After a moment, Ernest nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “I understand. I understand exactly what you mean.”
Silence hung between them. Rachel could hear him breathe.
She lifted the cloth from Ernest’s forehead and peered at the wound. “It’s stopped bleeding,” she announced, too loudly. She reached for the kettle and wrenched off the lid, dipping the edge of the cloth into the water. She used the damp cloth to wipe the blood from his skin. He flinched slightly at her touch.
Gently, she pushed his damp hair back from his face, letting her fingers work their way through its thickness. She thought back to that night in the White Lion when she had worked the lard through his unflappable locks to turn him into a lowly miner.
Ernest caught her smile. “What are you grinning at?” His fingers slid through hers.
Rachel swallowed heavily as his thumb ran gently up and down her index finger. The tiny action made heat rise in her core. What was this power he had over her? His ability to set her on fire with nothing but the lightest of touches?
She smiled. “I’m thinking of you with lard in your hair. Trying to pretend you were a miner.”
He laughed, making warmth erupt in Rachel’s chest. “I’m quite sure no one was convinced. Although I’m ever so glad I asked a beautiful young lady there for her help.”
He cupped Rachel’s cheek and drew her toward him. She felt the warmth inside her intensify as his lips touched hers. The kiss was gentle, feather light. Perfect, and yet nowhere near enough. Rachel parted her lips beneath his, longing for more. She heard a soft sigh escape her as his tongue ran over hers. He gripped her waist and pulled her toward him, deepening the kiss.
Rachel felt need build within her, spreading from her core over every inch of her body. The softest touch from Ernest Jackson set her alight; this deep, possessive kiss was almost more than she could take. Almost more than she could take, yet there was so much more she wanted, so much more she needed. Men had touched her, pawed at her, toyed with her endlessly, but none of them had ever made her feel anything close to this.
Ernest pulled her nearer, his lips not leaving hers. She slid downwards onto his lap, feeling him hard and ready beneath her. The feel of it made a deep murmur of desire escape Rachel’s lips. Ernest gripped a fistful of her hair, working his fingers through her thick blonde locks. She shifted on his lap and heard a throaty groan escape him.
I’m doing this to him. He could have any lady in the world, and I’m the one bringing him such pleasure.
The thought filled her with sudden, girlish pride.
She had made men grunt and groan and pant more times than she could count. She’d never felt anything beyond the relief that it was over and done. But she’d never felt such fire in their touch. Never seen such intensity in their eyes.
She pulled back a moment and smiled at him. “You ought to be resting,” she said, a teasing shine in her eyes. “You’ve been hurt.”
Ernest grinned. “Perhaps I ought to stop?”
“No.” She choked out the word. “No. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” She pressed herself hard against him and met his mouth with hers again.
His lips worked their way down her neck, burning her skin as they touched it. He worked his way along her neckline, pausing a long moment at the hint of cleavage that peeked out the top of her bodice.
Rachel let out a sigh of pleasure.
His fingers found the lacing at the front of her stays. Cautiously, they slid down the bodice, until they rested on the knot at the bottom. His eyes met hers, seeking permission.
Rachel nodded, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. She wanted those hands on more of her, all of her. She could feel her nipples straining against the coarseness of her stays. She arched her back toward him, her eyes pleading with his.
Ernest slid the laces from the eyelets with achingly-perfect slowness. He slipped a hand inside her open bodice, cupping the swell of her firm breast beneath the soft fabric of her shift. Rachel buried her face in his neck as a soft moan escaped her. He slid her dress from her shoulder, pressing his lips into the white skin beneath.
Forcing herself to keep his slow pace, she slipped the coat from his shoulders and began to work at the waistcoat buttons down his middle. The gold-threaded fabric had become discolored and dirty, Rachel noticed, from his creeping about in the cellar, his nights searching the streets for her.
Overcome with gratitude, she yanked his silk shirt over his head and pressed her lips to the hot skin on his chest. She could feel his heart thudding hard beneath her mouth.
Ernest stood suddenly, lifting her up with him. He moved slowly to her sleeping pallet. Rachel glanced down at the thin mattress.
Can he truly want to love me here on this tiny bed? Here, with the east London slums rattling outside?
But the intensity in his eyes told her he wanted more than anything to love her right here, right now. It told her he thought nothing of the tiny bed or the slums outside. The only thing he saw was her. And so she let herself forget the thin mattress and the rattling slums. Let herself forget everything but the man standing before her who had risked his life to save her.
Gently, he lowered her onto the thin mattress, pushing her hair back from her face as he did so.
Rachel felt a bulge of fabric beneath her. She reached down and pulled out the embroidered underskirts. The sight of them yanked her back to the morning she had been taken. She had been on her way to Graceton Manor to tell Ernest all she had discovered.
“The skirts,” she said breathlessly, “they belong to Betsey.”
“I know.” Ernest snatched them from her hand and tossed them from the sleeping pallet. They came to rest on the table. “I know, I know. But I don’t care about any of that right now. All I care about is you.” His lips came down hard over hers, claiming her with such intensity that all thoughts of the skirts left Rachel’s head immediately.
Slowly, he trailed his hand down from the top of her neck, pausing to circle her nipple with his thumb through the thin fabric of her shift. Rachel dug her fingers into his shoulder and arched her back toward him, begging him for more. His thumb kept circling; slowly at first, then faster, faster, until Rachel was unable to hold back another, louder cry.
His hands slid downwards, over the gentle curve of her hips, until they found the warm skin on the inside of her thighs. With a feathery touch, he slid his hand beneath her shift, grazing the hot wetness Rachel could feel building and intensifying with each passing second.
Gently, he slipped his finger inside her, his own groan of pleasure mingling with her own.
Rachel clung to him. Her heart was racing.
I’m nervous, she realized. How many times had she taken a man to her bed? And yet she felt suddenly, strangely unsure of herself. Suddenly like an innocent, jittery bride.
And then his hands were no longer on her. Rachel heard herself cry out in protest as she reached up for him; wanting him, needing him. He gripped the hem of her shift and slipped it over her head, leaving her naked before him on the sleeping pallet. Rachel inhaled sharply. She had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. Never felt so ablaze with desire.
“Please Ernest,” she murmured. “I want you.”
Her hoarse, pleading whisper was all he needed. His fingers worked deftly at the buttons on his trousers, and he slid them off his body.
“Are you certain?” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Rachel met his eyes. She had never been more certain of anything. “Yes,” she breathed. “I’m certain. So certain.” She reached down gently to guide him inside her.
She let out a long exhalation as he filled her so perfectly, so completely. Groaning into her shoulder, he began to move inside her with such aching gentleness it took Rachel’s breath away.
How was it possible this could feel like this? How could this act she knew so painfully well, feel suddenly so unfamiliar, so new, so wonderful?
But soon, gentleness was not enou
gh. She wrapped her legs tight around him, drawing him deeper. “More,” she whispered. “Please.”
Ernest’s gentleness fell away as their desire built together, their bodies moving as one on the thin coarseness of the sleeping pallet. Suddenly Rachel felt herself hurtling her toward release. The force of it tore through her body, and she cried out, burying her face in the hot skin of Ernest’s neck. She clung to him as though he might save her from drowning. Clung to him as though they were the only two people left in the world. She felt him shudder in her arms as he reached his own release moments later. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, unwilling—unable—to surrender their closeness. She pressed her bare chest hard against his and felt his heart thudding hard against her own.
He pressed a kiss into the soft skin below her ear. A kiss that was at once both painfully gentle and blissfully possessive.
Rachel closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his breath against her skin. Where were they to go from here? Were they to do their best to pretend they were not on opposite ends of the social ladder? Or were they to just enjoy the perfection of this moment and know that it could never be anything more than this?
She couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t bear to think past this very moment. The future would come, and she had no thought of where it would take them.
All she knew was that, right now, at this moment, Ernest Jackson was hers. And she was his.
Chapter 43
Ernest lay with his eyes closed, Rachel nestled in the crook of his arm. The pain in his head felt distant. Everything felt distant. Everything except Rachel. And there was perfection to it—perfection to her.
Outside the apartment, Ernest could hear the world trying to draw them into it. Street vendors hollered, footsteps clattered, dogs barked, and babies wailed. The rest of the world was there, he knew. But just for now, he allowed it all to fall away.
Let everything else disappear for a while.
For a long time, he lay without speaking, feeling the smooth skin on Rachel’s shoulder, the silkiness of her hair. Feeling the warmth of her and her soft weight against his shoulder.
She shifted in his arms, and Ernest felt his heart swell. This was love. He knew it with certainty. He knew this was that elusive thing so many men of his class were denied. This was that elusive thing so many noblemen gave up in search of good breeding or the finest of matches. But those things meant nothing to him. Now he had felt this mysterious thing called love, there was no way he was going to let it go.
Rachel peered up at him, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “Are you in pain?” she asked, after a long silence. “Your head?”
Ernest chuckled. “Pain?” he repeated. “No. I’m not in pain.” He bent to kiss her, holding his lips to hers. “Believe me, I’m not in pain.”
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her naked body to his and holding her close. He never wanted to move from this place. He wanted to take her again, feel every inch of her, and hear her cry out his name. But her words had shattered the stillness. Had reminded him that, as much as he longed for it, the rest of the world was still there waiting.
And then, before he knew what he was doing, he blurted. “I believe Betsey Ward is my sister.” The words sounded strange as they hung in the air.
Rachel sat up on her elbow and stared at him. “What?”
Ernest ran his fingers down her side, making her shiver slightly. “The tulips on the skirts,” he said. “It’s the design my mother stitched on Unity’s dresses. And—”
“And Betsey has a dress just like it,” Rachel finished, “for her daughter.” She reached for her cloak that hung over the back of the chair and pulled out a small white bundle from the pocket. She handed it to Ernest. “I saw this on the drying rack at Betsey’s house. I thought it her daughter’s. But perhaps it was hers once.”
Ernest unfolded the bundle. He let out his breath. The smock was an exact match for the one he had found in Unity’s chest.
Rachel sat up on her knees, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Ernest grabbed her hand impulsively and pressed a kiss into her palm. His lips lingered a moment at the red raw skin on her wrist where the ropes had cut into her.
“Betsey always said her birth mother was an escort,” said Rachel. “Her adoptive mother, Mrs. Miller said she raised Betsey as her own when her friend couldn’t manage it.” Her eyes fixed on Ernest’s. “Do you think there’s a chance Mrs. Miller could be lying?”
He sat suddenly and reached for his shirt. “We need to speak to Betsey and her mother.”
* * *
Ernest felt his stomach turning over as they approached the bakery. Was he really about to do this? He stopped for a moment on the corner. Through the open door of the shop, he could see Betsey behind the chipped and crooked counter, wiping down a large tray.
How will she react when I tell her what I believe?
He knew his story would upturn everything she had known to be true. It would shatter her entire sense of who she was. But Betsey Ward, he had come to see, was difficult to rattle.
Look at her, wiping down her shop counter as though she’d not spent the morning hunting down kidnappers in their basement lair…
Betsey Ward was difficult to rattle, yes. And she also deserved to know the truth. Especially if there were men who sought to keep her existence a secret.
Rachel glanced at him and squeezed his arm. “You need to tell her,” she said gently.
He nodded. Yes. He needed to tell her. The truth had been buried for long enough.
He strode into the bakery. Betsey looked up in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again today.” Her eyes darted between the two of them. “Has something happened? Has Burns showed himself again?”
“I need to speak with you,” said Ernest, holding her gaze. “It’s very important.”
She frowned, fear darkening her face. “What is it?”
Ernest hesitated. “Perhaps we might…sit down?”
“No,” said Betsey, twisting the cloth in her hand into a tight knot. “No, whatever it is, we can speak about it here.”
Behind them, Rachel pushed the bakery door closed and turned the key in the lock.
Betsey watched her in surprise. She tossed down her cleaning cloth and turned to Ernest expectantly.
“My search for my sister,” he began. “I believe it involves you.”
Betsey shook her head. “No. Burns didn’t see me. He doesn’t know I was involved.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ernest reached into the pocket of his coat and produced her daughter’s smock.
She snatched it from his hand. “Where did you get this?”
“I know where the design came from,” he told her, pushing past her question. “The purple tulips. My mother drew them. She stitched the pattern on my sister’s baby clothes.”
Betsey paused, her lips parting. She looked down at the dress, then back to Ernest. “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Jackson?”
Ernest glanced at Rachel. She nodded for him to continue.
“I believe my mother, The Duchess of Armson gave up her daughter for reasons I don’t understand.” He drew in his breath, looking Betsey in the eye. “And I believe you are her daughter.”
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Ernest’s words dropped heavily into the silence. Outside the shop, a dog began to bark.
“That’s impossible,” Betsey said finally.
“Why?” Ernest pressed. “You said yourself, you knew nothing about your birth mother.”
“My birth mother was an escort!” she cried, the smock tight in her fist. “Not a…not a duchess.” She began to pace back and forth across her tiny shop. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Rachel reached for her hand, stilling her. Betsey gave an enormous sigh and rubbed her eyes. “That’s impossible,” she said again. Her voice was softer this time. Thinner.
“I’m sorry,” said Ernest. “I know this is diffic
ult for you.” He tried to catch her eye. After a moment, she let him. “It’s not been easy for me either.”
Betsey said nothing. Ernest watched her take a long breath. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, leaving a streak of flour along one cheek.
“You’re telling me all this because of a little embroidery?” she demanded, her voice rattling. “I stitched some tulips on my underskirts, and now you’re telling me I’m your sister?”
As she spoke the words, Ernest felt something shift inside him.
“My sister Unity was born in 1788,” he told her. “I grew up believing she died that same year, but I’ve come to see that this was a lie. I believe she stayed at Graceton Manor until she was perhaps a year or two old.” He paused. “After which my mother gave her up. I don’t know why.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 25
