“And being in the country implies what exactly?” He winked.
“That we are in a boorish backwater,” she snapped. Now she sounded shrewish but she was past caring. She simply couldn’t think straight wrapped up in his arms.
“Boorish backwater.” He laughed outright. “But it is the latest thing on the Continent and I suggest we bring it here. To bring the boorish backwater, as you call it, up to the latest mode.”
Speechless she stared at him. Bring the waltz to Oakland Grange? It was sure to draw unwanted attention – the one thing they must avoid.
She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to bring undue attention to ourselves. Or have you forgotten Philip and the lengths we went to ensure all believe he is truly your son?”
Shocked, she looked at her hands. Of their own volition, they had uncurled and now her fingers lay long against his chest. Through them she could feel him heave a sigh.
A log in the fire cracked, tumbling onto the hearth, and sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Reluctantly he let her go.
“I must tend to the fire. And you’re right, of course.”
She turned away, putting her hands onto fevered cheeks and sucking in a great breath of air as she gazed through the window.
The moonlight Christopher had wished for earlier hadn’t materialized. Not even a star pricked the pitch black outside. The darkness bespoke of danger – like the danger of the forbidden wants tumbling through her mind.
She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to feel his strength against her softness. She wanted him to kiss her again.
“Josceline?” He tapped her on the shoulder.
She started at his touch and dropped her hands to twine them in her skirts.
“The Contredanse it is.” He made a great show of stepping back and holding up a hand. “But don’t think I mean to give up on the waltz.”
“Of course.” She hastened to correct herself when she realized he could construe the wrong meaning. “The Contredanse, that is. I am afraid, Mr. Sharrington, if you wish to waltz you must find yourself another partner.”
She emphasized his name to remind him of her station as his employee.
Clearly he caught her meaning, for he cocked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth lifted for a second. Amusement bubbled in his eyes and at the sight she had the urge to smack him again. He was having great fun at her expense, she fumed silently.
“One two three four.” Glaring at him, she began to count and move through the figures.
Her glare appeared not to bother him a whit. With a bland smile, he moved along with her, winking whenever she caught his glance.
She’s not going to get off so easily next time, Christopher chuckled to himself. A waltz with her is what he wanted and a waltz with her is what he would get. At the thought, he inadvertently applied a little too much pressure to her hand and she stumbled.
Two green eyes spit fire at him and she tossed her head so vehemently that a curl shook free to frame her face. With a forceful swipe, she tucked it behind her ear.
“I must beg pardon,” he murmured.
She accepted his apology with a grudging nod then twirled away, counting all the while. He was rewarded with a whiff of violets and sandalwood which just made him want to crush her to him all the more so he could inhale more deeply.
He didn’t, though. He kept his face blank so she couldn’t read his thoughts, allowing him to dwell on the pleasing dream of her in his arms, sweeping her around the dance floor to the strains of a Viennese waltz.
She was right, of course. To put themselves on display at the Oakland’s dinner party would negate the accomplishment of successfully portraying Philip as his son to Lady Oakland. He consoled himself with the thought that a waltz with her would be all the sweeter when it finally came to pass.
Josceline stopped counting and came to a stop, moving away a fraction before she spoke. “You have a splendid grasp of the Contredanse. Now on to the minuet.”
Her cheeks were flushed, and a slight sheen of perspiration coated her forehead. The unruly curl had fallen across her cheek again and he reached out with a finger to tuck it behind her cheek. His finger grazed her skin and she gave him a wary look that reminded him of a startled wild doe.
Lud, never mind dancing. He needed to kiss her. Now.
Chapter Sixteen
Josceline saw the intent in Christopher’s eyes, saw him lean in towards her, felt the pressure of his hand tugging her closer. Candlelight gilded his face, throwing his features into sharp relief.
His very handsome features, she thought boldly before his lips swooped down to hers to obliterate all reason.
He tasted of brandy and oddly, chocolate. Chocolate? When had he eaten chocolate?
All thoughts of chocolate and brandy disappeared when his mouth teased open hers. It was as if her lips were glued to his because her mouth opened as well. His tongue flicked against hers and shocked, she tried to pull away only to find she couldn’t escape his embrace for her hands had somehow become tangled in his hair. He probed her mouth with his tongue, playing with hers such that her knees turned to jelly. She sagged into his bulk.
He must have pulled away for she heard him whisper. “You shall fall.”
And he picked her up to seat her on the desk, pushing apart her knees to stand between her legs. Gazing at her with heavy-lidded eyes, he pulled the pins from her hair and it fell in a disordered mass about her shoulders. He kissed her again, harder this time, raking his hands through her hair and sliding them down her back to land on her hips. Gently, so gently she could barely feel it, he adjusted his hands to massage her thighs then grabbed her knees to pull her closer. Through her skirts she could feel his male hardness as he rubbed against her.
Josceline’s thoughts scattered like seed pods on the wind.
Wrong, oh so wrong.
She didn’t care.
She kissed him back, following the flow of her feelings, wondering, nay, craving to know where he was leading her. Her heart pounded and her breath came in short little gasps, for she was afraid if she took a deep breath, she would lose the tantalizing sensations he aroused in her.
Cold air wafted on her skin. Without her noticing, he had lifted her skirts. His fingers traced her legs to the apex of her thighs and he rubbed gently the little nub hidden there amongst the crisp curls.
“Please,” she whimpered, writhing against his fingers.
“Please what,” he demanded, his voice a growl. “Please stop?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” What had he just asked her? To stop? How could she stop? It was he who had to stop whatever it was he was doing to her, it was he who had to stop bewitching her.
His scent enveloped her, drugging her senses. Citrus. Leather. Her thoughts were incoherent fragments now for the pressure and movement of his fingers drove her mad.
“No, don’t stop,” she moaned.
More. Faster. Harder. Don’t stop, don’t stop with your fingers there.
“I won’t stop, Josceline. Not unless you want me to.”
She shook her head, and he chuckled low in his throat, spearing her with a possessive gaze before raising his hands to cup her breasts.
Her head spun as the warmth of his palms penetrated the fabric of her dress. He tweaked her nipples through the fabric. They pebbled, pushing against the fabric of her shift and he tugged the dress down off her shoulders to take first one nipple, then the other, in his mouth.
Her head lolled back and shocks of pleasure rocketed from her breasts to her woman’s place. Her legs spread wider and dimly she could feel the edge of the desk against the backs of her thighs. That sharp edge was her last link to reality and it snapped as he slipped his hands under her legs to pull himself even closer, grinding his pelvis against hers before pulling back to slip his fingers in between them again. The outside world faded away and all she could feel was the sweet pressure there, between her legs.
“Please,” she whimpered again.
Please? What was it she was pleading for?
But her body knew for she began to rock against his hand, rocking, straining, pushing, searching.
And then she knew.
The first wisps of pleasure, a pleasure she had never known before, solidified and it was as if she had crested a mountain peak only to fall spiraling, spiraling, down, down.
Shuddering, she collapsed and fell back on her elbows, sated with contentment. Eyes closed, she relished the sensation as long as she could until nothing remained, only a warm glow throughout her body.
Christopher watched her climax, saw her flush, smelled the seductive odor of her woman scent mixed in with violets and sandalwood. He knew he would hate himself later but he couldn’t control himself. He had to take her.
He had to take her now.
Unfastening his breeches, his penis sprang free, throbbing with life, already crowned with a drop of white, heavy cream. Maneuvering carefully, he positioned the sensitive tip at the apex of her thighs, prodding, nudging, searching for the hidden place he knew would give him the release he sought.
She was slick, ready for him.
“Hold me,” he whispered. And she complied, shifting forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Her gaze was mysterious yet knowing and an unsteady smile trembled on her lips.
“Forgive me,” he breathed, knowing he was likely to hurt her as he broke through the barrier of her virginity.
He locked his mouth on hers and thrust. Beneath him, he could feel her body stiffen but she didn’t make a sound. Her muscles squeezed tight around his member and he groaned with the sweetness of it, of her.
He held still for a moment to let her become accustomed to the feel of him inside her. Then she shifted slightly to wrap her legs around his waist, beginning a cascade of sensations he couldn’t stop. He thrust once, twice, three times and exploded, shouting his climax to the heavens.
The force of his ejaculation stunned him and he had to lean against the desk, bracing himself with one arm, holding Josceline in the other. His knees shook and his nose filled with the heady combination of her scent of her woven with his. A primeval surge of conquest steadied his legs. He didn’t want to pull free, not yet and instead he leaned back a little to drop a tender kiss on her lips.
She was dazed, flushed, mouth swollen. “Someone shall find us here, like this.”
Another surge of conquest passed through him at her breathless words. She, too, had felt the searing passion between them.
“They shan’t disturb us, the door is latched,” he reassured her then dropped another light kiss on her lips. He could quite happily remain in her embrace forever.
A sobering thought. One which he should examine more closely when in the sanctuary of his own room.
Limp as a rag doll, Josceline glanced away and glimpsed her reflection in the darkened window. Her skirts were tangled around her waist, her shoulders and limbs white, hair a riotous mess. How appalling. If someone had passed by in the garden, they could see through the windows. She looked a proper whore. Or what she imagined a proper whore would look like.
Worse, like a proper whore, she had enjoyed it, every spine tingling second. Even now, her legs still circled Christopher’s waist.
Tiny fingers of shame poked her. She was as weak as her gaming drunkard of a father. He, too, succumbed to flimsy pleasures and the ton scorned him because of it. Now they would scorn her on her own actions if it ever came to light.
Was losing herself to Christopher worth the potential recrimination? Truly, she didn’t know for she didn’t know his intentions toward her.
And sadly, it was too late. Gripped by the sensations he had aroused in her, she had given herself to him with nary a thought to the consequences.
Her thighs started to cramp and she dropped her legs to the ground, looking away in embarrassment as she struggled to rearrange her clothing. He took a step back, and adjusted his breeches.
“If that is the minuet, then I should look forward indeed to learning it further,” he quipped weakly.
Incredulous, she gazed at him. He tried to make light of the situation and appeared untroubled.
At her accusing stare, guilt flashed though his eyes. Again she looked away, trying to make sense of his mood.
“Do you regret this?” he asked gently, reaching out to take her chin in his fingers, turning her face so she looked at him full on.
He had read her thoughts. How did he know her so well he could see what lay behind her eyes?
“No.” She lowered her gaze then raised it to look unflinching into his eyes. “It’s nothing more than what people already thought,” she announced defiantly.
“By people, I assume you refer to Lady Oakland,” he said, lips twisting derisively. “We’ve conquered that battle already, or do I need to remind you of our upcoming invitation?”
“As you say.” She nodded, biting her lips. She would never, ever admit to him she had enjoyed it. Proper ladies did not enjoy the attentions of their husbands, or so she had been told by Elizabeth who had it, she claimed, on good authority from her mother.
“I promise you, this shan’t happen again,” he said hastily. Too hastily. As if self-reproach consumed him. “I will not speak of it.”
“Nor shall I,” she whispered.
Yes, she wouldn’t speak of it but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t think of it. Silent, and without another glance in his direction, she walked away.
* * *
She threw herself across her bed, his final words echoing in her ears: “This shan’t happen again. I will not speak of it.”
Shaking hands pulled at the bed cover, balling it in her fists. She had disappointed him and that was why he didn’t want it to happen again. She had given him her virtue and he hadn’t enjoyed it.
What did that say about her, for she had enjoyed it, very much. Not just the strangely exquisite physical sensations, but the feeling of closeness with Christopher. Now she knew why Maggie Mary, the upstairs maid, simpered whenever Horace, the eldest footman, came by. Now she understood the knowing glances they tossed at each other when they thought no one saw.
And now that he had ruined her, he could send her on her way and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
True, she still had his handkerchief but perhaps it wouldn’t be enough of a deterrent for him anymore. She had threatened to unmask Christopher as a highwayman, holding as proof the blood stained handkerchief but in truth, it had been a ruse, and a successful one at that.
Christopher had believed her assertion that as the daughter of a duke, his word would not hold against hers but now, he didn’t need her anymore. With Philip established in his home, Christopher had gained the confidence of Lady Oakland and with it, his entrance into local society. It would be easy enough for him to engage another governess.
The thought hurt more than she cared to admit for she had come to care about the orphaned brothers.
If he sent her on her way, would he provide her with a proper reference or would she be left penniless once again? And then? Home to London and marriage to Mr. Burrows? The irony didn’t escape her. Without her virginity, she no longer had value for her father and the wealthy merchant.
Fool, to think she was beginning to love the handsome Captain Christopher Sharrington when all he had wanted was to use her.
Fool, she had fallen to his charms, had not even offered the slightest bit of resistance.
Fool, to hope that perhaps he cared for her, even a little.
Fool.
Her frame shuddered with great wracking sobs.
* * *
Filled with self-loathing, Christopher poured himself a brandy. Tossing it back, he poured himself another then slammed down the snifter on his desk so hard the ledger on it jumped.
Damnation, what had he just done? He had taken her, the daughter of a duke, like a common strumpet. Here, on his desk in the library, where anyone could have walked in on them.
The only thing was, she was n
o common strumpet. She was the woman he loved.
The notion hit him like a free swinging boom on a mizzenmast.
The woman he loved.
And he had treated her with a lack of respect. He’d lost his self control then tried to make a jest of it.
He gave a ferocious kick to the desk chair, sending it crashing to the floor.
Idiot.
He wouldn’t blame her if she hated him. If, deservedly so, she hated him, could he yet win her love?
For that’s what he wanted more than anything, more than the “Bessie”, more than the chance to build a sea faring enterprise, more than acknowledgement from Bristol’s aristocratic society.
He wanted Lady Josceline Woodsby’s love. Could he win it now? Or had he thrown away his chance with her over a stupid lapse in judgment?
At the memory, his loins started to throb, making him even more disgusted with himself. Making love to her had been wonderful, even better than he could have imagined.
And would be even better the next time, for now her body knew how to respond.
“If there is a next time,” he groaned aloud to the wall of books silently watching his anguish.
He would have to make it up to her somehow. She had put on a brave face but he had seen her face crumple as she’d turned to walk away.
Her scent still clung to him. Violets and sandalwood. It was, he decided, his favorite scent. A scent he could easily wake up to the rest of his living days. Well, there was one way that could happen.
He would do right by her and marry her.
True, unlike the men of her class, he had to earn a living but there was honor in that. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He would marry her and let the devil take the consequences.
Even the consequences of her disgust when she discovered who he really was.
Chapter Seventeen
Her Proper Scoundrel Page 13