by Tessa Dare
Her shawl slipped to the floor.
Jeremy’s heart lurched in his chest.
She wore the same dress. Even in the dim glow of a single candle, he recognized it. He would know it in the dark. The same light-green muslin he had hungrily peeled from her body and then re-laced with sharp tugs of regret. At the realization, his body reacted quickly, violently. His mouth went dry. His chest grew tight. His breeches, as well.
She wore the same dress. She had not bathed. All the places he had touched, all the places he had kissed—something of him lingered still. On her. Inside her.
She hadn’t washed him away.
And God, she had never looked more beautiful. Flickering light kissed over her cheeks, her brow, her lips. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder in a chestnut cascade. Her skin drank in the candlelight and glowed. Or perhaps the candle drank in her beauty and burned.
“Oh,” she said finally. “It’s you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No.” Her gaze flitted away for an instant, but then came home to his. “Not really.”
Jeremy wanted to step closer, but his feet wouldn’t move. He’d come here intending to leave, but he knew he couldn’t do that either. He would stand on this bit of ground until the candle guttered or the sun rose or the manor walls crumbled to dust at their feet.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice smoky with warmth.
She wanted to know what he was doing here. Jeremy paused, considering his response. It didn’t seem wise to tell her exactly what he was doing there, at that precise moment. Picturing you naked, should he say? Or perhaps, recalling the exquisite softness of your lips against my skin? She probably wouldn’t care to hear, cupping my hands around the memory of your breasts.
He cleared his throat and flexed his hands at his sides. No, it was probably wise to confine his answer to what he had meant to do here. Before the sight of her, and the dress she hadn’t changed, had changed everything. “I was going to leave a note for Henry.”
“You were going to leave Henry a note.”
He nodded.
“But now you’re not.”
He shook his head. “I’m not.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You’re here.” It was part of the truth. The whole of it being, you’re here, and I can’t bear to be anywhere else.
She stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, I’ll clear out then. Leave you to your note.” She pushed back from the desk. Catching the paper between her teeth, she crouched down to gather her shawl.
He was at her side before he realized he’d taken a step. “Don’t.”
She stood up, swinging the shawl around her shoulders. With the paper still grasped in her teeth, she flipped her hair out from under the pearl-gray wool of her wrap. Finally she took the paper back with her hand. “Don’t what?”
“Go.”
A strand of hair was caught in her mouth, and she blew it out with a gust of breath. Jeremy smelled wine. “I am going. You’ve no need to growl at me.” She started to turn from him, but he caught her wrist.
“Don’t. Go.” He forced the words from his throat.
Her face softened. “Oh.”
She looked at his hand where it gripped her wrist. He released her abruptly. He wanted to grasp far more than her wrist, yearned to pull her into his arms. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t watch her flee from him again.
“I only mean,” he said, straightening his coat, “you came here for some reason, I presume.”
“I was going to post a letter.” She held up the folded paper.
“You were going to post a letter.”
She nodded.
“But now you’re not.”
She tapped the letter thoughtfully against her bottom lip. “Actually, I hadn’t quite decided.”
Without thinking, he reached out and took the letter from her hand. If she kept tapping it against her lip like that, he would have to kiss her. No decision involved. He just would. Of course, now that he held the paper in his own hand, Jeremy realized he scarcely needed the tapping letter as provocation. She was too close. So close his mouth ached to taste her. She would taste like wine. He thought about taking a step back. He didn’t.
“You don’t write letters,” he said, sliding his thumb across the uneven wax seal. The sensation instantly recalled the puckered satin of her nipple. His breath hitched. He ought to step back. He couldn’t.
“I don’t write letters. It’s Sophia’s. She’s in love. She wants to elope.”
“With Toby?”
Lucy bit her lip. “No.”
He broke the seal and unfolded the paper. She made no effort to stop him. He perused the contents quickly and refolded the letter before shoving it inside the breast pocket of his coat. “You can’t do this, Lucy. I won’t let you.”
“Why not? If Sophia’s in love with another man, doesn’t she deserve to be happy? If she’s in love with another man, doesn’t Toby deserve to know?”
Her eyes were guileless green, but Jeremy saw red. “Don’t pretend this is about them. You don’t give a damn about what Toby or Sophia deserve. This is all about you. You think that if Sophia’s out of the picture, Toby will turn to you. He won’t.”
Her eyes glimmered, and she lifted her chin. “Why wouldn’t he? Because I’m not elegant and accomplished? Because I have no dowry?”
“Because,” he said roughly, grabbing her by the shoulders. The soft wool of her shawl slid under his fingers. “Because I won’t let him.”
He inched toward her, closing the distance between them until the lapels of his coat grazed the bodice of her dress. He waited. She didn’t pull away. Slowly, tenderly, he slid one hand from her shoulder to her neck, tangling his fingers into her hair and cradling the back of her head. He made a small circle with his thumb, stroking the silken flesh behind her ear. She sighed somewhere deep in the back of her throat, and the sound made him weak. Her wine-stained lips parted, and her tongue darted out to moisten them.
He bent his head to hers, and her eyes widened. “Oh, don’t.”
Jeremy recoiled as if stung. He released his grip on her shoulder. His hand went slack in her hair. He pulled his head away.
Then her hands were around his neck, tugging him back down.
“Don’t let him.”
* * *
Lucy dragged his lips onto hers. Had it truly been only hours since she’d tasted them last? It felt like months. Years.
And it felt right. So right. Damn the letter and everyone else. This, this alone was right.
His lips were firm and warm on hers, but motionless. And closed. One of his hands hovered over her shoulder, the other somewhere behind her head. Lucy could feel their warmth, but not their weight. Not his touch. He was hesitating, she knew. Fighting the kiss, fighting his desire. She could feel the struggle in his chest as it rose and fell against hers.
She pulled his bottom lip into her mouth, sucking gently. He groaned somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound made her bold. She caught his lip between her teeth and nipped. Harder.
His lips parted. At last. She slid her tongue into his mouth, tasting whiskey and relief. She burrowed into his open coat and pressed her breasts against his chest. And when his hands still hesitated, she grabbed hold of his shoulders and jumped. Hopped straight up off the floor—and never came back down, because he caught her in his arms. Just as she’d known he would.
Oh, yes. Finally. One strong arm wrapped around her waist. One hand cupping her head. His lips, moving over her mouth again and again. His tongue, caressing hers. Every inch of his hard, heated body pressed against her, supporting her weight. Heaven. It was night and dark, and his kiss was pure heaven, but Lucy didn’t see stars. She saw clouds. White, feathery clouds and blue, blue sky. Blue like his eyes. Her feet would never touch the ground again. She would float on this cloud for the rest of her life. Longer than that.
She
hooked her legs around his waist. His hand slid down to cup her backside, and he pulled her tight against his groin. She still didn’t see stars. She became a star, free-falling through dark desire, exploding into white-hot light and flame. He lowered her down onto the desk, his hips still locked with hers. He was kissing her neck now, running his tongue up to her ear.
Then he pulled away. He leaned over her, bracing himself on his hands. Candlelight illumined one side of his face. He looked half man, half dangerous shadow—and Lucy wanted him all.
“Touch me,” she whispered. God in heaven, touch me before I burn straight through this desk.
He winced. “Do you hear something?”
Lucy heard many things. She heard her heart hammering in her chest and her pulse thundering in her ears. She heard his ragged, panting breaths. She ground her hips against his. There. She heard a groan.
He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. And then Lucy heard it, too. Footsteps above them. Not just a few, but many. Footsteps thundering down the stairs. The creak of the third step.
“Not again,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “This is becoming ridiculous.” She unwrapped her legs from his waist, and he stepped back. “Well?” she asked, sitting up. “What do we do?”
He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “You could hide under the desk.”
“Are you daft? This is my house. I’m not hiding under the desk. If anyone’s hiding under the desk, it’s going to be y—”
He clapped a hand over her mouth. His voice was low and gruff, and she felt it rumble through her, down through her chest and between her thighs. “Hide, don’t hide. Do as you wish. But whatever you do, you’d better do it quickly.”
He removed his hand. They looked at each other.
Lucy gave herself a shake. She opened her mouth to swear at him, but he cut her off again. This time with a kiss, raw and possessive.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice husky as he tore his lips from hers. “Don’t hide.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Henry entered his study, Jeremy was seated at the desk, sharpening a quill by the light of a single candle. Lucy sat perched on a corner of the desktop, studying a paper by the glow of a few red coals. If Henry had been an observant guardian, he might have taken exception to the fact that his friend and his sister were alone in a room at an ungodly hour of night, studiously avoiding one another’s gaze. He might have noticed that their clothing was rumpled and their hair mussed and their breathing labored. He might have seen that the paper in Lucy’s hand was blank.
But Henry was not observant. He wasn’t even much of a guardian.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re both awake.”
Lucy stared at her brother. He had breeches pulled on under his nightshirt and a loose-fitting greatcoat slung over all. His dark brown hair stood up at wild angles.
“Jem, come with us,” Henry said. “Lucy, go find Marianne. She’s checking the house.”
Lucy looked at Jeremy. He merely blinked at her, his expression blank.
“Come on then,” Henry said impatiently. “She can’t have gotten far. The rain’s stopped at least, but this wind is the devil’s own bitch.”
“Aunt Matilda.” Lucy and Jeremy spoke as one.
Jeremy followed Henry’s lead, pausing at the door to cast Lucy a parting glance, intense and unreadable. She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and took up the candle before venturing out into the corridor.
Marianne greeted her at the bottom of the staircase. Sophia was descending the steps, the hem of her blue silk peignoir skimming above her bare feet.
“How long has she been missing?” Lucy asked.
“We don’t know for certain,” said Marianne. She knotted the sash of her dressing gown with brisk tugs. “Her nurse left her at ten, and it’s well past midnight now. Henry’s taken all the men out in search of her.”
“Two hours.” Sophia shivered. “She could be halfway to the village by now.”
Lucy glared at Sophia and placed an arm about Marianne’s shoulders. “I’m sure she’s no such thing. She’s probably just ambled into an unused room and gone to sleep. We’ll find her.”
“I’ll keep searching down here,” Marianne said. She turned to Sophia. “Miss Hathaway, would you be so kind as to search the upstairs rooms with Lucy?”
“Of course,” Sophia answered. “I’ll wake Kitty as well.”
“Thank you.”
Lucy mounted the stairs two at a time, with Sophia scampering up behind her. She headed down the East corridor, where the guestrooms were located. Most of them were in use at the moment, but a few surplus chambers remained untouched. Perhaps they would find Aunt Matilda curled up between a divan and its dustcover.
“Lucy!” Sophia grabbed her elbow as they entered an unused chamber. Lucy shook her off and began lifting the sheets from the furniture and checking in the cupboards.
Sophia cornered her by a bookcase. “Lucy, where did you go? What did you do with the letter?”
Lucy paused. It took her a moment to remember which letter Sophia meant. It took her another few moments to recollect its current home—the breast pocket of Jeremy’s coat, snugly tucked between the layers of fabric, nestled against his hard chest. It then took her a long minute to recover from that image.
“You didn’t put it with the post, did you?” Sophia grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t post it.”
“Why? Didn’t you want me to?”
“Of course not!”
“But what about Gervais? How is he going to know to come for you if he never receives the letter?”
Sophia let out a strangled sigh. “Gervais is never going to come for me. Gervais doesn’t exist.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t exist. I made him up. My real painting master is a balding prig called Mr. Turklethwaite. I’d lighten my tea with paint before I touched his forearm, let alone any other part of his body.” Sophia shuddered.
Lucy was stunned. “But, the letter …”
“Was your idea!” Sophia exclaimed in a loud whisper. “I thought you were suggesting a bit of fun, just like you proposed writing that letter to the pirates. I thought you understood.” Her face softened. “All that talk about wishing for something so hard it would come true … Lucy, I thought you understood.”
“I do,” she said, thinking of her own infatuation with Toby. Lucy took her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I do understand. Oh, but how did you ever invent such a sordid tale in the first place? The sketching, the … the painting! The rabbits and cabbage!”
“The wine.” Sophia rolled her eyes. “And, so long as I’m being momentarily honest, the envy.”
“Envy?”
“Yes, of course, envy! You’re getting kissed under trees and worked over in cupboards, and I’m getting lessons in geometry!”
Lucy smiled despite herself. This probably wasn’t the moment to tell Sophia she’d just been kissed to distraction in Henry’s study. “But if Gervais isn’t real,” she asked, “then whose address did you give?”
“My modiste’s.” Sophia cringed and let go of Lucy’s shoulders. “Oh, I’ll be ruined,” she moaned, putting one hand over her eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your name wasn’t on the letter. It isn’t even in your hand.”
Sophia uncovered her eyes. “You’re right. But how brilliant! Madame Pamplemousse sells more gossip than gowns. That letter will end up in the scandal sheets, and all of England will be mad to find out who wrote it. We’ll be the talk of the drawing room all winter long. We’ll be infamous!” She grabbed Lucy’s hand in hers. “Oh, tell me you posted it!”
“I didn’t post it.”
“Well give it to me, then. I’ll post it myself.”
“I can’t.” Lucy brushed past her and exited the room. She went down the corridor to the next room. The latch rattled in her hand. It was locked. She turned around and jumped at the sight of Sophia’s nose three inches from her
s.
“What do you mean, you can’t? Where is it?”
“Er …”
Lucy was saved by a series of male shouts emanating from the courtyard. She crossed the corridor and entered the first open room. She hurried to the window and wrenched it open. Footmen scurried about in the courtyard, brandishing torches and shouting directions to one another.
Sophia put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and leaned over her, craning her neck. “They must have found her.”
Lucy turned from the window and started back toward the door. She froze in her tracks. This was Jeremy’s room. She looked around. The fire was banked and growing dim. The bed had not been slept in; the counterpane remained unwrinkled. There were no personal objects to speak of. No book lay on the bedside table. No flask awaited filling at the bar. No discarded cravat hung from the corner of the mirror. Only two objects in the room evidenced his occupancy.
Two valises, standing at attention by the door.
He was leaving.
“Well, come on then.” Sophia tugged at her elbow, and Lucy followed numbly.
Of course, Lucy thought as they hurried down the corridor. Of course he was leaving. Why else would he be leaving a note for Henry in the middle of the night?
“What’s all this, then?” Kitty stepped into the corridor, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand and clutching the neck of her dressing gown with the other.
“Aunt Matilda,” Sophia called over her shoulder as they breezed past. “She’s wandered off again. All the men are out searching for her.”
Lucy and Sophia started down the stairs, and Kitty hurried after them. “Wait!” she called.
Sophia stopped, and Lucy halted likewise. They stared at Kitty.