Jack jumped at her approach and backed away. “Oh, no! I insist upon no touching. I’ll not be responsible—you must—you mustn’t—”
More nonsense. She put a hand on his warm skin, tiptoed up, and kissed him. For a few seconds he was unyielding, his lips glued shut. And then…oh, glory. Nicola would never get tired of the way he commanded their contact, sweeping in and mastering her mouth with his. She followed his lead, since it was obvious he had much more experience than she ever would.
It didn’t really bother her that Jack had had affairs before—it was the way of the world. A man’s world. Annoying, but it only proved practice made perfect. Nicola felt sorry for all the women that Jack was not kissing. How miserable they must be.
He was holding her now, which was a very good thing as her knees had forgotten how to hinge. Nicola felt liquid all over, as though she was melting. Her hand remained over Jack’s heart, and the reassuring rapid thump told her he was as far gone as she was.
She’d never suspected kissing could be like this. Even the hair on the top of her head felt alive, goose bumps skittering along her scalp. She could kiss Jack forever.
But she was here for more knowledge. She smoothed her way down his chest to the band of his drawers. Jack was so busy kissing he didn’t notice she was trespassing. Or perhaps he’d changed his mind, too overcome to remember his own rules.
To her vast frustration, the string was tightly knotted and her shaking fingers were incapable of dexterity. The accompanying buttons were completely beyond her as well. But his rigid shaft, even if concealed by linen, craved contact. Nicola placed her hand where Jack had once covered himself up, and his cock—a word she’d never used or even much thought of before—leaped.
Jack groaned into her mouth but didn’t withdraw or make any effort to stop her. Gingerly, she stroked over the fabric, wishing she could touch bare skin. There were gaps between the buttons; perhaps if she inserted a finger—
Suddenly she was shoved backwards. “By all that’s holy, you must stop now,” Jack said, his words ragged. “Do not make me ashamed, Nicola.”
Why should he feel shame for something that must be normal between lovers? And he was her lover, if Christmas night was any indication. If it had been all right for him to touch her and kiss her so scandalously, why was she being forbidden to do the same?
Nicola bit a lip, wishing she could ask her question. Instead, she watched as Jack bent to pick up his clothing, muttering to himself. She reached out, but he backed away, falling into a chair with a pile of clothes in his lap.
He did not look at her as he spoke. “Believe me, it’s not as if I don’t want to. Want you. I have hopes once I get myself more settled—well, if I ever get myself settled—you mean a great deal to me. I’ve never felt quite this way before about anyone. But I want to come to you whole, Nicola. I’m no good to you otherwise.”
Even more nonsense. Was there a limit to it? Nicola felt a rise of impatience. What if his bad dreams never disappeared and he never slept the entire night through? Did that mean he would deny himself companionship forever? It made no sense to her. She wasn’t perfect herself. Just because she couldn’t talk anymore, did she feel like damaged goods too, never to be rewarded with happiness?
Richard had thought so.
Damn Richard, and damn Jack. Nicola wanted to feel normal. Her life had been full of patient circumspection for years. She’d waited and waited for her long-postponed marriage to change her circumstances, and that would never happen now. Was she to simply embrace her spinster state, never knowing a man’s touch?
It wasn’t fair.
She was half tempted to pull her nightgown over her head and shock Jack into her kind of sense. Only his bleak expression stopped her. She might think his honor a silly construct, but it was obvious he did not.
She sat down on the bed with a sigh, an honest-to-goodness sound that had snuck out of her throat.
He’d done it again, prompted her to make noise. Not much of one, to be sure, but it was progress.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “You’re almost speaking.”
Nicola smiled back, though she didn’t much feel like it. Ring the church bells in celebration.
Jack began dressing, and any hope she had that he’d change his mind evaporated. He was obeying society’s strict laws after all. She should be grateful, she supposed, that he had enough caution for the both of them.
Dispensing with his tie and stuffing it in a pocket, he stood, his feet booted, ready to scurry back in the dark to Tulip Cottage.
Her notebook was somewhere on the bed. She flipped through the wrinkled covers until she found it, but no pencil. Jack reached into his pocket and handed her a stub.
“Always prepared, that’s me,” he said with forced cheerfulness.
Shall I come to you tomorrow?
“Deliver me from temptation. No, I’ll come for you on New Year’s Eve. I’ll be a proper escort. Wear something dark and cover your hair. Well, you would—you’re a lady, and all of you wear those outlandish hats, don’t you? Lots of dead birds and fruit.” He glanced at the little clock on her bedside. “It’s the 29th already. I think a few days’ break is merited after all the excitement, don’t you?”
Nicola did not.
What did you want to show me the other night? Not his cock, unfortunately.
“I’m not sure I remember how to do it anymore. I crammed for the British Manual Alphabet. I was going to use hand signals to tell you…to tell you I liked you.” She watched as Jack flashed fingers and palms, stopping and starting until she supposed he got it right. Her card was hidden in the Stonecrop Cottage Bible, and she had not crammed.
If Nicola was meant to be flattered, Jack had failed. Liked her? What a mealy-mouthed verb. One liked toast. Or a sunny day. Something quite unobjectionable.
Liked. Tasteless, like water instead of wine. She didn’t want to be loved back, did she? That wouldn’t work either. She and Jack were doomed from the start because of what had happened last March. She had been injured by what he perceived as his carelessness. No, there was no happy ending to be found.
Nicola didn’t want an ending, but a beginning, and possibly a middle if they could get that far. How she was to convince Jack of that was tricky. Even her peaches were losing their appeal.
You are supposed to come for tea Saturday.
Jack frowned. “I’d forgotten. We were supposed to speak only with our hands, yes?”
Nicola would have to stay up all the nights to come studying.
“I’m not sure I can get away after all. My disappearance upset the completion schedule on Primrose Cottage—all the workers were dismissed so they could beat the bushes for me. I’ll probably be tied up there spackling something Saturday. And even if they’re not standing over me with a whip, it’s better that we spend some time apart. To, um, think.”
She swallowed her disappointment. He was serious about a separation. Would he renege on his invitation for New Year’s?
Jack was getting cold feet, even if he was fully dressed now. Nicola didn’t want to think. She wanted to kiss, and more. She’d been deprived of touching his male beauty, but seeing had been nearly as good.
There was nothing wrong with her eyes. She’d put them to good use New Year’s Eve.
If the party was still on.
Chapter 26
December 30, 1882
Jack could not remember a time when he was so bone-tired. As foreman of the project, Tom had been a particular slave driver, personally dragging him out of bed before sunrise two days in a row, barking out orders, snapping when Jack failed to meet his standards.
Jack had skills, but none that dovetailed with house construction. It was unusual for him to feel so inept—he’d made a fortune that meant next to nothing to these Puddlingites. When there were only five shops on the five crooked streets, what g
ood was money anyway?
Draped by a moth-eaten blanket, Jack was in his pajamas in his bedroom, cuffs rolled up to his knees. He was soaking his feet in a saltwater-filled roasting pan, willing the blisters to go away, or at least shrink in size. He’d been tempted to toss the borrowed work boots into the stove, but the odor would have been overwhelmingly offensive in his small cottage.
And Charley would want them back, even though they smelled atrocious enough without being burned.
Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve, and the thought of staying up to celebrate seemed impossible. Jack had actually slept relatively soundly last night, after being worked right down to his fingertips as punishment for skipping work the day before. He had fallen into bed immediately after supper, too exhausted to complain about it.
Poor old Reverend Fitzmartin had been forced to come to Primrose Cottage for the daily morale boosting, shivering under Tom’s watchful eye in the as yet unheated kitchen. It was unfair to torture the vicar, and Jack begged him to skip today’s inspirational lecture. But, dutiful as ever, the man had not. He’d read a passage from the Bible that Jack half slept through, despite Tom’s glare. If there were to be a test about its contents or meaning, Jack would surely fail.
He was failing the Puddling Program in general, and not succeeding with the British Manual Alphabet either. What had possessed him to think he could learn it in a matter of days? Especially when his work-worn hands were too sore to find the correct positions. He set the card down on a table, its images blurring together.
He gazed down at his hands and flexed his fingers. He’d always been adroit, able to manipulate the tiniest cog or spring or nut. Right now he was uncertain he could comb his own hair or hold a cup of tea without spilling it.
He’d reheated the thin soup Mrs. Feather had left for him, counting the floating slivers of beef. An infant could have enumerated them, so low in number as they were. The tea caddy had been nearly empty of leaves, so Jack had made do with Adam’s ale, saving up for breakfast. At least the bread had been fresh, and would have been so much better with butter. Alas, no one had churned any.
It wasn’t much past ten o’clock, and his bed looked very attractive across the room. If he slipped into it so early, would he awake at midnight, doomed to be conscious until Tom hollered him out of bed again? No, tomorrow was Sunday, a mercy. He could get up on his own—Mrs. Feather didn’t come in until lunchtime—and go to church. If he was lucky, he’d get a glimpse of Nicola in a pew as she mouthed the words to the hymns. Try to catch her eye. Give her a reassuring smile that he’d forgiven her for forcing him to disrobe.
How would he entertain her tomorrow night? Keeping his clothes on, of course. There was nothing in his cottage to eat or drink, and he couldn’t arouse Mrs. Feather’s suspicions by requesting something out of the ordinary. Nicola would have to pack another basket for them from the riches in her pantry.
Once he was sprung from Puddling, he was going to write a strongly worded letter to the governors. It couldn’t possibly be helpful to starve the Guests as they did, day after unsatisfactory day. Jack didn’t care if their methods had been successful for almost eighty years; it was time for a change. In good conscience, he would never recommend the place—
Though it was not likely to come up in conversation. Jack could never admit to having checked himself in here to the world at large; his stay was confidential. The few people who knew—his mother, his secretary, two or three friends—would never say anything to besmirch Jack’s reputation. One was never supposed to acknowledge weakness, especially if one was a male. To be branded peculiar would doom any prospects Jack had if he wanted to traverse society.
And he might. If he married, it wouldn’t do to hide himself and his wife away. Any children they might have would carry the stain of his difficulties into the future as well. It was imperative that he somehow become normal again.
Which meant sleeping without hearing the cries for help.
When he’d met with the train’s passengers, Jack had quizzed them on the details of the event. To a person they’d all stated that it was God’s grace that the train had so few cars, that only a handful of people had traveled that miserable cold March day.
Following Mr. Fitzmartin’s suggestion, Jack reminded himself regularly that it all could have been so much worse.
But it had been bad enough.
He picked up the card again, trying to focus his mind on something else. Something he had control over. Maybe that was at the core of it—the accident was a clear indication that Jack had lost control. Failed.
Ah, more failure to contemplate. As blue-deviled tonight as he’d ever been, he buried his face in his hands.
Something made him look up before he allowed the hot tears to spill. He opened his mouth, but had no words.
Nicola stood in the doorway like a slender bear, her scarlet coat reversed to its black fur lining. An incongruous tight-fitting workman’s cap covered her golden hair, and she had smudged her face—smudged her face!—with soot.
“What are you doing here?”
She gave him a little smile, then whipped out her notebook from what should have been an inside pocket. She had already written in it.
I couldn’t wait until New Year’s Eve. I won’t stay too long.
“Long? I’ll say you won’t! I can’t believe you’re here at all,” he blustered. “The risk—I’m not worth it.” Realizing how ludicrous he must appear, he hastily removed his feet from the pan, sloshing water on the carpet. That still left him in his paisley pajamas, but at least they were an improvement over what he’d been wearing—or hadn’t been wearing—the other night. She appeared fascinated by his toes, and he dug them into the rug.
He continued to read her precise handwriting. I wanted to see if I could qualify as a spy. If you see these words, I have succeeded!
“And you can go straight back home. Damn it, Nicola, what if you get caught? There will be no New Year’s Eve for you then. In fact, to be on the safe side, I am cancelling the whole thing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She snatched the notebook from him. You don’t have the power to hold back time.
“But I do have the power to decide how to spend it. You must go home. Right now.”
No. She waved her pencil with a flourish.
“Let me walk you back.” Putting boots on over his poor damaged toes would be agony. But he could put trousers on over his pajama bottoms. Grab his overcoat. Drag her home. It was only two hundred and twenty-six steps.
You are being inhospitable. I wanted to see your cottage.
“Yours is much nicer, as you can see.” If he stood up and moved around, the two of them would barely fit in the bedroom. The sloped ceiling was a daily reminder that he was too damned tall.
Show me the amenities. And then I’ll go.
Amenities! As if the cottage had any. Really, she was being obtuse—she wasn’t wanted. He was in a hideous mood. Didn’t she notice?
Or had she been sent to lift him up out of his doldrums?
Interesting. If he believed in…if he believed.
He rose from his chair. “Don’t mock my pajamas. I wouldn’t have bought them in a hundred years. My mother gave them to me last Christmas.” They were Italian silk, and expensive. The colors were rather florid, a surprising choice for his always elegantly attired parent. He’d left the packing for Puddling to his valet, which in the case of his nightwear had been a mistake.
But who was supposed to see him in the dark?
Nicola, whose bright blue eyes shimmered in the firelight.
“There is only one bedroom up here. You have two. The washroom does have running water, however. All the modern conveniences.” Ha, for what he was paying he’d expect gold-plated fixtures. Jack picked up a candle, opened the door, and she poked her head in. He was grateful his shaving equipment and toiletries were lined up
neatly. One might sport a beard, but one was fussy about its maintenance.
He’d let his guard down, so lost in thought he’d enabled her to sneak into the cottage and all the way up the stairs without detection. He should have locked the front door, but never in his wildest dreams did he think she’d come to visit tonight.
“Oh, hell. Come in. Hold still.” He dampened a washcloth and wiped the dirt from her face. Quarters were tight in here too, and he could smell lily of the valley, watch the muscle of her jaw twitch with each stroke. Her skin was impossibly soft and warm, and it was obvious that he should kiss her.
She looked up at him, so trusting. There was still a trace of black across her nose, and he brushed his thumb across, noticing a small constellation of freckles for the first time. How had he missed them in daylight? They added piquancy to her elfin face, and he placed his mouth over the bridge of her nose.
She stood still, leaning into him, breathing lightly against his chest. Jack kissed her eyelids next, her eyelashes tickling his lips.
They should go downstairs, far from his bedchamber.
Should. Would. Could. Which one to choose?
Would. Bumping into the door, he backed away, closing his eyes to her startled expression.
“Let me show you the kitchen. We’ll make a pot of tea and then you can leave. No, wait. I’m almost out of tea. There should be enough for a cup, though,” he babbled. “I’ll walk home with you, of course. Just slip my feet into some boots and throw on my coat.” If they were noticed, perhaps his pajamas bottoms would somehow pass inspection as the latest style in gentlemen’s evening trousers. Who here in this backwater would know the difference?
Chapter 27
Jack remained the most vexing man she’d ever met. That really wasn’t saying much—as a gently reared Bath female, her male acquaintances had been limited. However, here she was in his lair, and he refused to take advantage. He didn’t even know that beneath her coat she was wearing…
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 16