All You Could Ask For

by Angeline Fortin

  Waiting. His desire gnawing at him, blazing into searing lust with each step she took.

  Her gloved fingers rested on his shirtfront, a scorching brand that aroused him more than such simple contact should. His heart thudded hard against his chest. Her gaze dipped downward then returned to his, wide with astonishment. Her lips parted in a silent gasp of wonder.

  “Did ye doubt me, lass, when I said I desired ye?” he growled, low and throaty.

  Prim swallowed hard and nodded. He could see the thrumming beat of her pulse quicken in the soft white flesh of her neck above her choker.

  “I thought you…I thought it nothing more than flirtation.”

  It might have been, but beneath it something more had been brewing. He could no longer deny it. “You’ve more power than ye think, lass.”

  She liked the thought of it, he could see. But James wanted more than thoughts from her.

  “Do you really seduce all the widows then?”

  “Nay, lass,” he goaded, willing her to action. “Sometimes I wait for them to seduce me.”

  Her beguiling amethyst eyes flared at his words.

  Do it, he urged silently. Take what you want.

  James was used to acting on his impulses, taking charge in seduction and sex. He’d never imagined what intoxication could be found in the reverse. Braced and strung, lust forged his coiled body. Bugger it, if her lips bore a fraction of the fire burning in her eyes, he’d combust at the merest caress.

  “Jamie…”

  “Aye, lass…”

  Her kiss, when it came, was off target and even a tad sloppy. But the moment her lips met his, James’s blood raged and he fell into it fiercely. Taking pleasure. Giving it. So much more than he’d imagined, it knocked him off kilter once again. Clasping a hand at the nape of her neck, he angled her to deepen the kiss. His tongue touched the seam of her soft lips, tasting her. Champagne and untapped desire. When she parted them, blood rushed to his head, buzzing with primal satisfaction. He swept his tongue across hers, swallowing her heartfelt sigh.

  Her small hands slid over his shoulders, tugging him closer, and he happily obliged. His arm dropped around her waist, lifting her against him as he plunged farther into the sweetness of her mouth. He nipped at her lips, sucking lightly on the lower one.

  He wanted those sweet sighs to build into cries of passion. Screams of rapture. He wanted them all. Every one. Only for himself.

  The thought invaded his lust-fogged mind. Were they only his? Had she given them freely before, however clandestine?

  It was a sobering thought. Though he’d never had a monogamous lover before—he’d never even demanded it of Larena, though he was certain she complied anyway—James was fast discovering he didn’t like to share. The idea that some other man, like the blond man from the Gould’s that night, had drowned himself in her luscious lips filled him with unexpected jealousy. To his surprise, his first urge wasn’t to find the fellow and beat him to a pulp, but rather to make sure she forgot there were other men on the planet at all.

  Easing away from her, James ended the kiss gradually, until she was gazing up at him with sleepy, desirous eyes. She licked her lips as if trying to finish every last taste of him. The gesture had him hardening all over again, ready to reach for her.

  “You are a woman of hidden depths, Mrs. Eames,” he whispered, his voice husky with lingering desire.

  Her lashes swept over her cheeks. “Won’t you just call me Prim?”

  “After a kiss like that?” he teased, lifting her chin up with the tip of his finger. “Nay, I cannot imagine doing so. You’ll just have to remain Mrs. Eames.” He brushed his lips softly across hers, savoring the slight tremor of her breath as they met. “Mrs. Eames.” Another kiss. “Mrs. Eames.”

  * * *

  Something about the formality of his address mixed with the suggestion in his tone was intoxicating. Naughty. Prim almost hoped he never chose to call her anything else.

  But on the other hand, Eames was the name of another man. One who’d never managed to rouse an iota of the passion in their bedchamber that James just had. She was shaky, needy. A growing part of her—the bold, daring part—wanted to have him slake that need. Beg him to do it. Or as he’d said before, take it herself.

  The ever-shrinking minority of her mind was appalled at the very idea. She ignored it but did listen to the voice of reason that told her this wasn’t the time or place for any of this. She should be grateful he’d had the presence of mind to stop, because with every touch, she craved more. Knowing he desired her as well only served to excite her more.

  But was she the only woman he desired? Given recent gossip, she doubted it.

  Chapter 17

  It is vain to expect virtue from women till they are in some degree independent of men.

  ~ Mary Wollstroncraft from A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

  “Should we try our hand at the waltz again?” James asked as they made their way back to the ballroom.

  “I don’t expect you to devote all of your time to me,” she said. “Surely there are other ladies you’d like to dance with?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Really? I’ve heard all the rumors, you know. Some quite recent.”

  Heat rose under his collar, much as it had when Maggie had accused him of the same. But James hadn’t given Mrs. Braggstead a second thought in the past couple of weeks. No, all those had been reserved for the lass by his side.

  The one whose lips were tightening in an all too familiar way. Her prudish side, which had managed to be subdued over the past few days, worked its way to the surface.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Is it true what some people say about you and Mrs. Preston?”

  James gawked at her. Whoever he’d expected her to mention by name, that wasn’t it.

  “What do they say?”

  “That you live with Mrs. Preston for more than a vague familial connection,” she said. “That you’re her… um, her…”

  Horror curled deep in his gut. Not only that others would think it, but that Prim would also.

  “Do you think we…? That I…? That I’m some sort of lothario?”

  His pure outrage must have been enough to convince her of the fallacy of the rumors. Prim’s countenance smoothed. He could see her relief but experienced none of his own.

  “Is that what people are saying?”

  “You do live with her.” Obvious amusement tainted the words now. “You could be her kept man.”

  His groan of pure misery was covered up by the music and Prim took pity on him, patting his arm. “I’m sure no one actually believes anything untoward is happening between you. Tongues love to waggle.”

  “They ought to waggle off in another direction,” he growled. “Mrs. Preston will be horrified.”

  “I apologize for mentioning it,” she said.

  “No, I’m glad you did. One cannot combat the unknown,” he said, his jaw set. “I’ll make sure the rumors as squashed.”

  “Still, I’ve ruined the evening for you.”

  “You’ve ruined nothing. If anything, it’s been the most delightful evening I’ve enjoyed in quite some time.” James winked at her. “Besides, we have a bargain, do we not? I’ll not back off from my end when I haven’t had a single young deb hanging on my arm all night.”

  Prim smiled up at him, a hint of buoyancy returning at his light teasing. “You haven’t, have you? What a remarkably fine job I’m doing for my part.”

  “You are,” he agreed, resting his gloved hand over hers nestled in the crook of his arm. He gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve sent them all into retreat.”

  She laughed then. “No, I’m certain it is your attentions for me that’s left them baffled, but only for now. No doubt they’ll regroup and develop a new plan of attack.”

  His lips twitched. “All the more reason for you to stay close to my side. Together we’ve developed a proven deterrent.”

  * * *

&n
bsp; The orchestra struck up another tune. Not a waltz but a moderately paced polka. Nothing too spirited for the staid Knickerbocker society. The energetic hops replaced by low kicks and long glides across the floor. Prim hadn’t danced it for years.

  James took her hand and pulled her into the flow of couples, dazzling her once again with his skill as he whirled her into motion. Turning her this way and that, he proved himself a powerful lead as she effortlessly floated along with him.

  A face in the crowd caught her eye as they rotated around the room. His frown told her he was none too pleased with her for dancing with James again.

  Prim sighed, some of the joy the dancing brought her leeching away under her brother’s scrutiny. Why? Why did he have to be so overprotective? So…so curmudgeonly?

  Fletcher had still been alive when their father passed. Shane wouldn’t have received any demands from him to watch over her. Surely his brotherly affection didn’t command such resolution on his part. Lord have mercy, James was right.

  “What are you thinking about?” James asked, obviously noting her distraction.

  “That my brother needs a spouse,” she told him, nodding in Shane’s direction. “As you suggested.”

  “Or perhaps a good kick in the rear?”

  Prim gaped at him but a second later laughter, shocking as it was from her, bubbled up. “Perhaps. Would one be more effective than the other?”

  “Would you like to find out?”

  This time, a giggle did pass her lips, though she hid it with a gloved hand as the polka ended. A waltz took its place and without question, James kept her tightly in his arms as the rhythm changed.

  Shane’s demeanor changed as well. From stormy to dumbfounded. She tried not to care as they retreated into the flow of dancers.

  She struggled more against another sort of caring as she focused on the alluring man who held her so close.

  “Do you like ragtime?”

  “Ragtime?” Prim echoed.

  “The music?” he clarified, dipping her a step back to avoid crashing into an oncoming couple. “There’s a club on the west side not far from the Metropolitan Opera House that has a band with an excellent pianist. I thought we might have some dinner Friday night then some dancing and drinks afterward.”

  “A club?” she repeated blankly then stiffened up as if he’d dealt her a far more inappropriate proposition.

  “A nightclub,” he said. “The Reformation Club. Rather apropos to our current endeavor, don’t you think? I’ll call for you at nine?”

  Prim’s thoughts were too rattled to appreciate his humor this time. A nightclub? Her brothers would never approve. Her father-in-law? She didn’t dare imagine.

  “Mr. MacKintosh…”

  “Oh, no,” he drawled out. “Am I to be called to the carpet, Mrs. Eames?”

  “Jamie,” she sighed with exasperation, “an evening out at a-a club is not at all what I intended.”

  “I realize that,” he agreed. “But given your brother’s thus far stalwart disapproval, I believe we need to step it up a notch.”

  “But my reputation—”

  “Many ladies of high society visit these sorts of clubs,” he assured her without letting her finish. “Many of them in this room. I promised not to do anything to ruin your good name. And I won’t.”

  But Prim was afraid he already had. They passed by her father-in-law, watching them flabbergasted, as was Jeremy who stood next to him. Shane, with Leachman at his side, appeared thunderous. No doubt if she cared to survey the room, she’d see more of the same. Three dances in one evening, and James hadn’t left her side at all.

  If their absence had been noted…

  Well, Prim still feared none of them—especially her brothers—would believe he was courting her. They would think he was seducing her.

  None would believe he hadn’t succeeded.

  “Remember the trick of it?” he went on, misreading her silence. “To not only give the impression that you’re unavailable to be courted by another, but to show them that you’re to make your own decisions and live your own life.”

  That did sound heavenly. But the concept was still so abstract, she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to employ the practice in reality quite so brazenly. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “And I’m sure you can.”

  Heavens but she did love his conviction. “I-I…I’ll think about it.”

  As if knowing that was the best he might get out of her, James nodded. “Then I’ll—”

  “May I cut in?”

  The gruff request was accompanied by a tap on James’s shoulder. Even from her low vantage point, Prim could tell the jabbing of that thick stubby finger was not gentle, or intended to be so.

  Cutting in on a waltz wasn’t unheard of. Popular ladies with many beaux but few dances available to give might be confronted like this by an ardent suitor, but it’d never happened to Prim. She felt nothing more than a flood of embarrassment when James slowed them to gradual rotation, then a sway. He stared as incredulously at Mr. Leachman as she.

  And the other couples slowed their steps to ogle the spectacle as well.

  “Apologies, old chap,” James drawled blithely without stopping or releasing her. “My dance, you see? There’ll be another for you, another time.”

  James turned her again, giving her a reassuring nod. But over his shoulder, Prim saw Leachman’s already ruddy face grow splotchy with anger. She winced as his beefy hand clamped down on James’s shoulder, dragging them to a halt.

  “I said I’m cutting in.”

  A muscle visibly clenched in James’s jaw. He stopped and glared down at Leachman, who might have been a few inches shorter but surely outweighed James by a great many pounds.

  “And I say you’re not.”

  Ice wrapped around Prim’s heart, chilling her to the bone. Her breath caught in her throat as if she’d stepped outside on a subzero day. This was exactly why she’d asked James for his assistance. His size, his strength. His ability to cow lesser men. But Leachman wasn’t cowed. For all of James’s formidable glares, he was as contained as ever while Leachman’s unpredictable temper could blow at any time.

  She feared for James and had the absurd compulsion to defend him when his defense of her was what she’d needed so desperately.

  The dancing around them stopped altogether, everyone agog with the spectacle. Two men fighting. Over the dowdy widow, Primrose Eames. In public. Prim groaned at the humiliation.

  “Why don’t you shove off?” Leachman pushed at James’s chest with enough force to send a smaller man stumbling.

  James took only half a step back before righting himself and moving forward with the older man’s palm still pressed to his chest. “Remove your hand, old man,” James growled, his feral tone nothing like Prim had ever imagined from him. His entire body was tensed with fury, again a predator ready to pounce, but this time with more deadly intent.

  Leachman’s thin lips tightened until they nearly disappeared. “Or what?”

  “I’ll remove it for you.”

  Leachman pushed off again and James rotated an arm between them, knocking Leachman’s away. They stepped toward each other. One with a snarl. The other with stoic resolve.

  Prim couldn’t take it, though she might consider herself a rabble-rouser of sorts when it came to the suffragette cause. Agitating in the name of equality was acceptable, especially when she was surrounded by other women with the same intent.

  This…this spectacle was something else entirely. In all her musings over what she’d gotten herself into by approaching James in the first place, she’d never imagined it all coming to public fisticuffs.

  Stepping between them, she raised her hands in supplication. “Please don’t fight,” she begged. “Not here.”

  Not at all. This fight, the risk of Jamie’s safety, wasn’t worth whatever personal gain she’d hoped for.

  She looked up at James. The anger suffusing his face faded away and understanding too
k its place. Even if he couldn’t sense her fear for his well-being, he knew her well enough by now to recognize what such a public scene would cost her.

  He nodded tersely, his rigid stance relaxing.

  “You going to let a woman fight for you?”

  Leachman shoved at James’s shoulder again. This time James caught his hand. To Prim’s astonishment, he somehow managed to twist it about without even seeming to move a muscle. A second later, Leachman was down on one knee, his arm elevated behind him and his thumb held at an awkward angle in James’s hand.

  Leachman pushed back against him with a growl but quickly stilled with a hiss of pain. “Leave off,” he gasped.

  “Apologize to the lady for the scene you’ve caused,” James ground out, drawing another wince of pain from the man without even twitching. Prim couldn’t imagine how he was doing it.

  “Excuse me, Primro—” He choked on the words with a low curse. “Mrs. Eames. My apologies.”

  “Let him go,” Prim whispered, aware that eyes from all around were pinned on them. “Please.”

  James released him and with a scowl, Leachman slunk away. Voices rising around them only amplified how dense the silence had been. Unbearable heat flooded Prim’s face.

  “Let me escort you home,” James murmured, reaching for her.

  Prim jerked her hand back. She knew he was motivated only by kindness, by the need to remove her from the scene as quickly as possible. But with all eyes on them, she knew she couldn’t so much as take his arm.

  He might argue that tongues needed to waggle off in other directions, but if she left with him now, they’d waggle her way indefinitely. She’d couldn’t have that. She couldn’t bear it.

  He sighed and looked down at her, his eyes dark and turbulent. Again, the simple truth that he desired her so astounded her. She couldn’t imagine what it was he saw in her. What he saw that prompted such conviction that she could be so much more. She wanted to be that woman. For her. And for him. For that pride and admiration which she so often glimpsed in his eyes.