He withdrew almost entirely before sinking inside her again. She was so hungry for him, so wet, that it heightened her every sense. Mindless, she wrapped her legs around his waist, arching into him, meeting him thrust for thrust. They did not even kiss now. Their embrace was a primitive one, arms clasped about one another, his face pressed to her throat as he slammed into her again and again.
His fingers, so cunning, went between them once more to work her. It didn’t take much to send her careening over the precipice. She tightened over his rigid cock as she lost herself, shattering into a thousand shards of delirious pleasure and spending in a flooding release that left her limp and sated atop his desk.
Crispin angled his hips, pounding into her harder and deeper, angling her so he fitted to her perfectly. Steady and hard, he thrust into her until she spent again, crying out and tightening on him. He buried himself inside her, withdrawing at the last moment to come on her skin.
Chapter Fifteen
Beelzebub and hellfire.
Not one blessed part of his day had gone according to plan. As Crispin buttoned the fall of his breeches, sanity intruded. He had meant to woo Jacinda, and instead, he had tupped her atop his desk without even bothering to lock the blasted study door. They could have been interrupted or discovered at any moment.
Discovered.
He winced at the unfortunate word, which somehow lent a tawdry tarnish to what they had just shared. She was not his secret to keep, and he disliked feeling as if she was. His gaze settled back upon her, noting the pretty blush on her cheeks, the marks his mouth had left upon her creamy throat, her gorgeous legs still spread wide, skirts pooled around her waist. His seed was smeared upon the softness of her inner thigh.
The sight made his cock harden again. He wanted to assemble his domestics and announce she was his. Curse it, he wanted to assemble all London and shout it from the roof of Whitley House. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to be the source of her smiles. To coddle and protect her. To take care of her. To have her in his bed each night.
He was obsessed with the woman.
Mad for her.
He feared it was far worse than he had admitted to Duncan.
Shaken, he reached into his coat and extracted a monogrammed handkerchief, using it to wipe the evidence of his recklessness from her. Her fingers found his.
“Stop, Your Grace.” Her voice was quiet with an emotion he could not discern. “You need not tend to me. I am perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”
Her reversion to his title stung. His gaze snapped to her lovely, flushed face. “Damn it, Jacinda. My tongue and my cock were both inside you.”
She gasped at his vulgarity. “Crispin, please.”
“Bloody hell.” He knew a spear of shame, for despite the alarming and unprecedented warmth he felt for her, he seemed to be perpetually inept at charm. He finished removing the traces of their lovemaking and balled the handkerchief in his fist, flipping down her skirts with his free hand. “Forgive my coarseness. I am afraid I am not a gentleman but a wild man, and I cannot control myself where you are concerned.”
Wide, sherry eyes searched his. “You have the same effect upon me.”
“What if I wish for more than one night?” he asked solemnly.
“Do not, I beg of you.” The sadness underlying her mellifluous tone pricked him.
Was he the source? He hated to think it. “You cannot deny what is between us. We want each other too badly.”
She drove him to distraction. He found himself haunting the halls of his own home in search of the far-off trill of her laughter. Joining her and his sisters in a chamber so he could smell the faint scent of jasmine and drink his fill of the sight of her. But it wasn’t just the physical connection they shared, undeniable though it was, for something in her called to a primitive part of him that said this woman was his. Would be his. Had to be his in ways no other ever had.
It was also her. She was kind and good. The progress she had made with his sisters was as much a relief as it was warming to the depths of his cold heart. Jacinda glowed from within, radiating warmth and compassion and caring. She was like a lost ship’s treasure the ocean had washed onto the Portuguese sands during his stint on the Peninsula. His to claim from the deep. A prize beyond measure.
But he was losing her. She slipped from his desk. “I ought not to have acted with such a careless disregard for my circumstances once more.”
Her back was to him, her head down, and she seemed to be searching the Aubusson for something. What, he had not an inkling. He longed to protest the retreat of her warmth and her soft, sweetly curved body. Instead, he turned, watching the soft play of light in her gleaming hair.
Ah. He must have removed her hideous cap in the throes of passion, and she sought to find it. “One more day,” he said, darkly amused when she could not seem to locate the bloody thing anywhere. He could only hope he had tossed it somewhere she would not look.
“One more day, and then what shall it be next?” She spun back to face him, her expression pinched, her tone rife with exasperation. Her dun gown fluttered about her, and even in the shapeless, joyless sack, he could not help but be stirred anew at the sight of her.
He started toward her. “One more day, and then the next shall worry about itself.”
“But I shall worry about the next,” she said softly as he reached her. “For I am the governess to your sisters, and I… there is much about me you do not know.”
Of course there was. She had a past. So did he. Hers intrigued him rather than repel him. He longed to know everything there was to know about her, and he could not recall ever being so inclined when it came to a female. Before her, women had been for pleasure and distraction, first at war and then at home. But she was different. She was not like all the rest.
Crispin could not resist cupping her pale cheek and strumming the delicate line of her jaw. Here was a stray freckle, just the one, and he was endlessly fascinated by its solitary presence. “There is much about the world I do not know, Cin, and yet I go about each day continuing to live in it.”
Her breath hitched. The golden flecks in her eyes darkened. “That is different and you know it. We could not be farther apart. I am your servant, and you—”
“And I am your servant, my love,” he interrupted, continuing his slow and steady strokes—nothing but the pad of his thumb. “That is all I am, here and now, to you.”
“Now,” she argued, “but there will come a day when that changes. If not tomorrow, then the next, or perhaps the fortnight after.”
He could not quell her fears, it seemed, and he wondered what had happened to her—who had hurt her—that she could not trust enough to take a chance on what he offered: companionship, passion, his purse and person at her command. Perhaps the only way was to leave the choice in her hands and hope she made the right one.
Crispin withdrew his touch although it pained him to have her so near and yet keep his hands at his sides. “I want you to have tomorrow to yourself.”
Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. “But tomorrow is not my scheduled day.”
He raised a brow. “In my household, I make the rules, madam. You shall have the entire day to yourself tomorrow, to do with as you wish. Con and Nora shall do fine with a day’s break in their studies. One can only hope they do not revert to their old ways of sledding down the grand staircase, of course. Think of it as a test of your efficacy thus far, if you must.”
When he had initially planned for her to have a day of rest tomorrow, he had not envisioned giving her carte blanche. Rather, he had hoped he might send her to a discreet modiste so she could acquire a costume for Duncan’s masque. And then he had envisioned squiring her away in a carriage, feeding her hothouse strawberries, drinking copious wine, and dancing with her until the candles sputtered out before fucking her so hard and deep, he was imprinted upon her memory and her body forever.
But in truth, he did not want to take her day from her and
make it his. He wanted her to choose it for herself. He wanted her to choose him, damn it.
“All of tomorrow to do with as I see fit?” she asked warily.
He suppressed a wince, for he well knew what his compromise could cost him. “Yes, though there are any number of choices available to you, should you wish to investigate them.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Please elaborate upon these… choices.”
“My carriage will be at your disposal. If you choose, it will take you to the finest modiste in London, where you can choose a gown and mask to wear to a masque ball in the evening.” He gave an indolent shrug of his shoulders as if he hadn’t a care. “Or, you could choose for it to go anywhere else within London. You may also remain here at Whitley House. Your enthusiasm for the library, while a trifle geographically inept, leads me to believe you may find any number of tomes within of interest. Or keep to your chambers if you prefer.” Here he paused, and he could not help himself. “Better still, come to mine.”
She was silent, studying him, and how he wished he could read her thoughts. Everything within him longed to haul her back into his arms and take her all over again. To ply her with kisses and caresses until she capitulated to his every wish.
“A masque ball?” she asked softly, finally.
He had piqued her interest, it seemed. Was it possible that beneath her atrocious brown gowns and ridiculous caps and generally hideous spinster attire, there beat the heart of a woman who longed for a beautiful gown and a turn about the ballroom? He would not have supposed Miss Jacinda Turnbow’s head could be turned by a masque ball, but perhaps there was hope for his plans yet.
Crispin cleared his throat against a sudden thickness that had taken up residence there. “Tomorrow evening. I would be honored to have you accompany me as my guest, but the decision is yours alone.”
She pursed her lips, calling his attention—never far from them—back once more. “I shall consider your offer.”
A surge of triumph streaked through his chest, but he fought to keep the foolish, ridiculous joy from his expression. How much power she wielded over him. It was astonishing to think only two months ago, he had not known of her existence. How bloody horrid. The notion left him with a stark and hollow feeling in his chest, as if a gaping chasm had opened up. He resented each day he had spent in his life without her in it.
But he schooled his features into a cool mask, bowing. “Again, the choice is yours. I shall not expect you at breakfast or for the rest of the day, for that matter. But if I shall see you in the evening for the ball, we leave at eight o’clock.”
Her lips tightened. “You will attend whether or not I accompany you, Your Grace?”
A hiss nearly left him at her return to formality, but he managed to suppress it. Perhaps this was the nudge she required. “Yes.”
“Of course.” Her gaze lowered. “Oh, there it is.”
To his utter dismay, she snatched up her ugly cap and replaced it over her glorious hair, covering it from view once more. With a hasty curtsy and nary a word more, she fled from his study.
*
Jacinda resisted the urge to tug at her alarmingly low décolletage as she took in the masked revelers swirling about the ballroom. The bodice of the gown she had chosen for the masquerade fit her as if it were a second skin, and the corset Madame Ormonde had insisted she wear beneath it only served to further the effect. Her bosom was lifted high, her ordinarily large breasts on shocking display. How she longed for the blanketing comfort of one of her fichus.
But the Duke of Whitley did not seem to mind.
She caught his pale gray eyes—more arresting than ever with his black mask emphasizing them—upon her bosom. Warmth skittered through her before she chased it away. When he had insisted upon her day to herself, she had intended to ignore his suggestions. Her objective had been to engross herself in the library or to have a delightful afternoon nap. Something proper. Something safe.
Instead, her feet had seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying her to the waiting carriage to the taunting echo of his impassioned plea. One more day. One more day. One more day. The Duke of Whitley was a difficult man to refuse, and despite her objections to the contrary, she could not resist the temptation of more time in his presence.
Or more time in his arms. One more night in his bed.
Because she could not keep delaying the inevitable. She had less than a fortnight remaining to uncover the ciphers Kilross claimed were in his possession and spare herself and Father from impending ruin.
“You are somber for one surrounded by so much gaiety,” he observed, his voice a decadent rumble in the raucous din of the assemblage.
She pursed her lips, grateful for the presence of her golden half mask, which complemented the diaphanous pink silk gauze of her dress. “I should never have agreed to come here with you. It is horribly—”
“Improper?” he interrupted, his tone one of dark amusement.
Jacinda frowned. “Precisely. My gown is far too low to be seemly.”
“It is perfect, Cin.” Again, his stare lowered, glinting with appreciation.
“Furthermore,” she continued, ignoring him, “this is no ordinary ball.”
“Indeed.” His sensual lips twisted into a wicked grin, making her wish his mask also did not draw so much attention to his mouth. “It is a masque.”
“At a house of ill repute,” she could not resist pointing out.
It had not taken long for her to make the alarming discovery. The licentious murals and ribald marble statues in the front hall, along with the daring décolletages of her fellow female revelers, had made the conclusion easy to reach. She supposed she ought not to be surprised the Duke of Whitley would escort her to such a depraved soiree. Little wonder everyone in attendance wore masks.
“This is not a house of ill repute but a gaming establishment.” He grinned, flashing white, even teeth.
She was scandalized, she told herself. But she was also… intrigued. “You are a scoundrel,” she said, but the accusation lacked heat. “You should have warned me of the nature of this ball.”
His grin deepened. “If I had, would you have agreed to accompany me?”
“Naturally not.” Her ears went hot as a couple floated past them in the scandalous hold of the waltz. The lady’s skirts were dampened, her miniscule bodice cut so low that a hint of pink peeked from the top of each breast.
“Then I wholeheartedly do not regret my decision.” His gaze flitted past her shoulder at the same moment she felt a presence. “There you are, old fellow.”
Jacinda turned to find a tall gentleman, garbed in black from breeches to cravat. He was handsome in a classic sense, his golden hair and bright blue eyes an ironic foil to his penchant for darkness. At odds with the rest of the merrymakers, he wore no mask.
“Miss Turnbow, Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, owner of this fine establishment,” Whitley introduced them.
Her mind processed the knowledge he was a gentleman whom it would ordinarily never be possible for her to meet. Mr. Kirkwood offered an elegant bow that Jacinda met with a curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Turnbow, to make your acquaintance.” He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips, lingering longer than necessary. “Would you care to dance?”
The duke stepped forward, scowling. “I am afraid you are too late. I have already claimed this dance with Miss Turnbow.” He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like and every bloody other one.
Mr. Kirkwood grinned, his good humor unaffected. “Perhaps the next dance, then.”
Whitley’s gray gaze narrowed to slits behind his mask, his jaw going rigid. “Haven’t you an unsuspecting patron in need of fleecing somewhere?”
The other man’s good humor remained unaffected by the duke’s insult. Despite Whitley’s irritation, the two shared an easy air that suggested a close friendship. Mr. Kirkwood’s grin deepened, the disparity between his boyish charm and his dark apparel more notable than ever.
“As a wise man recently said to me, if only everyone else thought you as droll as you find yourself, friend.” His grin faded when his gaze settled upon someone in the crush of dancers. “What the devil is she doing here?”
“She?” Whitley’s expression turned wolfish. “Is something amiss, Duncan?”
Mr. Kirkwood’s countenance darkened, his eyes fixed upon the unknown female that so confounded him. “Nothing I cannot manage, Cris.” He bowed. “Enjoy the evening, lovebirds.”
With that, he stalked off, the milling guests parting for him as if a giant, invisible hand preceded him. What an odd, interesting fellow. Jacinda watched him for a moment before turning to the duke. “You are friends with Mr. Kirkwood?”
“I was friends with him until he held your hand far longer than necessary,” he growled.
Jacinda suppressed a smile at the possessive note in Whitley’s voice, for she knew she could never truly lay claim to him regardless of how much part of her wished it. “For tonight, I am yours,” she said softly.
Even if it was all they had.
His eyes blazed into hers, glittering with sensual promise. “If I had known how greatly it would please me to see you wearing a beautiful gown, I would have directed Madame Ormonde to make you two dozen more than the handful I chose. Pink suits you, my dear.”
She felt removed from herself in the dress, almost as if she were someone else. How freeing it was to pretend, to live in the moment rather than worry about tomorrow and all the pain and uncertainty it would bring. But then his words settled in her mind, and her earlier puzzlement at the modiste possessing a small cache of gowns that seemed suited to Jacinda’s figure made sense.
“Do you mean to tell me the gowns I saw today were commissioned for me by you?” she demanded.
“You are too beautiful to hide yourself in colorless sacks,” was his mild response as he snagged two glasses from a passing servant who bore a tray of beverages. He presented her with one and kept the other for himself. “Drink. It will do wonders to ease the frown wrinkling your brow.”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 20