by Alyson Chase
“So, you’ve come to collect your sister again.” Barbour smirked. “When are you going to learn she has her own mind? She’s a determined lass. You can’t stop her from taking what she wants.”
Brogan smiled, all teeth. “I can stop her. The only question is whether you’ll be happy with my manner in which I do so or not.” He cracked each knuckle in his hand. His fist longed to strike flesh. It had been too long since he’d had a real fight, even as an agent for an inquiry agency. There was too much talking in this job, not enough bruising.
His body had been swirling with unmet need for days now. Juliana had been an aggravating temptation he’d barely refrained from succumbing to. If he couldn’t pound out his frustration in a more pleasurable way, he’d take a fight over nothing.
Barbour’s smile faded. “Come now. You’re not going to use violence— gah!” He stumbled from his chair, just avoiding Brogan’s hands. “It’s the nineteenth century,” he yelled. “Men don’t resolve disputes through beatings.”
Brogan’s fist put proof positive to the opposite of that sentiment. Perhaps other men didn’t. Finer men. Noble men. He landed another blow, reveling in the solid crack of bone meeting bone. But this was his way. When a man deserved a good thrashing, he was more than happy to deliver it.
It didn’t take long to receive Barbour’s promises. He had taken Sally into his home on a lark, and the situation had ceased to amuse him. Brogan hopped down the stairs to the street in a much better temper than when he’d ascended.
Sally hurried to him when he emerged, casting a worried glance behind her at Juliana. “Are you satisfied? Charles and I are going to marry as soon—”
The window above them screeched open. Brogan pulled Sally aside as a tumble of clothing was shoved out. Two ladies’ boots, one after the other, followed.
“What…?” Sally picked up one of the boots. “My things.”
“And good riddance to the lot of you.” Barbour leaned out the window. “You’ve been nothing but trouble, and I’ll be glad to have some peace.”
Hurt flashed across his sister’s face before being replaced by a scowl. “You bounder!” She threw the boot up at the window.
It came nowhere near close to hitting its mark, but Barbour jerked inside all the same.
“The nerve of that man,” Sally fumed. “Coward.” She caught Brogan’s satisfied smile and narrowed her eyes. “And you! You’re no better. Interfering, meddlesome brother. It will be a cold day in hell before I speak to you again.” She gathered up her belongings, refusing his attempt to help with a lift of her chin. Wrapping the bundle up in one of her gowns, she held it to her belly and stamped to Juliana’s side.
“You’re better off than with a man who won’t fight for you,” Juliana said as they made their way down the street, Brogan following. “Now, as I was telling you, the commonly expected moralities of women have been fairly dissected by Mrs. Jones’s latest monograph. Her works—”
Sally gave her a tight smile then drifted back to join her brother. “You brought a missionary to save my soul? And an odd one at that. She has yet to mention God.”
Brogan didn’t comment on the brevity of his sister’s silent treatment. “She’s not a missionary.” He pointed out the next turn for Juliana, slowing his steps to stay behind her. His gaze dropped to her bum. Her gown and pelisse did a decent job of hiding it, but he remembered how it felt in his hands. If feel was anything to go by, she had a superior arse.
Regret swirled through him that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to look upon it.
“Then who is this Mrs. Jones she keeps talking about? And Mr. and Mrs. Percy? She said their marriage was a bit uncertain and an example for why women shouldn’t be so eager to join themselves in wedded matrimony, not without a true meeting of minds.”
Brogan took her bundle of clothes and dropped his other arm around her shoulders. The clenching in his chest eased with each step closer to home he took his sister. “Those are her high saints. Don’t worry, Sally, she won’t convert you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Juliana folded one of her shawls into a triangle and laid it on the back of Brogan’s sofa. There. That bit of color quite spruced up his sitting room. “I’m happy to loan your sister some of my books about sex and women’s role in society,” she called. “She might learn not to value her worth by a man’s affections. She seemed interested when I spoke of them.”
Brogan minced into the room, balancing trays and dishes on his arms. “I think she’ll be too busy with whatever punishment my father will devise for her to read.”
“Oh!” She hurried forward and took the plate of mutton and the dish of green beans from him. “I do hope he won’t treat her too harshly. She was young and in love.” An emotion she wasn’t certain she had ever felt. She had certainly felt tenderly toward James, but when they had agreed to part, her heart hadn’t been injured. What would it be like to fall in love?
She cast a glance at Brogan as she set the plates at the small table in the corner of the room. His apartments didn’t have a separate dining room, consisting only of a bedroom, a small kitchen, and this sitting room. A bachelor’s rooms.
Had he ever been in love? Ever thought about ending his unmarried state? She couldn’t quite picture him professing words of love to a woman, either. Perhaps they were alike in that regard. Perhaps neither of them were destined to feel such deep emotion.
She swallowed, the back of her throat thick. But he would marry eventually. Of course, a man like him would marry. And he would be devoted and steady and everything a husband ought. And she would be…
She cleared her throat. “Tomorrow we speak with Mr. Pickens. This should be a celebratory dinner. Tomorrow we learn all, and you’ll be rid of me.” She tried to make it sound like a jest, but the truth in it made her chest ache.
Seeing Brogan with his family hadn’t helped. He was such a caring son and brother. What would it feel like to be someone this man cared for? Her brother had paid people to find her, true, but she couldn’t imagine him ever coming to fisticuffs over her honor.
“Yes,” he agreed. He set a plate down then nudged it a couple inches over then back to its original location. For once, Brogan seemed uncomfortable.
“I like your family.” She took a seat and started serving. “There is true affection between all of you.”
She would have preferred if Brogan’s father had discussed Sally’s behavior with her instead of a gruff, ‘go to your room,’ when they’d returned, but she could tell he loved his daughter.
And the way his mother had held Juliana so tightly before she’d left…
Juliana knew it had been misplaced gratitude, thinking she might have played a larger role in recovering her daughter than she had, but having the woman’s arms wrapped about her had felt wonderful. It had been a mother’s hug, and that was something she hadn’t felt for a long time.
His parents didn’t seem to have issues with class distinctions like Brogan did. They’d treated her like a friend, without regard to her title. She wondered where he’d learnt it.
“Of course.” He looked at her strangely as he settled himself. “As your father and brother feel for you.”
She nodded, but inside, she wondered. There was affection between the three of them, she didn’t doubt that. But as enlightened as the Wickhams were when it came to education and philosophy, she feared that when it came to family relations, they hadn’t yet learned the finer art of familial affinity.
Love, but quietly. Feel affection, but in a constrained, elevated sort of way. Anything else was just too mortifying in their set.
“I promised to write your mother.” She poured a glass of wine and took a sip. It was a bottle that would never be allowed in her father’s cellars, but the flavor was bold and tasty if not complex. “Will that bother you?”
He started. “My mother’s correspondents are her own.”
“Yes.” But he didn’t sound happy abou
t it. She pushed a bit of meat around on her plate. “Is my association so distasteful that you want to sever all contact after this case ends?”
“You know it isn’t distasteful,” he said in a low voice.
“Do I?” She tossed back more wine. “I know men can make mistakes, such as the one you feel you made last night, without engaging their emotions. That you could… kiss me… the way you did and still dislike me. That—”
He covered her hand with his own. “Stop.” He brushed his thumb over her skin. “You know that isn’t true.”
She stared at his thumb. At the new scrapes on his knuckles. Anywhere but at his face. “Then why are you stopping what’s between us? What could be between us?” Because his rejection hurt more than anything she could remember in a long time. Hurt her in a way that said that what she wanted from him wasn’t a purely physical affair.
She wanted more.
“What do you think could be between us?” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “Truly? The son of a woodworker and an earl’s daughter.”
“There could be joy.”
He glanced at the fire, looking torn. His shoulders firmed. He opened his mouth, and she rushed to interrupt him. A resolute Brogan wasn’t in her favor.
“I wished I had seen how you convinced your sister’s beau to let her go.” She traced the mark on one of his knuckles.
He shifted. “I only had a conversation with him.”
“With your fists?”
“People understand fists better than words most times.”
Yes, she could well imagine. Fists were direct, honest. Words could be twisted so as to become meaningless.
Her belly fluttered. Perhaps she had been approaching Brogan in the wrong manner. She lived in the world of words. He, in touch.
And with everything she was feeling, her touch could be very expressive.
She stood and circled the table.
Brogan pushed his chair back, looking wary, like he expected some sort of assault. He didn't look prepared when she dropped down into his lap, however.
Circling her hands around his neck, she leaned against his chest. Never had she felt one so broad, so strong.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. His hands flexed into fists by her sides, never touching her.
“Having a conversation with you.” She leaned forward, kissing his jaw, speaking without words.
He groaned. “I'm not as strong a man as I should be.”
“You’re as strong a man as you need to be.” She slid her palm across his jaw. “You’re exactly as strong as I need you to be. Please,” she whispered in his ear. Then licked the lobe. “Please don't deny me. Don't deny us.”
He muttered an oath. But that was the last resistance he gave.
He fisted his hands in her hair, drawing her face to his. He took her mouth in a long, deep kiss.
She sank into him, loving the feel of his arms around her, grasping her waist as though he were scared to let go.
Loved the feel of his tongue, sliding into her mouth, sparring with hers.
There wasn't much about this man that she didn't love.
“This can work,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We can make this work.”
He stood abruptly, gathering her in his arms. His chair clattered behind them. He strode from the sitting room into his bedroom.
He didn’t give her time to look her fill, but she had the impression of sparsity, of heavy wood furniture, the room like the man himself. His masculine scent filled her senses.
He laid her on a firm mattress, following her down, settling himself over her.
His weight was a comfort against her body, his heat warming her straight through.
“Why can't I stop myself?” He trailed his kisses down her throat, pulling the bodice of her gown down to expose her decolletage. “Why can't I help myself around you?”
She had no answer. He had the same effect on her.
He was a man. She was a woman. What more needed to be explained?
She slid her hand up the back of his coat. Ran it along the lines of his muscled back then down, down to grip the firm mounds of his arse.
He ground into her, and she widened her thighs in welcome. His length settled just where she needed when she wrapped her legs around his.
He pulled back, breathing heavily. “Turn over.” Without waiting for her to acquiesce, he gripped her waist and flipped her to her belly. He made short work of the laces of her gown and dragged the fabric down her body and off her feet.
In moments she was bare before him. Bare, and uncharacteristically shy.
She forced herself not to cover her nudity. Her body was different than the current standards of beauty. Her stomach was a bit rounder. Her shoulders too broad.
But she saw nothing in his eyes that reflected disappointment. Only heat could be found in their depths.
Gently, as though she were fine porcelain, he ran the tip of his index finger along the curve of her breast, down her side, over her hip. “You’re beautiful.” His voice was rough sandpaper. His touch as soft as a kitten’s fur.
“So are you.”
The edge of his mouth twisted. He obviously wasn’t used to such compliments.
But he was beautiful to her. All strength, honor, forthrightness. Those were the things that made a man handsome. Those were the things that mattered.
His well-formed body didn't hurt, either.
He shucked his coat.
She tore the cravat from his neck. She ran her hands under his shirt, feeling every inch of him until he groaned, impatient. He pulled her hands away and yanked the shirt over his head.
She sucked in a breath. He truly was magnificent. His past profession had done his body a world of good. And she was the fortunate woman to take advantage of it.
His chest had a generous amount of hair. She ran her fingers through it, loving the feel of the springy curls. Loving his growl as she stroked across the flats of his nipples.
She ran her hand across his abdomen, tracing the faint line of hair that delved beneath his falls. Loosening one button, she reached inside and rubbed the hard length of him.
He pushed his trousers and small clothes down his hips.
Juliana sucked in a breath as his erect length rose to greet her. She rubbed her palm over the head of him, amazed by how soft this part of him was, and yet at the same time, how very hard. Hard for her.
He took her hand and pinned her wrist above her head. Leaning down, he took her mouth again, making this kiss slow and intimate. He lowered his body, his shaft resting in the cleft of her legs. Slowly, with each plunge of his tongue he rolled his hips in time, sliding his length between her lower lips.
He did this until she was gasping with need and she felt her slickness cover every inch of him.
“Christ, Juliana.” His eyes burned down into hers. “You make a man want things he shouldn't.”
“There's nothing wrong with wanting things,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with getting what you want, either.” She tilted her hips so that his next movement brought the tip of him to her core.
He hesitated only a second before steadily pressing in. He slid into her in one smooth, long push, stretching her walls, filling her completely.
She couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her mouth. The feeling was exquisite.
Everything about this man was.
With one hand on her wrist, the other cupping her breast, he began to move. His thrusts were long, even. He adjusted her legs, changed the angle, and went even deeper. He circled her nipple with his thumb as his length massaged her inner walls.
Their eyes locked on each other. She’d never felt more connected to a person in her life.
They could make this work. They would make this work. There was no other option.
She locked her ankles behind his hips, rising into his thrusts and clamping down her inner wa
lls.
Brogan groaned. His movements became harder, uneven, and his bed knocked against the wall.
She gave a thought to his neighbors, about whether she should be embarrassed, but the notion slipped from her mind when he hit a place deep inside that made her shudder.
He trailed his hand down from her breast to rest on her hip. His thumb searched through her nest of curls, and found her clitoris. With each thrust he circled. With each thrust her body coiled tighter.
She squirmed beneath him, aching for release. Seeing it in sight but not quite able to reach it. “Brogan,” she whispered. “I need...”
He nibbled at her lower lip. “I know what you need.” He thrust faster, the banging on the wall increasing to thunderous proportions.
Heat flushed through her body, and with one more circle of his thumb, she burst.
Her body tightened around him, making his strokes falter, making him groan.
He grabbed both her hips, chasing his own pleasure as he pounded into her.
The delicious ripples cascading through her body were just starting to ease when he pulled out of her, gripped the base of his cock with one hand, and spent on her belly.
He fell forward, catching himself with his hands on either side of her head. His chest just brushed hers. He stayed there as they both caught their breath.
As the air cooled their skin.
He gazed into her eyes. She saw a hint of confusion, and a lot of satisfaction.
“Juliana, this...”
“I know.” She raked her fingers through his hair, brushing a lock off his forehead. “It’s going to be interesting.” Difficult, more like. Brogan would make it difficult with his prejudices. “But we'll make it work.”
He dropped his head and climbed off the bed. He found a soft square of flannel and wiped her clean. He climbed in behind her and pulled her back flush to his front, kissing the top of her head.
“Interesting.” He sighed. There was a lot that went unsaid in that sigh. “I can handle interesting.”
Chapter Seventeen
Brogan sat in the bustling coffeehouse, tapping his thumbs on his third cup of the dark brew. He felt tense. Twitchy.