by Julie Kenner
He looked uncertain at first, then—pride at stake—made himself nod.
“Just lie back…close your eyes…and open your senses,” she ordered, smiling. When he obeyed, she put her face near his and fluttered her eyelashes so that they tickled his cheek. She paused for a moment, then did the same on the other side. Covering his face with quick sweeps of her long lashes, she ended at his lips, which parted as she brushed them with flirtatious strokes.
His eyes opened to reveal a tangle of potent emotions.
“Did you feel it?” she said, afraid he might have been disappointed.
He nodded and whispered, “What was that?”
She studied his surprise.
“You honestly didn’t peek, did you?”
Warmth cascaded through her as he shook his head. Honorable Jack. She bit her lip and bent to flutter her eyelashes against his cheek and then his lips. He was so still, she could feel him absorbing every stroke, drinking in every nuance. By the time she moved away, he was holding his breath.
“It’s called ‘The Butterfly.’” She smiled, feeling strangely exposed in expressing so girlish a preference. “Appreciating it requires an inner quietness and an openness to simple pleasures. Proof that you don’t have to make the earth tremble in order to give another physical delight.”
His eyes were heating, his breath coming faster.
“Of course—” she braced, unable to read what was happening in him “—earth-quaking is good, too. I mean, each certainly has its place.”
A moment later he had rolled her beneath him and was kissing her witless.
“Wait,” she gasped out between kisses, “I didn’t get to—ohhh—”
Those agile hands of his were busy again and this time they had help. He slid between her thighs and she felt his shaft settling into the cleft of her sex and starting to move. It was lovely. Heart-stoppingly gorgeous, in fact. Long, rhythmic slides that increased in pressure and friction and quickly pushed her to the edge of climax again.
She tilted her pelvis and felt his sex poised to enter her. When she tried to urged him inside, he stiffened and held himself back.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, trembling.
Smiling, she tightened her legs around him and clasped him harder against her. She slipped her hands into his hair and used it to pull his mouth to hers…as he slid inside her…inch by steamy, voluptuous inch. By the time he lay fully imbedded in her, she could scarcely breathe. He was so hot and full and thick. She could feel his pulse drumming inside her.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to the pleasure of that steamy completion. He filled her in a way that left no part of her untouched. It was so different than her former experiences; so much more intimate and overwhelming, so much more pleasurable on every level.
When he started to move, she absorbed his thrusts and slowly gave up control. Taking him in deeper, she met his motion, seeking harder contact and greater friction. Intensity mounted until she couldn’t absorb another single sensation and her overstuffed senses shattered.
In the midst of that explosion, she felt him withdraw and take his release between them. It took a few moments for her senses to clear and for her to realize he’d done so to protect her from consequences. A brief pang of loss was quickly replaced by understanding, then gratitude. Even in the grip of passion, his ingrained sense of responsibility hadn’t failed him.
When he slid to the bed beside her and pulled her against him, she curled into him, entwining her legs with his. It felt strangely as if they were still joined. Then he smiled down at her, and his warm golden eyes and sexy, just-for-you smile made her heart forget to beat.
“Are you all right?” he asked, brushing her hair back.
“Better than all right.” She dropped a kiss on his chest and slid her arm across his waist. “I’ve never felt like sesame seeds before.”
“What?” His chuckle rumbled beneath her ear.
“Another little gem from the Kama Sutra.” She smiled. “When lovers entwine such that they forget where one ends and the other begins, they are said to have blended like ‘sesame seeds and rice.’”
“So, I am rice?” He sounded confused, but when she looked up he was grinning.
“Tonight, you’re the rice—” she just managed to keep from using the possessive my rice “—to my sesame seeds.”
He studied her face, gave a wry nod, then lifted her chin to give her an achingly gentle kiss.
Sometime later she roused from drowsiness to the feel of his big body hardening against her. She stretched luxuriously, rubbing her breasts against his side and stomach, knowing full well the invitation she was sending. His eyes took on a glint of arousal as he rolled her onto her back.
“Your husband taught you all of this?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
“He did.”
“And you were how old when he began this ‘tutoring’?”
“Old enough to be mortified. Young enough to get over it.”
“And still you speak well of him.”
“You have to understand—he was careful with me.” She made him stop kissing her shoulder and look at her. “He made me comfortable and never asked me to do anything I didn’t want to do. He was a very wise man, Mason Eller. He introduced me to my own desires and then let them lead me on a path of exploration.”
“Which he enjoyed as much as you did,” he concluded.
“Of course. He wasn’t a hypocrite. He never pretended to do it solely for my benefit. But that’s the way of things in a marriage. You give of yourself…your care, effort and passion…trusting that the same will be returned to you. In a good marriage, it always is.”
“So, you honestly believe yours was a good marriage?”
“I do. It wasn’t a grand romance, but it was loving. And even fun at times. He showed me that laughter and passion make great partners.”
For a few minutes they lay quietly together, touching, exploring the sweet sense of discovery between them.
“Sesame seeds, eh?” His voice roughened provocatively as his knee worked its way between hers. “Open, sesame.”
She laughed. And then she did.
THE ROOM was cooler and darker when she awakened to the sound of someone moving. The bed beside her was empty but still warm. She sat up to find Jack buttoning his trousers and collecting discarded clothes from the floor and washstand.
“You’re leaving?” she said in little more than a whisper.
He paused and looked back at her with a rueful smile.
“It’ll be dawn soon, and it wouldn’t do for me to be seen sneaking out of your room.”
“People might get the right idea,” she said tartly, drawing a laugh.
“Exactly.”
After a moment he strolled back to her, his naked shoulders swaying in a way that made her breath halt in her throat. She felt the bed shake as he bumped into it. Or was that just her world quaking with the anticipation of his touch? Bracing on one arm, he bent down to brush her lips with his.
Her eyes closed and that brush bloomed into a wit-draining kiss.
When he pulled away, she swayed and opened her eyes. He was looking at her as if memorizing every detail. Then he touched her hair and let his fingers trail down the side of her face and onto her bare shoulder.
“You know, of course, we can’t do this again,” he said, his voice husky with both passion and pain.
“We can’t?” she said, searching his tumultuous emotions and her own.
“Just once, you said.” He straightened, grimly resuming his mantle of responsibility, and headed for the door. As he pulled his greatcoat and hat from the hooks, he turned back. “Our once will have to last a lifetime.”
The door closed and she felt the ache of loss and longing all the way to her toes. After a moment, her spirits sounded bottom and began to rise.
“Have to last a lifetime?” she echoed. Every nerve in her body rebelled at the thought. “The hell it will. If you think, Jack St. Lawrence,
that you’ve had the last of me, you’re wrong.”
She bounded from the bed and shivered as she washed and brushed her teeth. By the time she had donned a nightdress, she was remembering everything they’d done and was aching in places she’d forgotten she had.
Wrapping herself in a comforter from the bed, she went to sit by the hearth and stare into the coals glowing in the grate. Taking inventory of her wildly sensitized body, she tried to imagine sharing it with another man, any other man, even one as pleasant as Thomas Bickering. Then came the ultimate test: thinking of her late husband, imagining him here, loving her.
The shudder that overtook her came from deep in her soul. That instinctive, bone-deep reaction told her what she needed to know.
It was Jack St. Lawrence or nobody.
With his deplorable mission he had changed the course of her life. But with those broad shoulders, thirsty kisses and desires he tried so hard and failed so spectacularly to subdue, he had changed her.
She was in love with him.
She groaned, feeling that lingering ache between her thighs spreading through her, all the way to her heart. To have him, she would have to risk everything that meant anything to her.
Talk about consequences.
JACK FELT a constriction in his chest as he watched her descend the steps into the lobby the next morning. She was wearing one of her Lincoln purchases: a dusky-blue traveling suit cut to enhance each memorable curve and a matching hat with a saucy plume and a veil that added a hint of mystery and put the luscious lips he’d spent half the night exploring beyond his reach. Thank God.
“Good morning,” she said with a lilt that set his ears tingling.
He cleared his throat and tried to muster a bit more annoyance.
“What took you so long?” He refused to stare at her veiled features. “We’ve already missed the 8:11 a.m. and the 9:57 to London. And if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the 11:42 and have to wait until 1:30 p.m.”
“The eleven-forty-two what?” she asked, drawing on her gloves. He stared, imagining taking them off with his teeth the way she had his.
“Train.” He glowered at his reckless thoughts. “We’re taking the train to London.”
“We are? What about the coach?”
“Too slow,” he said shortly, adding in a mutter, “and confining.” He turned on his heel and strode off to get one of the bellmen to wrestle her trunk down the stairs and onto a lorry for transport to Cambridge Station.
She not only looked rested, refreshed and renewed—as opposed to his exhausted and exasperated—but seemed utterly immune to his irritable mood. Worse still, she greeted their change of transportation with an acceptance that quickly communicated itself to Mercy, who rattled on about never having been on a train before as they left for the station.
The large yellow-brick station was designed with an impressive arched porte cochere and was large enough to serve three rail lines, despite having only one main track. The lobby bustled with porters, conductors and passengers, every one of whom seemed to look at her as she passed.
If she was aware of the attention she garnered, she didn’t show it. She did, however, quietly peruse a few of the well-dressed gentlemen waiting for the London train. Looked them over from stem to stern, in fact.
Jack’s hackles rose.
How dare she ogle men as potential acquisitions only hours after making passionate love with him? And how dare he have such thoughts after they’d agreed that said love would be “once-in-a-lifetime”?
By the time they were settled in their first-class compartment—watching gentlemen slow to catch glimpses of her—he was roundly irritated. When it occurred to him that one of those men might be the very one to claim her, his hand went possessively to the license in his pocket. He imagined having to hand it—and her—over to a slavering merchant or libidinous bureaucrat, and his hands knotted into fists.
She deserved better. She deserved somebody who would treat her like a lady by day and love her like a courtesan by night. Where was she going to find a man to appreciate her unique sensuality and passion and wit and spirit? Besides him. And where was he going to find a woman who could make him forget touching her, burying his face and hands in her hair…
He sat back and wished he had something—anything—to occupy his mind. He was reminded moments later to be careful what he wished for.
She pulled a pad of paper and a pen from her small valise.
“I thought we should develop a strategy, so as not to waste time and energy in London.” She readied her pen. “Where do people of commerce congregate? Bankers, exchange managers, company executives…”
“In the City,” he said, trying not to show how the topic rankled. “Government bureaus, banks and stock and commodity exchanges all have their offices in a relatively small borough of London proper.”
“Excellent. And I thought perhaps it would be good to see the workings of our fine legal system,” she said, making notes. “Where would one go to see barristers and magistrates?”
“The Temple Bar. The Inns of Court are where barristers hang their wigs and silks. The Old Bailey is where trials and lawsuits are heard.”
“The Inns of Court, then.” More notes. “And our august government…where do those of a political calling spend their time?”
“Besides Parliament and Westminster? Certain gentlemen’s clubs are known to serve as the back halls of government.” His jaws tightened visibly.
“And physicians? They can always use patronage and support.”
“Why don’t we just put a ‘Husband Wanted’ notice in The Times?” he snapped irritably.
“You think that would work?” she said with taunting innocence.
He rose, grabbed his hat and excused himself to the smoking car.
Mariah watched him go and sighed, feeling a little ashamed of herself. When she turned to look out the window, she found Mercy glowering at her.
“Ye sure ye got yer heart set on marryin’ agin?”
Her heart? That about summed it up.
“I do.” She glanced at the door. “Assuming I find the right man.”
“Then why don’t ye jus’ marry Handsome Jack there? He cuts a fine figure. An’ he’s in the market for a wife.”
“Now, there’s a thought,” Mariah said, as if it had never occurred to her.
“Though you’d have to loosen ’im up some.” The housemaid scowled as she followed her mistress’s gaze to the door. “That lad’s cinched up tighter’n a nun’s knickers.”
“Something tells me he would loosen up nicely—” she gave a knowledgeable smile “—if someone pulled the right strings.”
14
LATE THAT afternoon, they transferred from the train station by cab to Claridge’s in London’s fashionable Mayfair district. The hotel had long been known as one of the city’s premier lodgings; the ledger bore the names of tycoons, British nobles of every stripe, royalty from the continent and assorted diplomats, heiresses, opera stars and impresarios. Discretion was Claridge’s watchword, and if there was anything they needed—as Mercy gawked like a bumpkin and Mariah practically had to be frog-marched into that den of luxury—it was discretion.
A word from Jack to the manager secured them two well-appointed rooms at the rear on an upper-level floor.
“Only two?” Mariah questioned him as they signed the register.
“I have my own lodgings in the city.”
“You do?” She looked momentarily dismayed, then brightened. “Well, Lord knows I don’t need a chaperone.” She glanced around the lobby, caught the admiring attention of a fellow dressed like a Prussian general—all Hessians, helmet and gold braid—and returned his interest.
Jack’s face tightened as he turned back to the manager.
“We will need three rooms, please.”
It was intimidating, to say the least, to see the liveried hotel staff scurrying to transport their luggage and packages and arrange for their comfort. But by dinner that night in
the hotel restaurant, Mariah had recovered her equilibrium and was able to present to Jack her itinerary for shopping and sightseeing…one that allowed for maximum exposure to London’s eligible male population.
Stone-faced and holding the list she had presented him in a death grip, he excused himself before the final course was served and left Mariah to Mercy’s rustic company for the rest of the evening.
AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Mariah descended to Claridge’s ornate lobby dressed in her military-style navy blue traveling suit and matching toque hat, looking rested and eager to take on the city. Jack had himself just arrived, looking roughly the same color as the gray silk vest he wore beneath an immaculate black suit. The dark circles under his eyes, his somber garments and the dread that had settled over him like a blanket gave him the appearance of a misplaced pall bearer.
Concerned, she suggested they take coffee and offered to find him a headache powder before departing. He donned his top hat, growled that he felt “fine, perfect,” and ushered her out to the waiting cab.
The streets were filled with lorries, push carts, omnibuses and foot traffic…all moving at a pace enlivened by the brisk air and unseasonably bright sun. She bent to the window to take in the sights and bombarded him with questions about The Strand, Old Bailey, Big Ben and Parliament.
He watched the way she embraced the city, feeling as if he were seeing her—truly seeing her—for the first time. It was all there: her irresistible vitality, her joy in discovering new things, her irreverent curiosity, her vibrant wit and unselfconscious beauty.
“Oh, St. Paul’s,” she said with awe, leaning across his knees as the cab turned to maintain her view of the cathedral’s magnificent dome. “I never thought I’d see it.” She looked up with a beaming smile.
He glanced away, feeling as if he’d just stared straight into the sun.
They finally emerged from the cab onto a broad, bustling intersection bounded by official-looking stone buildings and filled with men in business suits and bowlers. The sight brought a gleam to Mariah’s eyes.