You won’t marry anyway. Where’s the harm?
Perhaps there was something wrong with her, because those softly-spoken words had sent a surge of dark delight straight through her. She didn’t intend to marry; there would be no husband to expect her to come to his bed untouched. There was no harm.
The thought drew her up short, slowing her steps as she reached the terrace. Good lord, he had turned her into some sort of hussy. Effortlessly.
Nora was waiting, her back pressed against the ballroom door, a glass of champagne held in her hands. She smiled as Jilly approached, her dark eyes filled with a sort of amused knowledge.
“Drink this,” she said, holding out the glass. “Robert brought it. It will help.”
“Help what?” Jilly accepted the glass, took a deep, bracing sip. The chilled champagne flute soothed her tender lips.
Nora’s lips twitched into a grin. “Dear, you look like you have been kissed. Thoroughly.”
Jilly choked, a wild flush staining her cheeks. For a moment she considered denying it, but Nora looked only amused. “Do you think me very wicked?” she asked in a small voice, hoping for just a tiny amount of reassurance that she hadn’t committed an unforgivable sin.
“Of course not,” Nora said. “I think that for the first time in too many years, you have been human. May God bless His Grace for reminding you of it.” She peered out into the darkness of the gardens, searching. “Where is the duke, anyway?”
“He said he wasn’t fit for a ballroom,” Jilly said. “He said you would understand.”
Nora tipped her head back and laughed, muffling the sound with her gloved hand. Her snickers eased slowly as she beheld Jilly’s nonplussed expression. She pursed her lips together, but the smile still lingered at the corners of her mouth. “Dearest,” she said. “When a man becomes…” She paused, touching the tip of her forefinger to her chin, searching for an appropriate word. “Amorous,” she settled on at last, “it can be quite noticeable.”
“Noticeable?” Jilly felt a frown settle over her face as she searched her memory. He had pulled her into the hard line of his body, and through the fabric of her gown she had felt something quite hard pressed against her bottom through his breeches. Her brows lifted. “You mean…” She flicked her fingers toward her hips in what she hoped was a casual gesture.
Nora gave a short nod, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
Jilly coughed into her hand, shocked. “And if he entered the ballroom?”
“It would be visible. Everyone would know.” Nora gave her a cheeky grin. “I imagine it is his intention to save your reputation—and himself the embarrassment of his, er…condition.” She canted her head to the side, eyeing Jilly speculatively. “Do we need to have a talk about what to expect regarding physical intimacy?”
There was not enough champagne in the world to make such a conversation comfortable. “I won’t marry him,” she said. “I don’t expect I shall ever need to know what transpires in the marriage bed.”
Nora gently removed the champagne flute from her clenched fingers, setting it aside on a low table situated just by the door. “I don’t believe I mentioned the marriage bed,” she said. “Besides, I think you would be surprised as just how many couples advance their vows.”
“Are—are you encouraging me to—to behave inappropriately? With a duke?”
“Jilly, I am encouraging you to take happiness wherever you find it.” Nora embraced her, pressing their cheeks together. “You’ve been half-alive for too long. Even if you choose not to marry, there’s no reason you must be alone. And if the duke has shaken you out of your shell, then I shall be grateful to him.” With quick, efficient fingers, she smoothed at Jilly’s hair, tucking a wind-tossed curl back into its cluster. “You look presentable enough,” she said. “You need not worry tonight; Robert has tossed out Lord Kirkland.” She collected Jilly’s hand in hers and squeezed in reassurance. “But we will have that talk, and soon.”
∞∞∞
James crammed an extra pillow beneath his head, turning restlessly as he strove to find a comfortable position. Sleep was maddeningly elusive. Each time he closed his eyes he saw only Jilly’s green eyes, dreamy and dazed with passion. He had touched only her shoulder, her cheek, her chin—and even the memory of that was enough to induce a near-instantaneous erection.
He groaned, turning onto his back to alleviate the pressure, slinging one arm over his head in abject misery. He could have stopped at any one of myriad gaming hells on his way home, paid one of the doves employed there to accompany him to a private room and, and taken his ease of her. There were no fewer than three wealthy widows in town for the Season that had suggested that he would be welcome to call of an evening for such entertainments.
He didn’t want them. He wanted Jilly, and her silky-soft skin, and her innocent eyes. Dear lord, he could still smell her, that enchanting vanilla and almonds scent she wore, warmed by the heat of her skin, reminiscent of a tray of sugar biscuits fresh from the oven. If he could not exorcise that arousing fragrance from his memory, afternoon teas would soon become perilous indeed.
It had not helped that she had lingered nearby for the remainder of the evening. Not at his side, for that would have been wholly inappropriate, but close enough that he leant her protection by his very proximity, though it had not been necessary.
There had been a couple of occasions where he had been certain that she had darted a surreptitious glance at the front of his breeches, her gaze almost speculative—and he knew that she had asked Lady Ravenhurst. Only the very knowledge that she had been looking had elicited a predictable reaction, and he had had to take his leave rather abruptly, or else embarrass himself before the entirety of the Ton.
Damn it all—there was no help for it. Without some sort of relief, he was going to have a long, painful night. Even the sheets brushing against his aroused flesh were agony. He cast them off in an aggravated motion, took himself in hand, and dropped his head back against the pillows, struggling to imagine Jilly’s soft palm curled around him rather than his own large hand.
He closed his eyes, pictured her as he wanted her. Naked, in his bed, those wayward curls loose and streaming around her. No—not naked, not yet. He wanted her hair pinned, her lush body neatly encased in a decadent gown. He wanted to plunge his fingers into her hair and shake loose her pins himself, free those shimmering locks until she was delightfully disheveled. He wanted to take an hour slowly stripping her of the trappings of the lady she was, spend long minutes unlacing her gown, slide the sleeves down her arms. She would look at him over her shoulder as she’d done tonight, sweet, needing—
His cock pulsed; he tightened his fist and staved off the climax. He needed it to last, to satisfy the craving for her that had grown unbearable. He needed it to purge these wicked fantasies from his brain, to clear his mind to concentrate on his true goal.
He would lay her down on his bed, explore the silky contours of her body with his fingertips until she moaned for him. Shape her perfect breasts in his hands, tease her nipples to taut peaks, and lave them with his tongue. She would slide her slender fingers into his hair, clutch him to her breasts where that sweet, sugar biscuit scent would be strongest.
She would sigh her bliss in his ear, tremble beneath his fingers as he slid his hand low over her belly, through the soft thatch of hair between her thighs, into the damp heat of her core. She would be so soft, slick and tight, her hips arching to the rhythm of his fingers inside her. When he felt those first exquisite tremors deep within her, he would slip between her pale thighs into the cradle of her hips, cup her bottom in his hands, and drive himself deep—
He gasped, shuddering as he spent himself, the release staggering in its intensity. But even as the mind-numbing pleasure wracked him, he knew a mere fantasy would never be enough to satisfy him. If anything, it had only whetted his appetite for her, astonished him with the depth of his desire. If a fantasy could take him to such agonizing heights, bedding her in
truth might very well be the death of him.
Chapter Nine
The next afternoon, James sat in his library, awaiting the arrival of Adrian Ross, Lord Kirkland. He had found himself somewhat surprised that the man had accepted his invitation, but he supposed a viscount of Kirkland’s standing could not afford to slight a duke of James’.
James had done some digging already this morning, and discovered some rather…interesting information. Kirkland represented both a boon and a liability to his seduction of Jilly, and if she truly had not yet recovered from the man’s defection, she might still harbor some depth of feeling for him.
Unfortunately for James, Kirkland had become available once again. But if he thought he could simply return to London and sweep Jilly off her feet and into his arms, he was going to be disappointed.
Bartleby scratched at the doorjamb and sketched a bow. “Viscount Kirkland, Your Grace,” he said, and backed out of the room. Bartleby had become rather judgmental of late. James suspected the dignified butler had overheard him speaking to Nick of his plans for Jilly and disapproved of them.
Kirkland appeared in the doorway, and James didn’t bother to stand to greet the man. Instead he opted for the deliberate slight of letting him linger in the doorway and assessing the man. His clothes were a year or so out of fashion, in good condition but undeniably not current. His face was severe and wary, as if he expected an attack. James suspected that Ross had once been a jovial sort, good-natured and kind—Jilly would surely not have fallen in love with a man so stern as the man who currently stood before him. James was willing to bet that Ross had aged at least ten years in the three since he’d abandoned Jilly. His dark hair showed streaks of premature grey at the temples, and what had likely once been laugh lines about his mouth had deepened to brackets of worry. Shadows ringed his dark eyes like bruises. He looked rather like a grim and forbidding villain from some wretched gothic novel, not at all the sort of man who would have earned Jilly’s love.
“Kirkland,” he said at last. “Please. Sit.” Only a fool would have mistaken it for a request, and whatever else he was, Kirkland was no fool. Or at least he wasn’t any longer.
Kirkland crossed the floor, striding to the chair opposite James. He took his seat stiffly, his jaw tight with strain. “I expect you have called me here to warn me away from Jilly,” he said.
“Lady Jillian.” James flashed his teeth in a feral snarl. “I thought we had sorted that last night.”
“Old habits die hard,” Kirkland replied. “She has always been Jilly to me. It’s difficult to think of her as anything else.”
“You’ll manage, I’m sure.” James poured a measure of brandy and slid it across the table toward Kirkland, who accepted it with resignation, as if he suspected it might contain some sort of poison. “But otherwise you are correct. You will keep your distance.”
“I love her.”
The unreserved honesty in the words drew James up short. He shook it off, reminded himself it didn’t matter. The man had abandoned her once before. He had had his chance, and he had surrendered it. “I cannot see how that signifies,” James said. “If you loved her, you ought to have married her years ago. That you failed to do so was your mistake.”
“And I have paid for it every day since,” Kirkland said. He tossed back a good portion of his brandy, dragged his hand through his thick hair. “I would not expect you to understand—”
“I certainly won’t if you intend to provide no explanation,” James said. “So you may as well get on with it.” He poured himself a fresh brandy, took a sip, and let the glass dangle from his fingertips.
A muscle twitched in Kirkland’s jaw. “Marrying my late wife, Fiona, was the worst mistake I have ever made,” he said. “I loved Jil—Lady Jillian,” he corrected, as James tensed in his chair. “I love her still. But Fiona had been my first love. She grew up on the estate neighboring my own in Scotland, and she was well aware of her charms. Every single man between the ages of twelve and eighty fancied himself in love with her. I would have wed her then if she would have had me, but she said she could do better than a viscount, and so I came to London to find a wife instead.”
“And you found Jilly,” James said, somehow offended on Jilly’s behalf, that she had been the consolation that Kirkland had allowed himself after being refused by the woman he had loved since childhood.
“Yes,” Kirkland said, and for a moment his head dropped back against the chair, his jaw tight, as if the mere memory pained him. “Yes, I found her. And she was beautiful and kind and intelligent, and she loved me. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me.” His hand tightened on the brandy snifter, and James suspected that beneath the man’s gloves, his knuckles had gone white. “And then Fiona came to London. She had expected me to dance attendance upon her as I had some years before. She was just as spoiled and capricious as she had always been, only she had gotten better at hiding it. She didn’t want me—she simply didn’t want anyone else receiving the attention that she thought should have been hers.”
“She was jealous,” James said.
“God, yes.” Kirkland set his glass aside, rubbed his face with his hands. “And I was weak. Flattered that Fiona had seen me at last. I loved Jillian—but I had also once loved Fiona. She knew it, and launched an assault against my engagement, striving to steal me away. And she won.” He gave a bitter laugh. “She didn’t want me. She wanted only to win. It took less than a week of marriage for me to regret it.”
James swirled the amber liquid in his glass, contemplative. “You sacrificed your engagement,” he said. “You’re responsible for your own unhappiness.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Kirkland snapped. “I have lived with that regret for the past three years—two of those with a spendthrift harpy of a wife, whose company I could not stand for longer than a handful of minutes. I might’ve suffered her the rest of my life had she not done me the courtesy of breaking her neck in a riding accident.” He made a harsh sound in his throat. “I should have felt something other than relief when she died, but she had killed any tender feeling I ever had for her. I did what was required and spent a year in mourning, but the very moment that year was through I returned to London.”
The man was utterly serious. He was cognizant of what he had lost through his own carelessness, and jubilant at the thought that Jillian had remained unwed. He viewed this opportunity as a second chance at the happiness he had lost. If Jilly retained any feeling for him, he might even win her—and that would mean the ruination of James’ plans for her.
“You had your chance, Kirkland,” he said. “She is not for you. Not any longer. She deserves better.” That, unfortunately, was true. She deserved better than either of them. Kirkland was a man of dubious honor, but James had no honor at all.
“I love her,” Kirkland reiterated. “Can you say the same?”
Of course he could not. He was not fool enough to fall in love with a woman he intended to seduce and discard. “What I feel for her is none of your concern,” James said. “Just as Jilly is none of your concern. If you attempt to approach her, if you contact her in any way, I will make certain that you regret it.”
It was not an idle threat, and he watched Kirkland swallow thickly, watched the tendons in the man’s neck grow taut as if his cravat had begun to strangle him. “I only want her happiness,” Kirkland said. “I can make her happy—she was happy before.”
“If you believe she has remained unwed due to some misguided devotion to you,” James snarled, “allow me to disabuse you of that notion. She has no inclination to marry at all. You destroyed that desire in her. Your careless disregard robbed an innocent woman of any bit of faith in humanity she might once have possessed. If you think I will allow you to make yourself known to her again, you are mistaken. I will destroy you first.”
The depth of the fury in his voice surprised even him. He wanted to smash his fist straight through Kirkland’s face, punish him having made a wreck out
of a woman like Jilly, for scheming to insert himself back into her life after having destroyed it so utterly. It made absolutely no sense given his own plans for her. Even if he had betrayed her, Kirkland loved her. James had little doubt that the man had repented of his actions; that if Jilly, in her benevolence, could be induced to forgive him his foolishness, he would spend the rest of his life devoted to her happiness.
James intended to make her suffer in ways that Kirkland could never have done. So why did he feel such a profound rage toward the other man simply because he had hurt Jilly in the past, and with a far lesser sin than James himself had in store for her?
It didn’t bear consideration, and James was certain that, upon reflection, he would not be comfortable with the answer.
Instead he leveled a severe look at Kirkland. The sort he had perfected early in life, the sort designed to make other men feel inferior.
“Jilly,” he said, “is mine.”
Kirkland, to his credit, did not quail beneath the tightly-leashed anger in the glare that James skewered him with. “That’s for her to decide,” he said, lifting his chin.
“She will choose me,” James replied. “And it will be without your interference. You would do well to take yourself back to Scotland. She does not want to see you. Good God, Kirkland—she fled to me to ensure you would not approach her.”
“Then I will hear it from her directly,” Kirkland said. He downed the remainder of his brandy and set his glass aside.
“You will hear it from me and accept it,” James snarled. “I promised her only last evening that I would protect her from you. You will keep well clear of her.”
“Or what?” Kirkland sneered. “Pistols at dawn?”
“Yes.” James hardly recognized the rough, raspy voice that emerged from his throat. By God, he had experienced a strange thrill at the sarcastic suggestion of a duel. The satisfaction he would derive from plugging a bullet into Kirkland would outweigh the consequences.
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