by Eva Leigh
“Where are you taking me?” she asked above the din.
“The best spot for viewing the fireworks. Few know of it.”
“You do.”
He leveled his gaze at her. “I know so many things.”
“So you say,” she replied airily, “but many men make claims without offering an ounce of proof.”
He stopped abruptly to face her. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I know,” she confessed. “I cannot seem to stop myself. It’s just . . . when I’m with you . . . I feel . . .”
“You feel . . . ?”
She stared up at him. “Like myself.”
For a moment, neither moved or spoke. Then, “This way,” he said, guiding them off one of the main paths. There were people here, too, but far fewer. Their numbers grew more and more scarce, until Jess found herself completely alone with him beside a tiny pond. Little jewellike fish swam beneath the surface of the water.
“Oh, but it’s charming.” Jess pressed her fingertips to her mouth as she took in the enchanted scene. She glanced down and saw a strip of shiny fabric near the toe of her shoe. She used a fallen twig to pick up the object.
It was a garter.
She lifted one of her brows. “Is this why you brought me here?”
“You’ve found me out,” he said drily. “I’m a trophy hunter, collecting garters and drawers. I keep them in a locked cabinet beside my bed, and late at night, I take them out and groan delightedly as I throw them into the air like raked leaves.”
She snorted, then, with a flick of the twig, sent the garter spinning off into the darkness. “I’ve little desire to touch a stranger’s underclothes.”
“Then you deny yourself one of life’s greatest enjoyments.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, and her heart leapt like it had been let out of a cage. Instead of pulling her closer, he turned her so that her back was to his front.
“What are you— Ah!” The first burst of fireworks exploded. He had positioned her so that she’d see the pyrotechnic display.
Yet she’d seen such things before. Granted, the fireworks that a traveling circus troupe had used had been on a much smaller scale, but they’d impressed her. Now she had to force herself to look up at the sky and the adorning bursts of light and color. The noise was terrific, jolting her down to her marrow.
It was Noel, however, that captivated her. She tilted her head back to see him. She could watch the colors sculpt the angles of his face for hours. No doubt he’d seen the Vauxhall fireworks many times, but his expression was one of appreciation—even joy. He had every reason to be jaded by life. In some ways, he was. And yet he allowed himself the simple delight that came from watching pyrotechnics. As though he still held out hope that the world contained delightful surprises.
“Noel,” she whispered urgently.
Despite the noise from the fireworks, he seemed to hear her. “Jess?”
“I said I wanted to move slowly.”
“I remember.”
She took a breath. “I very much want to kiss you. And I hope you very much want to kiss me.”
He moved to face her, his expression intent on her alone. “I do not very much want to kiss you.”
“Oh.” She didn’t often give in to tears, but at that moment, as his rejection cut deeply, her vision swam. Embarrassment choked her as she tried to calculate how to escape the group and get herself home immediately, without money or a carriage.
“I need to kiss you.”
Chapter 12
Noel looked down at Jess, her face illuminated by the fireworks. Sharp hunger tore into him, the desire in her eyes stoking his need higher, until he was certain he could flare like one of the rockets overhead—exploding into light and color.
“You do?” She didn’t speak above a whisper, yet even with the noise of the fireworks so terrific, he heard her.
He stepped closer, so that there was barely any space between them. Her warmth encircled him.
“It’s all I think about,” he growled. “Going slowly has been an exercise in exquisite torture.” His voice was rough as gravel as he spoke. “I keep looking at your mouth and wondering if your taste will be sweet or spiced, or perhaps a bit of both.”
“I don’t know how I taste,” she breathed. “I want you to find out.”
She tipped her face up as he stroked his thumb along her cheek. Her gaze went heavy lidded as he swept his thumb across her lips. He caught the floral scent of arrack on her breath, heard how her breath came in shallow rasps, saw the desire cut into her features.
They swayed into each other, until they pressed close. He growled at the feel of her, soft and feminine, against his taut body.
He cupped the back of her head with his hand, overwhelmed with a heady mixture of desire and tenderness—the need to claim, the need to protect.
He angled her so that their lips aligned. Her breath came faster, and faster still.
“Tell me you want this,” he rumbled. “Tell me you want this as much as I do.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll stop.”
He started to move away, but she gripped his shoulders. “Don’t. Don’t stop. I want this. For me.”
She lifted up onto her toes as he lowered his head and their lips touched, softly. They took small, exploratory sips of each other, discovering what it meant to finally yield to the desire that had built and built until it could no longer be denied.
The kiss deepened. She opened to him and his answering hunger surged. The stroke of her tongue against his coursed through his entire body, lighting torches in his muscles, his cock.
He was afire as she clung to him. Her breasts pressed snug to his chest, and his free hand cupped her waist to urge her closer.
She gasped in response as he dragged his lips from hers to scratch his teeth along her neck. He would devour her. She dug her nails into his back, stoking his hunger even higher and hotter.
“Yes,” she breathed. “More.”
“Goddamn it, Jess.” He bit her hard just where her neck curved to her shoulder, then soothed the sting with his tongue.
He slid his hand higher up, skimming over her waist and along her back, until it rested just beneath the curve of her breast. Yet he did not go farther, a silent question as to whether or not she wanted more. She angled her body, fitting her breast into his palm, and he snarled in approval. His hand covered her, stroking her. He brought his fingertips to her nipple and rubbed it into a tight point.
She gave another pleasured gasp.
“Wanted this,” he said in a voice so low it was subterranean. “You. In my arms. Wanted to feel you writhe against me, hear you moan.” He lightly pinched her nipple and she rewarded him with the moan he’d desired.
She felt delicious, a gorgeous collection of curves swathed in silk. He’d been struck by the color of her gown tonight, as golden as the sun, and with her just as dazzling within it. Now he wished the fabric would melt away beneath his hands, leaving her bare.
A man and woman’s laughter sounded close by.
She tore herself from his embrace. He needed her back in his arms, her mouth against his, but he had to respect the distance she’d put between them.
“We can’t . . .” She seemed to fight to get her breathing under control. “We can’t do this here.” She touched her fingers to her overheated cheeks. “I want to, though. God, how I want to.”
“You destroy me—piece by piece. And I welcome it.”
Her eyes were wide, her face flushed. He’d kissed her lips into overripe temptation. He felt a muscle work in his jaw as he struggled to calm himself.
Still, he glanced toward the deeper shadows, calculating the distance it would take to hide them both in the darkness and give in to their aching need.
Her gaze skimmed down his body, and her eyes widened to see the length of his cock pressed snug in his breeches.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No elegant or witty
words from me now. I want you.”
Need was written in her face—the finest text he’d ever read—yet a battle was fought behind her gaze. He held himself still. This was her choice to make.
“We ought to get back,” she said regretfully. “The others might be looking for us.”
Much as he wanted to protest, he nodded. Working quickly, he smoothed out his waistcoat and adjusted his neckcloth. She had almost completely untied it.
She tugged on her bodice and shook out her skirts, then patted her hair. “My coiffure must look like a windblown hayfield.”
“Let me.” He stepped close, and their fingers tangled as they both worked to put her hair in order. She sighed when he stroked his hands along her scalp and down the nape of her neck.
“How do you know so much about ladies’ hair arrangements? Do you help your lovers reassemble themselves when they rise from your bed?”
He did not want to speak of any other lover. He would never be so crass as to judge one woman against another, but more than that, he wanted to honor what he felt with Jess. There would be no comparisons. “I have two sisters and was frequently impressed into service dressing their hair.”
“They had no maid of their own?”
“At that age, they had a nurse who spent too much time flirting with an under-groom. So the task of making them into tiny ladies fell to me.” Fondness warmed his words. His sisters had been the bane of his existence when he’d been a boy, and he’d missed them terribly when he’d been sent to Eton. Now he saw them and their families every Christmas, and he enjoyed his role as indulgent uncle. “Have a look in the pond and see if I did your coiffure justice.”
She did so, peering at her reflection in the water. “Excellent. If you ever decide to relinquish your claim to the dukedom, you’ve a bright future in women’s hairdressing.”
“Tempting.”
She turned to him and smiled—then realized he wasn’t speaking entirely in jest. Disbelief in her voice, she said, “You’d give up countless country estates—”
“Four. No, six. Damn, at the moment I can’t recall.” His first realization that not every boy stood to inherit half a dozen estates had come at Eton. Granted, most of the boys there had come from the ranks of the elite, with their own sizable inheritances, but almost none of the other students could claim the level of wealth and holdings that he had.
“Half the country’s wealth, and the ear of Lord Liverpool himself?” Her look was puzzled.
He gazed skyward. “It’s the height of churlishness to complain about everything I have. I live the best life a man can have. That’s undeniable.”
At first at school, he’d been so proud of himself, smug in his superiority. But then he’d met four boys in the library who’d taught him that a person’s value wasn’t predicated on their coffers or land.
Thanks to them, he felt the responsibility of tending to his estates and tenants. It was a privilege to have as much—but damn if it didn’t also sometimes weigh heavily on him.
“And yet . . . ?”
“And yet . . .” He exhaled. “I’ve good friends, men for whom I’d do anything. Beyond them . . .” It struck him now, the facts of his world, and a sudden hollowness resounded within him, at odds with the lingering heat from kissing Jess. “I’m often alone.”
“You’re seldom alone,” she said gently.
“The throngs you’d find surrounding an animal trained to entertain. There are my four friends—but to most others, I’m a well-dressed ladder. A means to climb higher.” His smile for her was small, but genuine, and the locked cabinet of his innermost heart opened. But it didn’t frighten him. He leaned into it, testing what it was to be so truthful with another. “It’s different with you. I’m not a dancing bear or a way to get anywhere. I’m a man.”
There was no disgust or fear in her eyes, no calculation as to how to exploit the knowledge he’d given her. All he saw was her warmth, and his smile widened. “When I’m near you, I’m very aware I’m a man.”
She looked stricken, then glanced away. “We really do need to return to the others.”
The heaviness in her voice alarmed him, sending prickling concern across his shoulders. “I’ve pushed you too far, made you do things you didn’t want to do.”
“You must not know me at all,” she said softly, “if you believe anyone could make me do something I didn’t want for myself.”
He inclined his head as gratitude and relief surged. “Point taken.”
“I’m merely tired. The day has been long.” Appreciation shone in her gaze. “This morning, you stepped between me and a conflagration.”
“Was that today?” He snorted in disbelief. “Can’t be. It feels as though—”
“As though?”
Noel hesitated. He’d taken a few steps in baring himself to her, but could he take more? Each revelation left him more and more exposed. She could use anything to her advantage. Certainly others in her position might.
But Jess wasn’t like that. He believed that completely.
“No point in prevaricating. Games are things to be played with other people, people I don’t care about.” He drew a breath, loosening his hold on his apprehension. “The truth is, it feels as though I’ve known you forever.”
The column of her throat worked. “It’s mutual, that feeling.”
Just then, he did feel like a human firework, brilliant as it exploded across the sky. He’d given her a piece of himself, and she had treated it with care and respect, not because she wanted something from him, but because to her, it seemed as though he was fully flesh, as vulnerable as anything that walked the earth.
Before he could take her in his arms again, she said with regret, “It’s time to go back.”
There was disappointment that this idyll couldn’t last forever, but he wasn’t a lad any longer. He knew what the responsibilities of the world entailed, including leaving this place, when all he wanted was to stay and stay and stay.
“Of course.” He offered her his arm, and when she took it, he led her back down the winding path. They joined up with the more populated walkways.
She looked skyward. “The fireworks have stopped.”
“For now.”
Chapter 13
Jess took the measure of the drawing room on the final full day of the Bazaar. They’d already seen two presentations and were taking a pause before the last push.
Noel had been drawn into conversation with Lord Trask the moment the prior presentation had ended. She resented the marquess’s presence, as much as she required him to act as a bulwark between herself and her desire for Noel.
They had kept apart today, as if things between them were too hot, too sensitive, to be handled for very long.
Now he seemed to sense her looking at him—he had a way of finding her wherever she was, as though they were magnets forever drawn to each other—and his eyes were dark, almost as dark as they had been last night at Vauxhall.
She broke away from his gaze, busying herself with pouring a cup of tea from the refreshment table.
She had a task to complete, a reason for her dissembling that brought her to the Bazaar. Noel wasn’t that reason and it was important for her to remember that.
Guilt needled her. Over the past few days, she’d come to think of some of the guests as friends, and it did not feel right to manipulate them. If there had been a choice, some other way of salvaging her family’s business—and her family itself—she would have gladly done it.
But there was no choice. She had to do this now, and face her guilt later.
After taking a sip of tea, she approached a gathering of Bazaar guests that included Mr. Walditch, Ladies Farris and Haighe, and Baron Mentmore.
“But is it sound, to invest?” Mr. Walditch said, clearly adding to an ongoing conversation. “If a business fails once, it could again.”
“Depends on the circumstances of the failure,” Jess said. “Acts of God, and so forth.”
“I ha
d nothing to do with it,” Noel said, joining the group. “Whatever it was.”
Jess pushed down against a rise of excitement and pleasure, but now she knew what it was like to be kissed by his lips, to feel his hands on her body. The same body that demanded more of him.
She did not want to include Noel in her plans for McGale & McGale, but she couldn’t deliberately exclude him from the conversation. There was no hope for it.
Lady Haighe snorted. “The vanity of today’s bucks.”
“Is but a paltry ember compared to the conflagration of the previous generation’s conceit,” he said with a smile. “Besides, I seem to recall my mother whispering an anecdote that involved you, forty years ago, having your portrait painted dénudé, and throwing a ball with that painting prominently displayed for everyone to see.”
Though Jess didn’t speak French, she had a fair idea what that last word meant, judging by the knowing chuckles of the others—and Lady Haighe’s surprising blush.
“It was a different time,” she said gruffly, before lifting her chin. “And I was stunning.”
“Don’t know if God was involved with that soap operation,” Baron Mentmore said, his face slightly red, “but it was rotten luck, and that’s for certain.” He turned to Jess. “My man of business looked into the people who make that honey soap, my lady. What was it called? McGill? McShale?”
“I think it was . . . McGale.” Knowing full well what he would say, acutely aware that she had to very carefully navigate the discussion, she asked, “And what did he learn?”
“A fire wiped out a major part of their production facilities. They’re on their last legs.” He shook his head mournfully. “Bad situation all around. One I wouldn’t involve myself in.”
As calmly as she could, she said, “True, but I’ve been thinking about what you said about Brummell. A soap manufacturer seems like a good investment.”
“Not that manufacturer,” Mr. Walditch countered.
“Consider, though,” she said thoughtfully, “with the McGale operation, there would be ample opportunity for expansion and modernization. It was bad luck that there was a fire—” She fought a wave of memories, trying to douse the flames of the past with a few measured breaths. “However, if the product’s good, then what better situation to rise up from the literal ashes?”