Deftly, his fingertips worked a tantalizing massage into her nape, keeping her right where he wanted her. Which, coincidentally, was precisely where she wanted to be. Only she hadn’t known it until just then.
She yielded to his mastery of the subject as he nibbled softly into her flesh. The heat of his breath slipped inside the narrow seam, bathing her tongue with the flavors of their shared breakfast and the taste of something else—an unknown delicacy—that made her inexplicably hungry. She wanted more of it.
A budding pressure grew beneath her lips. The tender-swollen skin felt like grapes coming to full succulent ripeness in the hands of an expert wine maker. She needed to be plucked off the vine, harvested by his mouth, crushed into pulp and juice, and readied for fermentation. Oh, sweet fermentation!
Without thought or any true skill of her own, she kissed him with firm compressions to soothe the pulsing pressure. Her hands splayed over the coarse wool of his coat, grazing up and over the heavy stitching of his lapels to his shoulders, and earned his gruff grunt of approval.
Her body reacted to the primal utterance. Her small breasts grew taut and aching with a peculiar heaviness. A bewildering, unexplored gravity pulled her closer to him and she listed forward on tiptoe until only a sliver of space remained. But the force was too great to resist, the air crackling like static between them.
Succumbing to momentum, she swayed against him. Somehow her arms found their way under his coat where he was warmest, and wrapped themselves around his narrow waist. His soft linen shirt was thin from wear and washing, and it molded enticingly over the musculature of his back beneath her seeking hands.
This time, he growled in a way she had not heard before. The husky, savage sound made her knees tremble, her legs as insubstantial as ivy vines. But he shored her against him, his broad palm skating down the curve of her spine to the small of her back.
“Open for me,” he whispered against the damp seam of her lips, nuzzling into the corner of her mouth. “Don’t be stingy with your tongue.”
Tongue? she wondered dazedly, never thinking that the wet, budded surface would be something another person would wish to investigate. “Whyever would you want that?”
“Trust me. It’s part of the process.”
The trace of amusement in his tone made her question his authority on this portion of the lesson. “Do you have reference material to which you might direct me?”
She felt his grin against her lips and then a playful tug of his teeth into the flesh of her bottom lip. A zing of pleasure spiraled through her, swirling tightly, deep inside her middle. Who knew that a bite under the right circumstances could feel so pleasant?
“You can’t learn everything from a book,” he coaxed, nipping her again. “There are some things you just have to try for yourself.”
Curious, the willing grapes parted for him, waiting for him to surge forth and explore her taste receptors.
But he did not. Instead, he continued his small sipping kisses, sampling her nectar, weighing her readiness for the bottle. Good gracious, the bottle!
Jane blushed at the thought, purple inside her skin as she bore the sweet agony of his kiss, one drop at a time.
Then, at last, he nudged her mouth open and delved inside the dewy cavern. The unexpected pleasure, the slow glide of flesh against flesh, the thrilling rasp of his tongue against hers, sent tingles cascading through her in a hot deluge, quivering deep down inside her stomach.
She felt like purring.
Her arms lifted, slipping out of his coat, and her hands glided around his neck to delve into the mink-soft hair that was just long enough to brush his collar. It all felt perfectly natural to her now. A successful experiment—one she would like to repeat as often as possible.
Sliding closer, she rose up on the toes of her slippers to satisfy all the new sensations pulsing into full wakefulness. Raven assisted her. He settled her body into some faultless orientation against his own, where the hardness of him met the softness of her.
The sublime configuration definitely deserved further study.
No one had ever kissed her or held her like this. And even without having compiled any research on the subject, she suspected that this was the way it was supposed to be done.
His hands fisted in the back of her gown, pulling her tighter against him. She could feel the buttons of his shirt and, further down, the hard, unmistakable and imposing ridge of his erection.
He was aroused, she thought, awed by this entire sequence of events. Her body reacted to this knowledge with a low liquid throb that urged her hips to tilt of their own accord against him, and a strained whimper escaped her throat.
Chasing the sound she’d made, his lips drifted hotly along the underside of her jaw and down her throat to the V-shaped niche in the center of her clavicle. And when his tongue touched that susceptible place, laving it tenderly, she whimpered again, clinging to him.
He growled that new growl again. “Do you taste this sweet everywhere, Jane?”
“It’s only the jam,” she assured him, even though she wasn’t feeling sure of anything at the moment. In fact, she was barely holding onto her wits as he nibbled a path to her earlobe and raked the flesh softly between his teeth.
“Currant?”
“Damson plum,” she breathed, her neck arching against the delightful scrape of his whiskers along her throat. An excited pulse sped on a current through her body, settling where their hips aligned. “I cannot fathom how you kiss worldly women. The pleasure must cause them to burst from their skin like overripe fruits.”
Raven went still, clutching her tightly. The hard pounding of his heart inside his chest matched the same harried rhythm inside her own. Then a slow breath staggered out of him.
She shook her head when he gradually eased his mouth away. “No. I don’t want to stop.”
In response, he pressed lingering kisses against her cheek, her temple, and her brow as he held her excitable, breathless body against him. He stroked a hand down her back, calming her in slow passes. “You need to get some rest.”
“But the letter. We have more to—”
“I don’t want to talk about the letter anymore today. And if you continue to push me, then you’ll soon find yourself carried to that napping spot and thoroughly kissed in places you’ve likely never even read about,” he warned darkly.
Taking her chin in his grasp, he let his gaze fall to her lips as if preparing another assault to her senses.
A wanton thrill raced through her and her lips pursed in inquisitive contemplation. The scientist within her was reminded of the importance of being thorough. Her inner scribe was disheveled and eagerly reaching for a fresh pen.
But even she understood that this was less of an offer and more of a threat, like the snarl of a cornered animal.
She’d pushed him too far already. In the past twelve hours, she’d done quite a lot to upset the course of his life.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll send word to you as soon as I translate the letter, as well as whatever I discover from our copy of Debrett’s. After it is mended, of course.”
“Of course,” he said with a small grin and she could almost taste it against her tingling lips. She wished she could taste it.
But no. That was a dangerous thought. Her head was beginning to clear enough for her to realize that more kisses would only lead to ruination and being eschewed from her family. She wasn’t willing to take that risk just for research.
Decided, she straightened her shoulders. “Once it is all in your possession, that will be the end of my interference in your life. I trust that will be amenable to you?”
He offered a nod. But before he released her, he took her lips once more, stealing the last of her senses.
Then, several breathless and intoxicating minutes later, he set her apart, pivoted on his heel and left, cursing under his breath about bloody irresistible damson jam.
Chapter 13
For the following week, Raven was
glad to get back to his own life. He put his focus where it belonged—on refurbishing his house, keeping his employment—and not on any unreliable debutantes.
He enjoyed his position at Sterling’s. After three years, the red silk wallpaper was as familiar as the color of his own blood.
When Reed Sterling had first offered him a position, Raven had started out as a mere usher, but quickly worked his way up to a croupier. Now, as he prowled through the rooms, he oversaw the tables and the bank, kept the books in order, and took care of patrons’ requests. He also supervised the list runners and made sure the ushers filled the whisky glasses.
It all kept him busy. Far too busy to think about Jane Pickerington. Or to wonder why, after pushing and pushing to find a link between the mark on his arm and the Northcott family, she’d suddenly lost interest.
Not that he cared. In fact, he was glad she hadn’t pestered him once in the past week. She hadn’t sent the translation of the letter like she’d said she would either. That didn’t bother him at all. And, apparently, her copy of Debrett’s was still at the bookbinder’s because she’d sent no word regarding the family name.
More than likely, the absentminded bluestocking had forgotten all about it and had moved on to something new. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to him. Wouldn’t be the last, he was sure.
Of course, if he were truly interested in knowing, he could always purchase his own copy of the book. It could be good for a laugh, if nothing else.
But, since none of it mattered, regardless, there wasn’t any point in wasting hard-earned money. He put the whole ordeal out of his mind and cracked his neck from one side to the other.
Stopping near the door of the hazard room, he cast an absent glance over the crowd at the green felt table. As usual, gents were shouting and raising fists stuffed with pound notes while sconcelight glanced off their sweaty pates.
He was familiar with most of the men who walked through Sterling’s doors. Knew their names, their secrets and indiscretions. Knew who’d lost their shirts at the tables and who’d begged for a loan from Reed Sterling. London, however, was a big city and he couldn’t know everyone. So, when a stranger walked in, Raven always noticed.
Though, lately, he’d become even more shrewd in his studies. He’d found himself taking careful note of the men in their middle years with gray or grizzled hair, and whether or not they were of a similar height and build to his own. He’d searched faces for resemblances—the shape of the eye, the cut of the chin, anything. And on more than one occasion, he’d caught himself wondering if any of the men had married a French woman who’d once needed an English tutor.
It was madness! And it was all Jane Pickerington’s fault.
So before he acted the fool and started sizing up this crowd, too, he stalked toward the faro tables. He wasn’t going to let one luckless encounter with a little debutante distract him any longer.
“You there, boy,” a man called out as he passed.
Raven felt the hair at his nape stand on end. He knew he was being hailed, but it had been years since anyone had dared call him boy.
Even as a lad it bristled him to hear the condescending sneer that forever accompanied it. But he’d never been cowed by it. He’d always been too proud.
At the orphanage, Mr. Mayhew had beaten him time and again and told him that his arrogance would be his downfall. Devil Devons at the workhouse had told him the same, right before he’d lock the door to the rat cupboard. But Raven, no matter how bloodied afterward, had continued to stand before them, straight-shouldered and staring them directly in the eye.
His competence and assuredness had gained the admiration of his fellow workers. And the majority of the patrons treated him with respect, or kept a wide berth.
Normally, he would turn and stare down any man who thought he was nothing more than muck on a pair of boots. Usually, that was all he needed to do.
But tonight, his temper was rough-edged, like a blade that begged to be sharpened. Deep in his gut roiled the upheaval and uncertainty of the past week, and he knew he wasn’t as self-possessed as he needed to be. So, he decided to ignore the pompous gent’s insult and walk on.
“I say, there . . . boy.”
Raven gritted his teeth but did not turn around. At least, not until the prig clamped a hand on his shoulder. Then he whipped around on a low growl.
The gent’s blue eyes widened with a start. A glare instantly followed, his heavy tawny brow furrowing above a hawklike nose. The man—older by about thirty years—regarded him with the chilly disdain that aristocrats must teach their young from the cradle. “Fetch me a whisky.”
Raven stiffened. Even worse than being called boy, he despised being treated like a dog and asked to fetch the master’s slippers.
Even so, he knew how to be diplomatic. He wouldn’t have gained this position if he hadn’t proved his ability to keep a cool head when dealing with pompous aristocrats. And since he’d never seen this gent in Sterling’s before, he granted him a little leeway. A very little.
Maintaining an inscrutable expression, Raven cleared his throat, preparing to politely inform the gent that all he had to do was give a nod to Tom. After all, the usher was standing only six feet away with a complimentary whisky tray in hand. Any beef-headed buzzard could have discerned as much.
But then the man spoke again.
“Be quick about it and there’ll be a shilling in it for you.”
Raven tried to shrug off the provocation. But, damn it all, this had been a shite week and he’d had enough. The rough edge of his temper sliced through his composure just enough to break the surface. “A whole shilling?”
The man squinted, jaw ticking. “Are you mocking me?”
Raven signaled Tom, offering the gent a mere passing glance. “Of course not. I would have to be of superior birth to condescend to the likes of you. And wouldn’t you know it, seems I’ve forgotten my crown at home.” When Tom approached, Raven reached out and took the whole tray. Then he pushed it toward the gent, all the while knowing that reflex would force any man to take hold. And when he did, Raven flashed a cold grin. “Your whisky, sir.”
He sketched a proper bow and stalked into the faro room.
Of course, that wasn’t the end of it.
A quarter hour later, as he was taking a stack of profits to the safe, he saw that self-entitled arse standing in front of Reed Sterling in the main card room, his beak sniffing with effrontery.
Spotting Raven, the gent pointed with a hard sweep of his arm, the silver buttons on his cuffs winking as they caught the light.
Sterling followed the gesture, his unreadable gaze raking over him. And even though no discernable reaction flickered over the former prizefighter’s famously calm exterior, Raven knew they’d soon be having a chat.
So, at the end of the night and with the accounting ledgers in hand, Raven went to Sterling’s office as usual.
Inside the paneled room, Reed Sterling was standing at the window behind his desk, staring across the street at the white stone town house where he lived with his wife and her uncle.
Raven laid down the ledger on the desk and eyed his employer, taking note of the set of his square jaw. The dark-headed man was an imposing figure, especially when he had his arms crossed over his chest, with the sconcelight silhouetting his form. Years of pugilism had given him broad shoulders, a burly build, and a right hook that could fell a tree.
Without turning around, Sterling said, “I trust that whatever issue you’ve been having with the clientele this week, you’ll remedy by tomorrow.”
Hmm . . . Apparently, this wasn’t the only night he’d unleashed a small portion of irritability on the high-society nobs. But he was tired of looking at gents of a certain age and wondering if any of them had left a child to nearly freeze to death on a cold January night, discarding him like refuse in the gutter.
“Done and over,” he said, but made the mistake of shrugging. The action caused his shirt to catch th
at blasted scab left over from Ruthersby’s cane—right above the mark—and his words came out sharper than he’d intended.
Sterling turned, a dubious smirk lifting the nick on his upper lip. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a rumor I heard about a certain man—and one who strangely matches your description—having been involved in a brawl at Moll Dawson’s, would it?”
Sterling had eyes and ears all over the city and nothing ever got past him, so Raven expected this. But that didn’t mean he was willing to talk about it. As far as he was concerned, the less he mentioned about that night, the better. “Perhaps I have a twin in London.”
Sterling’s mouth twitched as he scanned the columns of the ledgers with a deceptively absent air. “I also heard another tale about Duncan Pickerington visiting your flat—as he calls it. Yet his account was so completely absurd that I dismissed it.”
Raven cursed under his breath, his back teeth grinding together.
“I also believe,” Sterling continued conversationally, turning the page, “there was mention of a girl involved.”
Raven stiffened, shoulders ramrod straight. “Pickerington never should have mentioned any of it, especially nothing about her.”
“Why is that?”
Knots of tension rose like hackles down his spine, and Raven didn’t quite understand the sudden anger he felt toward Pickerington. But it was there, nonetheless. “Isn’t it your rule that well-bred women aren’t discussed beneath this roof? At least that’s how it was when you were courting your matchmaker.”
In response, a pair of mismatched irises—one, a solid indigo and the other golden at the corner—lifted from the ledger. A dark brow arched in a clear warning to tread lightly in matters that concerned his wife. “We both know Pickerington, and I’m sure he meant no slight. From what I understand, the girl is his own cousin.”
“Then he should do a fare sight better at protecting his own family, not let them fall into danger. A man keeps what’s his safe and sound.” Raven growled before he thought better of it and saw the keen flash of interest in that gilded eye.
My Kind of Earl Page 12