by Carrie Lofty
It all sounded so . . . sordid. Finding a husband in such a short span of time smacked of presenting herself at auction. But she had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with a country home outside of Aberystwyth. Once, Aldith had been all she wanted. His sudden death by pneumonia had unmoored her life, leaving her the object of pity within such a small community. She’d been grieving, restless, and determined to get out. For a young woman who wanted to keep her reputation—just barely—nursing was the only option. She had volunteered two weeks after her fiancé’s funeral.
Five years. Five years and she hadn’t been home. She wondered if her notoriety had reached her parents, and what they might think of her tale. But even if she visited, she wasn’t going home for good. She wanted a man with a future, with some boldness and excitement in his soul—a fire to match the one that had yet to dim in hers.
Thus the origins of her ambition to parlay the sinking of the HMS Honoria into an advantageous marriage. Nightmares of that experience would creep under her skin and dig into her sanity for the rest of her life. She might as well find a man to make that life as comfortable as possible.
Mr. Christie was a very good start.
“My mouth, you say? Do explain. Unless you believe your explanation might press the boundaries of propriety.”
He flashed a smile that seemed almost condescending, but she did not feel put down. More like she was privy to another unsuitable joke. “I intend that it should do just that, Miss Jones. Will you be able to withstand the upshot? No need for smelling salts?”
“I was a wartime nurse, as you know. Let us say that it would take an exceptional man to shock me.”
“I’ve never been so blatantly dared by a woman.”
“But by a man?”
“Dares from men come fast and thick.” His splendid hazel eyes skittered away, possibly assessing examples of his gender. When he wasn’t intent on interpreting her, his gaze moved constantly, as if danger or opportunity lurked in every corner—likely how he’d become so successful. “Sword play, dice, boxing, the pursuit of the same female conquest. I’m certain your experience among soldiers and sailors gave you that impression.”
“Very much so. Then tell me, do you appreciate my dare?”
“I intend to rise to it,” he said, lips nearly touching her temple.
Catrin had not touched a man in months, and that had been with the efficiency and detached care of a nurse. Cannon fire overhead. Bullets punching into flesh. Since then, she had been touched, but only by the naval captain who had discovered her on the beach of Catalan Bay in Gibraltar.
This closeness was entirely different. No bare flesh here, not with their hands wrapped in evening gloves. Yet the big wall of his body created a sense of intimacy in that public space, a shelter hewn of Mr. Christie’s bones and brawn.
The quartet began a new waltz, this one slower, almost mournful in its lassitude. Her body melted nearer to his.
“Then tell me, sir. What have you been thinking about my mouth?”
“That I should very much like to kiss it.”
Catrin’s smile widened into a laugh she could not prevent. “And that was supposed to shock me, Mr. Christie?”
“What a lady claims and what she desires are often in opposition. Hell if I know the way your mind is working just now.”
She tsked, then licked her lower lip again. “Such language.”
“Shall I apologize?”
“Oh, no. Frankly, I believe you must be capable of a great deal more.”
“Are you enjoying our game, Miss Jones?”
“Quite.” On the next count of three, lifting on her toes, she briefly rubbed her nose along his jaw. A faint scratch of evening roughness, even more subtle than the grain of leather, was nonetheless powerful enough to shoot a shiver across her collarbones. “Shall I tell you what I’ve been thinking of your mouth?”
Because that was his other incredible feature. How often did one notice a man’s lips? Hardly ever, in Catrin’s experience. They hid behind mustaches or dimmed in comparison to high cheekbones or a fine head of hair. Even a nice set of teeth was more noteworthy. But Mr. Christie’s mouth was . . . beautiful. A full lower lip. A perfectly symmetrical upper lip, with a sharp curve that suggested devilish possibilities. Although without any apparent intent, he pursed it in such a way as to draw her eye. A sneer, a laugh, a prelude to a kiss. All in one.
“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “Please do.”
“Your mouth makes me think that it must be the only hint of softness you possess.”
And that was the truth. Such an imposing man, no less so for the blasé aloofness of his bearing. He appeared to be the sort who took nothing under the skin. All thick armor. Ready to pounce on opportunity, no matter the cost. Catrin had learned to be wary of such men. Anyone who did not acknowledge pain had difficulty understanding when they inflicted it on others.
Yet the thrill of this flirtation remained.
Mr. Christie angled his hand down her back, slinking slowly, until he claimed command of her low spine. A subtle thing, really, how he shifted the angles of their bodies. But suddenly she knew exactly how their teasing had aroused him.
“At the moment, you would be entirely correct, Miss Jones. Nothing else soft at all.”
The air in her lungs turned thick and sultry. She swallowed. The hazel of his eyes had deepened, intensifying, as if that striking color needed to be more magnetic. Although her legs still waltzed, she knew her stability came from his arms, from his languid rise and fall. The thump of her pulse blocked strains of violin and cello. No more melody. Only rhythm.
“Catrin?”
She blinked. “Yes?”
“My name is William.”
“A pleasure to meet you, William.”
Another flash of that condescending smile. “Then I suggest we find a quieter place of refuge.” His brogue was impossibly low and rough. “I intend to show you exactly what I have in mind for your mouth.”
Three
The ballroom became an unbearable crush of people as soon as the delectable Miss Jones responded. Not with words, but with her uniquely animated expression. Already childlike in their size and look of perpetual wonder, her eyes widened and her sweet apricot lips parted. Oh yes, he imagined far too much. Her slight nod, just one dip of her pale, radiant face, confirmed her assent.
William managed to continue dancing with some modicum of proficiency until the end of the waltz. He should know the composer, just as everyone else likely did, their time occupied by the trivialities of an easy life. But he could not have discerned the difference between Strauss and Beethoven had his evening with Miss Jones depended on it. Luckily, that did not seem the case.
“Follow me in a few minutes,” he whispered against her temple.
Another nod. His cock, about which he had so boldly boasted in response to her teasing, gave a hard twitch. His trousers were mere moments from becoming obscenely uncomfortable.
He and Miss Jones bowed at the conclusion of the waltz, as if their conversation had not shot past the very limits of civility. All very proper, or as well as he could manage. He felt a tremendous oaf in contrast to her dainty, contained little body, which was shown to its best advantage by nipped, neatly pressed russet pleats. Few ornaments or bits of lace detracted from the slim symmetry of bust to waist to hip. The rich satin exactly matched thick hair barely tamed by elaborate curls. Perfection.
Without further communication, he turned away from the dance floor, toward a set of double doors manned by footmen in elaborate, gold-braided livery. They appeared to be sweltering while standing at attention in their wigs. An actual bead of sweat trickled down one lad’s cheek. Although hardly the sort of hellish occupation he had endured as a child, William sympathized with anyone who worked while others reveled. The tension between his shoulder blades and in his stomach had nothing to do with labor, and everything to do with sweeping Catrin Jones off her feet.
He approached the swea
ting lad and dipped his words to a private volume. “Half a crown each if you direct me to the nearest private room. Then provide that information to the young woman with whom I danced.”
“Miss Jones?”
William cringed inwardly. The devil, but she was nearly too notorious to seduce. A simple miss from the deepest regions of rural Wales, and yet she was as well known as Queen Victoria, even to such a lad. “Yes, I mean Miss Jones. No disturbances, or I’ll hunt you like a mangy fox and take back my crowns. And your bollocks.”
The footman swallowed. That trickle of sweat accelerated. He flicked his gaze to his partner, who nodded. “Yes, Mr. Christie,” they said in near-unison.
The note of fear in their tight voices did unnatural things to William’s insides. Faster breathing. Heavier heartbeat. He enjoyed to excess the intimidation he could bring to bear, even more than he enjoyed knowing he, too, possessed a certain notoriety. Not like that of Lord Stalton, whose influence as an earl and a peer was presumed. No, William’s fame was that of a man who used force when necessary to ensure his personal success—and whose success could not be denied by the Upper Ten Thousand. They might very well want to burn him at the stake for his insolence, more than he would ever know from their carefully controlled words, but they were in too much need of his money.
Tonight, however, was not for violence. Fate had practically handed him the amiable Miss Jones.
“Good lads,” he said, handing the footmen their rewards.
After receiving directions to the nearest unoccupied salon, well away from the ballroom, he stripped his gloves, undid his cravat, and slipped two buttons open on his suit coat. Good God, he detested formal wear. He felt like a bear stuffed into a pair of hose. His late wife, Susannah—the other reason he was vaguely accepted among Society’s elite—had been just short of revolted by his brawn, insisting that his tailor do whatever possible to detract from William’s shoulders, thighs, and even his height. Every suit he owned was cut to her specifications, even two years on from her death. He had hardly minded, knowing he possessed the fashion sense of a warthog.
But . . . two years gone? He should do something about that.
A heaviness settled at the base of his skull. A six-month Parisian binge of wine and women—one in particular—had done little to ease the surprising burden of fatherhood as a widower. He had encountered regret and disappointed hopes where potential had once resided. His youthful plans had come to fruition by marrying the Honorable Susannah Burgess, a woman infinitely better than he could have hoped to wed. There was love and there was security, and they’d been none so blinded as to expect anything but the latter. Her death two weeks after giving birth to their only child, Alexander, had left a void. A loss of direction.
Ever since, the redoubled pursuit of his business interests was an excuse for solitude he rarely admitted, even to himself.
And then there was the matter of what to do about his son. William’s in-laws hated the rich, uncouth man who had rescued their family from impoverishment—a constant reminder of their failures and Susannah’s fate. Until recently, William had been content to let them make Alex into a better citizen than he could have managed. Industry was his life, as Susannah had been unable to keep from observing. Frequently. Never again would he be beholden to another soul when his ambitions were so clearly dedicated elsewhere.
But some days he missed his boy with a pain that stuck needles under his skin. What would it be like to see him grow into manhood? To guide him? To teach him the industry he loved?
William could be a father, when he had never known his own.
The faint clearing of a feminine throat alerted him to Miss Jones’s arrival. Forcibly, he set aside those matters he could not control. Emotions, primarily. He was much better suited to allowing the matched ambitions of success and sexual fulfillment twine together in such a slim, delightful female form. She stood framed by the doorway, her hands clasped at her waist. Although she did not appear afraid, neither did she rush to stand beside him. He found himself drawn to her deliberate nature, which was tempered by a calm he could never possess.
“Shut and lock the door, if you would,” he said.
“You assume I wish to be closed in with you.”
“I do.”
Miss Jones—no, Catrin. Such a well-suited name for a little Welsh luminary. Memorable and melodic, just like her lilting accent. She lifted her chin. Her gaze fell to his unfurled cravat and the empty buttonholes. Such quiet observations, as if she gathered in as many details about the world as did he—the necessities of preserving oneself amid volatile company.
She revealed a sweet, supple smile that barely curved her lovely mouth. Christ, he was completely in the dark. Any number of paths extended from that moment. Walk out. Laugh and tease. Lift her skirts. She could choose any one of them, or another thousand his mind hadn’t yet dared.
Instead, she did just as he suggested. Turned. Shut the door. Flipped the lock. The thrill of a silent, powerful victory streaked across his chest. The press of his engorged cock against his trouser placket would not be ignored. William knew he was being played, thoroughly and competitively, and yet his only notion was to see how far she would go.
He extended his hand.
Catrin took a single footstep toward him. Another rush. Pure power. That she kept walking nearer, each movement more assured than the last, made his blood beat with a deep, wicked pulse. She was bold. Indecently bold. Considering how much he enjoyed when people backed down from his opinions, he should have been displeased to confront a woman so determined to honor a mind of her own.
He was anything but.
Although she still kept her hands folded at her waist, as tidily as the rest of her, she never broke eye contact. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet . . . ?”
“And yet here we are.”
She took his hand. Ah, but those gloves would be the first to go. Skin to skin. Suddenly he had very little else in mind.
William turned her wrist to face the ceiling and steadily undid a long row of buttons, none bigger than a sweet pea. His movements felt cumbersome, using hands more suited to swinging a hammer or lifting bale after bale of wool. He’d done both. Yet removing a woman’s evening gloves teased at the edge of his capabilities. He kept on, motivated by the way Catrin’s breathing steadily increased with each new pale inch of skin revealed to the soft lamplight.
A lone lamp to swallow the rest of the parlor in shadows. A lone flame to keep the secrets of their tryst.
“Then explain it to me,” he said softly. “Why did you agree to join me?”
“We’re back to that dare again, aren’t we? You were impeded by the public setting.”
He tugged at each fingertip until the glove slipped clear of her hand. “Impeded? I cannot recall the last time I let such a concern keep me from my aim.”
Color hugged high along her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Cream and pink, with an even darker rose shade for her lips. Such a glorious contrast. Her face was framed by that lush, pale brown hair and the ivory lace at her throat. “You certainly did not speak freely,” she said.
“No, because had I spoken truthfully, I fear you would not have accompanied me off the dance floor.”
A smoky luster covered her eyes. Her pupils flared to black circles that nearly obscured their soft honey color. The low light added to their mystery. “Perhaps,” was all she conceded.
“But I got what I wanted.” He started on the second glove. Leaned nearer. Inhaled the scent of her hair. Something floral and sweet, with an undercurrent of feminine musk. “You. Here. Your hands bare.”
She dipped her smile in a coy move that did not strike him as false. The woman was simply too brazen to falsify. “I walk along the precipice overlooking social ruin to have you behave as a lady’s maid?”
He chuckled. “And a clumsy one at that.”
“You managed the task, did you not?” The second glove dropped to the ground. Her smil
e merely deepened.
“And few men would refuse the privilege of assisting you with such a task.” He grazed his lips along her forehead, just where light brown hair met her smooth brow. Her skin was so pale as to appear luminescent. “The gloves were just a start.”
“This could take all night.”
“Ideally, yes.”
Her eyebrows arched in that particularly expressive manner. “Does Lord Stalton know you behave this way?”
“Does he know the same about you?”
Was it her experience as a nurse that permitted her such ease in his company? That idle thought lent an unwarranted clench of disgust to his stomach. His life had been a succession of moments when he saw what he wanted, followed inevitably by moments when he claimed his prize. He had no right whatever to feel possessive toward this woman. Yet there it was, as obvious as her bare hands in his.
Skin to skin.
Hers was warm, as flushed as her rose-pink cheeks. His felt overly tight. He wanted to squeeze, making fists, feeling his knuckles bend and pull, reminding him of his limits. But her slender fingers were too delicate in his palms, like holding those of some exquisite doll. Only she was so very alive, and close enough to take the air from his lungs into her own.
“No one knows much about me,” she said evenly. “Which is the way I like it.”
“So secretive. Makes me wonder why.”
Her gentle eyes narrowed by an almost imperceptible fraction. “Why did you bring me here, Mr. Christie?”
“William,” he said without thought. He wanted this woman to use his given name, to reinforce that their connection was worth pursuing.