Stupid of her, she knew, to indulge in such a fantasy. Perhaps the rain had made her delirious. Or the whiskey had made her mad.
She turned around to face him. “Are the ten minutes up?”
“Six to go,” he said, looking at his watch fob. “But I’m willing to open the door now if you can walk through it peaceably and get straight into my carriage.”
“Why, that’s Uncle Bertie’s watch.” Her heart gave a little lurch as she wondered what her dear elderly relative was doing at the moment.
“Yes, it is,” Gregory said, popping it back into his waistcoat pocket. “He gave it to me last night when I promised to look after you.” He threw himself into a chair and tilted it backward, a favorite activity of his since he was a boy. “I suppose changing the subject is your way of saying you’re not ready to cooperate.”
She traveled to his side, her man shoes scraping across the floor, then nudged his shoulder with her hip. “Kissing me is hardly looking after me. And you promised we’d leave after ten minutes, whether I cooperate or not.”
“You’ve already been a very obliging prisoner.” He kept his eyes on the fireplace, crossed his arms behind his head, and looked the epitome of relaxed man. Relaxed, handsome man. “We could go back to what we were doing.”
She scratched the side of her nose and moved away a step. “I couldn’t kiss you for six minutes even if I wanted to.”
“Oh, yes you could.”
“Hah.” She gave a shallow laugh. “Kisses can’t last that long. We’d run out of breath.”
“It’s like magic,” he said to the fireplace. “Somehow you don’t.”
“You would know,” she said. “A gentleman shouldn’t be kissing so many women for so long. It leads—it leads to a dissolute life.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing—if you’re stupid. But you’re not stupid. You can’t fool me for an instant. You don’t want a dissolute life.”
He shrugged. “You think too much, Lieutenant.”
That old name! It warmed her heart to hear him say it, although she wouldn’t tell him.
“And you don’t think enough, Captain,” she told the top of his head. She longed to run her hand through those shiny, dark curls.
He stood up, and the front chair legs hit the floor with a loud thump. “Listen to me.” He hovered above her. “You can’t go to Paris—what would be the point if you did? Monsieur will say no to tutoring you. Can’t you learn the art from books?”
“It won’t be the same. Can you learn how to design buildings only from books? Or didn’t you need a mentor to help you reach your potential?”
“A mentor is preferable, but it’s not realistic in your case. What would you want to do, once you learn the art of sugar sculpting from Monsieur?”
“I’ll come back to all of them,” she said, “Uncle Bertie, Mother, Brick and the other servants, and the moor, after I’ve learned everything I can. When I live in Dartmoor again, I’ll be in great demand. By then, I’ll have learned to pack and ship my wares, and people will pay extraordinary amounts for my creations.”
“You’re a lady, Pippa. You’re supposed to get married, have children. Don’t you have an obligation to your family to make a good match?”
She sighed. “You know the answer to that. Of course I do, in the eyes of the world. But the moor”—she grasped both his hands—“it speaks every day, and it’s much louder in its silence than any gossips, the Toad, Mother, and all the expectations that have been thrust on me since I was a little girl. The moor says that I have only one chance”—she squeezed his hands hard—“this chance, to live my life. And I’m going to take it.”
He pulled away, walked to the window, and peered out. “We’re grown now.” His voice was steady when he turned back to face her. “Today you were preyed upon by a scoundrel who’ll deny everything if he’s accused. I thought you were merely in the garden or downstairs when I walked by your room this morning and found you gone. Hawthorne and Trickle had already cleared evidence of him from your room.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And then you put yourself in further danger by naïvely throwing yourself on the mercy of what is, in large part, a cruel world. Furthermore, I’m on my way to a dull house party where I intend to work on a modest commission that will get me no further ahead in the realm of architecture than running away will do for you. This is real life, Pippa. It’s time to put childish fancy behind us.”
Her throat was suddenly hot. “When we were children, you were the perfect companion. We saw wondrous things together, and we acted as if only the present moment mattered. I always knew”—she gulped—“I always knew we would be friends—that there was no limit to our understanding of each other. But that didn’t last long, did it? A dozen years ago, you changed completely. I suppose you grew up, according to your definition of the term. And now we’ve nothing in common. Nothing beyond—”
She couldn’t go on, but she was thinking of how well their bodies fit together when they kissed.
She strode to the door, but before she could unbolt it, he caught her hand from behind.
“So we’ve nothing in common, eh?” he said close to her ear.
She shook her head.
“And I know nothing of joy?”
She nodded vigorously.
He encircled her waist with his palms. “If that’s so, how is it that I can make you feel”—he raised his hands and cupped her breasts—“like this?”
She froze and tried to ignore the incredibly erotic sensations his hands aroused in her.
“And why is it,” he murmured, “that I know exactly how to make you happy?”
“No you don’t.”
“Oh, yes I do.” A beat of simmering silence went past. “I dare you to let me try.”
“Gregory Sherwood, when you dare me, something always goes wrong.”
“It won’t this time,” he said. “I promise.”
She twisted around to face him. “That’s what you always used to say.”
He chuckled. “The last time I dared you to anything I was barely thirteen.”
“True,” she said slowly.
“Let me try again. But you must trust me. Do you?”
She gave a quick nod. “But I’m only saying yes because it’s time you got back to your old self. You became quite dull as you got older. Moping about Uncle Bertie’s library. Refusing to hike on the moor. Not laughing at my jokes. I don’t believe you have it in you to have a lark. In fact, this dare is about you. Not me.”
“You’re going to regret saying that.” He pulled her coat off and lowered her leather braces.
“Excuse me?” she said, her heart beating faster. “I need those braces!”
She tried to pull them back up, but he stayed her hand. “I told you to trust me,” he chided her softly.
Her pulse thudded in her temples, but she couldn’t look away from the depths of those eyes she’d dreamed about every night he’d been away in America—and long before that.
“I’ll try,” she said airily, hoping he didn’t know how pent up she was with nerves. Mixed in with those nerves was a desire to kiss him again, too. But she was afraid. He was big. And handsome. And he knew how to kiss too well. That honeymoon fantasy she’d had when she got here was supposed to remain that. A fantasy.
She needed to get out of this place.
“I won’t let you.” His mouth barely tipped up in a half-smile.
“What?”
“Leave.” He shot her an implacable look. “So forget it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, which could very well be the reason he gently turned her around so that her back was to him.
He pulled her shirt out of her trousers with ease as they were far too big at the waist. Before she could protest, he stuck his palms down the back of them, and she practically jumped at the feeling of his hot hands on her bare bottom.
“Gregory!” she called out sharply, and gasped when he
yanked those trousers down in one fell swoop and made her step out of them.
“I’m not sure about this,” she said, feeling quivery and shy. She was glad her shirt was almost as long as a night rail.
“Trust me,” he said softly from behind her shoulder and caressed her upper arms. “Now I’ll need you to put your palms on the door.”
“All right.” She could do that.
“And now … spread your legs for me.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure? We’re in a taproom. And—what if someone looks in the window?”
“It’s like an ocean on this side of the inn. No one’s going to be walking through that puddle. And if they did attempt such a foolhardy thing and peer in the window, they’d only be very jealous of what they see.”
“Jealous? I don’t know why.” Pippa lifted her chin. “So far this isn’t much of a lark.”
“You need to be more patient.”
“I don’t like being patient.”
“Yes. I know that. I believe everyone knows that about you, Pippa. Now go ahead,” he ordered. “Spread your legs. I promise nothing will go wrong.”
“Very well.” She gulped. “What if—what if someone knocks?”
“We’ll ignore it. I assure you, it’s so loud in that taproom, no one will guess what’s going on in here.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Slowly, she spread her legs.
And then he caressed her derriere with one hand. It was a fleeting caress—too fleeting—sending curls of pleasure to her feminine core. She blinked about a thousand times, wondering what she was getting herself into.
“It’s all right so far,” she lied—because already that one touch was something she’d never forget—“but if this doesn’t make me happy, Gregory—”
She ended her statement on what she hoped was a threatening tone.
“It will. Just you wait.” He gave her a light slap on the bottom, and she flinched.
Her nerves had never been so taut—not with fear, as she’d supposed—but with anticipation.
A second later, she was jolted by the feel of his mouth and tongue on her buttocks. “Oh, heavens,” she gasped. “This can’t be right.”
“It is,” he said. “And there’s more.”
“More?”
He proved it by exploring the intimate folds of flesh between her legs with his finger while he laid kisses on her backside and her hips.
“Gregory,” she couldn’t help whispering. “This is getting out of control. You promised me nothing would go wrong.”
“It won’t,” he said, with a soft laugh against the back of her thigh, which felt heated beyond reason as he tasted its length. “You like things out of control, remember? Castles that don’t fit convention. A runaway journey to Paris. A moor that’s unpredictable every day you cross it. Admit it, Pippa. Control isn’t something that matches up well with you.”
“I suppose it doesn’t.” She was aghast that her breath was coming shorter and shorter. “But this is so unexpected that I’m not sure I—”
He found the nubbin from which all the pleasure she’d felt heretofore seemed to radiate, and she released a quiet, lengthy moan. How could he be doing this to her?
She sounded like an animal.
But she liked animals.
She loved them.
So she squeezed her eyes shut and gave in to the sensations Gregory was conjuring as if from a magic spell in a giant, great book of spells hidden away from ordinary view, to be taken out when one needed—
Relief.
She needed relief in the worst way. But where to find it?
Where?
Where?
Her panting grew stronger.
“Let go,” he whispered, and with his other hand, found the portal to her sex and sheathed two fingers inside her.
Oh, God. It was too much!
“Gregory—”
“Let go, Pippa.”
It was a command. Not a request, and somehow—even though she’d always balked at Gregory’s commands—this one worked. It reached a primal place, and she let go with a cry from her very essence.
When the waves of pure pleasure finally subsided, she leaned her forehead against the door and sucked in a large breath. Her legs trembled, and so did her arms from pressing so very hard against the door.
Gregory stood up and rested a hand—musky from the scent of her—lightly on her shoulder.
“You were right about something,” he said close to her ear. “The Gregory the world knows—the well-rounded, successful man about town—isn’t happy, and you seem to be the only one who notices. But giving you pleasure reminds me that there’s a part of me that yet knows joy. And I liked it. I liked it so much, I want to do it to you again. And again.”
His confession broke her heart and thrilled her all at once. She longed to turn and throw her arms around his neck. But she didn’t know what he’d say. She couldn’t act like that girl in the garden, the one who’d sketched his face and a heart beside it. He’d despised that girl.
Not that it mattered, really. She was leaving.
“We can’t do this anymore,” she said in a thin voice, her eyes on the door. “I’m going to Paris.” She’d said it so often in the last twenty-four hours, it was beginning to sound as familiar as a nursery rhyme—a singsongy wish that pleased her but that no one else believed.
“I’m afraid you’re not,” Gregory said.
“I knew you’d say that. I don’t know why I even bothered talking to you.”
“In a few minutes,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “I’m taking you back to your uncle’s. After things are settled there, you’ll come up to London and stay with my family. Surely the city has its share of expert sugar sculptors. I’ll wrangle you an audience with them.”
She swiveled to face him, her legs still so weak, she leaned on the door. “In between all the balls I’m to attend to find a man to marry me? A man who’ll extinguish all my little joys, one by one, the way the Toad has Mother’s? No, thank you.”
She slid around him, but he followed and got to her trousers before she did. He tossed them to her, and she turned away and pulled them on before tucking in her shirt. “Your words were very pretty. I was even moved by them. But now I have to wonder if you were trying to seduce me into submission.”
“Think what you will.” He appeared in front of her again and looped the leather braces over her shoulders. “But the fact is, you can’t go to Paris. And not just because you’ll be largely unprotected pursuing Monsieur Perot. But because you’ll be disappointed. The first time you go to Paris has to be when you have a light heart. And you won’t when you know you’ve misled Uncle Bertie. He’ll be worried. And you’re too kind not to let that bother you.”
She gave a little cry of frustration. “I wish you’d just—go away.” She threw her coat on without his help. “Please. Go to your house party. Don’t change your plans for me.”
At the door she gave a desperate twist to her shoulders to shake him off, but he held her fast and laid his hand over the bolt. “It’s not that simple, and you know it, in your heart of hearts. If I have to, I’ll pick you up and carry you and put you in my carriage myself.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she whispered, a lump in her throat.
“It certainly feels like it at the moment,” he replied, “but I’m preventing a bigger one, whether you believe it or not.”
And with that, he unbolted the door.
Chapter Nine
Pippa put on her spectacles and stood blinking for a few seconds. Then she began to move, wending her way through the inn dining room to no fanfare, Gregory behind her. She was numb with exhaustion and pleasure by this point, furious at Gregory and at herself for giving in to temptation when he was thwarting all her plans, and keenly desperate to escape, to the point that when the inn door blew open and a well-to-do family fairly stumbled in with three rambunctious children, she considered volunteering on the spot to be their nanny
—anything to avoid going back home.
It wasn’t home, really, anymore. Not after today. Not as long as the Toad was there.
Then she remembered she was dressed as a man.
A portly young man with an extraordinarily high collar and carrying a beautiful cherrywood cane hurried in behind the family of five and made a studied assessment of the company in the taproom. As he shook the rain off his tight auburn curls, he saw Gregory, and his mouth became a thin line.
“Hello, Marbury,” Gregory said.
“Hello, Westdale.” The newcomer had a gritty, unpleasant voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He had a large forehead, beady eyes, a disagreeable mouth, and he sported exceptionally spindly legs that appeared incapable of supporting his short, rotund torso. Why, he looks like a bowling ball balanced on two pins, thought Pippa. However, in his navy coat with gold buttons and starched, white cravat, he wore the understated look of a follower of Beau Brummel, the sort of London guise that announced wealth and prestige.
Gregory wore a coat and buckskin breeches better suited to the country, yet he was the more imposing—and by far the more winning—of the two. “It’s been at least a year.”
“I’ve hardly noticed,” Marbury said, and Pippa nearly gasped at his blatant rudeness. But Gregory seemed to expect it. “I’m on my way to Thurston Manor. And you?”
“To Plumtree to visit friends.”
“Oh. Friends.” Marbury let the word hang in the air like a curse.
Pippa felt he was quite ridiculous. One obviously had to meet certain expectations with him, or be judged lacking. Whereas Gregory, as controlled and commanding as he often was, gave the impression that he was well aware that the cosmos didn’t spin around his needs and wants.
Of course, all of London society was critical, Pippa knew—it was a sport among the beau monde. Perhaps Marbury was only tired or hungry. He wouldn’t be the first traveler to be grumpy. Why, in that cold, wet space between the coziness of napping on Gregory’s shoulder and the moment she took her first bite of hot beef pie, she’d been ready to bite off the head of anyone who came near her. And after the fiery encounter she’d just had with the man—in which she went from soaring heights to the lowest low when he told her he was taking her home—she felt that same cross way again.
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