The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  She fell quiet, but she leaned into him, huddling, perhaps, for warmth. The chill of the night began to creep in now that they were still, and he gathered her closer, tucking her thin shawl about her shoulders. He felt it then, her hand, fumbling through the darkness.

  It burrowed into his and he obligingly held on tight.

  All around them the symphony of birdsong was growing louder now, a hundred different birds, each announcing the coming of the day. The darkness was shifting, the colors of the moors beginning to take shape, pink and gold and umber. He felt her hand tighten against his and heard her breath catch in wonder. “What is happening?” she whispered.

  “Sunrise,” he said simply.

  “The sun comes up in London, too.” He heard her swallow. “But it bloody well doesn’t look or sound like this.”

  “No.” He chuckled, in spite of his resolve to stay quiet. “This is known as the dawn chorus. Birds do it all over the world. But civilization has a way of ruining it. Now shhhh.”

  They sat for a good half hour, until the light overtook the dark and the air began to warm around them. At some point he stopped watching the meadow and began to watch her instead. He’d experienced this morning sunrise more times than he could count, but given her pending departure, this might very well be the last time he could watch her.

  And to his mind, she made a far more compelling subject for observation.

  Her eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them, sparkling with excitement in the muted light of morning. Her generous mouth was open, as though surprise had caught her and forgotten to loosen its hold. She was watching the meadow as though it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but there was more than just beauty at stake.

  There was life.

  And as rich as it was, it was fragile. Thomas knew every bird species in this field, each family of plant that called this rare peninsula home. He’d trekked the entire coast and recorded hours of observations, meticulously writing the arguments for the preservation of this acreage, knowing that once it was lost, there was no reclaiming it.

  A bird landed on a piece of shrub not five feet away, and he heard her gasp of pleasure. The chorus was growing quieter now, as the fickle creatures began to turn their attention away from the sun and toward the task of finding breakfast. This bird, in particular, appeared to think they might be the ones to provide him with it. It cocked its glossy black head, studying them, and then jumped down, hopping closer.

  “What kind of bird is this?” she whispered, breaking the silence. She reached out a hand and the bird let her come as close as a half foot before it let out a shrill squawk of objection from its red beak and flew away to safer quarters.

  “Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax.”

  She turned her head toward him. “Are you sure you are a marquess? Because honestly, you sound more like one of Geoffrey’s sour-faced Latin tutors.”

  In spite of himself, he chuckled. “The Latin names are a manner of classifying organisms based on a system created by Linnaeus.”

  “Well, that’s all well and good,” she laughed, “but Linnaeus isn’t here. What would an ordinary person call it?”

  “That was a Cornish chough.”

  “Tell me more.” When he hesitated, she pulled her hand from his and shifted her entire body to face him, her chin upturned. “Isn’t this why you brought me here?” She lifted a hand to the landscape she was now missing. “So you can explain it all?”

  He nodded, wanting to tell her, but also not wanting to spoil the moment. Would she understand? He didn’t know if she would appreciate it as he did, but he had been wrong to try to wrest the decision away from her, from the start. “The Cornish chough is a bird that makes its home here on the Lizard Bay peninsula. But they are declining in numbers, due in part to the mining operations up and down the coast.”

  “Are they bound to suffer the same fate as the fish?” Lucy asked with a frown

  “I am afraid so.”

  She loosened a frustrated sigh. “Oh, the bloody Marston Mining Corporation.” She glanced toward his satchel. “And what about the flowers you tried to give me on Saturday? Are they in danger too?”

  “Cornish heath.”

  “No Latin?”

  “It hasn’t been named yet because no one knows about it. It is a unique variety, different than any I’ve ever seen. And yes, they are in danger, too. This is the only place it grows, in all of Britain, and if my suspicions are correct, on all of earth.” He gestured toward the sun-drenched meadow. “You can’t imagine the rarity of the land you hold, Lucy. Heathmore has created an entire world of its own, with its strange soil and unusual geology. I’ve cataloged over two dozen different species of fauna and flora, each unique to this part of the coast. I don’t know how many more species are left to be discovered. Hundreds, possibly.” He breathed in, thinking of the proposal he had drafted. “I’ve a paper for the Linnean Society of London, outlining my findings. I don’t know if it will be enough to generate the sort of interest we need to save Lizard Bay. But I do know that if the land is turned over to the Marston Mining Corporation, it will be lost forever.”

  “Oh, bugger it all,” she whispered softly.

  “I can envision a pilgrimage of naturalists and enthusiasts from all over the world. An industry, of sorts, for poor beleaguered Lizard Bay and even Mrs. Wilkins’s boardinghouse. I was prepared to invest in such a scheme, to offer Heathmore Cottage—free of rent—as a naturalist’s retreat, for scientists to come and study this part of the coast. That is why I had devoted so much effort to repairing the cottage.”

  She blinked up at him. “You would invest in this, but not tin mining?”

  “Lizard Bay is important to me. To all of us. I would willingly put my own funds behind something that might make the town flourish. I understand, though, that this isn’t my choice. I won’t submit the paper I have written to the Linnean Society, not if you do not wish me to. The property belongs to you. The decision does as well.”

  He waited, his chest tighter than a noose, to hear what she would say to his proposal.

  “Why does it all mean so much to you?” came her agonized whisper. “Some people would look at this and see only an ugly, useless piece of land, a bit of grass and rock. But you . . . you look at it and see beauty. Potential.”

  He inclined his head, his gaze wanting to linger on the lovely curve of her cheek. “I don’t know why I see it so differently, only that I do.” He reached out a hand and brushed a strand of blond hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. In some ways, he supposed, it was not that different from how he looked at her. She saw herself as a plain spinster, but he looked at her and saw the good, the potential, and yes, the beauty.

  She was so damn beautiful she took his breath away.

  “But it does not matter what I see. The choice of what to do with Heathmore is not mine to make, and I was wrong to try to buy it without showing you this from the start. The decision is yours, Lucy. It should have always been. And no matter the decision you make, I will honor it.”

  Her mouth rounded in surprise. “You would risk losing it?”

  “If I’ve learned but one thing in my life, it’s that it’s no small thing to lose something so rare. To fail to protect something you love.” He hesitated, thinking that in some ways this was proving less difficult than he’d imagined. “But sometimes the choice does not lie with you.”

  There was a moment’s pause. “Is that why you were trying so hard to protect this piece of land?” Her voice hushed. “Because of your sister?”

  He sucked in a breath. “You know?”

  She nodded. “I finally reached eighteen fifty in Aunt E’s diary.”

  Thomas reached out again, picking up her hand and turning it over in his. If she knew, there was little he could do to change it. And a part of him was glad she knew.

  He wanted her to know this about him. He wanted her to know everything about him.

  And he wanted to know everything about her as
well.

  But to do that, he needed to do more than unlock her secrets.

  He needed to unlock her heart.

  Chapter 24

  Lucy stared at this man who had become so inexplicably dear to her that he made the rest of the morning—wondrous though it was—fall away.

  When had his profile become so familiar? She felt as though she knew every angle, every plane, of his face. He’d shown her an amazing world this morning—his world, the one he dreamed of protecting. But even more importantly, he’d shown her his hopes for its future, all cards on the table, no more bluffs between them.

  And then he’d left the choice in her hands.

  “Thomas,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  He smiled, and it was a slow, spreading, wicked smile, a smile that sent one edge of his mouth a little higher than the other and her stomach twisting in pleasure.

  “You didn’t say please,” he said, but his voice had gone hoarse and deep.

  “Please.” She was rewarded for her honesty by the sight of his mouth lowering toward hers. Unlike the last kiss they’d shared, this time he was punishing in his slowness. An agonizing inch at a time, he closed the space between them like a man at leisure.

  But she had never been good at waiting.

  She looped her arms about his neck and pulled him into her until their noses bumped and their mouths found the right mark, and the feel of his lips on hers outstripped the anticipation. She gasped in pleasure as his mouth claimed hers. That noise, finally, seemed to unleash the predator she sensed lurking beneath the gentlemanly surface. His kiss turned from tender to demanding, and she welcomed the shift.

  She kissed him openly. Honestly. Kissed him as though her world was ending and she might never get another chance. Kissed him as he eased her back onto the grass and stretched out beside her, their tongues dancing in a rhythm that sent shivers up her spine and her thoughts racing in more mischievous directions.

  She turned herself over to it, trusting him to know her own mind better than she knew it herself. She was rewarded for that trust when his kiss turned playful, just as she thought she might shrink from the intensity of it. His mouth gentled, his teeth nipping at her lower lip, his moan of pleasure a perfect echo of her own want.

  “Thomas,” she gasped as his mouth left hers to land, warm and wet and achingly welcome, against her neck. She arched up, tipping back her head, her eyes open to the pink-tinged sky above them. “I . . . I think I am wearing too many clothes.”

  He ran a possessive palm down the length of her torso, torturing her with its slow, relentless path southward. “How would you like me to rectify that misfortune?” His hand trailed lower, down one calf, until his fingers were teasing the very edge of her nightdress.

  She held her breath in anticipation.

  “Would you recommend I do this?” he asked, lifting the hem a few inches. He lowered his head to press a kiss against one bare calf, his mouth warm and full of promise. “Or perhaps this, instead?” He lifted the hem higher, grazing her thighs. He lowered his head there, too, his mouth and tongue swirling against skin, dangerously close and yet so far from where her body and imagination screamed he might yet go.

  She thrashed her head, her lungs feeling too constricted to breathe as he eased the hem upward, ever more slowly, to bare her most private secrets to his gaze. He hesitated there, his indrawn breath louder, even, than the thundering of her heart.

  “Holy God,” he whispered. “You are so, so beautiful.” He reached out a hand and touched her, swirling a finger against that spot he’d discovered the night they’d spent at Heathmore. His touch sent her nerves twisting in pleasure until Lucy moaned out loud, wanting him to move on and yet wanting him to linger.

  He swept the nightdress higher still, pressing kisses against her belly now, moving upward with slow, lascivious intent, until she was lifting her arms above her head and he was sweeping the confounding cotton aside, tossing it away. He loomed over her, staring down, his breath coming in hard pants. Behind his head the sun had shifted from pink to gold, casting his face in shadows. It made him appear hewn from stone, an almost-stranger, but the knowledge that this was Thomas softened the impact of her nudity.

  She waited, unembarrassed, for him to take off his own clothes.

  Instead, he fell upon her body like a starving man. “Beautiful,” he groaned out loud, his mouth against her breast, and then he was drawing her nipple into his mouth and suckling with the sweetest, gentlest pressure. She closed her eyes, the feeling of his tongue against her breast almost unbearable. He moved to the other breast, his hands sliding across skin, kneading and pulling. All the while, he murmured to her, groaning as if he took his own pleasure from hers.

  But as wonderful as it was, it wasn’t enough.

  She wanted to feel his body against hers, without the inconvenience of wool and cotton.

  As his mouth came back to greet hers for a long, bruising kiss, she tore at the buttons of his coat. “You, next,” she gasped against his lips.

  He sat up and shifted slowly out of his frockcoat, one arm at a time. For heaven’s sake, did the man never hurry? She lifted herself up and helped herself to the buttons of his waistcoat, then plucked at the scarf about his neck and pulled his shirt over his head. “You are too slow,” she said, batting his hands away. But then there was a woolen undervest to contend with, and that stymied her for several long seconds. “Bugger it all, why do men wear so many clothes?” she muttered, making him chuckle. When she finally reached skin, she nearly groaned with relief.

  For a moment she just stared at the sight of him, his bare chest gleaming in the morning sun. That night in the cottage, she’d averted her eyes from his shirtless form, but this morning an entire team of horses couldn’t have dragged her gaze away. He was magnificently made, his chest a series of planes and ridges, so the opposite of her own soft curves she was tempted to question if they were the same species. There was a faint pattern of hair, glinting red, but it thinned and darkened as it arrowed downward, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

  She ran a fingertip down his rib cage, enjoying the turnabout as he drew in a startled breath, sending his musculature into even starker relief. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth against his chest. He tasted of soap. Of salt. Of Thomas.

  And so she kissed him there, again. Ran her tongue along those ridges and planes, marveling at the coiled strength she sensed beneath his skin. Flattened her palm against his hard abdomen, enjoying, too, the quiver of muscles there.

  She discovered the sort of wild, wanton joy to be found in giving pleasure, instead of only receiving it. Because there was no doubt at all she was enjoying this, every bit as much as he was. Her breathing was every bit as fast, her limbs every bit as weak. The wonder of that made her want to slow down, relish the moment.

  Perhaps he was onto something with his slowness.

  As she returned to kiss him, full on the mouth, she lowered her hands, down, down, past the band of his trousers. “Next these,” she murmured against his mouth.

  He stilled and shook his head. “Lucy, I don’t think that is a wise idea.”

  Her hand slid lower, to the long, hard length of him beneath the wool. “I would beg you, then, to stop thinking.”

  His hand stilled over hers, halting her progress. “Lucy—” he warned, panting with the effort of holding back. “Do you trust me?”

  She blinked in surprise. “You know I do.” She would not be here, now, naked, touching him so intimately, if she did not trust him with her very life.

  “Then trust me when I say we cannot do this. Not this way.” His voice sounded close to breaking. “I cannot let you risk that sort of ruin,” he went on, shaking his head. “I will not be the sort of man who fails to protect you, however much I want you in this moment.”

  “But . . . I want you, too,” she protested. And she wanted to feel him stretched out next to her, skin on skin, u
ntil they were both out of breath and far too gone to care about consequences.

  But she understood, in some way, what he meant. She’d read enough in her aunt’s diary to know this piece of his history. He’d seen his sister’s fall from grace, and so she knew there was honor—not rejection—lurking in the shadows of his refusal. He was fashioned as a protector. Had proven himself a determined one, too. Time after time he’d held himself back from what she’d offered, when a lesser man might have tupped her against the wall of the inn.

  Or, on the sofa in the cottage.

  Or, in this lovely, wild meadow, the rising sun laughing down on them.

  “Can’t we . . . just once?” she asked, biting her lip.

  “Even once is too great a risk.” He reared back and pulled a hand through his hair, as though seeking an answer to the dilemma she posed. As she groaned in frustration, his hazel eyes slid back to hers. One side of his mouth quirked upward, transforming him in an instant from protector to rogue. “But perchance there are other ways . . .”

  “What other ways?” she asked, even as her more devilish side told her no, thank you very much, she really did want his trousers off.

  “Lay back,” he told her. “And close your eyes.”

  She did as he asked. She felt the long sweep of his hands across her body. Imagined she might next feel his mouth, warm against the underside of her breast.

  But this time his mouth touched her somewhere else.

  Somewhere impossible.

  And despite the fact her eyes were squeezed shut, she knew it was definitely the touch of his mouth. She could feel the gentle scrape of his whiskers against her thighs, feel the warm heat of his breath as he kissed her there. She gasped out loud and lifted a knuckle to her lips, trying to draw a proper breath. She’d never heard of such a thing, could not believe he meant to do it.

  And yet she couldn’t summon the proper words to beg him to stop.

  She bucked against the feelings, her hips and thoughts helpless against the pleasure he was kindling in a very extraordinary place. How could his mouth on that one small spot stir such feelings elsewhere? She seemed to feel him everywhere. In her core, beneath her skin. It was as though he was lighting a fire inside her, patiently laying the bricks, kindling the flames until they leaped, high and sure. She felt as though her bones were melting against that sure heat, pooling in a wanton heap as he worked, gently, on that most vulnerable part of her body.