Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08]

by It Happened One Midnight

  She made a little hybrid sound, part laugh, part moan, part despair. No, no, no, no, no. Please, no. It can’t be this good.

  “Feel anything yet?” He stopped long enough to murmur against her lips.

  “Oh,” she murmured “Have you begun affecting me, then?”

  She felt his short laugh against her throat, for his mouth had traveled there, to that tender place sheltered beneath her jaw, and his hands, astoundingly bold and confident and far too quick for her to muster any kind of objection, slid down over her breasts. When he discovered her nipples were as erect as pen nibs through the silk, he paused and drew hard filigrees over them with his thumbs. Hot bolts of pleasure shot through her veins, nearly buckling her knees. He felt her sag; his knee came up between her legs, his hands cupped her arse to hold her upright, and they were suddenly fused groin to groin.

  “I can make you feel. I can make you scream. I can make you come.”

  His voice was next to her ear. Hoarse, urgent. Half dare. Half plea. So delicious and filthy and wrong and dangerous, her vision nearly blacked.

  And what an impressively enormous erection he was sporting.

  “You can’t.” Her voice was a staccato raw husk. It was both a dare and a warning.

  Neither of them laughed this time.

  “You’re almost there now.” To emphasize his point he pressed her harder against his erect cock, and her breath snagged as pleasure drove a spike through her.

  A heartbeat’s worth of hesitation. And then:

  “Hurry,” she urged on a hiss.

  He gave a short laugh then. They were conspirators now. His hands furled up her dress swiftly. “Don’t take your eyes from my face.”

  She did as ordered. Their eyes locked and his fingers dragged between her thighs, and she saw again a flicker, there and gone, of something like pain, something like wonder. This expression nearly undid her. He’d slowed to savor the feel of her. He simply hadn’t been able to help it.

  And she expected his hands to be demanding, but the way he touched her she knew he was savoring the silky skin hidden between her thighs. He slid his fingers between her legs, where she was slick and hot.

  “You. Are. So. Wet.”

  The husked words, his harsh breath, rushed over skin like cinders, a fresh wave of sensation, and she nearly buckled.

  She couldn’t speak. She could scarcely hear him over the low roar of her own breath. Her head thrashed back and caught a glimpse of her face reflected in a silver sconce, flushed, slit-eyed, distorted. And his fingers were almost too skilled; he was a man who knew what he was about and didn’t digress from his mission. Within seconds she was grinding her hips against the swift hard circling of his fingers, and then the pleasure built and built and built until it roared through her, an uncontainable conflagration, and seconds after that his arm flew up to cover her mouth.

  Because she did scream, right into the pristine sleeve of his gorgeous black coat. And she did come, white stars exploding behind her eyes.

  And her body quaked in the aftermath.

  He left his fingers against her, feeling every pulse and shudder of it, as though it was his reward, too.

  Over in only a minute or two.

  She looked up at him, dazed. His eyes were hot and dark.

  And they were both breathing as if . . . as if . . . they’d just swum a mile in the Ouse.

  “Is this our new hobby?” he whispered.

  She gave a pained laugh, and then tipped her face into her hands and rocked it, with a groan, while he smoothed the skirt of her dress and discreetly availed himself of a pocket handkerchief.

  She peeled her hands away from her eyes and looked at him almost accusingly.

  So now she knew. It wasn’t as good as she remembered. It was as good as it would ever be in a lifetime. It was better than anything she’d ever before dared imagine, but she could imagine it getting better. For instance, if they were to divest themselves of clothing, and he were to climb on top and give that a try. It was tremendously inconvenient and unexpected and quite frightening, in truth, though she wasn’t one to ever admit to being frightened.

  He correctly read her expression. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  He meant this new explosiveness. They’d opened some sort of erotic Pandora’s box.

  “You started it,” she said, like a child.

  He was indignant. “I wasn’t the one who tore off my clothes to go sailing over a bridge!”

  “I inflamed your manly passions, is that it? You could scarce contain yourself?”

  He sucked in a breath. “Tommy . . . do you really think you couldn’t inflame the passions of any man?”

  She smiled slowly and crookedly at this, utterly mollified.

  They were quiet and fidgety together, because conversation in the wake of a ballroom orgasm, and in the quiet, her sense of unease took over.

  “Jonathan . . . I feel one of us ought to say it. We are friends, are we not?”

  He went strangely still. Almost as though he was bracing himself.

  “We are friends?” she insisted, more urgently, worried now.

  “Yes. Of course. We are friends.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

  She exhaled in relief. “Because . . . because I need a friend more than I need . . . anything else now.”

  He understood immediately. “And you’re implying that friends don’t scream into the coats of other friends whilst in the throes of a bone-rattling orgasm.”

  “I’m given to understand that no. No, they don’t.”

  And now they were both smiling at each other, and yet she read in his face that new restraint, that fear of too much delight. How very much she liked him. How buoyant life seemed with him about, and how giddy the mundane could become, how safe the world seemed. And she didn’t know why she should feel her heart was both breaking and almost violently blooming all at once. All she knew was that she was very aware of it in her chest at the moment, the way one was aware of a noon sun burning down. It seemed inconvenient to possess a heart in that moment.

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “Very well. Then it’s agreed. We are friends, and we shall behave as friends behave. I’ll braid your hair. You’ll accompany me to gaming hells, horse races, whorehouses—”

  “Jonathan.”

  He stopped.

  Which is the first time Tommy considered that Jonathan was witty because wit kept all that was bleak at bay, kept it from sinking in. It must not be easy to be a Redmond.

  And suddenly she felt a surge of protectiveness toward him. Toward this man who had volunteered to protect her, when no one in her life ever had. If only he knew how remarkable he was. How could his father think otherwise?

  “I am honored to have your friendship, Tommy.”

  He said it simply, and with a lovely gravity that made her aware of the centuries of breeding that had gone into producing Redmonds. She knew he meant it.

  “Likewise, Jonathan.”

  Sealing it with a handshake would have been absurd, and besides, she didn’t trust herself to touch him again at that moment.

  And as there seemed to be nothing else to say at the moment, and there was a ballroom filled with young women whose nights would be ruined if Jonathan Redmond did not return to claim a dance, he said, “Well . . . it’s been a pleasure, Tommy.” With only a hint of irony.

  “Hasn’t it? Thank you.” She didn’t add, “for the bone-rattling orgasm,” because it was rather implied, and didn’t seem to fit the moment’s mood.

  He just nodded, lofted an amused eyebrow, and turned away.

  A peculiar panic set in as she watched him go. His back—the white of his collar meeting the dark of his hair, those broad shoulders that could so easily overcome her if he chose, suddenly seemed poignant and significant. She knew she was afraid. Of all she felt about him, about the tumult he roused in her body, and yet she knew the only real safety was distance from him. Still.

  She opened her mouth. She suspe
cted she meant to say, “Enjoy your evening.” Instead:

  “Cognac and satin!”

  . . . was what emerged.

  She clapped her mouth closed, astonished.

  Jonathan slowed. Froze in place. Rotated slowly back to face her.

  “What did you just—?” And then the comprehension gradually lit his face. His fingers went up slowly to touch his mouth.

  And a fierce light surged into his eyes.

  And oh, God help her. He knew what she meant. Cognac and satin . . . was how it felt to kiss him.

  “It . . . just came out that way.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. She was mortified.

  He remained silent. Utterly still. His features seemed drawn tight with some suppressed emotion. Apart from that beam from those blue-purple eyes, so intense it made her breathless, he might have been statuary. He seemed to be searching her face for something, or compelling her to speak. God only knew what he saw in her face, apart from the color red.

  And clearly he didn’t find what he was looking for, because he at last he quirked the corner of his mouth ruefully. As if laughing at himself.

  And gave a shallow bow.

  And he turned and really did go dance with women who weren’t his friends.

  Chapter 18

  THE MORNING DAWNED GRAY, which suited Jonathan down to his toes.

  He arrived at the breakfast table earlier than he wanted to, and not even three cups of the blackest coffee made inroads into the lead that seemed to have replaced his blood. It didn’t help that his father was already there, looking more alert than any man his age had a right to.

  And then he realized why the coffee wasn’t helping. It wasn’t a hangover. It was a great bleak clog of thwarted desire.

  Friend. That sexless word. A bloody pity, that. A bloody relief, too, in its way. But he’d meant it: He was honored to be her friend. For in truth, he not only admired her. He half suspected he wasn’t entirely worthy of her.

  And he’d never before thought of a woman in those terms, as though he needed to deserve her.

  His father cleared his throat. “What’s this I hear, Jonathan, about a Diamonds of the First Water deck of cards?”

  Jonathan’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

  He recovered swiftly, inserting his eggs and chewing them, then lay down the fork.

  On the one hand, if his father had heard about it, they’d done their work skillfully indeed.

  “What is it you hear about a Diamonds of the First Water deck, Father?”

  “That you intend to choose a bride from it.”

  He was now staring at Jonathan. Examining him for more black eyes, perhaps.

  Jonathan hesitated. “Oh yes. That rumor. I’ve heard that, too.” A pause. “Where did you hear it?” he asked carefully.

  “From your mother.”

  “From Mother?” He nearly choked.

  “Who heard it from the Viscount Worthington.”

  “How the devil . . .”

  “Who heard it from his wife.”

  Jonathan silently completed, who heard it from his daughter.

  “Viscount Worthington said he saw you bolt through the ballroom last night. You left his daughter alone on the dance floor.”

  Oh, he had done that. He pictured it now. Jonathan was tempted to close his eyes. It was bad form, indeed, to abandon a girl whose only flaw, really, was that she wasn’t Tommy.

  But Lady Grace enjoys walking. Why, it’s one of her favorite pastimes. She told me! She could have walked back all on her own. He was tempted to say it.

  “I do regret that. It was admittedly bad of me. But I had an urgent matter to attend to.”

  “Too much ratafia?” his father said dryly.

  “One cup of ratafia is too much ratafia, but no.”

  His father did half smile here. He didn’t like to waste good gullet space on fussy drinks, either.

  “No, but . . . along those lines.”

  His father chose not to pursue that line of questioning, perhaps because they were eating breakfast.

  “Who is this Klaus Liebman?”

  So his father had done a little research.

  “A skilled printer who has developed the capability to print excellent color images in great volume.”

  “And what is your relationship to the business?”

  “I’m the ‘& Co.’ in ‘Klaus Liebman & Co.’ ”

  He had the gratifying sensation of watching his father go still.

  “Are you . . . working?”

  He said it the way someone else might say, “Are you . . . fornicating?”

  “God, no. Liebman does the work. I simply provide ideas and support.” In the form of cash and gossip and connections.

  Which is all a gentleman should do.

  His father took this in. A moment went by, filled with the scraping sounds of fried bread being buttered and marmaladed.

  Jonathan knew his father was dying to ask about profits.

  And then Isaiah could bear it no longer.

  “How are earnings?” A brief avidity flared in his father’s eyes.

  Despite it all, something in Jonathan surged toward his father’s genuine interest. Still:

  “Modest.”

  Modest times seven, that was.

  His father nodded, smiling wryly, as if this was only what he’d expected.

  “Back to this Diamonds of the First Water deck nonsense . . . is it a publicity ploy for your business, Jonathan?”

  “I suspect it may prove to be effective publicity.” A tour de force of circumspection, that little statement. “As you said, I do have a ‘certain amount’ to recommend me, and the ton, as always, is interested in any potential nuptials. When you said: ‘Dozens of lovely girls come eligible every day,’ I thought, ‘He’s right! All one really needs in a wife is looks and breeding and preferably a title.’ Surely one lovely girl will do as well as the next! And then you suggested I could always rely on the turn of the card for my future. I must thank you. Ideas truly are capital.”

  He didn’t precisely bat his eyes at his father.

  But he did fix him with his best ingenuous stare.

  And then he sipped at his coffee. Somewhat noisily, because the absolute silence abraded his nerves a little.

  Isaiah had frozen in the process of buttering his toast. Jonathan could see himself in the knife. Innocent as a babe.

  “I never dreamed you were listening,” is what Isaiah Redmond said finally, somewhat sourly.

  “Oh—and you needn’t worry, Father, about my caprices of character affecting my choices. Only women of impeccable pedigree are represented in the deck. We’ll print our Famous English Courtesans of the Nineteenth Century deck in time for Michaelmas. Long after I’m supposed to choose a bride.”

  This won him, as he’d suspected, a censorious stare. “Certainly you have enough respect for the family name, Jonathan, not to print such a deck.”

  Always, always, always the family name.

  “A jest,” Jonathan said shortly.

  Did his father used to laugh? It was hard to remember. He and his siblings all possessed senses of humor. Perhaps as a form of defense against Isaiah.

  “Any progress with the Lancaster Mill?” Jonathan asked to change to a subject that was torturing his father, rather than him.

  His father sighed. “I’ve invited the Duke of Greyfolk to dine with our family in Sussex in about a fortnight. We’ll discuss his potential involvement in the Mercury Club then “Is the owner still proving capricious about selling the mill?”

  “Well, the owner died without heirs and without a will, and dispensation of the mill is at the solicitor’s—that would be Mr. Romulus Bean— sole discretion. And yes, he remains either deucedly inefficient or willfully capricious. I’ve requested a comprehensive list of the information he requires in order to begin purchasing proceedings, but he insists on feeding the requirements to us one by one. But we expect he’ll be unable to decline an offer levied from the Mercury
Club itself. ”

  We expect.

  What would happen to Isaiah Redmond if suddenly the world didn’t behave as he expected it to behave?

  With any luck, he’d soon have an opportunity to find out.

  THE COUNTESS MIRABEAU was dressed as an Egyptian today, or rather, her interpretation of an Egyptian. A gold armband wound round her arm, and kohl was drawn round her eyes.

  Tommy wished she could paint her eyes with kohl, because the blue shadows beneath them were just a little too apparent, and some of the poets were incorporating them into the metaphors they were using to flatter her.

  Her lids began to lower as she stood listening to Argosy describe the sort of jewels he thought would match her eyes. She staggered a bit, then righted herself with a start, just as he was saying, “Peridot, with perhaps a setting of silver—”

  “Lord Argosy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am a person. You may speak to me as if I’m a person.”

  She said it with an urgency that clearly baffled Argosy.

  Argosy blinked. “Of . . . of course you are,” he said soothingly.

  She held her breath. Hope surged.

  “That is . . . you’re a beautiful person.”

  She whirled on him and stalked away. Leaving him as startled as if his favorite cat had turned into a snarling tiger.

  She changed her mind and whirled on her heel and returned to him.

  “Would you throw yourself off a bridge for me?”

  “Would I . . .” He blinked. “Couldn’t I buy you a bridge instead?”

  She sighed. And then she took pity on him. “It was hypothetical, Lord Argosy. I shouldn’t want you to ever endanger yourself on my behalf.”

  She abandoned him then before she could see any sort of expression of relief cross his face, with a weak smile, and moved through the crowd. All those men pretending they weren’t eager for her attention. And whereas before the exchange of pleasantries had been like imbibing champagne, she’d now lost her appetite for it.