“Please, have a seat.” She indicated the settee at one end of the room, before moving to a glass case.
Not sure what else to do, Richard sat, placing his cane on the cushion beside him. He watched as she removed a dark brown bottle from the case. “Jane, what exactly are you—”
She turned and knelt at his feet. “Let me see where the injury truly is.” Her hands rested on his knee, then carefully moved down his leg, massaging lightly. Pain sparked at first, and he grit his teeth against it.
She murmured an apology, but didn’t stop what she was doing. Slowly, the heat from her hands seeped like a balm through leather and silk.
He realized that she was saying something about the ridiculous tightness of his boot. “A physician ought to know better,” she remonstrated. “No wonder you’re in pain.” She worked her fingers under the leather. “This must come off.”
“Off? My boot?”
“I can’t reach your calf otherwise.”
Had she asked him to carry this settee upon his back, he couldn’t have said no. “Fine, although my valet will be horrified if we get thumb prints upon it.”
Her lips quirked with a laugh. “And they say women are vain.”
He had nothing to say to that.
As soon as his boot was off, she peeled down his stocking to expose the mangled mess that was now his calf. She examined it closely, then said, “I’ve seen worse.”
He’d expected more of a reaction, but all she did was stroke the scarred area. At first lightly, but then with more vigor. As she did so, her hands worked heat and circulation back into his cramped muscle. He gripped the edge of the settee, and it took all his will not to fidget against the pain.
“I know,” she said soothingly. “Give it a minute.”
He busied himself by concentrating on the Latin terms he’d learned as an early student. Her fingers massaged into his gastrocnemius muscle then to the scar tissue of his soleus—
“That’s it,” she coaxed. “Now, deep breath in. Good.”
Her voice soothed nearly as much as her touch. As she worked, he found himself slowly relaxing and his eyes closed. Up and over, her hands massaged the back of his calf to his Achilles tendon. Up and over. Up and over.
“So,” she said softly. “What did all this?”
“Hmm? Ah, French artillery. Mont St. Jean.”
“Where is that?”
“Belgium.” Her thumb pressed against a hard knot and he cursed.
“Easy. Try to think of something else.”
He opened his eyes to focus on her instead. Wisps of curl had escaped from her braided chignon, and he could just detect her scent, a mixture of lavender and almond, but utterly female under it all. She’d shifted closer to focus on the worst of the knots, and he’d widened his legs to accommodate her. Her shoulders rubbed against his inner thigh. He’d just managed to catalog that sensation when another image burned into his brain. If she were to turn her head just so, he could unbutton the flap of his trousers, and guide her mouth to him. The thought sent a bolt of sheer lust through him. The resulting erection strained against his trousers. She said something again, but he was past hearing. If she turned just a fraction, she’d see dead-on what her ministrations had wrought.
Some part of him wanted her to see.
He must have made some sound, for she did turn to look up at him.
Well, what was a man to do? He leaned forward and took her mouth with his.
Chapter 6
God, but her kisses were as heated as his thoughts. A sound escaped her, and he couldn’t tell if it was surprise or pleasure, but she slipped into his arms as if made for him. She was lithe and curvy, her body begging for his touch. He leaned back, tugging her up against him until she lay between his legs.
His cane, long since forgotten, fell with a clatter against the hardwood floor. The sound broke the spell. He drew back to look at her, then realized his mistake too late. Everything about her encouraged him to continue. Her eyes were slumberous, drugged with passion. Her mouth, swollen and red from his kisses, parted with her rapid breathing. She lay nearly atop him, on her knees between his legs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her sinuous arms linked around his neck.
Only now, when he neared total collapse of any control he might have had, did he realize how dire his situation had become. This was very, very bad. How had things gotten so beyond him, so quickly? He had only himself to blame. Not for a moment should he have surrendered to his fantasies of her. Fantasies he realized now he’d been entertaining since he met her months ago.
The knowledge spurred him to wedge distance between them on one hand, but warred with a deeper instinct to finish what he’d started. An instinct Jane seemed to share, for she seemed more than eager for them to continue, her hands never stilling, her mouth now trailing a deliciously sensual line along his jaw. Seated as he was, he remained virtually her prisoner. He was either incredibly fortunate, or terribly doomed.
He feared he was both.
She pressed kisses down his neck and he let her, his hands moving of their own accord along her spine to cup her hips. He shifted her then nearly groaned when his strained erection met the apex of her thighs. Despite his breeches and her layers of skirts, he couldn’t help thrusting against her. She moaned in his ear, her hands clutching at his shoulders. The sound almost broke him. Control fast slipped through his fingers, and he wrapped her tight against him, holding her still, in an effort to regain some stable ground.
Their breathing was labored, and when she looked up at him expectantly, he realized—whether she did or not—that all responsibility for what happened next was all on him. Not perhaps the best scenario for either of them. She moved to kiss him again, and it took every ounce of willpower to stop her and gently push her away.
She sat back on her heels. Cool air rushed in to replace the heat of her. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. What he said was, “Nothing.”
The smile she gifted him contained such encouragement, if he’d been any other man, she’d be on the floor with her skirts over her head and him pounding inside her.
Against all logic he both envied and despised such a man.
With a bit more force than necessary, he yanked his stocking up and then pushed his foot into his boot, grimacing when the tight leather engulfed his calf.
“Richard, careful.”
He stood up, forcing her to move aside. He shifted his clothes, consigning to hell all tailors who insisted on making trousers so damned tight.
She scrambled to her feet, brushing aside the helping hand he offered. “I don’t understand you.” Frustration was clearly stamped on her face and body—a delectable body that had just moments before been soft, warm and open to him. “This is all your fault.”
“I know.”
His agreement only incensed her further. “You started this.”
“I know.”
“I was just trying to help. And you agreed!”
He rubbed a hand across his brow. “I. Know.”
She started pacing, and only then did he notice her trembling. He reached out to touch her, but she hissed at him. Her breathing was fast paced, her face flushed. Her body was near to humming.
He cursed to himself, comprehending that he’d brought her too far, wound her too tight. He was miserable, but then so was she. Self-preservation dueled with a sudden need to care for her. After all, she had a point. He had started it. He might as well finish it. A dangerous prospect to be sure, considering how close to the edge he was himself. Which meant he had to remain fully in control this time, for both their sakes.
He took quick stock of the room. The settee he dismissed as too low, the stool likewise. In the corner, however, was an examination table that might serve. While she paced across the room, he stepped over to the exam table. A few colored glass vials of different sizes occupied most of the space. Carefully he moved them to an adjacent cabinet, then caught her arm as she made to move past him once more. H
e spun her about then lifted her to sit on the table so they were eye to eye.
“Now what?” she demanded.
His answer was to slide his hand under her skirts.
She grasped his arm. “Don’t.
He refused to budge. “Hush.”
“What? Why?” She tried again to remove his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Apologizing.” He slipped his hand beyond her garter to the soft bare skin of her thigh. She wriggled and he used his free arm to lock her in place against him. Her legs fell open, making space for him to stand between them, her skirts frothing around his hips. He kissed her deeply, letting his hand learn the petal-softness of her inner thigh. Moist heat pulsed against his knuckle as he slipped a finger inside her. She jerked, but he soothed her with his tongue, taking the time to lazily explore her mouth. She tasted of peppermint and tea, and something he knew instinctively was Jane alone.
This was better. Much better. He’d been too hurried before, too overwhelmed by her to appreciate her flavor. He vowed never to make that mistake again.
She moaned deep in her throat as he pressed his hand fully against her, his thumb working between the slick folds. Her arms wound around his shoulders, her short nails clawing at his coat. He relinquished her mouth to whisper to her, watching her eyes close as desire washed through her. He deliberately set the pace, her little cries of pleasure trying to whip him on. Gritting his teeth, he resisted her siren’s call to instead focus on the physiological changes he wrought within her. She drenched his hand, the musky smell of her sex washing his senses. If he pressed his thumb just so she shuddered in his arms, but if he teased her lightly with his fingertips she sighed against him. He played against her, pressing kisses to the rapid pulse below her jaw, drawing on her salty skin with his tongue. Finally he returned to her mouth. He made his kisses slow and languid to contrast against the increased pace of his hand between her legs. Her body went rigid in his arms when the climax took her, followed by little shivers of aftershocks.
He held her close as she quieted, her breath a series of rapid puffs against his throat. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, wisps of her golden hair catching on his shadow of whiskers. “Y-yes.”
“Can you stand?”
“Stand?” She leaned her head back on his shoulder to look at him. “I think I can fly,” she said. And then she smiled, a mixture of repletion, satisfaction and joy.
With it, whatever tenuous ground he thought to maintain just vanished under his feet. Too late, alarm bells sounded in his head. He had a sinking suspicion he now knew what a drowning man must feel.
In a fog, he helped her slide to her feet. She was saying something, asking him something, but all he could focus on was every survival instinct he had left urging him to retreat as fast as possible. “I—um—I came to tell you . . . I was going to discuss our patient, but now . . . I didn’t know . . .” No words came, or at least, nothing that made any sense.
He managed a perfunctory bow, turned on his heel and left.
The corridor was cool and deserted and perfectly normal when he felt as if his entire world had just started to spin in the opposite direction.
“Richard, wait.” She followed him into the hallway, her face a mixture of concern, confusion and gratification.
Some part of him argued for him to stop, take stock; but the lion’s share pressed him to move now, think later.
And so he did, oblivious to the fact that the pain in his leg had waned to a dull ache, or that he’d forgotten his cane. What did imprint on his brain was his last image of her, standing in foyer with a look of wounded befuddlement mixed with growing ire.
He hoped for both their sakes that the latter won out.
* * * * *
Jane could only stand and blink at the front door, now firmly closed on Richard’s
departing figure. What had just happened?
Her thoughts spinning, to say nothing of the thrum of her body, Jane made her way up the stairs to her bedchamber. The action felt a bit too much like retreat, but she didn’t know what else to do at that moment. She’d never been so confused, so tossed and torn, in such a short spate of time.
What had he been thinking to do . . . what he did? Apologizing, he’d said. What the devil kind of apology was that? Not that she’d complain of course. Even now, despite her aggravation, she’d gladly accept another “apology” from him. Or two, even. Yes, two would be lovely.
Once in the cool confines of her room, she sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection. What she saw shocked her: hair mussed, mouth swollen, color flagged her cheeks, and just above her neckline was . . . . She frowned and leaned closer. Yes, there was a definite mark on her throat. Her hand flew to the spot.
He’d all but branded her. A stamp of possession, marking her as his. A curious satisfaction filtered through her at the thought, despite the fact she’d never be able to go out in polite society without covering it up. She was fortunate the days had grown cooler so she could wear high-necked gowns.
But if he’d wanted to claim her, why had he all but thrown her aside to flee the house? He couldn’t have moved faster if his coat had been afire. Had she said something, done something wrong? Had she disappointed him in some way? Richard had seemed almost upset when he left, as if he’d discovered something unsettling.
Sudden doubts plagued her. Had she been too eager? Should she have tried to be more demure? But what nonsense! She was no virgin of eighteen. She’d been married for four years, a widow nearly a year. Surely he couldn’t expect. . . .
She replayed the scene in the treatment room once more. Yes, she had been eager. But who could blame her? Albert had been circumspect, gentle even, but neither of them had found much passion, which had seemed to suit them both. She never used to understand how other married ladies rhapsodized about the marriage bed. For her, when Albert exercised his conjugal rights, the experience had been mildly pleasant, but nothing more.
Comparing her encounters with Albert to Richard’s touch and kisses was like trying to compare a spring rain to a volcano. The two could not exist in the same thought.
When Richard touched her, she could do nothing but react. How could he hold any of that against her?
Damn the man. What an utter ass. She frowned at her reflection, taking in the lovemark. Long gone was her headache.
Richard Thornton might be an ass; but he was also a damn good kisser.
Chapter 7
Two days later, October came to a close, but November heralded an early winter rather than a continuation of autumn. Leaves that had turned scarlet, orange and gold were whipped through the streets on frigid winds. Most of society had already retreated to country homes and estates to weather what had all the appearances of a harsh winter.
Not so Jane and her widows’ group. Catherine alone had a winter estate, but for some reason, she was always loath to repair to it. Jane, Katelyn and Josephine had only their respective townhomes and apartments. Not that any of this bothered Jane. She loved her house, had made it truly her own when Albert passed. She had a loyal staff, a small garden, and all the resources of London at her disposal.
None of which aided her at present. While her friends went to the last few social events in Town, or out to the theater, Jane remained shackled to her desk and the looming deadline for her presentation to the medical college. In an effort to meet her target goal, she had sworn off all social engagements. Of Richard she’d heard nothing save for a brief communiqué informing her of Toby’s final recovery and reunion with his very relieved father.
While the news had assuaged her concern over the boy, the manner in which it had been delivered left much to be desired. The man was obviously avoiding her; he hadn’t even dropped by to retrieve his walking stick, which he clearly needed. She shook her head. He probably had a dozen of the things. Nevertheless, she sent him a bottle of her liniment oil with express instructions on its use and frequency. She hoped that, whatever he
might think of her, he’d at least have the sense to follow her prescription.
Determined to put all thoughts of the cursed man aside, she’d buckled down to finish her article. Thankfully, her plan had worked, and she’d finally broken through the last major barrier to her conclusion. All that remained was a few finishing touches, and she would be ready for presentation.
She’d just begun to read through it from start to finish when Jennings knocked at the library door. “Apologies, my lady, I know you said you were not be disturbed, but Her Grace is here. I showed her to the morning room.”
Jane rose to her feet. “How nice. I’ll be right there.”
The butler departed, and Jane paused long enough to tidy her appearance, and loosely wrap a scarf around her throat where Thornton’s mark had dulled but had not disappeared. She entered the morning room with a genuine smile. “Catherine, how nice of you to stop by.”
Though she proffered her cheek for a kiss, the duchess didn’t smile in return. “I came to see if you’d died and someone had forgotten to tell us.”
Jane chuckled and took the seat next to Catherine’s. “Forgive me. I’ve been a bit removed from the social graces of late.”
Catherine eyed her speculatively. “We’ve been worried about you, you know.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
“Locked up in this house—”
“Well that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“—cut off from the world—”
“I hardly think missing a few outings constitutes being cut off—”
“It’s not like you, Jane.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry I’ve been uncommunicative, but I was working. Fortunately, I’ve finished my article and will soon rejoin the ranks of the living.”
Catherine tilted her head and gave her a look Jane could not quite define. “Did you speak to Richard about the article?”
“No. He visited, but I didn’t have the chance to bring it up.”
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