“Take off your bonnet.” His voice was edged with hoarseness.
“Why?” Her hand lingered at her ribbons, teasing him, her eyes flashing with mischief. The minx was playing him.
“I want to see your hair amidst this autumn splendor.” Would she comply? It was a most brazen request. Most young ladies would not accept. But most young ladies would not have suggested a walk of this nature, either.
Cassandra stepped away from him, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet. She raised both hands and lifted the bonnet from her head, the movement drawing her jacket tight across her breasts. Jocelyn’s mouth went dry. This woman was a born temptress. Every gesture was designed to tease. He was quite sure she knew exactly what she was doing. She’d not merely taken off her bonnet, she’d orchestrated those movements just as she was orchestrating this next act.
Her eyes, sharp and blue, locked with his. She radiated unadulterated confidence. She wanted him to look at her. Well, he could certainly oblige. With raised arms, she drew the pins from her hair, one by one, letting the tresses fall into a slow deep auburn cascade, down her back, over her shoulders. “Now what?”
Oh, this was a wicked game she’d invoked. She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want to know. What he’d give to play this game in a more accommodating location, preferably one with a bed. Jocelyn leaned back against the trunk of a wide oak, arms crossed. “Come over here and kiss me.”
She was Cerelia, the goddess of autumn personified, as she made her way to him, hips swaying softly, provocatively beneath her skirts, her hair loose about her, the tip of her tongue flicking across lips parted in anticipation and he was hard. Lord, he was hard.
It was Cassandra who made first contact, but the kiss was all his. His hands framed her face, his mouth drank from hers. He was thirsty for her, hungry for knowledge that she’d have done this without her uncle’s agenda urging her forward, requiring such action. This part of the escapade was not for Channing, this was for himself.
She moved against him and his body absorbed the soft curve of her breasts, the press of her hips where they met his core. She could not help encountering the evidence of his arousal, but she did not shrink from it. Her hand went to his phallus, shaping the length of him through his trousers. He groaned. This was primal delight indeed to be touched, so much so he thought there was a very real possibility of spending himself right here beneath the forest canopy.
“Cassandra, be careful, you’re playing with fire.” Jocelyn moaned the only warning he could muster. It was most gentlemanly of him under the circumstances. A beautiful woman had one arm about his neck, one hand in his hair, one hand handling his cock and her mouth on his.
Cassandra gave him a wicked look, a naughty smile curving her lips as she whispered, “May I?”
“Yes,” Jocelyn breathed, not sure precisely what he was giving permission for, but it hardly mattered. He was so lost in the moment she could have robbed him blind and he would have given all he had gladly.
Her hand moved at the fall of his trousers and then she was in or he was out. His cock was in her hand, her thumb rubbing across the wet head of him, her fist sliding over him in long stroking motions, over and over until he could feel his balls tighten, the core of him gathering itself for a final sweeping convulsion, erupting in her hand, release swamping him in relief. He sagged against the tree, savoring the moment, of feeling empty, purged, and yet fully sated.
Jocelyn reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket and handed it to her, watching her as she cleaned her fingers. She’d held on to him in his crisis, her hand feeling every tremor of his climax with him. There’d been pleasure in the act for her, too, a very different response than the one that had ended their dance in the garden. “Why did you run last night?” he asked quietly. “You don’t strike me as a woman afraid of passion.”
She looked up from her cleaning, blushing a little at the reference to their recent intimacy. Her eyes were solemn, the fires of mischief temporarily banked. “I was under the mistaken impression I could run from myself.”
Jocelyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’ll need to explain that.”
She looked down and concentrated on folding the square of used linen. “Sometimes my exuberance for living leads me down reckless paths and I promised myself I would be careful in London.”
Jocelyn nodded. “Ah, the Dorset biddies think you are a scandalous piece of baggage.” He laughed. “Of course, you and I know it’s them who are missing out. They’re just jealous because you are having all the fun.”
She matched his smile with a rueful one. “That may be true,but they’re the ones who make the rules. The country gets pretty small when you’re on the outside of that circle.”
“That sounds fairly dire. Tell me, what did you do to risk being cast out of their fine society?”
“You don’t want to know.” There was real reticence in her eyes.
“I assure you I do, especially now. What could be so horrible?” It was rather hard for him to imagine after all he’d done. He’d pleasured women on dining room tables, against library walls, in carriages, parks, even behind a tree in Rotten Row at the crowded hour. Certainly, the country had different standards. What passed for scandal in the country would hardly merit the batting of an eye in London. “Did you steal an apple from the marketplace? Or take money from the collection plate at church?” He was teasing her into acquiescence now. “Perhaps you walked out with another’s beau?”
Cassandra shook her head with a little laugh. “No. It was far worse than that. I kissed the vicar and maybe a little bit more.” She paused. “Well, a lot more, if you want to know. But in my defense, I thought we had an understanding.”
A bolt of unlooked-for jealousy shot through Jocelyn. Had she touched the vicar like this? Taken him in her hand beneath a spreading oak and given him heavenly pleasure?
“At least that’s what everyone believes.”
The vise of jealousy unclamped a bit. “Why is that?” Jocelyn probed for the sake of his own sanity. He shouldn’t be surprised. By her own admission she was a woman of natural passion, and vicars were men, too.
“Because that’s not the way I remember it. He kissed me. But it was my fault it happened at all, although I’d been careful not to encourage any overtures.”
Cassandra swallowed hard and Jocelyn saw all too clearly how the petty country minds of the parish had worked. A pretty woman had attracted the attentions of an eligible bachelor of some standing in the community and likely a man who’d been sought after by more than one female but his eye had been drawn by the wrong one.
“Now you’ve been exiled to London?”
“Yes, my uncle was good enough to take me in and give me a chance to find a husband here.”
The uncle. Lord Burroughs. Jocelyn saw this angle too. Burroughs was exacting a price for that good gesture; help him uncover the league by infiltrating the league’s circle. In return, he’d take her on for the Little Season, that time between November and February when the hard-core politicians and legal men were in town seeing to the business of the kingdom would be the perfect hunting grounds for someone of Cassandra’s background.
She was gentry, her father landed but without a title, a second son. The best she could hope for in a match would be a doctor, a barrister perhaps, or an M.P. And with the cream and mass of society out of town until spring, there would be less chance of her scandal to be ferreted out. Cassandra could go home to Dorset, fully vindicated with a husband by her side. The consequences of failing to secure that prize would be damning to her. And yet, with all that on the line, she’d risked finding pleasure with him, amidst all the agendas swirling about them.
“Well, I assure you there are no vicars here,” Jocelyn said with a smile, fixing up his trouser fall. And definitely no saints, either, he thought. Only sinners. Two of them and both of them
hungry for more.
She’d enjoyed what they’d done in the woods. He could see evidence of it in her eyes, in the lingering arousal of her body. What he wouldn’t give right now to show her the pleasure she’d shown him, but instinct suggested it would be better to wait, better to drive her a little closer to the brink if he held off. Pleasure postponed was a tantalizing carrot to dangle.
They headed back to the carriage in a lazy stroll. He was in no hurry to return to London but Channing’s warning sounded in his head. It wouldn’t do to be caught in compromising circumstances here at the last. For decency’s sake, they needed to return. Already, the first fingers of evening’s shadows caressed the afternoon sun, a reminder that darkness came fast in November. It was colder too. He’d be glad for the lap robes stowed under the seat on the way home.
They came to the edge of the woods, the phaeton in sight where they’d left it, his tiger at the horses’ heads. They’d been in the trees no more than a half hour, yet it seemed an eternity. Beside him, Cassandra sighed. “Do we have to go back?”
“Your people will worry about you. A gentleman doesn’t whisk a lady off unchaperoned to the fall forests for hours on end.”
“We haven’t been gone hours.” Cassandra challenged. “Just long enough to have driven out and stopped for tea before coming back.”
Jocelyn chuckled. “Is that what you’ll tell them? We stopped for tea?” T as in T for temptation, he thought. His little minx was good at subterfuge, not that it mattered. Burroughs would probably countenance any measures it took to crack the league.
His original doubts started to surface again. Had she suggested the walk in the forest simply to advance her uncle’s agenda or her own? He’d been certain in the forest everything that had transpired had been natural, uncontrived to fit anyone else’s agenda but theirs. How did she feel about being her uncle’s pawn? Something else surfaced within him too; anger and protectiveness.
Did she feel trapped, that there was no way out for her except to do her uncle’s bidding and take whatever husband came her way as a result? He’d always hated the notion that marriage solved all of a woman’s problems. It was one of the reasons he’d helped Channing form the league—a chance to rebel against the belief that marriage was the cure-all when in fact for so many it was a curse. It would be a curse for her.
“What is it, Jocelyn? You’re staring at me like you want to say something?” They’d reached the carriage and he was tempted to blurt out his thoughts, to tell her he knew what she was up to, that she didn’t have to go through with it. But what could he do for her? What options could he give her that would replace the opportunities her uncle presented?
She was right, he had been staring. Now he had to think of something to say. “Are you going to Lady Fulton’s this evening?” It was a silly thing to ask. Chances were she was. The Little Season wasn’t like the spring where there were multiple events every night.
“Yes.” She was watching him, a smile playing on her mouth as if she knew what he was angling for. Well, then, he’d have to show her that Miss Cassandra Burroughs didn’t know quite everything.
Jocelyn leaned close to her ear, his voice low. “I was wondering if you would dance with me tonight?” He watched her blue eyes light with a wicked flame. His own body quickened in response to hers. She understood the double entendre. It was so much more fun when a woman did.
Chapter Seven
A wicked thrill shot through Cassandra as she mounted the stairs of the Fulton town house with a group of friends her uncle had arranged to bring her. They weren’t nearly as fun as Jocelyn. Jocelyn Eisley was a most indecent gentleman indeed. It had only been a handful of hours since he’d dropped her off but she could hardly wait to see him. She’d understood perfectly well what he’d been asking this afternoon and she was more than willing to comply with the request up to a point. Just because she’d been caught with the vicar didn’t mean she was free with her favors to anyone who asked. However, if she was going to share those favors with someone, it would be Jocelyn.
Cassandra scanned the ballroom the moment they entered, looking for broad shoulders and blond hair. She stopped herself with a mental scold. What was she doing? She was Cassandra Burroughs, men came to her. She didn’t go to them. She didn’t seek them out. Yet here she was acting swoony about and contemplating licentious behavior with a man who wouldn’t marry her. It wasn’t even a consideration. True, she was in London to find a husband; a nice barrister or doctor, maybe. But not him. She was in town to betray him. Once he realized that, and he would sooner or later, he wouldn’t even consider “dancing” with her.
“Are you looking for someone, my dear?” A familiar voice spoke from behind her.
She felt a smile start as she turned,in spite of her cautionary scold. If she was going to lose him, she might as well enjoy the time she had. “Not anymore.”
“May I interest you in a quadrille?” Jocelyn held out his hand, his smile matching hers as his eyes took her in and Cassandra knew she’d chosen her attire wisely. This was precisely the response she’d hoped for. She’d dressed carefully for the evening in a gown of palest pink that one had to look at closely to determine it wasn’t white. The bodice was done in the en Coeur style and banded at the waist with a wide silk sash of watered pink; the skirt sewn with pearls and crystals, a most expensive gown, but one that required scrutiny in order to appreciate it, much like the woman herself. A man like Jocelyn would understand the message.
The dance floor was not crowded, Lady Fulton’s event was modestly attended, as was often the case during the Little Season, and there was a desultory air throughout the ballroom as if everyone was merely going through the motions of attending. Not that she cared, she was dancing with the most vibrant man in the room. Jocelyn outshone every male present, but soon she’d have to dance with those less dazzling. It was from those fellows she would eventually chose a husband if she wanted to avoid the stain of scandal.
“A rather unremarkable evening, I would say,” Jocelyn whispered as they came together in the pattern. “Do you want to make it remarkable?”
Another challenge. She grinned. “Yes.”
“Meet me in the foyer ten minutes after this dance ends.” He winked and slipped into the new pattern with the partner next to him.
Cassandra hardly noticed how many times young and eager Mr. Townshend stepped on her slippers. Now that she had something to look forward to, the evening became brighter. What would they do? What would make the evening remarkable? She could think of a few things, all wicked. But none of them measured up to what Jocelyn had in store.
He was waiting in the foyer, her furred evening cloak in hand. He draped it about her, hands lingering at her shoulders as he whispered at her ear, “The Gypsies are in town.”
Cassandra sent him a sharp look over her shoulder. “That is remarkable, a remarkably scandalous way to spend the evening.” Her flirtation had a bit of an edge on it. Admittedly, she might be in the throes of infatuation with this gorgeous man who raced phaetons down country lanes and talked of mythology in the autumn woods, but she was not without intelligence.
They both knew he was asking her to break all sorts of rules by coming with him, starting with the impropriety of leaving a decent venue alone in the company of a single gentleman and ending with a visit to Lock’s Fields where the Gypsies made their winter camp. In the middle there were sundry social conventions at stake; riding unchaperoned in a gentleman’s closed carriage, being out alone at night, the list went on. “For a gentleman who was worried about the decency of our carriage drive this afternoon, this seems a most wicked proposition.”
“Unless, of course, if you’re scared?” Jocelyn answered, unbothered by her intimidation tactics and apparently willing to play unfairly.
Cassandra smiled. “First, private waltzes, then stolen kisses, racing phaetons and now this?”
A smile could hide many things. Right now it was hiding her nerves. She’d done reckless things in her past, the most recent that had seen her nearly cast out of Dorset society, what there was of it. But never anything as rash as this: a Gypsy encampment with a man she’d met just the day before. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were deliberately trying to ruin me.” The question was, Why? A niggling suspicion began to blossom. She’d been too caught up in her own end of the game to see it before. What did he know?
Jocelyn laughed at her choice of words as they moved down the steps to the waiting coach. “I seem to have heard that somewhere before, minx.” He put his mouth to her ear, sending a bolt of hot desire through her. “Right before some brazen wench pulled me into the woods and had her way with me.” He helped her into the coach.
“I was under the impression you rather liked it,” Cassandra answered with playful coolness. But beneath the banter, her mind was whirling. Why would he seek to ruin her? Until yesterday, he didn’t even know her. Unless she was wrong about that. If she was, it begged the question did he know about her uncle?
Jocelyn leaned forward as the carriage rocked into motion. “Oh, I did. Now it’s my turn to shock you.”
That’s when she knew he knew. Her suspicion was verified. He was trying to scare her off. That was good news, she told herself. He wouldn’t try to frighten her away if there was nothing to frighten her away from. She hid a little victory smile. Her uncle was right. The league did exist and Jocelyn was part of it. She was right too—it would be delicious to be ruined by Jocelyn Eisley, who’d just implicitly confirmed he was one of London’s finest lovers.
It was a dangerous thought that raised both her need for caution and her sense of excitement. To be ruined by this fine man beside her, who looked like an English god, who made her laugh and matched her own joie de vivre with reckless and regular abandon sent a certain thrill through her that was arousing in the extreme. She must tread carefully here. She’d been shocked by the depth of their kiss last night and their interlude this afternoon, especially based on the brevity of their acquaintanceship.
A Most Indecent Gentleman Page 4