The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  “Here,” he said, his voice rough, strained. “Feel me. Feel us.”

  William covered her hand with his own and guided it down, down, and with knowing fingers wrapped hers around his hardness. She gasped in surprise and, curious, ran her hand the length of him.

  He sucked in a pained breath, wincing.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”

  She felt herself blush at the compliment. His fingers tightened around hers; she could tell he was struggling to hold back.

  “Feel me go inside you, darling,” he whispered into her ear. He used his thumb and forefinger to part her folds, and with his hand he guided himself farther against—into—her.

  Her eyes went wider as she felt the first bit of pressure, her thumb and pinky now pressed firmly against her own slick flesh. Instinctively she squeezed her hand, and he hesitated, pulled back.

  “No,” she said and used her hand to guide him back against her. “No, I want more, all of you, William.”

  With his hand he pressed even harder against her. She felt herself open to him, the folds of her parting to admit him.

  He continued to press, and press, his hand wrapped so tightly around her own she thought her fingers might break. The pressure mounted and it was her turn to wince—he was hardly inside her and already she felt herself straining to fit him.

  “Heaven above, it’s small in there,” he groaned. “Relax, dearest, that’s it, just relax—”

  With a grunt he sank farther into her—much farther—and she gasped, all the while wanting more, and more still.

  “Keep going,” she panted. “Please, William, keep going.”

  And then with no small force he thrust into her, leaving her hand tangled in the triangle of his hair wedged just above hers. He took that hand in his own, weaving his fingers into hers as he watched her face, his dark eyes clouded, flashing with something like pain.

  For a beat he remained very still, allowing her to adjust to the feeling of him. It wasn’t nearly as painful as she’d imagined it to be; and as her discomfort subsided, pleasure bloomed in its place, rising through the whole of her all the way to her lips, which curved of their own volition into a smile.

  “Ah, there it is,” Harclay said, his voice low, rumbling in his chest. He pressed his lips to the corner of her grin, a gentle caress.

  “It can’t be helped,” she said softly in reply. “This feels so—so very lovely.”

  He slowly, very slowly, began moving against her, in and out, in and out, thrusting with a bit more vigor each time. All the while he held her eyes captive with his own. They were liquid with intensity, watching her response to his body, his movements.

  Again that same heat rising within her, at once unbearable and very sweet. Her hips bucked against his, seeking to drive him deeper, heighten what was already a heady sensation.

  As if on cue, William reached down and ran his thumb across the very tip of her flesh, just above the juncture where they came together. At his touch fire flooded her being. Coupled with the pressure of him inside her, the sensation was beyond poignant, an urge she could not resist.

  Violet pressed against him harder as his thumb moved more quickly over and over her, curling, teasing, stoking the pressure within her until she could hardly breathe.

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes and held on for dear life. Sensing her mounting frustration, William covered her mouth with his and kissed her, his tongue gliding along the insides of her swollen lips. Taking, taking.

  He moved over her ardently now, his belly sliding against hers. The friction, it was too much; it was not enough.

  His mouth was moving across her jaw down to her throat; she arched, the sensation white-hot as he pounded into her one last time.

  Violet felt him go still, gritting his teeth, and cry out just as she was lost to her own pleasure. It was excruciating; it was exquisite. Her heart was thudding in her chest, her legs curling against his flanks as if to lessen the rending blow of her climax.

  Her entire body pulsed in time to the sensation between her legs, a wave that slowly receded. She was left breathless and damp with sweat beneath him. When she opened her eyes she found William staring down at her, his own wide and open and vulnerable.

  “What is it?” she whispered. She tried to shift beneath him but he held her fast with the weight of his body.

  He looked at her for a long moment, breathing hard. She could see his thoughts, frantic and new, flitting across his eyes, and she reached up to stroke his face.

  “Marry me,” he said.

  Her heart skidded to a stop.

  Twenty-five

  The words were soft, velvet, more entreaty than question or command. That was not at all what she had expected him to say—certainly not now, not ever.

  This was the Earl of Harclay, his body still tangled in her own, the ravager of whole villages of Sicilian nuns and all that. Until this moment Violet assumed William would rather burst into flame than be leg-shackled to a self-proclaimed spinster like herself.

  “Why?” she asked. “If you believe you are obliged to marry me after—well, after this, then you needn’t bother—”

  “I’m asking you to marry me because I want to, Violet,” he replied steadily. “I know by now the both of us hardly have a care for propriety. That’s got nothing to do with my proposal. Well, very little, at least.”

  “Very little?”

  His fingers trailed to her belly.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly understanding. “Oh yes, I’d quite forgotten about that.”

  With a wince he slid out of her. His seed followed, a warm stream that made her cheeks burn. His hand trailed from her belly to her sex; he cupped her, gently, his middle finger gliding between her folds. She felt a bit sore, a bit raw; even so, she rose to his touch.

  “A dangerous detail to overlook, Violet. Even now I feel my seed inside you. We shall make beautiful babies, you and I.”

  Violet scoffed, despite the happy softening of her heart, her limbs. Beautiful babies. She’d never thought much about children. Not until now, anyway. Not until she realized she could be making one with William.

  “Besides, this, as you call it”—he swept his eyes over their joined bodies—“is bloody perfection. I want you, Violet. I want you to stay with me this night and all the nights after that. I want to marry you, I want you to become my family, I want to make children with you. I want you with me every minute of every day. Losing you to those beastly acrobats . . .” He paused, anger flashing in his eyes. “Well, let us say I was not a happy man. I’ll never be without you again.”

  Her blood coursed warm and singing through her limbs, setting her heart fluttering at the loveliness of his words. A now-familiar ache—a longing, something beautiful—settled over her breastbone as she considered his proposal. She knew, she knew in her bones this feeling between them was heavenly, something she dared not name.

  For love had no place in her life. She’d never thought much of it, or marriage. Her lot lay with her family: who would care for her father, for Auntie George and Sophia? Who would look after their estates and their accounts, who would balance the ledger each week, if Violet were to leave them to start life anew as someone’s wife?

  For years now she had considered herself as good as a spinster. With all her responsibilities, she wasn’t available to wed; and for years now, she’d contented herself with visions of an independent future, one in which she took no husband but enjoyed the ability to say what she wanted to say, and do what she wanted to do, without a care for what others thought. She had her inheritance, and a house in London; a very good library and Fitzhugh. Ingredients she’d always thought would make for a long, happy life.

  So why did it hurt—dear God, it hurt—to look up at him and say, “But you and I are on opposite si
des, William. The two of us becoming husband and wife—it’s impossible. Not only are we both repulsed by the very idea of marriage—”

  “For a long time, Violet, I believed I was repulsed by marriage. The thought of marrying anyone I knew, all the debutantes and the family friends and fortune seekers, seemed nothing short of a death sentence. I didn’t understand why anyone would do it. And then—”

  Violet couldn’t help herself. “And then?”

  He grinned, a lopsided thing. “And then I met you.”

  The words, and all they meant, hung between them. Violet swallowed and looked away, tears burning the back of her throat. She suddenly felt very heavy, a terrible, hard sensation in her belly. How she longed to give in, to say yes, and have Harclay all to herself for the rest of her life; make all those beautiful babies.

  But the habit to think first of her family, and of the hard work she’d put in keeping them safe and happy, was not so easily undone. She had to think of her estate, and of Hope’s diamond; she had to prove to Hope, to everyone, that she was capable of taking care of herself, and of her family. That she was cleverer than all the dandies and earls whom she’d passed up in lieu of Papa, Sophia, Auntie George. That no gentleman, no matter how handsome or capable or thrillingly brilliant in the bedchamber (or kitchen), was worth sacrificing her family, and her freedom, for.

  “No,” she said softly, her voice tight. “Thank you, William, for the lovely proposal. But I cannot marry you.”

  Violet turned her eyes back to see Harclay’s smile fade.

  “Tonight,” he said, “tonight I saw your boldness, and your bravery, in play. I’d never seen anything like it. I saw the fire that burns in you and I am drawn to it, Violet. I cannot stay away. Please don’t ask me to stay away.”

  “You forget I’ve a family to look after. And a diamond to recover. I shan’t be thwarted by—by your pretty words.”

  “Ah,” he replied, a savage edge to his tone. “So this isn’t even about me. It’s about your damned pride.”

  Violet attempted to free herself from Harclay’s embrace, but he held her fast, pressing her against the table with the weight of his body.

  “Please, let me go,” she panted. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Now you know how I feel.”

  And suddenly his mouth was on hers, his lips tearing at her savagely. She tasted blood but she didn’t care; tears blurred her vision and she closed her eyes, losing herself once more to the poignant loveliness of his touch. With his fingers he parted her sex, and entered her slowly; and then he was again moving, thrusting, against her. It felt very much the same and yet different this time around; there was an intensity about Harclay’s movements, a desperation that hadn’t been there before.

  Her climax came, swift, devastating, and left her shaking beneath William. He gritted his teeth against his own release; and when he was done, he pressed his forehead against hers, his breath hot on her cheek.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice was jagged, edged with pain. “And look at me.”

  But Violet couldn’t. Tears snaked out of the corners of her eyes and trailed down her temples into her hair. They were unwelcome, hot and sticky against her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, shaking her head.

  “Violet,” he said, the single word strained, as if he were suddenly sapped of will. He rolled to her side and gathered her in his arms, pressing her flesh against the warmth of his own. With his thumbs he drew away her tears.

  She breathed deeply, surrounding herself with his scent, the scent of their lovemaking, as if she would memorize it. A wave of misery inundated her at the thought that this could—would—be the last time she’d be in William’s arms. She ran her hands up and down the length of his forearms, his shoulders, reveling in his shapely strength and the muscles that rippled invitingly beneath her touch.

  At last, when her bones had gone numb from being pressed against the hard table, she untangled herself from his arms and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.

  “I suppose I should be going,” she said, glancing about the floor for her clothes. They were everywhere—well, what was left of them—in shredded strips of linen, silk, muslin.

  Harclay spun off the table onto his feet. “What if I refuse to give you any clothes? I’ve ripped yours to shreds. Would you stay with me then? Or do you despise me so much you’d rather walk home naked?”

  “I don’t despise you,” she replied quietly. “Not in the least, William. It’s just—”

  “It’s just imperative we don’t get caught,” he said with a sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Of course. I’ll run upstairs for some clothes, and then I shall escort you back home.”

  Violet swallowed, hard. “Thank you.”

  He turned back to her suddenly, his eyes flashing. She swallowed him whole with her gaze—really, the man was handsome clothed, but naked he was nothing short of wicked—and failed. She watched his cock harden beneath her gaze and, heat rising to her cheeks, wondered at his stamina.

  “I shall escort you back home,” he repeated. Climbing into his breeches, he winced as he buttoned up his erection. “But I’m going to fight for you, Violet. No matter what you say, or whatever your reasons for refusing me, I will fight to make you mine.”

  Violet looked away. “You know I cannot have you, William.”

  He stepped toward her, and without willing it she drew a breath of anticipation. Smiling, he replied, “We’ll see about that,” and disappeared up the stairs.

  • • •

  Harclay helped Violet first into stockings and chemise, then stays, gown, slippers. He’d stolen it all from Caroline’s closet some days before in the hopeful anticipation of just such an event; though he never, not for all the world, would’ve guessed it would be this good, that she would be this sensual, this willing; that he would be moved to his very core by her touch.

  Even now, as his fingers trailed across her skin, fastening, buttoning, tying, he was wild with desire. It was all he could do not to rip off her clothes once more and throw her back on the table. How he longed to possess her all night, to take her up to his bed and keep her awake until the sun rose, her refusal be damned.

  He felt as if he were a man possessed. What else could explain his ardent proposal, his vow to fight for the woman standing before him? Just hours earlier he’d sworn off marriage, as he’d done now for almost a decade. The sudden change didn’t make sense, and it was terrifying besides.

  And what bigger fool was there than one who fraternized with the enemy? Violet had set out to ensnare him, and unbeknownst to her she had succeeded. Hell, he’d only realized it himself mere hours before. He’d been falling for her all along; for her confidence, her humor, her complete and utter disregard for rules and propriety and the opinions of others; he’d fallen for her cursing and her cleverness and her beauty, for her body and her refreshingly forward enjoyment of his own.

  Now he belonged to her, body and soul, heart and mind. He’d never felt so sure of something in all his livelong life. There was no going back, no time for regrets. Harclay would make her his, whether she willed it or not. He’d seen the flash of pain that crossed her eyes when she’d refused him; he’d wiped away the tears of remorse that fell freely down her lovely face. And he’d felt that remorse, and that pain, as his own. He couldn’t stand to see her cry. He would make things right, he would, and then she would agree to be his. She had to. He didn’t know what he would do if she refused him again.

  Fastening the last button at the nape of Violet’s neck, Harclay placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed a lingering kiss onto the flesh there. He felt her shudder against him.

  “I’ll find the diamond,” he whispered in her ear. “And then I will come for you, Violet.”

  She shook her head, smiling, eyes trained on her feet. “Not if I find it first.”

  “A
h,” he replied and kissed her just below her ear, “so the game is not yet finished.”

  “Hardly. I don’t think either of us is able to resist the challenge. We enjoy playing too much, don’t you agree?”

  “Perhaps,” he said and kissed her once more before bundling her in a pelisse and turning her to face him.

  “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.

  Violet replied with a watery smile. “Let’s be off, then.”

  Looping her arm through his own, he led her down the kitchen galley and out the back door. The night was at its darkest and a bit chilly; Violet shivered, and when he pulled her closer to him she did not protest.

  They were making their way around the side of the house, through the garden, when Harclay heard a male-sounding grunt, followed by an unceremonious shuffling in the bushes.

  He pulled Violet to a stop behind a statue; and when she looked at him with wide eyes, he held a finger to his lips. Peering beyond the statue, Harclay watched as Mr. Lake emerged from the bushes onto the drive, plucking leaves from his jacket.

  Lake tilted his head to look up at the house. “Good night, my lovely,” he whispered.

  Harclay followed the man’s gaze up the side of the house, coming to a halt at Caroline’s window.

  Caroline’s window. Of course.

  His pulse flared with anger. Lake had bloody cheek, sneaking into Harclay’s house in the middle of the night to do God knew what with Caroline. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice reminded him that he, too, was guilty of pursuing illicit rendezvous.

  But that was beside the point, he told himself. And not at all the same. Violet—well, she was Violet. And Caroline was Caroline. Obviously two very different scenarios!

  “Good night!” Caroline purred. Harclay gritted his teeth at the silkiness of her voice—he recognized satisfaction there, and exhaustion, too. Whatever Mr. Lake had done, he had done it thoroughly.