Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives)

by Bronwyn Scott

  But as she neared the eating house, it became apparent she was being followed. A group of lads—young men really, they were all at least twenty—had picked up behind her and now they were whistling and calling out lewd invitations. She ignored them, keeping her eyes forward, her step quick but not too quick. She was conscious of not showing any fear, nothing that would inspire them to escalate their efforts.

  Her strategy worked well until one of them grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt in sight of the eating house. She could see it just across the next street.

  ‘She thinks she’s too high and mighty to pass the time with us, gents.’ The leader had greasy black hair and cold eyes. When she fought to free her arm, his grip tightened painfully and he backed her to the rough brick wall of a building. ‘She’s got a little fire in her, too, for all that she gives herself airs. Thinks she’s a lady.’ Claire felt his eyes move down her body and her skin crawled while her mind raced. Bravado would make him dangerous. He might not have intended any real harm with his catcalls and whistles, but he’d do real harm to save face if it came to proving himself in front of his boys.

  ‘I don’t know, Jonesy, she might be a real lady at that.’ Another one, a beefy, heavy-set young man spat on the pavement. ‘That dress is good quality. My sister would like a dress like that. Think she might give it to us and walk home in her shift?’ Claire struggled, trying to get a few good kicks in, but he was too fast for her, too strong.

  ‘I’d rather have a kiss and a little feel, wouldn’t you, boys?’ The leader holding her to the wall leered, laughing at her struggling efforts. ‘A kiss for each of us, laddies, and a bit of touching. It’s not every day we poor boys get to cop a lady’s breasts. Then we’ll be done with our business here. Sound fair?’

  ‘I think your business is done now.’ Low dangerous tones parted the gang, the men falling away as Jonathon stepped towards the leader, his eyes two blue avenging flames, the flash of a knife blade catching the twilight in his hand. There were five of them to his one, but he was unbothered by the odds.

  ‘Let her go, or taste my steel.’ His voice was calm, controlled, as if he dealt with street thugs daily. ‘She is not for the likes of you.’

  The men backed away until it was just he and the leader. This was the part Claire feared, the part where the leader would put his pride ahead of practicality. He was unarmed. He should walk away, but that would entail a loss of face. His gang would tease him about it.. Claire felt his grip on her arm loosen and she breathed easier, stepping quickly towards Jonathon. He moved in front of her, shielding her from the gang. There would be no kissing, no touching.

  But the leader wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He held his hands out to his sides. ‘There’s no contest, you with your weapon, and me with nothing to defend myself. No chit is worth getting cut over. But she’s a pretty one, she’s worth a little something and you’ve stolen our fun, guv’nor. I think you owe us a little sport in exchange. Fight me for her, fists only. First one down loses. You lose, I get to kiss her. You win, the two of you can go on with your evening. Either way, you get to go on with your night, only if you lose you might always wonder whose kiss she prefers.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Who knows, maybe the lady likes a bit of rough.’

  Jonathon sheathed his knife and began to remove his coat. ‘Hold this for me, Claire.’ It took a moment for her to realise what he meant to do.

  ‘No, there will be no blood shed over me,’ she protested.

  One kiss was certainly better than kissing all five and who knew what else. ‘I’ll give him a kiss. It’s just a kiss.’

  ‘The hell you will, Claire,’ Jonathon growled, his eyes on Greasy Hair. ‘Now, stay back out of the way and let me deal with this cur.’ He took out the gold links from his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves while one of the men drew a chalk circle around the two combatants.

  ‘First one down loses. There is no stepping out of the fight circle. Stepping out results in a forfeit.’ The beefy one who coveted her dress called out the rules. ‘No weapons, only fists. Blood doesn’t count as down. As long as two men are standing, the fight goes on.’

  The circle looked impossibly small to Claire. How could Jonathon possibly win? He wasn’t a street fighter. She was starting to see what a disadvantage he was at; it was their rules, their street. She thought that for all of five seconds until the beefy man called out ‘Go!’ and Jonathon swung hard for the man’s jaw with a lightning-quick punch and kept striking, first with his left, then with his right, and once more before Greasy Hair landed a punch to his gut that sent Jonathon staggering backwards, dangerously close to the chalk line.

  ‘Watch out! Jonathon, get him!’ The words flew out of her mouth as she got caught up in the fight, adrenaline sweeping her away as Jonathon regained his balance and swung out, his fists fast and lethal. He caught Greasy Hair in the nose. Blood spurted and Jonathon didn’t stop. He came at Greasy Hair again. His shirt and waistcoat stretched across his shoulders, his body exerting its determination to end it. There was something glorious and primal about watching his body, all fluid, violent grace and athleticism as he pummelled Greasy Hair—there was no other way to describe it. It was definitely a pummelling.

  Jonathon took a final swing and Greasy Hair went down. The fight was over. Jonathon didn’t wait for a declaration of victory. He shot a hard look at the gang of men, issuing a silent invitation for any and all to try him. Then he strode to her side, wrapped his arm about her and led her away.

  He didn’t stop until they stepped inside the eating house. Even safe inside, his face still wore a fighter’s grim expression. His hands gripped her arms as he studied her, looking for any sign of hurt. ‘Claire, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she managed. ‘He was just rough, that’s all.’ If she said anything else, she was quite certain Jonathon would stalk out of the eating house and finish the bounder.

  Jonathon pushed a hand through his dark hair, his uncooperative lock falling forward as he blew out a breath. ‘I am so sorry. This was all my fault. I never should have let you come alone. I don’t know what I was thinking. Can you forgive me?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she assured him, holding his gaze with her own to convince him of her sincerity. But her shock over all that had happened would not be held at bay much longer. It was running riot in her mind. Any moment, it would tear loose. She stared at him hard, trying to digest the transformation. Her princely gentleman, her divine waltzer, had transformed right before her eyes into a street fighter, a man of blatant power and strength and physical prowess. Why was it so hard to believe? Hadn’t she had an inkling of this last night when he’d stormed her room?

  ‘Sweet heavens, Jonathon, you broke his nose for me.’ She was starting to tremble. She’d never been that close, that intimate, with violence before. But he had. That much was clear.

  ‘He had his hands on you. I would break more than his nose for that alone.’ He growled, his voice a rasp, his face close to hers in the cramped quarters of the eating house’s tiny hall. ‘You, Claire, are worth fighting for.’ His voice cracked with a groan. ‘God, Claire, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.’

  ‘I wanted that, too,’ she confessed fiercely, just before his mouth descended on hers, rough and ravaging, the power of the moment overwhelming them both.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Her fingers gripped the lapels of his waistcoat with a talon-like ferocity, refusing to let him go, her body wanting him against her, wanting him closer than even that if it were possible. Claire revelled in the rough play of it; the devouring press of his mouth, the harshness of the wall’s uneven surface at her back, the hardness of him rising against her, all muscle and male.

  ‘Claire,’ he gasped her name, a hungry, needy sound that made her reckless. His hands were in her hair, tugging her head back, exposing her throat to his mouth, a most de
licious, decadent exposure. She’d never been kissed liked this, not even their hungry kisses in the bookshop rivalled these. She had never imagined kisses could be so primal, so wild, and that she’d want more, so much more than that wildness could offer on its own.

  She tugged at his cravat, wanting his throat for herself, too, wanting any piece of him she could get. ‘Jonathon, I don’t want to eat dinner.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, as needy as his.

  His carriage, the full-sized town coach, not the open-air curricle, was outside. She had no recollection of exactly how they made the short walk. Her mouth was too busy, her hands too busy to pay attention to such mundane details. Jonathon managed to give the command to drive and they were off. She didn’t care where. She only cared that she was on Jonathon’s lap, straddling him in a most unladylike but convenient manner for what she wanted. For what he wanted. In her current position there could be no doubt of that. The fight had left them restless and roused, every nerve, every sensitivity exposed.

  She finished with the cravat and dragged it from his neck, her fingers moving on to his quickly discarded collar, his neck exposed to her at last. She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse beat hard and confident beneath her lips. It still wasn’t enough. Sweet heavens, how she ached! Her body had no trouble recalling what it now knew existed. There could be so much more than this!

  Instinctively, her hips ground hard against his, asking for more. He gripped her waist. ‘You will be the death of me, Claire, if you keep that up,’ he warned, or was that encouragement she heard in his rough voice? Gone were the cultured, easy tones she was used to. ‘I know what you want, love.’

  His hand slipped beneath the tangle of her skirt, his warm touch sliding up her thigh, unerringly coming to the core of her and the source of her ache. Perhaps later she’d be embarrassed, or feel some shame over the thought of his fingers teasing apart her folds, of them sliding inside her to find her wet and wanting yet again and in a coach no less, not even surrounded by the trappings of a bedroom. But now, in the moment, it was the most glorious sensation she’d ever felt. His thumb grazed the tiny nub, sending a familiar shiver through her. Only now, she knew it was merely the beginning.

  ‘Like that, did you?’ He kissed her long and slow, his teeth drawing out her lower lip as his thumb made another pass and she gasped, helpless against the twin pleasures he’d coaxed from her.

  ‘Move against my hand, Claire. Yes, like that. Do it again, and again.’ She did, her breathing turning to pants, the exquisite sensation growing with movement, with each of his passes, caresses. Their kisses turned savage, matching the tempo set by his hand and his wicked thumb—oh, sweet heavens, that thumb!

  ‘I think I shall burst,’ Claire confessed in ragged breaths, the pressure and the pleasure building in her without release, proof that last night had not been an anomaly; proof that he could be the source of endless pleasure for her.

  Jonathon laughed against her throat, a seductive sound all its own. ‘You most certainly will. Let it happen. It’s what you’re looking for.’

  She was beyond words when release came, her ability to express herself reduced to husky moans and gasps and a final, rather loud cry as the ultimate pleasure crashed over her and she clung to Jonathon as it claimed her and passed, one thought occurring to her: She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this sensation not only once but twice, this sensation for which she had no name, no adjectives in spite of having four languages at her disposal. And she certainly hadn’t known him. This evening’s events confirmed it. He was so much more than she’d ever imagined.

  His arms were about her, her head resting against his shoulder, her legs on either side of his thighs. She was close enough to smell the faint remnants of his soap at day’s end mixed with his sweat, and the scents of the street. How perfectly those smells represented the mystery of him: the boxer, the fighter, mixed with the gentleman. She was close enough to know that while she’d had her need assuaged once more, his was not. She slipped her hand between them to where his erection strained unsatisfied in the darkness of the carriage. She put her hand over him, tracing the length of him through his trousers until she felt the tip of him and heard him groan.

  ‘Claire, you don’t need to—’ he began but she silenced him with a kiss and whisper. If he was part-street, part-gentleman, perhaps the same could be said of her. Did she smell not only of the lady but the wanton, too? The bold woman who wasn’t afraid to cry out in his arms and give herself over to the passions he roused?

  ‘I want to.’ Her other hand hunted in the dark for the fall of his trousers. Already, the cloth was too limiting. She wanted to touch him the way he’d touched her, no clothes, no barriers between them.

  She freed him, wishing for more light. She wanted to see him and yet the darkness gave her a sense of liberty she might not have felt otherwise. There was no reason to be shy in the dark. Claire ran her hand up the length of him again, her hand encircling him, her thumb exploring the rough under-ridge of him, feeling the wet bead at the very apex of him. ‘I wonder if my thumb is as wicked as yours...’ she purred, skimming over the tender tip.

  The answer was a croaked and validating, ‘Yes.’

  She stroked him harder, faster, then slower, listening to the sharp inhalations of his breathing to guide her.

  ‘Please, Claire, faster.’ He arched against her hand. ‘Bring me off, now.’ His voice was no more than a groan of agony and ecstasy. His body was gathering itself, she could feel it in the tensing of his muscles. She stroked faster, once, twice and then the release took him in pulsing spasms while she held him, jerking and twitching with life. As intimate as the moment was, it left her much as it had last night. This was not enough, nor was it an answer to the questions that remained unsettled between them.

  Perhaps Jonathon felt it, too. He was silent in the aftermath. The quiet of the carriage was broken only by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of garments. He handed her a handkerchief and she took her reluctant cue to take her own seat across from him. ‘I’ll see if I can scare up some dinner.’ Jonathon rapped on the roof and leaned out the window, the carriage coming to a halt not long afterwards. He jumped out. ‘I’ll be right back. When you’re ready, have my driver light the lanterns.’

  Dinner was produced in rapid order: cold meat, cheese, bread and a bottle of wine from a nearby tavern. Jonathon winked as he pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘I bet you’ve never had a carriage picnic before.’ He poured her a small glass of the wine. ‘Careful, it sloshes easily.’ To prove his point, the carriage chose that moment to lurch into action. Claire was ready for it.

  She wished she was as ready for the man who sat across from her, coatless, sleeves still rolled up from fisticuffs, slicing bread and cheese. He handed her the food, a tower of meat and cheese built on a piece of bread, and gave her a devilish smile that flipped her stomach. ‘You’re quite a revelation, Claire.’

  ‘As are you.’ She met his gaze steadily, knowing there were things that needed to be said and questions that need to be asked. ‘It seems we’ve come quite a way from French lessons in the garden, yet I know nothing about you.’ She took a sip of wine and waited for his response. How would he play this? Confession or denial?

  ‘You’ve known me for years, Claire,’ he replied with a certain nonchalance. But Claire was not fooled. The answer was too casual. The statement discomfited him. She pushed her advantage.

  ‘Au contraire. You, Jonathon Lashley, are not the man I thought you were.’

  ‘For better or for worse?’ His eyes glittered dangerously, calling to mind the consummate seducer instead of the ballroom prince.

  ‘For better, I think.’ Perhaps Beatrice was right after all. One never truly knew the measure of a man. And yet, she found this new side of Jonathon...exciting. It would be an adventure to discover this man who had fought for her, who had drawn blo
od for her, this man with flashing eyes and a sharp knife, who’d pleasured her thoroughly and intimately twice now and who’d allowed her to do the same for him.

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not sure?’

  That was the understatement of the evening. Claire put down her bread and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Of course I’m not sure. How could I be? We’ve ventured far from the beaten path, you and I. Nothing between us is defined. There are no rules about what will happen next, what can happen next.’ In all her daydreams of being courted by Jonathon, none of them had taken this eventuality into account. Those daydreams looked naïve and shallow when compared to this consuming passion and the complexities surrounding it. Perhaps it was true, that one should be careful what one wished for.

  ‘What am I to make of this? The only thing I am sure of is that you’ve engaged my services as your French tutor. Beyond that? Nothing. You won’t tell me why we have to accelerate the lessons, yet you send me flowers I never asked for. You’ve danced with me more than necessary.’

  You’ve kissed me, pleasured me, shown me what passions the body is capable of.

  ‘As far as mixed messages go, there are plenty to choose from.’

  A flicker of laughter flared in his eyes. ‘You have secrets, too, Claire. You can hardly condemn me for mine when you hold yours so very close. Who is the suitor? Is it Sheriden come around again now that he’s realised what he gave up the first time?’ He continued when she said nothing. ‘See, it’s not that easy, is it?’

  He took a final bite of his bread and wiped the crumbs away on his trousers. ‘It does make me wonder, Claire, what kind of suitor this man is if you’re pleasuring me in a carriage instead of him. I dare say after the last two nights you could capture his attentions if you wanted them.’

  That stung. ‘You started it!’ She sounded like a four-year-old. She could think of nothing else to say that was a worthy response. L’esprit d’escalier indeed. ‘If anyone has made this complicated, it’s you. You have Cecilia Northam expecting a commitment and yet...’ She didn’t dare voice the rest.