Kisses and Scandal

by Shana Galen

  His eyes met hers as his hand hovered near her breast.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He lowered his hand, and the warmth of it sank into her. But the feeling was not at all one of comfort. He seemed to know exactly where her hard nipple was, and he slid his thumb over it, making her gasp and wish she were not wearing her stays so she could feel him acutely.

  He cupped her breast, pushing it up so that more flesh was revealed at her bodice. Then he dipped his head and kissed that bared flesh with hot, eager lips. Phil arched, giving him more, wanting more.

  His mouth moved lower as he kissed the silk over her breast, nipped at the spot where her hard bud pulsed insistently, then skated back up to kiss her bare throat. Phil moaned and tried to free her hands. She needed to touch him.

  “Will ye remember me now?” he asked, his warm breath on her throat.

  She struggled to form words and thoughts. “Perhaps for a few nights, but I need more if I’m to survive the entire length of the trip.”

  “Ye’re playing a dangerous game.” He looked up at her, his eyes glittering.

  “Show me just how dangerous.”

  He shook his head slightly as though in disbelief. “Can ye keep quiet?”

  She nodded.

  He glanced toward the door. “This is bad enough, but if I’m caught with me hands under yer skirts, it’ll be far worse.”

  Phil gasped in a sharp breath. He would put his hands under her skirts? At that moment, she would risk anything to see what he had planned.

  She nipped at his jaw. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. We won’t be caught.”

  His hand slid over her abdomen, then lower. She made a moan of pleasure as his hand cupped her sex, and he gave her a warning look. “Not a sound,” he whispered.

  She nodded, closing her eyes and biting her lip to keep quiet as his hand pulled up the fabric of her skirts then slid underneath to rest on the top of her stocking.

  “What color are yer garters, lass?” he whispered in her ear. His breath tickled and tantalized, and she felt warmth rush between her legs.

  “Ivory,” she whispered.

  “And yer stockings? Also white?”

  She nodded. He closed his eyes. “Christ Jaysus, I’m done for.” His hand traced the material of her garters then inched upwards. She jumped at the feel of his rough hand on her bare thigh. “Want me to stop?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do ye even know what it is yer asking for?”

  She knew bits and pieces. “I’m confident you’ll show me.”

  He nodded and his hand moved higher. Phil bit her lip to keep from moaning. He caressed her with unhurried movements, taking his time and making her comfortable with his touch. So comfortable, in fact, that when his hand slid between her thighs, she parted them without objection. His hand still held her wrists above her head, and now he rested his elbow against the wall and murmured in her ear. “I can feel how hot ye are, lass. My skin is burning.”

  His fingers traced the sensitive skin at the juncture of her thighs. So close and yet not quite where she wanted him. “Touch me,” she whispered, her voice insistent.

  “I like a lass who knows what she wants, but I’ll take me time, thank you very much.”

  The way he touched her was torture. She wanted more and yet she didn’t ever want him to stop. Finally, with inexorable slowness, he moved high enough to brush his knuckles against her sex. She jolted with pleasure, and he shushed her.

  “Shh. Take it slow, lass.” His hand cupped her, and she made a quiet sound that was somewhere between a purr and a whimper. “Not only warm but wet,” he whispered. One of his fingers stroked her center, pausing at her channel but not entering her.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “I wish I could take my time with ye,” he murmured. “Do all the things I dream about.”

  Phil swallowed. Was it possible he thought of her as he went about his work all day as much as she thought of him?

  His slick finger slid over her folds, parted them, until he brushed against that most sensitive spot. She let out a puff of breath as her entire body seemed to tense in anticipation.

  “There ye are,” he murmured. “Plump and throbbing, no doubt.”

  She could hardly even comprehend what he was saying as he circled her tight nub. She closed her eyes tighter, so that black spots seemed to dance against her eyelids. Her hips could not remain still, and she rolled them to match the strokes of his finger.

  As he stroked her, gently then firmly then with a whisper-light touch, her breath grew faster and shallower. She was aware of moans that she stifled and being far too hot in her dress. Her head fell back against the wall and she twisted side to side as he continued to pleasure her. The sensation of his touch was almost more than she could take, and yet she never wanted it to end.

  And then everything was tightening and coalescing into the one spot where he stroked her. Her world shrunk, and there was only her and James. The stars grew brighter, her body tensed, and pleasure so exquisite she could not stop the cry from her lips exploded inside her. James caught her lips with his, kissing her and muffling her moans of ecstasy. He released her hands and pulled her close as she climaxed, his mouth taking hers even as the orgasm took her body.

  And when her knees buckled and she began to slump, he caught her and held her up. Finally, he pulled away, lowered her skirts, and she opened her eyes.

  “And now ye’ve given me something to remember, lass.” She blinked at him, and he nodded, his gaze fixed on her. “I won’t soon forget the look on yer face.”

  “James,” she whispered.

  “Shh. It’s long past time ye went up to yer chamber. Can ye make it?”

  She nodded. He ran his hand over her cheek one last time.

  “I’ll be waiting for ye when ye return.” He released her and nodded, and she made her way on shaky legs out the door and up the stairs. It wasn’t until she sank into the chair at her dressing table that her heart stopped thundering. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were too bright, her cheeks too pink, her lips swollen. She had better splash water on her face before Dawson came to help her dress for bed. Not that she would sleep tonight. James had tried to give her an experience to remember him by, but all he’d done was leave her wanting more.

  Four

  The Blue Boar was situated in the little town of Beckminster, just about a mile from Southmeade Cottage. The tavern was across the street from the Queen’s Arms, which he knew from his time in the village was the preferred establishment of the gentry and where the duchess and Lady Philomena stopped for tea if they’d been in town shopping. The Blue Boar was dark and old, and the men who frequented the public rooms were the laborers and tenants of the area.

  All in all, it was a respectable establishment, and James didn’t like meeting Patrick and Sean here. He was known in Beckminster, as was every servant at the big house, and he would have rather met somewhere more private. He spotted the other two Irishmen as soon as he entered. They were young and dressed in the rough clothes of laborers. They looked up when he entered, giving James broad smiles, their eyes bright. James joined them after exchanging greetings with the publican.

  “Nice of ye to come,” Patrick said.

  “I came as soon as I could, so I did. I had to wait until the family retired to get away.”

  “Rumor is the family leaves for Town tomorrow,” Sean said, sipping his ale.

  James nodded, smiling as the serving girl brought his own pint. She smiled back, and all three waited until she’d moved on before speaking again.

  “Ye have to go with them,” Sean said.

  James shook his head. “They’re only taking the ladies’ maids and the first footman. They don’t want me.”

  “Sean is right. Ye have to go,” Patrick said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “This is our best chance.”

  James shook his head. His neck felt stiff, as though a noose had been looped around it. “The
re will be a better chance when the family returns.”

  Patrick’s bright blue eyes narrowed. “That’s what ye said last time.”

  “And the time before,” Sean added.

  “I’m starting to think ye don’t want this plan to succeed.”

  James drank to slake the sudden dryness in his throat. “I’ve done more than either of ye to make sure the plan does succeed. Yer not the ones fetching and carrying everyday.”

  “Sure and we’re twiddling our fingers waiting for ye to give us a sign to act.” Patrick mimed twiddling his fingers.

  Sean pointed at James. “And every day we wait, opportunities are passing us by. We could be in America by now, living like kings.”

  James leaned over the table, speaking low. “Sure and what if we’re caught and thrown in Newgate? What do ye think they do to men convicted of abducting the daughter of a duke?”

  “No one would hurt the lass,” Sean said.

  “That won’t matter a whit, and ye know it.”

  Patrick sat back. “That’s our answer then, so it is.”

  “What answer?” James demanded, cutting his eyes to the right and left to make sure they weren’t being observed.

  “Ye’ve changed yer mind. Yer no longer with us.”

  “I didn’t say that—"

  “Ye didn’t have to, man. It’s as clear as the day. I knew sending ye in that grand house was a mistake. Ye must like bowing and scraping.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Patrick exchanged a look with Sean. “Maybe ye’ve forgotten what it was like to be put out of yer house, kicked off yer land, watch yer ma and da beg for a crust of bread.”

  Sean continued where Patrick ended. “Maybe ye forgot what that tenement in Dublin was like. Our three families, twenty-two people, living in two rooms. No light, no air, no medicine for the wee ones. Maybe ye forgot about Colleen and the day we buried her—”

  “Don’t speak of her!” James roared. The chatter in the pub ceased and several men turned to glance at him. James lifted his tankard with a shaking hand and drank. When he lowered it, he smiled and waved a hand. “My apologies, gentlemen. Just a wee bit of excitement here.”

  The noise in the pub gradually began to grow, but Sean kept his voice low. “Do ye not want to avenge yer sister, cold and dead in the ground this past year?”

  He did. He had. But James was increasingly prone to wonder if ransoming Lady Philomena was the way to go about it. Yes, they could collect a fortune, enough to send back to their families and to buy passage on a ship to America, where they could start over in a land with limitless opportunities. They never planned to hurt Phil. At least James knew Sean would never hurt her. Patrick had a streak of mean in him, but James had thought he could handle Patrick.

  But all of this had been before he’d known Phil. She’d been a faceless woman—nothing but a title and a fortune. Now he knew her. He didn’t have to think too hard to remember the feel of her skin against his palms or the scent of her on his fingers. Suddenly, the plan didn’t feel so harmless, so victimless. He hadn’t intended to develop feelings for Lady Philomena, but now that he had them, how could he use her?

  She would hate him. She would hate herself. And James didn’t think that all the riches in America would be enough to earn forgiveness if he followed through with what he and Sean and Patrick had planned all those months ago. James would never forgive himself.

  “If ye don’t want to help us, I’m sure we can find a man who will,” Patrick said, draining the last of his ale and making to rise.

  Panic gripped James now. As it stood, he had held off Sean and Patrick and protected Phil. But if they cut him out of the scheme, she would be vulnerable once again. And with her in London and James still at Southmeade, he couldn’t keep her safe. Plus, there was no guarantee whoever Sean and Patrick recruited would treat Phil honorably.

  “Sit down,” James hissed. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just said I can’t go to London.”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes. “So yer in?”

  “I said I was, but ye’ll have to wait until the family returns from London.” He’d think of some way to fix this before then. He’d think of another scheme for Patrick and Sean or send them back to Ireland on false pretenses.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Sean said. “I think we can make it so ye go to London with the family.”

  “How’s that?” James asked. “They’re leaving in the morning and most of the staff are abed.”

  “Leave it to me,” Sean said, his tone ominous. James suddenly had a vision of Mr. Balcolm lying on the ground with his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

  “What do ye think to do?” James asked.

  “Nothing permanent,” Sean said. “Just make sure yer up and ready to go to Town at first light.”

  JAMES WAS UP EARLY the next morning. He couldn’t very well pack his valise with William about, but he had lain awake planning what he would take in his head. His eyes felt heavy and gritty from lack of sleep, and as he helped load the carriage, he jumped at every sound, certain it would be someone announcing the demise of poor Balcolm.

  But when the news came, it was far less dramatic than he had supposed. Mr. Caffold stopped him in the courtyard and asked if he could serve at breakfast. Balcolm had a touch of indigestion this morning. Feeling as though his face betrayed his guilt, James agreed and started back upstairs to change into a clean livery and gloves. But he’d barely begun when William charged into their chambers, half out of breath.

  “Caffold says to pack your things. You’re for London.”

  James stared at him then stuttered, “What about Balcolm?”

  “He’s taken to his bed. Cast up his accounts all over the butler’s pantry. Her Grace says he is to stay here and wait for the doctor. That means you go. I wish I could go. I’ve never even seen London.”

  “It’s noisy and dirty,” James said, pulling out his valise.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  James immediately realized his mistake. He had told everyone he’d worked for a family in Ireland before coming here. When would he have gone to London? “That’s what I’ve heard,” James said. “I’ll tell ye all about it when I return. I’ll bring ye a memento too.”

  “You will?” William’s eyes grew large.

  “Sure. But if I’m for London, don’t ye need to serve?”

  William jumped. “Oh, right. See you when you return.”

  James shook his head and smiled. William was a good lad. He should be the one to go to Town, except if he did, he’d have his pockets emptied within the hour of arrival.

  He packed quickly and then accepted a meal of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth from Cook. James tucked it in his coat, though he had no intention of eating it. No telling what food or drink Sean had tampered with. James would rather go hungry.

  He and the grooms milled about the carriages—one for the ladies and their maids and one for the luggage—for a quarter of an hour before the coachman moved the carriage to the front of the house and James was required to open the door and assist the women inside. The duchess went first, followed by Lady Philomena. James kept his expression neutral and did not look at her even as his hand burned when she put hers in it. Next were the two maids. Then he closed the door and hopped onto the back.

  A moment later they were off. The wind was cold, and he was grateful for his coat and gloves. He had to be certain to bend his knees every so often so his legs would not become stiff. He was soon shivering, but at least it wasn’t raining. The sun might be hidden behind clouds, but it could be worse.

  The ladies had the curtains open so he might have bent low and looked inside. He wouldn’t have seen anything but the back of Phil’s head as she was most certainly facing forward. And he’d be chastised for the indiscretion too. He was to stand on the back and wait until he was needed. No matter that his toes were frozen and his legs tingled.

  Finally, the carriage stopped at a posting house, and James jum
ped down. The ladies did not wish to step out, but he was able to move around and wake his legs and arms up. Then they were back on the road. By the time the ladies stopped for tea, sometime past noon, James’s head ached from the bouncing of the carriage and the wind in his face.

  He drank his tea behind the posting house and watched while the others ate their bread and cheese. He’d tossed his aside hours ago, but as the others seemed fine after consuming theirs, he wished he’d kept it.

  Too soon they were back on the road to London. The hours blended together, and as the ladies did not step out of the carriage again, he didn’t even have the opportunity of seeing Phil. Finally, long after dark had fallen, they arrived at a large town house in the center of Mayfair. James had been impressed by Southmeade Cottage when he’d first seen it, but he really had no other country houses to compare it to. But James had lived in London and Dublin, and this town house was impressive by city standards. He hadn’t known London had places that weren’t cramped and filthy. He hadn’t known there were streets where hay was strewn about to muffle the sound of the carriage wheels.

  Of course, he did not enter by the front door. He opened the carriage door for the ladies and helped them down. The Town staff was waiting for them, and the underbutler directed him and the other servants toward the servants’ entrance. “What happened to Balcolm?” the underbutler asked.

  “He was ill and Caffold sent me instead. I’m James Finnegan.”

  “An Irishman?”

  “As I live and breathe.”

  The underbutler sniffed and walked away. James stood in the servants’ dining room, uncertain where to go or what to do next. He wanted to curl up on the floor by the fire.

  “Don’t mind Fletchley,” a man said. James hadn’t seen him in the corner. “He’s always been an arse.”