It did bring her a smaller degree of satisfaction that Miss Brighton—possibly Viscountess Brookmoore, by now—would also bear a degree of rejection. Not, naturally, to the extent Jessica would. A vicar’s daughter did not measure up to a viscountess—even a devious, deplorable, conniving one.
No wonder Crispin had no desire to wed the girl.
When he’d admitted he’d been trying to break his betrothal contract for some time, a little bell had pealed. She wasn’t precisely certain what kind of signal it was—a warning or one to grab her attention?
Why would a man who’d been intent on avoiding marriage with one woman readily agree to wed another, especially one tarnished by scandal? Even if he was the other party contributing to her disgrace.
A man of Crispin’s caliber, a philanderer, wouldn’t jump straight from the pot directly into the fire. He’d celebrate his escape from the parson’s mousetrap, wouldn’t he? Sow more wild oats? Enjoy his narrow escape?
Nonetheless, his tone held a degree of sincerity Jessica couldn’t readily dismiss. It shone in his compelling, smoky eyes, which drew her to him on a level she didn’t understand but yearned to explore.
Even his scent—sandalwood, shaving lather, and starched linen—and the permeating, heat of his body, mere inches from hers, beckoned. Enticed. Seduced.
And though she was inexperienced in such things, she believed he felt it, too. His focus kept dipping to her mouth, and several times, it appeared as if he would touch her then thought better of it.
Was she so gullible, so desirous of his attention, that she wished it so? Was she simply another female with whom to satiate his lust? That unsolicited thought made her ridiculously despondent.
She’d hoped he was as attracted to her as she was to him. Not wishing to be another notch upon his bedpost, metaphorically speaking, she’d fought that fascination for months, truth to tell. Some might argue she was easily deceived.
Miss Brighton was the perfect example of that.
No, by juniper. Jessica pulled her lips tight. She wouldn’t blame herself for that treachery. There’d been no reason to mistrust the innocent-faced girl. It just went to show that first impressions could be most deceiving. She’d always looked for the good in people and wasn’t adept at reading body language or eyes.
“Well, then, I’d best go about it properly, hadn’t I?” Crispin slid to the floor before her knees, abruptly dragging her back to the present.
She drew in a sharp breath, afraid he’d cause himself further injury. “You don’t have to do that, for pity’s sake.” She speared the bandage circling his head a hard look. “Please do rise. I shall not be responsible for further injury to your person.”
He was in pain. A lot of pain.
Fine white lines bracketed his mouth, and discomfort cinched the corners of his arresting, silvery eyes. But it was the dullness in their depths that revealed how much he suffered from his concussion.
He truly ought to be abed. Jessica would feel wretched if he didn’t recuperate quickly because of some inane moral code that said he must propose upon one knee.
“I was but jesting, Crispin. I’ve already told you my decision.” When had she started addressing him by his given name? It had seemed so natural; she’d slipped into doing so without thought.
He gave her one of his bone-melting smiles, and she was thankful her bum was planted firmly on a cushion, for her knees surely would’ve gone weak. Her ridiculous heart pattered unevenly, and something akin to giddy anticipation made her hot then cold in turn.
Bah, what a ninny.
Rakehells did this. Made each woman feel like she, alone, was precious and cherished. That they had no eyes for another. How Jessica wanted that to be true. She’d agree to marry him in a trice if it were.
On one knee, he took her hands in his. She couldn’t help but notice the way the fabric stretched tautly over his indecently muscled thigh. He was a deuced fine specimen of manhood.
Good Lord. What would Papa say if he knew I curse in my head? Sometimes aloud, too.
She trailed her gaze over Crispin. His undeniable physical attributes had never been a cause for argument. In that, he was nearly incomparable. It was his character that lacked polish and morality.
He cradled her fingers in his warm palms, the gesture at once tender and enticing. “Jessica, I would be incredibly honored if you’d consent to become my wife.”
“Incredibly, Your Grace? Isn’t that doing it up a bit brown?” She spread her fingers, not at all surprised when he linked his with hers. “I’m not exactly a brilliant catch.”
Not a blueblood, but a woman with a reputation besmirched beyond repair.
His hawkish eyebrows swooped together. “You’re supposed to either accept or decline, Kitten, not critique the proposal. And I shall decide if you are a brilliant catch. And you most assuredly are.”
“Oh, do pardon me. I’m just finding it somewhat difficult to take this quite as serious as I should, I suppose. Which, come to think of it, is rather peculiar, given the situation is most dreadful.”
At his loud snort and wry look, laughter bubbled up her throat.
His eyebrows grew impossibly tauter.
“Not that your proposing is dreadful, I don’t mean.” She extracted her fingers—it was impossible to think straight with his thumb caressing her—and folded her hands atop her ice-blue gown. “Though I suppose it is, in a way, since it’s not a proposal born of love. But I referred to last night’s incident.” She drew in a long breath and, eyes closed, slowly released it until her lungs were empty.
“Forgive me, Crispin. I’m babbling. I do so when I’m nervous.”
She used to become tongue-tied and couldn’t speak at all.
Which was worse?
“And I make you nervous?” His voice came out a silky purr, and her tummy turned over.
He knew he did. Wretched man.
She was no match for him when he decided to be charming and seductive. Was any woman?
“How can you not, Your Grace?”
Jessica shut her eyes for a blink but promptly envisioned them sprawled together, bare limbs entwined upon the divan. No one had explained precisely what that had entailed, and her imagination produced a most naughty image.
She popped her eyes back open and said in a rush, “I keep recalling we were found naked together. You, however, were awake, and I was not.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I suppose you, um…saw me?”
Good God Almighty.
Jessica hadn’t meant to blurt any of that. Yes, the question had been on the tip of her tongue since arriving, but she wrongly believed she’d tamed the dratted urge. She should only feel mortification and distress, not this unrelenting curiosity.
Had Crispin liked what he’d seen? Why should she care?
The darkening of his eyes to onyx and the dilating of his pupils revealed the astounding truth. His lazy gaze slipped to her bosom before gravitating upward to meet her eyes.
It felt as if he could see through her garments to the pale flesh below. As if he’d caressed that tender skin. She should be outraged and offended, but those most assuredly were not the feelings firing through her, causing weird tremors in unmentionable places.
And then he answered, leaning near, his breath feathering her cheek. A gentleman wouldn’t have done so. “Indeed.” Rich. Husky. Wicked. And tempting as sin.
She’d need to pray an extra hour tonight that God might forgive her for the lustful thoughts and feelings.
His lips moved near her ear. “From what I observed through my blurry vision, Jessica, you were exquisite.”
Her breath caught and held.
Exquisite. Crispin finds me exquisite.
He’s a rogue. Her sensible, moral, vicar’s daughter self reprimanded.
All roués whisper such lovely nonsense. Don’t they?
And now she’d gone and done the most humiliating of things: reminded him of their nudity. Of the reason she was here, and why he now suffered a
fractured skull. Of the impossible situation they found themselves amidst.
“Incomparable,” he purred silkily. Sincerely. Honestly. And the merest bit raspy.
“Oh.” That was all she could achieve. One unimaginative syllable.
Oh, I’m delighted you liked what you saw? Oh, I should be swooning from mortification, but I’m not. Oh, precisely, what did you see? How long did you stare?
Had he touched her?
Would he now?
Because Jessica very much wanted Crispin to. To kiss her. To wrap those strapping, powerful arms about her, and let her decide if the rumors about him lived up to the reputation. God, she certainly hoped they did.
Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.
A weak, mortified moan did escape her then.
A rough sound rumbling deep in his throat, Crispin wrapped a hand around the back of her head and pulled her to him. His mouth descended, fastening on her lips in a wit-scattering, pulse-stuttering kiss. She went perfectly still for a few heartbeats before the tender pressure had her opening to his probing.
“So sweet,” he murmured. “I knew you’d taste of raspberries and honey.”
He had? He’d wondered how her mouth tasted?
She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside, brushing it across her teeth, then finding hers and parring seductively. Tantalizingly. Skillfully. God help her; she nearly incinerated on the spot.
He tasted of tea and mint.
Sensation flitted across her every nerve. Closer. Yes, closer. She must move closer to Crispin. She scooted to the end of the sofa and placed her hands flat, fingers spread, on his wonderfully sinewy, broad shoulders.
His muscles bunched and flexed beneath her palms, all rounded hardness and exciting virile maleness.
The kiss went on and on and on. Each moment more delicious and wondrous than the last. Each more sizzling. Satisfying yet oddly unfulfilling.
The passion dragged her under, encompassing, chasing away any thoughts of resisting or remorse. She wanted this. Had wanted it for so very, very long. Only she hadn’t known it until his mouth took hers.
Her body felt hot and hungry in a way she couldn’t understand, let alone explain.
“Ahem.” A slightly amused, somewhat censorious male cleared his throat and had her issuing a startled squeak and leaping backward as if singed.
Jessica had been seared. Branded. Burned by a desire so scorching, she’d nearly become a conflagration. No one had ever said passion could be like that.
“I do hope that means you’ve accepted Bainbridge’s marriage proposal, Jessica,” Victor said, not quite able to snuff the gleam of warning in the stern gaze he leveled on Crispin. “Else, I’ll be compelled to demand satisfaction with pistols at dawn. It would be most unfair, given his current ill health.”
“Don’t be absurd, Victor,” Theadosia interjected, swatting his arm, not quite playfully. “You’re no more challenging Bainbridge to a duel than I am. Do you forget you are to be a father in a short time? I am not raising this child without its father.” Though she bantered, there was a steely edge to her words. “It’s only natural for a betrothed couple to share a kiss.”
Jessica’s sister had no intention of permitting her husband to risk his life over something as foolish as a kiss. But neither did she intend to ignore what the kiss implied.
Jessica and Crispin would wed.
Cheeks burning at being caught in another compromising situation, though this one was far less scandalous and of her own making, she summoned her composure, and Crispin stood, quite nimbly for a man battling acute pain.
Flicking those long fingers of his at her, his gold signet ring with its knight’s helmet and trio of battle axes glinted on his little finger with the casual movement. “I haven’t received an answer yet.”
At the dark look Victor stabbed him, Jessica quickly stood as well and shook out her skirts. “Yes. Yes, I agree to the union.”
A trio of eyes swept to her. Relief and a degree of surprise in her sister’s and Victor’s gazes. A sensual, seductive promise simmering in Crispin’s.
Another wave of awareness flooded her, heat swelling from her waist, over her bosoms, up her neck, and clear to her hairline. She swiftly averted her gaze, lest he see the answering spark that surely must shine in her own eyes.
She wasn’t exactly sure at which point she’d made the decision. Before or after that breath-taking kiss? Lord, but the man knew how to kiss. Her mouth still throbbed from the delicious onslaught, and she was sure her lips were red and swollen.
“But,” Jessica forced her attention back to them, disregarding the flush skittering over her when Crispin’s hooded gaze settled upon her. “I want to wait until Crispin’s concussion has fully healed. The gossip will be dreadful enough without rumors that he wasn’t in his right mind when he proposed and we wed.” She sliced him a glance. “I know you’d prefer we marry straightaway, but I must insist on the reading of the banns for three weeks. And no public announcement of the forthcoming nuptials until then.”
“You have a valid point.” Victor slowly nodded. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Crispin looked none too pleased, but after pulling on his ear, he also nodded. “I’ll wait for three weeks. Not a day more. I fear we cannot delay longer than that.”
They couldn’t afford to wait that long. But three weeks gave her a little more time to become acquainted with him. To change her mind if she decided she couldn’t go through with it.
Jessica gathered her gloves. “I would ask one thing of you, Your Grace.”
“Crispin,” he corrected. “We are affianced, after all.” Taking Jessica’s small hand in his much larger one, Crispin smiled that dashing smile that made her thoughts scatter like snowflakes in a blizzard. “I shall endeavor to make it come to pass, my dear.”
My dear? Was he laying it on thick for Theadosia’s and Victor’s sakes? No need. Those two were prudent if naught else. They knew full well this was a marriage of convenience. Actually, more of a marriage of inconvenience, but a necessity, nevertheless.
“I want my pet chickens moved to your country estate.”
She drew on a glove, refusing to be embarrassed at her attachment to her chickens. She’d very much like to ask for a puppy or two, a kitten or three, a horse of her own, and a donkey. Maybe even a pig and a sheep. Geese. Ducks. Goats. Best not to push her luck so soon, however.
Crispin might well change his mind when he realized his duchess intended to assemble a menagerie. Not exotic animals. No, they should remain free. But an assortment of domesticated ones would be lovely.
Theadosia giggled and covered her mouth with her hand.
Looking nonplussed, Victor drolly muttered, “Thank God. I should warn you, Bainbridge. She puts crocheted jumpers on the things.”
At Crispin’s incredulous look, Jessica squared her shoulders. “They become chilled, particularly when molting. I’ve had Lady Featherston, Countess Chirpsalot, Baroness Beaksworth, Princess Poultry, and Queen Cluckingham since they hatched. They think me their mother.”
“They do,” Theadosia said between laughs. “They follow Jessica everywhere. And the minute those hens hear her voice, they come running, squawking away. It’s something to behold when they’re wearing their jumpers.”
Crispin pressed his lips to the knuckles of her bare hand. “By all means. Bring the brood. Shall I have a special coop built for them? Do they prefer one story or two? Perhaps cozy, satin-lined nesting boxes? China dishes from whence to eat?” He chuckled, his eyes alight with mirth.
“Make fun all you like, but they love me, and I love them.” Yes, it was odd. But she adored animals. Chickens were the singular pets Papa allowed her, and only because they produced eggs.
“You may have as many chickens or other fowl as you like, Jessica.” Crispin turned to Victor. “We are in agreement, then? The ceremony will be in three weeks? The Monday after the last reading of the banns?”
Victor looked to Jessica for affirma
tion, and she dipped her chin. “If the doctor agrees you’re well enough.”
What was the recovery period for a concussion?
Barlow cleared his throat as he stepped into the drawing room, holding a salver with a card atop it. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Mr. Hammon Brighton insists that he must speak with you at once. I told him you were otherwise engaged, but he was most insistent.”
He turned to Victor. “This also arrived for you, Your Grace.”
If the servant found anything unusual about delivering correspondence to someone other than his employer, he in no way revealed his astonishment.
Barlow passed a letter to Victor, who promptly broke the seal and read the contents. His mouth pulled into a grim line before he refolded the missive and tucked it into his pocket.
How peculiar. Why would Victor have post delivered here?
Before she could ask, a rotund man wearing a garish, bright-blue jacket and orange-and-yellow striped waistcoat shoved past the butler. Face flushed and his sparse red hair standing on end as if he’d repeatedly plowed his hands through its scraggly lengths, Mr. Brighton drew up short upon spying Jessica, her sister, and Victor.
Eyes narrowed to hostile slits, he stomped toward Jessica, pointing accusingly. “You!”
At his visceral animosity, she shrank back, thankful for Crispin’s arm protectively snaking around her waist.
“I know who you are,” Brighton snarled, revealing slightly uneven, yellowed teeth. “You’re the strumpet everyone’s been talking about. The lightskirt bent on stealing my daughter’s betrothed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jessica bristled, curling her fingers, ready to scratch his eyes out for calling her a whore. “How dare you?”
“Stay calm, Kitten.” Crispin spread his fingers at her waist and gave a little pulse of pressure while whispering in her ear. He leveled Brighton a frosty glare. “You overstep, Brighton.”
Such icy contempt weighted each word that Jessica shuddered. Crispin wasn’t a man to cross, and she was grateful they were not on opposing sides.
Theadosia’s glare eviscerated the man, and she swept her furious gaze about the room as if looking for something with which she might skewer him. “You are beyond the pale, sir.”
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 25