He drew his brows together and read on:
Allowing a man to kiss or touch you at any time during your courtship, even before a set wedding, is allowing for too much. After all, it is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason to run down that altar aisle. It is a lady’s duty to give a man a genuine reason as to why, on his own wedding day, he should smile.
A loud creak made him slap the book shut and look up.
Victoria hovered in the open doorway. “What are you reading?” She squinted at the book. Her eyes widened as she glanced up at him. “Is that my etiquette book?”
He shoved the book into his pocket and awkwardly adjusted his coat by the lapels, smoothing it over his chest. It was humiliating enough having to disclose that he’d been a whore and a “lady’s maid.” He didn’t need her thinking he also had a penchant for women’s etiquette books. “Why the devil would I be reading an etiquette book? ’Tis a book of poems, is all.” He cleared his throat. “So. Has it been fifteen minutes?”
She eyed him. “No. Did you take in your air?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Do you plan to?”
He pushed himself away from the wall. “No.”
She gestured toward the bed in the cabin and set herself against the open door. “Then rest.”
He would rather be making love to her on deck against the mast with the sea roaring around them. Of course, he’d never tell her that.
He brushed past her, aware that she watched him, and drifted toward the bolted bed. He sat, yanking off his leather boots. He tossed them, sending them skidding, then removed his wool coat, folding it carefully to ensure the book within its pocket didn’t fall out. He set it on the floor beside him.
As he unbuttoned his waistcoat, Victoria paused before him and presented her back and the long row of buttons of her traveling gown that hid a set of hooks beneath. “Will you assist me in this? I prefer not to sleep in my gown.”
His fingers stilled against the last button holding his waistcoat together. A damn saint he was not.
He stood. “Allow me to fetch the servant from the other cabin.”
Victoria turned toward him and closed what little distance remained, her skirts brushing against the length of his trousers, covering his feet. “Anne hasn’t been feeling any better than I. She needs rest. You and I can undress each other without feeling awkward, can we not?”
Words eluded him. All he could think about was what undressing each other would lead to.
She smiled, her hands skimming toward his waistcoat. She unfastened the last button for him. “There.”
She slid her hands beneath and slipped his waistcoat from his shoulders, dropping it onto the bed behind him. “That was simple enough. Something new for me, I assure you. I have never undressed a man. Which I am quite certain you will be pleased to hear.”
His pulse thundered as her fingers drifted toward his lace cravat and unknotted it. Her green eyes met his and she smiled again.
His breath grew jagged as he traced his gaze down to her full lips. How he wanted to ravage those lips and then ravage the rest of her. But he refused to settle for anything less than what he deserved. He was not going to be a marionette for any woman ever again. Not even to her.
He grabbed her soft, warm hands against his loosened cravat. “No. Cease.”
Her hands stilled beneath his. “I am undressing you as politely as I know how and ask you do the same for me.” She hesitated and slowly withdrew her hands from beneath his, eyeing him. “I…do not wish to make you uncomfortable. I was merely being amiable.”
Who was he to resist what little she offered? This was his Victoria. His beautiful, innocent Victoria.
He lowered his hands to his sides, set his chin and leaned toward her. “Proceed.”
She lowered her gaze and hesitated.
“Go on,” he insisted. “Undress me and I will undress you. We can be civil, can’t we?”
She bit her lip and nodded. Raising her hands back to his throat, she pulled away his cravat. She folded it and momentarily leaned away, setting it aside. She turned back, settling before him once again and paused, her brows coming together. She leaned in and eyed his exposed throat. Her hand drifted out and gently gathered the silver pendant he wore, lifting the silver chain from beneath his shirt. She squinted at it. “What is this? It looks like a winged lion.”
He lowered his gaze to the pendant she held, trying to focus on something other than the heat of her body and the fact that he was in a state of undress before her. “’Tis the patron saint of Venice. Saint Mark. Or San Marco, as the Venetians say. Cornelia bought it for me when we first arrived in Venice. The entire city is actually emblazoned with lions. Statues, gates, doors, even gondolas. ’Tis all in honor of San Marco.”
She fingered it, swaying the chain against his throat. “’Tis beautiful. You wear it well.”
Noting the way her eyes admired the pendant, he smiled, gathered the chain and pulled it up and over his head, removing it from around his neck. Lifting it over her head, he drew it down and adjusted it around her throat, where it settled between her breasts. “It is yours now.”
Victoria placed her hand against the pendant. “No. I… It’s yours. Cornelia gave it to you.”
“And I am giving it to you. My wife. It is my right. Now turn around. You are done undressing me. If you take off any more of my clothes, you might as well commit to staying in Venice altogether.”
She hesitated.
“Turn around,” he repeated.
She bit her lip and slowly turned, exposing the long row of buttons from the back of her neck to her waist.
God help him, he wanted to yank that dress from her shoulders, rip it down to her hips and thighs, swing her up into his arms and carry her naked to the bed. He wanted to make love to her using every sway of the ship to his advantage and show her exactly what she made him feel every time he looked at her, and how she put him into a state of weakness he had been cursed with ever since he was nineteen.
She glanced back at him from over her shoulder expectantly, a long curl cascading out of her chignon.
He moved closer, blew out a breath to keep his body under control and started to unbutton the back of her dress, starting at her neck. His fingers brushed against her chemise. The warmth of her soft skin hidden beneath it made him fumble. As he exposed more and more of her back, he uncovered a pale blue corset with an ivory chemise beneath it and glimpses of more pale, smooth skin. Ever so slowly, he slid the long sleeves of her gown from her shoulders, revealing slim, graceful arms.
Every muscle in his body tightened, and though he fought his desire, he had already grown so damn hard he could barely breathe. He shifted his jaw. Unable to resist, he sensuously rounded his palms against the bare skin of her shoulders, grazing the thick straps of her chemise.
She stilled beneath his touch and he knew by the intake of her breath and her stance that if he wanted it, she would let him touch far, far more than just her shoulders.
It made him want her all the more.
His hands skimmed down the length of her arms, his breath now coming in uneven takes. He lowered his hands to her corset, memorizing the size of her waist and how the smooth satin and rough lace felt against his skin.
She turned toward him, causing his fingers to graze against her hips. He lowered his gaze to the rounded tops of her full breasts, which her corset pushed up, his pendant now nestled between them.
If he didn’t stop touching her, he wouldn’t stop at all. He pulled his hands away and stepped back, the back of his legs bumping into the bed.
She stepped farther back herself. “You have far more self-control than I do.”
“But unlike you, my body will be suffering all night.”
Her eyes trailed the length of his body and paused on the flap of his trousers.
Jonathan instinctively set a hand against his erection, uncomfortably reminded of the way the marchesa had always eyed the flap of his
trousers as a way of signaling she wanted him to remove them.
Victoria glanced up, as if sensing his unease, and cleared her throat. “Uh…forgive me. I didn’t mean to look. That is…I did, but—” She wrinkled her nose. “I supposed I ought to be flattered knowing I have such an effect on you.”
He yanked out his shirt from his trousers and covered his erection. Little did she know just how wicked his need for her really was. Those first few times, when he’d had to perform on command like a dog, the only way he could manage the sort of erection he needed to pleasure himself and the marchesa was to imagine Victoria gloriously naked beneath him. Envisioning her naked, writhing, panting, moaning and at his command had miraculously carried him through.
Victoria turned away and shimmied out of her gown, her curvy bum waggling at him through her thin chemise.
Jonathan swung toward the bed, wide-eyed, and sucked in a breath, wishing he hadn’t seen that. It was difficult enough pretending he could survive not touching her and kissing her and bedding her.
He yanked back the coverlet, trying to occupy his hands and thoughts, but he knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.
SCANDAL THIRTEEN
It is said laughter is a demonstration of one’s good breeding and that a lady ought to cultivate her laugh. This author, however, has met many well bred women whose laughter ought to be left in the wild, yet are perfect in every other way. So heed this advice: all that matters is that one’s humor is genuine and in place. For without any humor, one is merely a face.
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
ONCE VICTORIA had draped her gown against her trunk for Anne to tend to in the morning, she became very conscious of the fact that she was only wearing a chemise and a corset. She rounded the bolted bed and crawled into it. She could sense Remington’s own unease by the way he raked his hand through his hair as he watched her push her bare legs beneath the cool linens and coverlet.
For his sake—not to mention her own—she scooted herself as far over to the edge as possible. She even rolled onto her side, away from him, so as to encourage him to get into the bed he was clearly avoiding. The necklace he had so tenderly bestowed upon her slid against the skin of her throat, the silver chain gathering into a pile around the pendant against the mattress.
She fingered the pendant. She could sense that the physical submissions Remington had engaged in with the marchesa had affected him immensely. The way his hand had jumped to cover his erection was but a whisper of what he had suffered. Because after what they had shared in the carriage, she knew the man was anything but coy.
Though pity was not the emotion she would have ever wanted to feel for Remington, she couldn’t help but pity him. For what he had endured at the hands of the marchesa, with her own husband’s blessings, was no different than rape. Remington had naught been more than a boy of nineteen at the time he’d been manipulated into accepting what he’d thought was in best interest of his family. She blinked back tears.
The creaking of floorboards and the dragging sounds of trunks made her realize he was reorganizing their belongings. She bit back a smile, knowing he was probably only doing it in an effort to put off getting into bed.
After a few more creaks of the floorboards, the mattress shifted and Remington sat on the edge of the bed on the other side. She pinched her lips together and gripped the edge of the tick, willing herself not to turn toward him.
He shifted, causing her body to tilt, and she knew he had pulled his legs onto the bed. He shifted closer toward her and paused. He huffed out a breath. A large hand then reached over her and took up her hand which was against the mattress. He dragged it back toward himself, causing her to roll onto her back.
She swallowed as his long, warm fingers entwined hers, the heat of his skin penetrating her own. She closed her eyes, reveling in his touch. Nothing mattered in that moment but that touch. She actually felt…at peace.
He released her hand, shifted his body and, using his other hand, took hold of her hip and dragged her closer toward him. He draped his arm around her and murmured into the curve of her shoulder, “Good night.”
Even though he was fully clothed in a shirt and trousers, Victoria felt as if he might as well have been naked, the way she was drowning against the hardness of his warmth and flesh. She tried to shift away from the growing heat of his soap-scented body, but he yanked her back toward himself. Something hard dug into her bum.
“Pardon my friend,” he whispered in an amused drawl. “I can’t get him to leave.”
Her eyes widened. As if his erection digging into her wasn’t alarming enough, his fingers were now tracing the curve of her throat, back and forth, back and forth, in soft, playful strokes.
Her heart pounded. It was unbearable. “Remington?”
“Jonathan.”
Why did she keep forgetting? “Jonathan.”
“Sì, mia cara?”
Heavens above, hearing him speak Italian was like licking sugar cubes. “I feel likely to faint.”
“What irks you about me now?”
“Aside from your…friend? You keep touching me and it is hardly fair, considering you have no intention of even giving me a kiss.”
He chuckled. His hand slid from her throat, past her breasts and down to her waist where he tightened his hold on her. “Sleep on the floor if my touching bothers you.” He nudged her with his chin. “Or on deck.”
She giggled and swatted his hands away. “I believe neither of us is going to get any sleep tonight.”
He raised himself onto his elbow toward her, beneath the linen and coverlets. “You win. Put an end to your misery and kiss me. Go on.”
Her heart pounded at the unexpected offer. She shifted toward him, rolling entirely to her back, and glanced up at him. Only…she could tell by that pompous smirk and the playful glint in those eyes she wasn’t getting anything at all.
She squinted up at him. “You weren’t really offering me a kiss, were you?”
He grinned. “No. But you want it, don’t you?”
She laughed. “You brute.”
He lifted his free hand and dabbed his finger against her nose. “Sleep.”
She refrained from nipping his finger. “I am not the one who needs to sleep.”
Remington rolled further into her. “How about a story?”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “I am not a child in need of bedtime tales and would prefer you place all effort toward rest. Now sleep.”
He shifted onto his back, crossed his long legs and stared up at the timbered ceiling. “Once upon a time there was an incredibly wealthy and privileged nobleman by the name of Bartholomew.” He paused. “Shall I go on? Or are you already bored?”
She smiled, rolled onto her back and stared up at the timbered ceiling along with him. “If I listen, do you promise to sleep afterward?”
“I will do what I can.”
“I want you to promise. Because you and I both know you are a man of your word.”
“That I am. I will sleep. I promise.”
“Good. Proceed.”
He cleared his throat. “Now this wealthy and privileged man was unlike any of the others in the kingdom. Bartholomew looked upon life as if it were a puzzle he could easily solve, and he had an incredible talent for cutting and shaping gems like no other. Such was his talent that by the time he was seventeen, royalty sought Bartholomew out on commission. Needless to say, he learned to use his talents to his advantage. He shaped and polished an exquisite ruby and had it set into a beautiful gold ring. He then placed this ring into a velvet-lined box, which he sent to a beautiful noblewoman who had for many years refused every man in the kingdom. His gift arrived with a missive warning her that the ring held magical qualities that would provoke her to love him against her will. She was charmed. They courted, fell in love and married, thus proving the ring held a measure of magical merit.”
Victoria glanced over at him, noting his profile was as solemn as any statue. Why,
he was disclosing the history of his mother’s ruby ring. “Is this a true story?”
His blue eyes captured hers. “Yes.”
She glanced away and stared back up at the timbered ceiling. “You used your father’s methods to procure me.”
“At nineteen, I didn’t have methods of my own.”
“True. So what happened? Do go on.”
“Long after they were married, and much to their utmost joy, a strapping boy of unprecedented quality was born unto them.”
Victoria giggled. “Strapping? Let us not embellish too much, my dear sir.”
“I ask that you not interrupt the storyteller.”
She giggled again. “Forgive me, but were you referring to yourself? Or do you have a brother I have yet to meet?”
“I will ignore that devious slap against my honor and proceed with my story. Now, throughout the years, this strapping boy—being me, of course—had fallen fancy to the idea of embarking upon grand adventures. So much so that he was forever sneaking out of the house and getting into trouble for senseless things, like shooting all of the apples off the branches of every single tree with his pistol. Trees that were not on his father’s property. He also liked the challenge of shooting fish in all the ponds instead of using a hook. It was incredibly difficult to do, by the by, and took him weeks upon weeks to do it.”
“They should have taken away your pistol.”
A deep laugh escaped him. “They did. All six. The gamekeeper was threatened with the loss of his position if he were to ever provide me with anything involving gunpowder. So I turned to knives instead, without my father knowing. They were easier to hide and made no sound when in use. Then one day, I got my dagger stuck to the ceiling of my father’s study and could not get it down. I hoped unto God he would not notice.”
Victoria burst into snorting laughter, imagining little Remington looking up at the handle of a knife sticking out from the ceiling and being quite distressed. She slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing she was snorting.
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