by Galen, Shana
“Sure and ye take my breath away when ye smile like that,” he said when she was close enough to hear him.
It seemed impossible, but her smile widened. “You do have quite the way with words, Mr. Finnegan.”
“I save them all for ye, me lady.”
She stopped to stand under the eaves of the rear of the dowager house. She’d walked the long way around so that she approached from the back, not the front, which could be seen from the grounds of Southmeade Cottage. It always made James smile when he thought of the name of the sprawling country house. It was the largest, grandest cottage he had ever seen. Even the dowager house boasted eight bed chambers.
Lady Philomena wrinkled her nose. “Why so formal? You know I hate when you call me my lady.”
“Then call me James, and I’ll call ye—what did we decide? Mena?”
She shook her head. “Phil. That’s what everyone calls me.”
He could smell her scent. It was subtle, floral and earthy, and reminded him of heather. He wanted to move closer but forced himself to stay where he was. “It’s hardly a name that suits ye.”
“Neither is Mena. That’s for a petite girl with black hair like yours. I’m far too tall and my hair too yellow for the name Mena.”
He would have described her hair a thousand ways before he’d call it yellow; it was more gold than silver, more sunlight than starlight.
He almost made another quip, but he noticed she was shivering. It was a cold day, and they’d met on other cold days. Once or twice, they’d even gone inside the house. Lady Philomena had the key, but he couldn’t be the one to suggest it. “Yer shivering.”
“The damp, I think.” She fished in the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a key. “Shall we go in?”
He took the key from her gloved hand and opened the door, holding it so she could pass through first. The fact that she trusted him enough to be alone with him humbled him. He did not deserve that trust. But then she didn’t know that, did she? She had no reason not to trust him. He’d never done anything she didn’t want, though adhering to that pledge—one he’d made to himself—just about killed him. As many times as he’d met her alone, he had only kissed her a handful of times, and most of those had been as chaste a kiss as a boy gave his grandmother.
He pulled back the Holland cover on the couch and eyed the dark hearth in the sitting room they usually sat in. “Sure and I wish I could light the fire.”
“That would give us away.” She patted the couch cushion beside her. “Sit here, and I’ll be warm enough.”
He did, careful not to touch her. The small distance between them didn’t stop him from feeling her heat.
“Do ye want to talk about it then?” he asked.
She paused in the act of removing her hat. “Talk about what?”
“Oh, so it’s to be that way. I was in the dining room, and though we act like we’re deaf, servants hear everything.”
“I know.” She surprised him by reaching over and putting her hand on top of his. He wasn’t wearing gloves. His gloves were for work. He had two pair, and they had to remain spotless if he was to serve at dinner and other meals. He couldn’t afford to soil them and had left them in his rooms before sneaking out this afternoon. He could feel the heat of her gloved hand on his skin.
“It’s just that I want to forget all of that for a little while.”
“We’ve forgotten it for months. I don’t think we can put it aside much longer. Ye have to marry, Phil. Ye should have said yes to Knoxwood.”
She made a face. “I don’t want to marry him. He’s a decent enough man, but...” She looked at James, and the implication was clear. Knoxwood wasn’t him. James should have been glad she thought herself in love with him. It was what he’d wanted. But he couldn’t rejoice.
“A decent enough man is nothing to scoff at. And don’t look at me like that. Ye know ye can’t marry an Irishman. And even if I wasn’t Irish, I’m a footman. I’m no match for a duke’s daughter.”
“I never said anything about marriage.” She tossed her head in an effort to look unconcerned, but he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes before she looked away. “I may never marry. I may devote myself to the role of maiden aunt to my nieces and nephew or perhaps I’ll travel abroad and see the grand cities of the world.”
“Without a chaperone?” he asked, his brows raised.
She looked back at him. “You could be my chaperone.”
He laughed until he noticed she wasn’t smiling. “Ye can’t be serious. How would we live?”
“I don’t know. We’d find a way, wouldn’t we?”
They could. They would. For an instant he wanted nothing more than to take her away right that moment, but he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t ruin her life. She’d end up hating him for it, and he’d hate himself.
Christ Jaysus. When had he become so fecking noble? It was like a disease he caught when he was near her.
She was still looking at him with hope in her eyes. He shook his head. “Ye were born the daughter of a duke, and I won’t be the man who’s responsible for making ye starve. As much as I want to”—and Jaysus did he want to—“I won’t run away with ye.”
The hope in her eyes faded, replaced with an expression he found more concerning—determination. Her eyes could turn from the soft blue of the summer sky to the hard blue of sapphires in a matter of seconds. The sapphires glittered at him now.
“I wonder if I can change your mind,” she said. He looked down and saw she’d drawn off her gloves, revealing long-fingered white hands that were as soft as clouds.
“Sure and ye can try, but I care too much for ye to do as ye ask.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that he’d refused her outright, she’d probably storm out, angry at his rejection. He’d miss these clandestine meetings, but it was for the best. He could never be the man she deserved. He wasn’t even the man she thought he was.
She reached out, but instead of slapping him, she touched his cheek. The feel of her fingers stroking his skin from cheek to jaw made him freeze, even while his flesh heated where her fingers stroked.
“I love the feel of you under my fingertips,” she murmured. “Your beard is rough.”
“I shaved early this morning,” he corrected. Footmen were clean-shaven, forcing him to shave twice some days. He’d always had thick dark hair that grew quickly. Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, trimmed his unruly hair every fortnight.
“And yet, it scratches the pads of my fingers. I wonder...” She leaned closer, and James frowned. He should stand up, move away, but he didn’t so much as breathe as she pressed close, sliding the skin of her soft cheek against his coarse jaw.
“Phil,” he murmured, his tone a warning. He kept his hands on his knees, though they itched to take her into his arms. Her lips grazed his jaw, and he closed his eyes, willing his body to remain under control. When, after a long, teasing trail, her mouth finally reached his, she kissed him gently. Summoning all his fortitude, he kissed her back—a press of mouth to mouth. But when he pulled back, she followed.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, his brogue heavier now with the effort to contain his arousal. They’d never gone further than a quick touch of lips, and even that was dangerous to them both.
“Why don’t you ever kiss me like you want to?”
His brows shot up. “And what do ye know about what men want?”
She gave him a patronizing look. “I’ve kissed other men, you know.”
“Have ye now?” He’d never thought about her kissing any other men, but of course it made sense. She was no child, and she’d been to her share of balls and assemblies. Of course, one of the nobs she danced with would take her behind a potted plant and kiss her. But if that was the limit of her experience, he wouldn’t expand it. “And a few kisses on the terrace make ye an expert, do they?”
“It’s more than a few, and why don’t you be the judge as to whether I’m an expert? Put your hands on me.”
Jaysus but she had a small trim waist. He’d imagined it would be, but it was almost impossible to tell when she always wore gowns where the waists tucked up under her bosom. His arms remained stiff as he fought to keep from spreading his fingers or allowing his hands to drop an inch or two and explore her tempting body. She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing her body further into contact with his. He was glad they hadn’t lit the hearth now as he was too warm. The heat of her was burning him, raising the temperature of his blood to a boiling point.
“This is better,” she murmured, her gaze fastening on his. He wanted her so badly it hurt. Never had he been so tempted, and he had faced a great deal of temptation in his life.
“Should I kiss ye now?” he said, his voice low.
“Do you really need to ask?”
He didn’t, and he had reached the limit of his chivalry. The strain of playing the well-mannered footman in the house and the perfect gentleman with her suddenly felt too much. For just three minutes he would be himself—James Patrick Finnegan. Damn all the rules of decorum straight to hell.
His hands on her waist tightened and closed, and he pulled her closer so that her breasts pressed into his chest. Then he dipped his mouth to hers, but instead of the sweet kisses he usually bestowed, he nipped at her full lower lip. She made a sound somewhere between desire and shock, and he licked at the spot he’d bitten to soothe the slight sting. Then he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing and coaxing and seducing until she did as he bade and opened for him.
His tongue slid inside her warmth. Her own met his and tangled for a moment. She had been kissed before. But he was no fumbling, soft, lily-fingered nob. He stroked her, teased her, claimed her until she was breathing hard and her hands had fisted in the material at the back of his livery coat. And then he deepened the kiss, letting all the desire and darkness and velvety softness of her skin sink into him.
He could have bent her back, lowered her to the couch, and had her. She was practically trembling from want, and he hadn’t even run his hands over her. He imagined she’d come quick and hard, her eyes a soft shade of blue and her lips a pale pink O.
He wanted her. He needed her.
But that small voice he’d always been able to ignore, up until now, whispered. She’s not for you.
James pulled away, ending the kiss abruptly. Lady Philomena made a sound of distress and tried to pull him back, but he stood and gave her his back. He needed to get his breathing under control and looking at her would not accomplish that. Not to mention, if she stared at the erection tenting his breeches, he’d never regain control.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I apologize.”
“There’s no need, I—”
Christ Jaysus, if she told him she liked the kiss, he would not be able to stop himself.
“If ye value yer virtue, Lady Philomena, ye had better go. Now.”
He could hear the rustle of skirts, knew she’d stood. “But James, can’t we talk—”
He rounded on her. “Get out of here. Now!” he roared.
And she did.
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Also by Shana Galen
REGENCY SPIES
While You Were Spying
When Dashing Met Danger
Pride and Petticoats
MISADVENTURES IN MATRIMONY
No Man’s Bride
Good Groom Hunting
Blackthorne’s Bride
The Pirate Takes a Bride
SONS OF THE REVOLUTION
The Making of a Duchess
The Making of a Gentleman
The Rogue Pirate’s Bride
JEWELS OF THE TON
If You Give a Duke a Diamond
If You Give a Rake a Ruby
Sapphires are an Earl’s Best Friend
LORD AND LADY SPY
Lord and Lady Spy
The Spy Wore Blue (novella)
True Spies
Love and Let Spy
All I Want for Christmas is Blue (novella)
The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe (novella)
COVENT GARDEN CUBS
Viscount of Vice (novella)
Earls Just Want to Have Fun
The Rogue You Know
I Kissed a Rogue
THE SURVIVORS
Third Son’s a Charm
No Earls Allowed
An Affair with a Spare
Unmask Me if You Can
The Claiming of the Shrew
A Duke a Dozen
THE SCARLET CHRONICLES
To Ruin a Gentleman
Traitor in Her Arms
Taken by the Rake
To Tempt a Rebel
STANDALONES AND ANTHOLOGIES
Bachelors of Bond Street (anthology)
Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies (duo)
Stealing the Duke‘s Heart (duet)
The Summer of Wine and Scandal (novella)
A Royal Christmas (duet)
The Dukes of Vauxhall (anthology)
A Grosvenor Square Christmas (anthology)