by Elisa Braden
He kissed her neck and her cheek. Held her tightly.
She tried to turn her head. Wanted to see his eyes and feel their connection.
Instead, he held her in place. Held himself inside her, still semi-hard. “Sleep now, love,” he murmured, kissing her ear.
Indeed, she felt a lovely lethargy pulling at her. He’d rolled them so that they both faced the window, and the cooling breeze came up to dance across their joined bodies. And, as sleep came to claim her, she ran her hands over his, touched him wherever she could, and murmured a stray thought that made no sense and perfect sense, all at once.
“Don’t leave me alone,” she said, her words slurred with drowsiness. “I need you here with me.”
His only reply was to nuzzle her hair, lay a kiss softer than a breeze upon her cheek, and hold her close as moonlight was swallowed by the darkening sky.
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Meredith Huxley has suggested I serve your favorite foods whenever you please me. But if I serve peach tarts at every meal, we will soon need a coach with stouter wheels. And a bed with stouter boards.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter expressing appreciation for men of strong appetites.
Seated beside his wife at Grimsgate’s twenty-foot dining table the following morning, Jonas discovered his hunger was stronger than ever. Not for food—his appetite remained consistent in that quarter. No, this hunger was for … her.
As he gazed upon her cheek, her neck, the white muslin modestly gathered along her collarbone and tucked into her bodice, he licked his lips and debated whether to haul her upstairs immediately or wait another quarter-hour for her to finish breakfast.
He was inclined toward the former.
Soft, pink color bloomed in her cheeks as she took a bite of brioche. She swallowed and sighed. Set her fork beside her plate. Took a delicate a sip of tea.
He watched her breasts rise and fall, the rhythm quickening as she replaced her cup and tucked her hand beneath the table. Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out to trace the lower one.
Then, he felt it. Her hand. His thigh. God Almighty.
Her eyes fluttered upward. Found his. Burned his skin and hardened him mercilessly. Bound him to her inexorably.
He pulled his gaze away but claimed her bare hand. Guided it to where his hunger centered.
A slow, sensuous smile curled her lips.
Bloody hell. He was going to catch fire, right there at a dragon’s table.
“… must purchase a new copy of Waverley, for Kate refuses to return the one I lent her.”
Jonas swallowed his lust and returned his wife’s hand to her lap as the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore entered the room. The pair joined Robert and Annabelle Conrad and Lord and Lady Holstoke on the opposite side of the table.
“We have three additional copies at home, Jane.” Blackmore glared at a footman whose gloved hand brushed the duchess’s sleeve while pouring her coffee. “Is that not sufficient?”
“What if I wish to lend another? Then, I shall be left with only two.”
The duke, whose rigid posture could hoist a mainsail, retorted, “Should that occur, I will happily buy you a new copy for your collection.”
She sniffed and adjusted her spectacles then went about adding a spoonful of cream to her coffee. As she stirred, her husband watched her hands as a cat might eye a bright, elusive bird—with hunger and fascination.
Watching the interplay, Jonas felt an odd kinship with the man. They were nothing alike, of course. The golden-haired duke had been born to privilege and carried himself as though the whole of English propriety rested upon his rigid shoulders. But this—the near-worshipful regard—felt too damned familiar.
Apart from that single similarity, however, he felt as out of place as a street stray amongst prized hunting hounds. Conrad and Holstoke discussed drainage schemes and fruit tree cultivation. Blackmore attempted to persuade his wife that two libraries were sufficient for their needs. Lady Holstoke and Annabelle Conrad gossiped about Clarissa Meadows’s flirtation with someone named Andrew Farrington, who preferred ladies with dark hair.
He shifted in his chair and drank his coffee and wondered what in bloody hell he was doing there. Then, his wife delicately cleared her throat.
“Jonas,” she said softly.
“Aye?”
“Do you intend to finish that?”
He glanced down. She was eyeing his half-eaten brioche. Her lashes fluttered. She looked both longing and hopeful.
Chuckling, he leaned close. “I believe there’s more on the sideboard, love. Wouldn’t you rather have a fresh one of your own?”
She licked her lips. Lit with a blush that fired him hot. “I like finishing what you’ve started.”
He fought the lust that held him in thrall. “Everything I have is yours. Take whatever you desire.”
With a mischievous smile, she did just that.
He downed the remainder of his coffee in a single gulp. As he replaced his cup, he noticed Lady Holstoke shooting them a speculative glance from across the table.
She appeared approving. “Hannah, Phineas and I went riding along the beach earlier. Positively splendid. We’d hoped we might see you there. Did you miss your morning ride?”
Hannah gave her sister-in-law a secretive smile. “No. I rode. It was most invigorating.” Then, calmly, she sank her teeth into his brioche.
Dear, holy God. She was killing him. He shifted in his chair, trying in vain to convince his erection to subside. In desperation, he poured himself some tea and downed the half-warm stuff in two swallows.
“Ah, yes,” said Lady Holstoke. “Morning rides are delightful. I’m sure Mr. Hawthorn would agree.”
He glared and poured more tea.
“How is your investigation coming along, Mr. Hawthorn?” she inquired.
He opened his mouth to answer, but his wife interjected, “It would be going better if he would permit me to help.”
He shifted his glare to her. “I don’t need help.”
That small, stubborn chin went up. “Perhaps, but why not take it when it is offered?”
Sighing, he drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m headed back to Alnwick today. You should stay here and enjoy the party.”
“Rubbish,” she said pertly. “I will go with you.”
“No, you will not.”
She arched a black brow. “We shall see.”
Hoping for support from someone sensible, he made the mistake of turning to Lady Holstoke. Eugenia Brand looked upon them with sparkling fascination. She was beaming like a proud mother. “Well, the weather is quite fine today. I should think your blue habit would be perfect for a jaunt to Alnwick, dearest. Wear the hat with the white feathers.”
Damn and blast. He was being besieged from all sides.
Just then, a loud clatter sounded out in the corridor, like a tray dropping on stone. A slurred, masculine voice intruded, insisting, “I am a Bainbridge, for God’s sake. I am always invited.”
Jonas heard Nash speaking too quietly to make out words. A moment later, a short, large-chinned, dark-haired young man stumbled through the open doorway. The man’s face was unshaven, his eyes red and his cheeks redder. His waistcoat was misbuttoned and his cravat askew.
Nash followed, trying valiantly to retrieve the stray sot. “Her ladyship’s instructions were explicit, Mr. Bainbridge,” the butler said sternly. “I must insist you leave, or I will be forced to see it so.” He gestured to two large footmen.
The drunkard yanked his arm from their grasp and collided with the table. The rattling china and sloshing liquids caused several feminine gasps, and three of the men at the table stood, moving to position themselves between Bainbridge and their wives. Holstoke went first. Then, the duke. Then, Conrad.
Jonas kept his seat, eyeing the man’s weak frame and thickening belly. He drank his tea and waited.
/>
“Where is Wallingham?” the drunkard demanded. “My allowance is no toy to be withheld for his amusement. I was his heir, damn his eyes. The least he could do is meet his obligations.”
Bainbridge’s arms flailed as he evaded Nash, the footmen, and the three protective aristocrats attempting to drive him away from the women.
Jonas kept the intruder in his sights, setting his cup on the table and leaning back in his chair. He waited. Watched.
Something about the man seemed familiar. It made his neck itch. The chin, perhaps? If he was Wallingham’s cousin, that would explain the similarity. Large chins featured prominently in the portraits of Bainbridge men throughout the castle.
Bainbridge staggered toward the sideboard, knocked a tray of tiny cakes onto the floor, and turned resentful red eyes on Nash. “You and Wallingham are the same. Forever doing her bidding. Like dogs, you are. Afraid of a scolding from a bloody female.”
Nash closed in. Bainbridge shoved sideways.
Toward Hannah, whose shoulders tensed and shuddered as he veered too close.
In an instant, Jonas was on his feet, twisting the man’s arm to the point of breaking. He slammed the miserable sot facedown onto the table. The man’s weight flattened a stray brioche.
“Being drunk was not your mistake,” he muttered in the sot’s ear, applying pressure to ensure he was listening. “Coming here was not your mistake. Disobeying her ladyship and her ladyship’s butler was not your mistake.”
The man whimpered piteously.
“Shall I tell you your mistake, Bainbridge?”
Another whinging moan.
“You were careless. Round my wife, I don’t tolerate careless.”
Wallingham entered a moment later. Ordinarily, the man had a calm, distinguished air about him. But he also had his mother’s eyes—and, occasionally, her fire. He took in the scene, blazing with controlled fury and giving Jonas an approving nod. “My thanks, Hawthorn. Unfortunately, my cousin never learnt the value of circumspection, despite Mother’s countless efforts.” He nodded to the two footmen, who moved in to retrieve Bainbridge, hauling him away. Wallingham inclined his head. “Please accept my deepest apologies. Rest assured, Cecil Bainbridge shan’t trouble us again.”
Wallingham spoke briefly with Holstoke, Conrad, and Blackmore before leaving the room. Meanwhile, Jonas crouched down beside Hannah’s chair and covered her hands with his. “Everything all right, love?”
She nodded, her eyes holding his. She looked steady. She looked like she wanted to kiss him. “Yes. He startled me, that’s all.”
“I would never let him touch you.”
“I know.” She cupped his cheek. Bent forward and kissed him. Sighed. “Proficiency is most … reassuring,” she whispered.
He didn’t know what she meant, precisely, but he would accept her affection no matter the cause.
“Now, I must go upstairs and change into my riding habit.”
“Hannah—”
“I am going with you, Jonas Hawthorn. That is that.”
“Bloody hell.”
“While I am gone, you should consider the value of accepting assistance which costs you nothing and may benefit you immeasurably.” She patted his jaw. “I believe Dunston is in the garden.”
He blinked as she rose gracefully from her seat. For a moment, she stood above him and he gazed up at her like a moonstruck hound at a Snow Queen’s feet. Perhaps this was where he belonged, mongrel that he was.
But then, she gazed down with an adoring light, bending at the waist to kiss him again with her lips on his mouth, her hands on his face, and her breath coming fast.
He might be at her feet, but she was in thrall, too. It should comfort him. It didn’t.
A short while later, he found himself in the garden, ambling toward the fountain as he considered her point about accepting help. He hadn’t much time left to complete his investigation before Lady Wallingham lost patience and offered the reward to someone else.
Still, it chafed that his wife thought he needed assistance to finish a job. He’d worked with other men before—Drayton had been helpful upon occasion. But he worked better alone. He always had.
He wandered past a hedge and listened to the fountain, wondering how he might persuade Hannah to stay where she belonged.
“Perhaps Hawthorn will settle this. Hawthorn!” It was Dunston, standing with several other men on the opposite side of the fountain near a pair of urns. “Brown Bess or Baker rifle, my good man?”
He approached the group—Dunston, Atherbourne, Reaver, and Rutherford—with suspicion. Dunston might prefer knives, but he knew guns better than most. There was little reason to ask Jonas his opinion unless Hannah or Lady Dunston had put him up to it. “Depends,” he called as he neared the men. “Would you prefer to kill your target or wound him?”
“Never fire unless you mean to kill, I’ve always said.” Dunston’s grin was wide.
“Well, if you’re close enough, you can kill a man with either weapon. Past seventy yards, however, you’ll find the Brown Bess useful only as a prop for aiming your Baker rifle.”
Dunston clapped Reaver’s shoulder. “You see? I did not lose twelve guineas to an amateur.”
Reaver grunted, glowering first at Hawthorn then at Dunston. “It was a fool’s wager. A bottle of brandy for each of you. Bloody, bleeding hell. ’Tis a wonder you didn’t mistake your own backsides for targets.”
“I’m telling you, Holstoke couldn’t have made that shot, and he’s the finest archer I know.”
Jonas rubbed his jaw. “Still sore about that, eh?”
“Curious. You never did say how you acquired such skills.”
Ordinarily, he preferred to avoid direct answers to such questions. There was little advantage to be had from trading confidences. A man only did so when he wished to cultivate friendship. He didn’t need friendship. He needed to tip things in his favor, come out on the winning side of having nothing and having enough. None of these men could understand his desperation.
Yet, he hesitated to brush Dunston’s question aside, instead eyeing each of the men in turn. They were wealthy, to be sure. But their privileged positions hadn’t come without cost.
Atherbourne was the sort of handsome that made women stare and swoon. He had a lovely wife, four children, a title, and a rich estate in Derbyshire. But Conrad had mentioned he’d been at Waterloo. That was one of the few battles Jonas had missed. Later, when he’d heard reports from infantrymen who had been there, he was thankful to have been thousands of miles away.
Reaver was a canny sort. The giant was the only one of the group who’d come up rough, as Jonas had. He hadn’t discovered his connection to Tannenbrook until after he’d built the most successful gaming club in London using nothing but fists and sweat and shrewdness. After meeting him the previous year, Jonas had come to admire the man’s unyielding ambition. He, too, had a wife. He, too, had an estate in Derbyshire, though he and his wife preferred their home in London. With a brood of five boys who all seemed destined to take on their father’s proportions, Jonas could see how more than one house would be sensible.
Rutherford was harder to decipher. Benedict Chatham appeared to have everything a man could want. He was a marquess with old bloodlines and a thriving estate. Jonas had heard the quantity of coal beneath his lands would keep Newcastle’s ports busy for the next hundred years. Meanwhile, the turquoise-eyed lord appeared as contented as a cat after gallon of cream and an hour’s stroking. He and his unusually tall, redheaded wife had two sons and a daughter. Like Atherbourne and Dunston, fortune appeared to have smiled upon him.
But Jonas happened to know that before his marriage, Benedict Chatham’s fortunes hadn’t been so brilliant. In fact, he’d been at the edge of killing himself with drink. Reaver had explained it late one night when Jonas had stopped by his club to obtain information for a job. He’d lamented that his sources weren’t what they’d once been. Then, he’d explained how he’d once had the future M
arquess of Rutherford working alongside him ferreting secrets. “Had to cut him loose,” he’d lamented. “Bloody shame. He was first-rate. But the stubborn sod was walking death. Needed a boot to the arse, that much is certain.”
Then, there was Dunston, the man who’d lived two lives, one of silk waistcoats, the other of violence. He’d told Jonas once that he still occasionally felt the disorienting sensation of walking in two worlds—one light and one dark. Five children, a pretty wife with a sweet smile, an expansive estate, a grand title. And the earl, while nauseatingly happy, nevertheless bore scars from his time as a hunter of ghosts and demons.
Against his will, Jonas had come to know Dunston over the past year. He actually liked the man.
So, now, with Hannah’s words echoing in his ears and four men staring at him expectantly, he rolled his shoulders and opened a door he probably should leave closed. “I learned archery as a lad. My father trained me.”
“He was an archer?”
“A gamekeeper. For a time, at any rate.”
“Then, you must know how to hunt.” Dunston smiled. “For game other than thieves, I mean.”
“Aye.”
Dunston’s smile broadened into a grin. “Splendid, indeed. My annual hunt is in November. Fairfield Park. You must come, old chap. We shall test your aim past seventy yards.” He gestured toward Reaver. “His oldest boy, Ash, is a veritable prodigy. Took down a stag last year at four-hundred yards. Natural talent like that cries out for tutoring.”
For a while, the other men bantered about hunting and shooting, including him in the conversation as though Jonas were a bloody peer. He rolled his shoulders again and wondered at Dunston’s invitation. Wondered if Hannah was the reason for their friendliness. But, then, Dunston had made such overtures before.
Now that he thought about it, Dunston had been attempting to befriend him for over a year, buying him dinner at Reaver’s. Drinking pints with him at the Black Bull. Making drunken archery wagers and recommending him for jobs.
