Her fingers began to move gently against his thigh. The tiniest of movements. Like a breath on skin. In the corner of her vision, she saw his chest rise and fall as he drew in a deep breath.
Her fingers kept dancing. Mr. Jackson’s lips parted. He shifted in his seat. And then, abruptly, he lifted her hand from his leg and fixed her with hot eyes. He returned their clasped hands back to the arm of the chair.
Rachel felt a smile in the corner of her lips. She turned back to the stage and tried to focus.
Caesar let out a great cry and stumbled dramatically to the floor.
Rachel’s heart was pounding. She knew it had nothing to do with what was going on onstage.
Focus. Watch the show. When are you ever going to be in a place like this again?
But then,
When am I ever going to be in the company of a man such as him again?
He slid his hand from hers, and Rachel felt a pang of disappointment. And then his fingers came to rest lightly above her knee.
Rachel held her breath.
And, just as she had done to him, he began to move his fingers, almost imperceptibly, over the soft fabric of her skirts.
Rachel swallowed heavily. All chance of concentrating on the play had vanished.
She felt her breathing quicken. The touch of his fingers was almost imperceptible, but it was impossible to ignore.
And the thudding of her heart—that was impossible to ignore too. As was the heat that had begun to build in her core, a heat that was quickly moving down between her legs.
How is it possible that I can take men to my bed and feel nothing, yet the slightest twitch of his fingers has me on fire?
She dared to glance at him. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, watching every movement of the actors. But Rachel could see a tiny smile in the corner of his lips.
Slowly, he slid his fingers higher up her thigh, and it was all Rachel could do not to squirm in her seat. And then his hand was gone. He clasped his fingers in his lap and fixed his eyes on the actors, leaving Rachel with an unquenched fire raging inside her.
Chapter 24
The play seemed interminable. Throughout the performance, she could feel Mr. Jackson shooting her sideways glances. She kept her eyes focused on the stage, sure she would explode if she managed to catch his eye.
Finally, after what felt like days, the performance drew to a close. Mr. Jackson rose to his feet, applauding heartily until the final curtain call.
Now, of all times I stay until the final curtain call…
He offered her his arm, and they made their way back out to the street. Her fingers rested lightly against his forearm, her hand tingling at the contact.
“I hope you enjoyed the evening, Miss Bell,” he said stiffly, looking up and down for his coach.
“Yes. Very much.”
What’s wrong with my voice? Why am I having such trouble speaking normally?
“I’m glad of it. Julius Caesar is quite a confronting work, but it’s always been one of my favorites.”
Hell, does he really want to discuss Shakespeare?
She nodded demurely. “I’ve known very little of his work. I read a little at the charity school, but nothing more.”
Her eyes met his for a moment, and she felt the blaze inside her intensify.
Mr. Jackson cleared his throat. “The carriage is this way.”
She pressed her fingers harder into his arm as they walked. His pace toward the carriage quickened slightly. They reached the coach, and he opened the door, offering her his hand. Holding her skirts in her fist, she climbed inside, perching on the edge of the bench and feeling her heart thump hard.
“Bishopsgate,” she heard him tell the driver. And then he was in the carriage beside her, his knee pressing hard against hers.
Rachel stared straight ahead as the coach began to roll away from the theater. She felt hot and breathless. On the edge of her vision, she saw Mr. Jackson turn to face her. Could feel his eyes burning into her.
Finally, she dared to face him. His dark eyes seemed to burn into hers. Rachel’s lips parted. She held her breath.
He lurched toward her suddenly, his mouth meeting hers. His lips were hot, his tongue sliding over hers and bringing a sigh from deep inside her. Too quickly, he pulled away, kissing her ravenously at the edge of her shoulder.
His lips worked their way along her neck, and she threw back her head, allowing him better access. He kissed his way along her collarbone sliding her cloak from her shoulders in one fluid movement.
His hands worked their way across her body with agonizing slowness. She felt his hot fingers slide their way up her side, over her ribs, squeezing her breast gently beneath the stiff lacing of her bodice.
Rachel heard a soft moan escape her lips. This wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Bedding a man had only ever been about money. A necessity. A way to survive.
Bedding a man had only ever been a thing of pain, discomfort, shame. Drinking brandy to blot out the memories and scrubbing her skin at the washstand.
It had never been a thing of desire, or longing. Never a thing of love.
But with Ernest Jackson’s hands on her, she felt a new heat well up deep inside her and spread through her entire body. Even the lightest touch had her struggling for breath.
She pressed herself hard against his body, feeling the evidence of his own arousal.
His hand slid down her thigh, seeking the hem of her gown. Deftly, his fingers darted beneath her underskirts. Up they slid, over the coarse wool of her stockings, over the garter at her knee, up to the bare skin on her thigh. Rachel sighed into his mouth, feeling dampness pooling between her legs.
He gripped a fistful of her skirts and pulled it up over her knee, pressing his lips to her neck to stifle a groan.
Then he stopped suddenly. He snatched the edge of her underskirt and peered at the embroidery stitched along the hem. “What’s this?”
“What?” Rachel demanded, breathlessly. She tried to snatch the skirt from his fist. She wanted his hands back on her thighs where they had been before. Wanted them higher, faster.
Not letting go, he tugged insistently at her hem, gesturing to the neat stitching. “This embroidery. This pattern. I’ve seen it before.”
Rachel straightened. She stared at him incredulously, yanking the skirt from his grasp and pulling it back over her knee. “You’ve seen the stitching on my underskirts before? And you thought to tell me now?”
“Who do these skirts belong to?” he pushed. “Are they yours?”
Rachel exhaled sharply. “Who do these skirts belong to? Are you mad? Of course, they’re mine!”
“Where did you get them?”
“I’ve no idea!”
Mr. Jackson reached for her skirts again, peering down to look at the pattern of tulips embroidered along the hem. He ran his thumb over the delicate stitching. “Please, Rachel. I need you to think. Did you buy them from the market? A tailor? Who?”
“I don’t know,” she hissed. “Why is it so important?”
He let out his breath and sat back against the padded wall of the carriage. “This same pattern, I’ve seen it among my sister’s things. And I’ve seen my mother stitch this design over and over.”
“Your sister,” said Rachel.
In the back of her mind, she could hear Betsey’s words.
Maybe he’s just using you to get the information he needs.
You’re just a little entertainment for him.
She folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. She had told herself Betsey was wrong. Had told herself again and again, even though her common sense had screamed at her otherwise. But perhaps Betsey had been right. Perhaps she truly was nothing more than a little entertainment to him. A little entertainment and a means of finding his sister.
What a fool I’ve been…
Mr. Jackson turned on the seat to face her, but the fire in his eyes was gone. He was business like and restrain
ed. “Rachel, please. I need to know where the skirts have come from. I need to know who sewed that design.”
Anger flared inside her. “I’ve not had money for new clothes in years,” she said icily. “And I’m to remember where my underskirts came from?” Her voice began to rise. “Perhaps they’re not even mine. Perhaps they belong to some other poor girl at the tavern who’s forced to undress to survive.” She heard the tremor in her voice. Cursed herself for it.
What am I doing here? What was I thinking surrounding myself with all these lords and ladies? This entire night has just been a reminder of all the things I’ll never have.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Jackson. He reached for her hand, but she pulled away sharply. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He paused. “Is there anything I can do?”
Rachel shook her head stiffly.
You can stay away. Stay away from me so I might never forget my place.
After a moment, Mr. Jackson said, “If you think of anything about the skirts—”
“The skirts!” Rachel cried. “Will you damn well forget about the skirts! I don’t know where they came from!” She felt tears pricking her eyes and hurriedly blinked them away. “That’s all you care about it, isn’t it?” she hissed. “Finding your sister. All I am is a means of getting the information you need.”
“That’s not true,” he said, his voice thick with regret.
“Of course, it is.” She turned to look at him, her eyes flashing. “Why did you even bring me here tonight? What did you hope to achieve? Were you just trying to remind me of all the things I’ll never have?” She felt her words spilling out wildly, but felt powerless to stop them. “Were you trying to remind me that I have no place near a man like you?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rachel. This was a mistake. I know. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Well, you did, My Lord. You managed to hurt me. And make me feel like a right fool in the process.” She pounded on the wall of the carriage. “Stop the coach. I can make it the rest of the way on my own.”
“Rachel, please. You can’t walk all the way back to Bethnal Green.”
“Of course, I can.” She threw open the door and leaped out into the night. She heard Mr. Jackson calling after her, but kept walking, without looking back.
The tears she had been fighting back spilled down her cheeks.
How blind and foolish I’ve been.
For a fleeting moment, she had let herself think that she and Mr. Jackson might actually have a future together. Now, she laughed aloud at the thought. She and a nobleman? Such a thing was insanity.
This is why I ought to forget about love.
Perhaps love was real, but it was a brutal, vicious thing that made your chest ache and had you crying in the night.
Best she forget about love and forget about Ernest Jackson. Best she forget about the way he made her heart speed and her skin ablaze. Best that bedding a man remained nothing more than business.
Rachel wished suddenly for the wise, hard-shelled woman she used to be. The woman she had been before she had met Mr. Ernest Jackson.
She strode through the streets with her head down, swiping angrily at her tears. Suddenly, she felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle. There was that feeling again.
Someone is following me.
She whirled around. There was no one there but an old man sleeping beneath the awnings of a shop. A fox darted across the road in front of her.
“Who’s there?” Rachel called, emboldened by her misery.
But she heard nothing but the distant clatter of hooves. Head down, she turned and marched back toward her tenement.
Chapter 25
Ernest woke feeling wretched. He’d had not a drop to drink, yet his head was thumping as though he’d quaffed a river of brandy. And the ache in his chest—that was a thousand times worse.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. How had things taken such a dreadful turn?
In spite of himself, he was replaying the night in his head. He thought of Rachel’s fingers sliding, ghost-like up his thigh. Thought of the fire it had lit inside him. From that moment, the play had seemed endless. A part of him had longed to grab her by the hand and drag her from the theater halfway through the first act so they might continue what they’d started.
And then he’d had the chance. She had wanted it as much as he had, he knew. And he’d ruined everything.
He rubbed his eyes. He longed to take it all back. And yet, he couldn’t get the thought of that embroidered skirt out of his mind.
Pink and purple tulips. Intertwined leaves.
It had been exactly the same design he had seen on Unity’s baby gowns. He felt certain it was no coincidence. How had Rachel Bell ended up with those tulips on her underskirts?
Ernest let out an enormous sigh.
What does it matter? She’ll never see me again.
He had been so surprised to see the stitching on her skirts, he had not stopped to think how his questioning might come across. He was well aware Rachel had done all the work in his search for Unity. She had tracked down the Baron and pulled information about his mother and the Viscount from him. Of course, it must have seemed to her that he was using her to find his sister.
Ernest sat up in bed, suddenly seized with determination.
He had to show her she was wrong. He had to make this right.
He yanked off his nightshirt and splashed his cheeks at the washstand, the cold water causing him to gasp in surprise.
I have to make her see just how important she is to me.
* * *
The streets of Bethnal Green, Ernest realized, all looked strikingly similar. Each tenement was colorless and crooked, the windows patched and the chimneys crumbling. Each street corner was clustered with beggars, each shop window barricaded.
Where is Rachel’s apartment?
He tried to sift through his memories. Both times he’d been to her apartment, it had been dark. Once he’d been blind drunk. And he’d been hungover when he’d stumbled, squinting into the sun the morning after.
Suddenly, from the between the stench of waste and rot, he caught the smell of baking bread.
Her friend Betsey’s bakery.
He could ask the baker for directions to Rachel’s tenement. And buy her those five loaves of bread…
He followed the smell to the small shop on the corner of the street. He pushed open the door. The shop was crammed into a narrow building, its walls peeling and one of the windows covered with a wooden board. The counter was laden with bread loaves and rolls, along with an array of cakes and sweetmeats. An enormous oven took up most of the space behind the counter, the fire beneath it heating the entire shop. Despite its ramshackle appearance, the delicious smells emanating from the place made Ernest’s mouth water.
The woman behind the counter was around his age, the coppery threads of her hair tucked beneath a white cap. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Can I help you?”
“Five loaves of bread,” said Ernest, digging into his pocket and handing over a few coins. The woman pocketed them, then wrapped the loaves in a cloth and slid them across the counter.
“Rachel Bell,” he blurted. “Do you know her?”
The woman’s eyes hardened suddenly. “Why?”
“I need to find her.” He felt the baker’s eyes on him, taking him in. Ernest turned up the collar of Phillips’ coat to hide his silk shirt.
“You’re that nobleman,” the baker said suddenly. “The one she’s been talking about.”
Rachel had spoken of me?
He pushed away the ridiculous fluttering in his chest. Rachel would likely never speak to him again.
“Do you know where she is?” he pushed. “I need to see her. Urgently.”
“Why?” she demanded. “You need her help looking for your sister again?”
Ernest blinked in surprise. Rachel had obviously told this woman plenty.
“I just nee
d to speak with her,” he said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You and Rachel are not well-suited,” she said. “I’m sure you know that. Don’t you think it’s best that you just leave her be?”
Ernest felt his anger flare suddenly. “No,” he said stiffly. “I don’t think it’s best. Now, please, just tell me how I can find her.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 14
