by Connie Mason
After Pettibone left, Moira had much to think about, not the least of which was her handsome benefactor. Just how well-meaning was Jack Graystoke? she wondered. She wasn’t so naive as to think that men did good deeds without expecting some kind of reward. Jack didn’t strike her as an altruistic man. Pleasure-seeking, self-indulgent, arrogant came to mind. Was amusement his only reason for wanting to pass her off as a lady and find her a husband?
Sweet Blessed Mother! Moira found it impossible to think of anything but Black Jack’s sensual gray eyes—eyes that held a tempting touch of wildness, of vital energy almost mesmerizing in its intensity. She was grateful for the lesson Lord Roger had taught her. No man was worthy of trust. She vowed to remember that lesson in her dealings with Black Jack Graystoke.
Chapter Three
Jack did not let his houseguest interfere with his normal habit of visiting his usual haunts that night. After a solitary dinner, he dressed carefully and left the house at nine after first stopping by to bid Moira good night. He hoped to win enough at the gaming tables to pay off a few pressing debts. Tomorrow would be time enough to begin the task of turning a little Irish nobody into a lady of quality.
The mansion was crowded. Jack was greeted by numerous friends as he threaded his way to the gaming room. More than one lady smiled coyly at him, while others openly ogled the infamous Black Jack Graystoke. A beautiful, sophisticated woman boldly approached Jack and took his arm in a possessive manner that bespoke of familiarity.
“Jack, you rogue!” She tapped his arm playfully with her fan. “How naughty of you to keep me waiting.”
“Had I known you were waiting, Lady Victoria, I would have made haste,” Jack returned gallantly.
Lady Victoria Greene’s keen blue eyes hinted of unbridled passion and promised much more. She knew Jack needed to marry money, and since she was immensely rich, she considered herself perfect for a rogue like Jack. She wasn’t concerned that Jack was merely a baronet, as was her dead husband, for Jack gave her something quite extraordinary. His passion was stunning; no man of her acquaintance came close to giving her what Jack had in abundance. In bed together, they approached perfection. She wanted Black Jack Graystoke, wanted him desperately. And not for a tumble or two. She wanted him exclusively, forever. She counted on her vast wealth to keep him in line once they were wed.
Victoria licked her full lips and smiled fetchingly at Jack. “’Tis so noisy in here, Jackson, dear. Why don’t we seek more private environs? Your house would be best since my servants love to gossip, and your man is the soul of discretion.”
Jack’s gray eyes narrowed. There was nothing discreet about Victoria, but then he’d always known that. They were great in bed and he loved her money. But truth to tell, he’d rather be the instigator in affairs of the heart. Victoria was aggressive in bed and made no bones about her desire to become his wife. Jack was well aware that one day soon she would have her wish.
“I thought to try my luck at the tables first,” Jack said smoothly. “I feel lucky tonight.”
“I’d say you already got lucky,” Victoria said, smiling at her double entendre. “I’ll wait for you, so don’t be too late.” She gave him another playful tap with her fan and strolled off into the crowd.
Jack frowned as he watched her hips twitch bewitchingly beneath the expensive material of her skirts. Jack had always enjoyed as well as appreciated Victoria’s unrestrained sexuality and derived great pleasure from the uninhibited bed sport they shared together. Why should she seem so bold and brash all of a sudden? Why did her overblown charms appear well used and faded? He shook his head in an effort to clear it of such foolish thoughts. Lady Victoria Greene was a perfect choice for his needs—rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’d never have to worry about money again.
Jack knew Victoria expected to curb his excesses once they married, but no one knew better than he that it wouldn’t work. It would take a far better woman than Lady Victoria to cure him of his wild streak. Regardless of decorum, Black Jack Graystoke did as he pleased. Heedless, rash, direct were words used to describe him, and most of them were true.
Jack enjoyed incredible luck at the gaming table. He couldn’t seem to lose no matter what he did. For the first time in weeks, he felt as if Lady Luck was smiling at him. His pockets were bulging with several hundred pounds and his head spinning from one drink too many when he rose and excused himself. The hour was late, but he found Victoria still waiting. She joined him in the vestibule when he retrieved his cloak, her red lips curved downward in mock anger.
“You’ve kept me waiting a long time, love.”
Jack leered at her. “I’m ready now. More than ready.”
She grinned back in eager invitation. “So am I.” She took his arm, nearly dragging him from the club. “Hurry, darling, I’m dying to feel you inside me. Waiting has sharpened my appetite.”
He handed Victoria into his carriage, gave instructions to his coachman, then vaulted in beside her. His pockets were full, he had a willing woman to warm his bed, he was pleasantly foxed and everything was right with the world. Or nearly right. He tried not to dwell on his injured guest, or the wager he had made with Spence.
Jack still hadn’t decided whether Miss O’Toole was a domestic servant or a whore. She seemed so vague about her former employment that Jack had grave doubts concerning her true occupation. Not that it mattered. The wager he and Spence had made could line his pockets, provide amusement and rid him of his responsibility to Moira O’Toole. At risk was the one possession he truly valued—his matched pair of grays.
“You’re quiet tonight, darling,” Victoria purred as they rode through the gates of Graystoke Manor. Her hand stole to his leg, boldly massaging the bulging muscles of his thigh beneath the fine material of his tight trousers. He stiffened and groaned when her hand suddenly dipped to cup him between the legs.
“Greedy bitch,” Jack muttered, meaning no disrespect.
Leaping from the carriage the moment it rolled to a stop, he came around and lifted Victoria into his arms, striding purposely toward the house. Lust and driving need thrust all thought from his mind, his energy focused on filling Victoria with his hard erection.
Jack kicked the door with his foot, summoning Pettibone, who shuffled up to answer it, obviously roused from his sleep. The old man’s eyebrows rose several inches when he saw Jack push past him with Lady Victoria in his arms.
“My word, another one, Sir Jack?” Pettibone asked dryly. “I would think you learned your lesson last night.”
“Go to bed, Pettibone,” Jack said with gruff impatience. “I’ll see to myself tonight.”
“As you wish,” Pettibone said in a long-suffering tone.
“Good night, sir. Do be careful of the stairs; you look none too steady.”
“Good night, Pettibone,” Jack said tautly.
Victoria buried her head in Jack’s shoulder and giggled. “What a horrid old man. Once we are wed, he’ll have to go.”
Jack kissed her into silence as he took the steps two at a time. He was so hot, so damn hard he felt the buttons on his trousers popping open. Perhaps, he thought dully, being married to Victoria wouldn’t prove too difficult. There were compensations as well as drawbacks.
Driven by lust, by the time Jack opened his chamber door he’d forgotten his room was being occupied by someone other than himself. Charging through the door, he made directly for the bed, eager to thrust himself inside Victoria and stroke them both to blinding ecstasy. The few glowing embers remaining in the hearth were too dim to reveal the slight figure lying in the bed.
Moira awoke to the sound of voices as someone burst through the door. She rolled to the opposite edge of the bed moments before a crushing weight came down beside her. She heard a woman squeal and a man’s answering groan before she came to her senses and screamed.
Jack spit out a curse and jerked upright, his fuzzy mind belatedly recalling that he had given up his room to Moira. Victoria was too stunned to move. Jack’
s hand shook as he struck a light to a branch of candles on the nightstand beside the bed. Victoria stared at Moira in horror, ignoring Jack’s groan of dismay.
“Who are you?” Victoria asked in a voice shrill enough to raise the dead. “What are you doing in Jack’s bed?”
Moira pulled the covers up to her neck with her uninjured arm and shrank away from Victoria’s unremitting anger. She had no idea who Victoria was, but it wasn’t difficult to guess Jack’s reason for bringing the woman into his house, womanizer that he was.
“Bloody hell,” Jack said, dragging his fingers through his unruly hair. “I completely forgot about Moira.”
“That’s obvious.” Victoria’s voice dripped with venom. “I suggest you keep your women straight, darling. Or did you intend to please both of us tonight?”
“Lady Moira is my ward, Victoria,” Jack said, using the story he and Spence had agreed upon. “She is the daughter of a distant relative on my father’s side of the family. She met with an unfortunate accident en route from Ireland, and I’d forgotten I’d given her my room.”
He turned to Moira. “Lady Moira, this is Lady Victoria Greene. Moira is here for the season,” Jack explained to Victoria.
“This is the first I’ve heard of a ward. Is Lady Moira husband hunting?” Victoria asked, giving Moira a haughty stare. “You’re Irish.” She made it sound like an insult.
Moira opened her mouth to answer, but Jack forestalled her. “Lady Moira is indeed Irish. Her father is a baron who prefers the country to city life. You might say that Moira is husband hunting,” Jack allowed.
“I am acquainted with nearly all the likely prospects this season. I’ll see that you’re introduced,” Victoria said.
“It will be several weeks before Moira’s arm is healed enough to appear in public,” Jack said. “But this is neither the time nor place for small talk. Come along, Victoria, Moira needs her sleep.”
Jack all but pulled Victoria from the room, angry at himself for making such a disastrous blunder. He should have known better than to drink too much. Liquor had already gotten him into trouble the night before, and he should have learned his lesson. As he dragged Victoria out the door, he vowed to avoid all hard liquor in the future. Had Lady Amelia heard his vow, she would have smiled.
“Where are you taking me?” Victoria asked as Jack shoved her toward an unoccupied chamber.
“There’s more than one bed in this pile of stone,” Jack told her.
Victoria dug in her heels. “I’m no longer in the mood.” Her lips turned downward in displeasure. “Your little ward took me by surprise. What kind of accident was she involved in? Her face is still swollen and bruised.”
“Carriage accident,” Jack explained succinctly. “Are you going to beg off? ’Tis not like you, Victoria.”
“I’m displeased with you, Jack. I’m not even sure I believe you. Ward, indeed! You’re a first-class rake, Jackson Graystoke. Lord knows why I stand for your nonsense. Take me home.”
Jack shrugged with easy grace. “Very well, my dear. I’ll instruct my coachman to take you home. I’ll see you at the Whitcombs tomorrow night. I hope you’ll be over your pique by then.”
“Perhaps,” Victoria replied sulkily, “and perhaps not.”
With mixed emotions, Jack watched the carriage carrying Victoria drive off. Truth to tell, his own ardor had cooled considerably after bursting in on Moira. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still need Victoria and her money. Nevertheless, the moment the carriage disappeared from sight, Victoria was relegated to the far reaches of Jack’s mind as Moira occupied her place.
Without conscious thought, Jack’s steps slowed as he passed Moira’s room—his room, really. He should apologize, he supposed, though he owed Moira no explanation. Moira had burst into his life uninvited, and he strongly suspected Lady Amelia was behind the entire fiasco. If not for the family ghost, he would have been snug in his bed last night and someone else would have run Moira down. He had no idea what Lady Amelia had in mind for him, but he felt certain it wasn’t nearly killing an Irish whore.
Some perverse imp inside Jack made him knock softly on Moira’s door and call out her name. If she didn’t answer, he would go on to his own bed, he decided, and put off explaining until another time.
Sleep was out of the question for Moira. She shuddered to think how close she came to witnessing Jack Graystoke making love to his mistress. The man was an incorrigible womanizer. Did he have no scruples?
“Moira, it’s Jack. Are you awake?”
Moira hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before answering. “Aye, I’m awake.”
“May I come in for a moment? I owe you an explanation.”
“Come in, Sir Jack, though you owe me nothing. I’m merely a guest in your home. You may do as you please.”
Jack stepped inside the room and crossed to the bed. He stood over her, looking much like a naughty child, Moira thought, with one side of his mouth turned up into a lopsided smile. If excessive vice had ruined him, it did not show in his face.
“I’m sorry this happened, Moira. As usual, I had too much to drink and forgot I’d given you my chamber.”
“I’m an intruder in your home, Sir Jack. I absolve you of all responsibility where I’m concerned. I’ll leave in a day or two, so you may have your privacy once again.”
Jack heaved a weary sigh and sank down on the edge of the bed, being careful of Moira’s injured arm. “You’re not going anywhere. ’Tis my fault you were injured and up to me to see to your welfare.”
Candlelight bathed Moira’s face, and Jack was struck anew by Moira’s beauty. Even with her face swollen and bruised, one could see she was no ordinary beauty. Her facial bones were delicately sculpted, her mouth full, her nose exquisitely dainty. There was both delicacy and strength in her face. The rich, glowing auburn of her hair gleamed with shadows ranging from deep gold to dark copper. Yet beyond the delectable fragility of her features, Jack saw a strength that did not lessen her femininity.
Confused by the warm glow in Jack’s eyes, Moira started violently when he raised his hand to her cheek, tenderly grazing the bruised flesh with his knuckles. “I think your beauty is going to surprise us all, Moira, once your face is back to normal.” His finger traced the outline of her lips, acutely aware of their lush fullness and his uncontrollable urge to taste them. “You’re going to make some lucky man happy.”
Without warning, he gently grasped her face between his hands, lowered his head and kissed her. The kiss was slow, thoughtful, tentative, as he moved his mouth over hers in gentle exploration. Her eyes closed. Strength, warmth. For the first time in weeks she felt safe. Yet she knew better than to trust a man like Black Jack. She sighed in pleasure. How wonderful it would be if she could confide in him.
A subtle eroticism heated her body and rattled her senses. She opened her lips to the gentle probing of Jack’s tongue, and it slid unhindered into the sweet cavern of her mouth. Pleasure radiated outward as Moira’s emotions whirled and skidded. She had no idea a simple kiss could make one so giddy. Slowly her body softened and melted to his, wringing a groan from Jack as he responded by wrapping her in his arms and pulling her tightly against him.
His kiss deepened. Blood pounded in her brain, leapt from her heart and made her body weak. Moira felt transported on a spiraling, dizzying journey. Her first experience with passion was a heady adventure into an unknown realm, and she reeled under the soul-reaching expertise of Jack’s mouth.
She groaned in disappointment when Jack’s lips left hers. But the groan quickly turned into a strangled sigh as he showered soft, tingling kisses around her lips and along her jaw, her brow, against her earlobe. She moaned as his lips followed the slope of her slender neck to the hollow between her breasts, all but exposed beneath the threadbare shift she wore. A startled gasp left her lips when Jack’s mouth covered one of her nipples, thoroughly soaking it with his tongue through the thin material, and his hand somehow found the shape of her other breas
t.
Moira closed her eyes, but brilliant lights of desire still flashed behind her lids, blinding her to all but the sweet torment of Jack’s mouth and hands.
“Blessed Mother!” she cried, feeling her flesh pucker as it reacted to Jack’s talented mouth. What was this scoundrel doing to her? Did he want the same thing from her that Roger Mayhew had wanted? Did he intend for her to take Lady Victoria’s place in his bed? She tried to push him away, but her broken arm protested and she cried out in real pain.
Jack reared back instantly, his face taut with disbelief. What in bloody hell was he doing? The Irish wench had bewitched him. He couldn’t ever recall losing control like that. No matter what her occupation, whore or servant, he had no business treating her so callously after assuming responsibility for her welfare. The sweet seductive promise of her kisses had momentarily blinded him to his obligation where Moira was concerned. For one tormented moment, he wanted to bare her sweet body and thrust himself inside her.
“I’m sorry, Moira. Did I hurt you? You shouldn’t have tempted me. I’m accustomed to taking what a woman offers.”
Moira’s temper exploded. “Tempt you! I did no such thing. I offered you nothing.” Not only was Moira angry at Jack for forcing his attentions on her, but she was livid at herself for enjoying them. She’d allowed him to go too far. No one had ever touched her body in such an intimate manner. Moira wasn’t ignorant of what went on between a man and woman, having lived in close quarters with her brother and his wife, but until now she’d never been enticed to passion.
Jack’s steady gaze bore into her in silent contemplation. “Do you think I was born yesterday? You were quite eager until I inadvertently hurt your arm.”
“You took advantage of me!” Moira raged. “I have no experience with men.”
Jack’s arched brows lifted in obvious disbelief. “If you say so. It’s late, Moira. I won’t dispute your claim. I came to apologize for blundering into your room, not to seduce you. The kiss meant nothing. Forget it ever happened. Sleep well, Moira. Victoria is gone—you won’t be bothered again tonight.”