as a house of cards.” She realized her brow was furrowed in concern and smoothed her expression. “Thank you though.”
“Then what is it?” Thomasina grasped her hand in encouragement.
Emily hesitated, unsure how one went about confessing a total debilitation of morals accompanied by a relentless yearning to discover what would happen were Jasper to slide his hand a little bit higher, stroke her skin, touch her there. She cleared her throat despite she hadn’t said a thing.
“I have news,” Cynthia interjected, her smile blooming. “I’ve met a gentleman who has changed my mind about wanting an independent life.”
This shocking confession silenced the ladies to breathing only.
At the trio of gaping stares, Cynthia continued with fervor, “Oh, I’ll still participate in the league. Don’t worry.” She added a laugh. “I’ve just changed my outlook.”
“This is wonderful news.” Portia broke free of surprise and chimed in first. “Independence is a choice, one we promote with vigor and confidence, not a lifestyle meant to exclude. I couldn’t be happier for you.” She pulled Cynthia into a tight hug.
“Do we know the gentleman? However did you keep this relationship secret for so long?” Thomasina prodded for more information, a gleam of calculation lighting her eyes as if she sought to organize all the available facts. “The only male who’s drawn my attention of late has been Mr. St. David and that’s because he leases the office downstairs.”
Again silence fell in wait of Cynthia’s answer although Emily used the time to calm the hitch in her pulse, Portia’s men
tion of Jasper producing an alarming jolt.
And then, as if she’d separated from the chatter of her friends and sank into a hazy vague shroud of excogitation, emotion, doubt and speculation rose to the forefront to cultivate shadows of apprehension and ambiguity and make little sense as they nevertheless warred with her heart.
What if Cynthia cared for Jasper? What if Jasper pursued Cynthia? Perhaps his affections were scattered all about London and she’d fallen prey to a shameless lothario who cared little for her genuine affection and frequently slinked his hand up the skirt of any willing female? What provoked these thoughts? What was wrong with her? Had she become as addled as her mother? And what would one label this emotion? Insecurity? Suspicion? Lovesickness?
Emily took a long cleansing breath and shook her head vigorously to rid the path of the ridiculous and illogical rubbish produced by her contemplation. She blinked twice and refocused on Cynthia’s continued conversation.
“I’ll introduce you in due time. Besides, we’ve collected today to help Emily with her concern. I only wished to share my news before we began with more serious considerations.”
All attention swiveled in Emily’s direction and like a bird with a broken wing she had no way to flee. Best she get on with her admission.
“Years ago I vowed love would never become my weakness.” She spoke in a soft whisper, aware her friends hung on every word yet unable to voice her confession louder. “I witnessed my parents’ relationship, my mother’s devotion, and promised in my heart never to lose myself so completely to a man that I could no longer think straight or function without languishing for his affection or waiting for his approval. My mother sacrificed too many years in exchange of my father’s attention. And I knew without doubt or reservation that I wished to achieve complete competency before inviting the complications of love.”
Undone by His Kiss Page 17
