Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (23 page)

“Of course.”

She drew in a deep breath, then swayed closer to him on the bed. “I should very much like to marry you. Would you ask me, please?”

***

She knew him too well to expect him to fall on her, pressing her with kisses, and exclaim his delight. None of that was particularly characteristic of Joss. A dry, lewd comment and a searing glance would be quite welcome, though. And she had hoped he would leave his hand in hers. She liked the feeling of his bare skin, of this small intimacy that made it easier to ask for a far larger one.

He did leave his hand in hers, though he leaned away from her, fixing her with dark eyes under stern black brows. “This has a suspicious ring of familiarity to it, just as we began in the Assembly Rooms when you informed the world we were to dance. I ought to consider myself fortunate, I suppose, that you did not simply tell someone else we were to be married and force me to go along with your scheme.”

Was that a faint smile on his lips? “I considered that approach,” she said lightly. “But I concluded it lacked the proper romantic flair.”

“Again you hold my reputation in your hands, then. But I don't wish to be used as your pawn, Augusta.”

So he again called her Augusta; but it was only one word to bring them closer, the rest to distance them. “Oh. No. Of course not.” She drew up her knees, making an untidy ball of herself atop the mattress.

He arched a brow, and the damnable, beloved expression of sly humor crossed his features. “I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I only said I wouldn't be used as your pawn.”

“You silver-tongued rascal. Eventually I will remember to press you for a complete explanation of what you mean.” She rubbed gingerly at her bruised forehead. “What
do
you mean?”

“That depends on you.” He hitched one booted foot atop the bed. “Why do you want me to marry you, Augusta? And why now, when you could hardly listen to me talk of my regard for you yesterday? Am I just another way to help you flee your problems? Does Meredith Beauty require a sacrificial husband?”

“I deserve all of those questions.”

“The answers matter very much to me.”

“Lord Chatfield is not always right about the relative importance of questions and answers.” Beckoning toward him, she said, “More. Tell me more. Whatever angers you or worries you. Whatever you think of me. I want to make sure I tailor my groveling to the proper shape.”

He pulled his hand free of hers, pressing at the bridge of his nose. “I have already told you what I thought of you. You didn't handle it well.”

“And for that, I am sincerely sorry. I was stupid and wrong.”

“Go on.”

“And…ungrateful. And cowardly. And unfeeling.”

“Go on.”

“You want to hear
more
?”

His hand fell, and his mouth bent into an unwilling smile. “I am still waiting to hear how
you
feel. That interests me more than the groveling. Although the groveling is acceptable too, and if it gives you pleasure, by all means, continue. Might I suggest the sonnet form as particularly pleasing to the ear?”

She could almost feel him teetering on this fragile moment. If she upset it, they would fall away from one another.

Or they would tumble together. “I don't have any poetry in my soul,” she said, wrapping her arms around her rumpled skirts, her folded legs. “No sonnets. Not even a rhymed couplet. All I can say is that I love you.”

The ultimate oblivion wasn't in losing herself at all: it was in giving herself. In thinking of someone else rather than dwelling on her own disappointments. To think about how Joss smiled, how his voice rubbed soft and low over her skin, how his laughter felt like her own joy.

“I love you,” she said again.

He trailed a forefinger over the sheets. “That is a good start. Why have you come to this conclusion now, though?”

“Should I go through the groveling again? It
is
relevant.”

“No need; I recall it perfectly.” The tracing finger moved closer to her bare toes. “In what way is it relevant?”

“The cowardice is the most relevant, I think.” Her toes curled into the sheet, anxious. “You would never be satisfied with anything less than honesty, and that terrified me. I had not been honest with myself for a long time. And in Bath, I was dishonest with a whole town.”

“No one could accuse you of having little ambition.”

“Indeed, no. I have always been given the best, whether I deserve it or not. And you, Joss—you're the best man I've ever met.”

He raised one brow—one wicked, teasing brow—and she caught up a quick breath of delight. If Joss was arching one brow, that meant he was feeling…well…like
Joss
. And Joss loved her. He had said so, and he was always honest. “You have more poetry in your soul than you realize, Augusta.”

“Do you think so? Let me add to my non-rhyming sonnet of your fine qualities, then. You saw me as worthy when I did not; you treated me with respect when I expected far less. And you also showed me the darkest bits of myself, the ones I hadn't wanted to face. My vanity and fear and fumbling—you saw that; you saw me just as I was. And I couldn't believe that you would love me even so.”

“I could not bear to lie about my own heart.”

“Yes. I know.” Her arms loosened about her folded legs. “You have teased me, but you have always been honest with me too. I have not been brave enough to let myself trust you, or anyone, for more than a moment at a time. But—I want to. Because of you, I want to. I could not let you go without telling you that.”

Her feet slid, legs straightening, and she looked him in the eye. “So—thank you. And I love you. And if you should ever care to ask me to marry you, I would say yes.”

“It's not the answer that matters,” he murmured. “Only the question. Isn't that right?”

“The question matters very much.” The heat in his gaze brought a blush to her cheeks. “And the answer does too.”

“Then here is my question, and my answer, and all the truth of what I feel.” And leaning toward her, he cupped her face gently in his hands and covered her lips with his own.

The kiss was like a bright tunnel, one into which Joss could fall and fall forever and feel ever more shining and new. Her lips, her flower scent, her low murmurs of pleasure—or were those his? Intoxicating and endless, the way she whispered…

“Oh, drat.”

“No.” He caught her mouth again in a quick, hard kiss. “You've mispronounced ‘that was marvelous, Joss. Please do it some more.'”

But then he pulled back, in case that wasn't what she meant at all.

She flapped a hand in the direction of the door. “‘Drat' meaning ‘The door is not locked. We need to lock it.' And then, Joss, please kiss me some more, because it was marvelous.”

A shiver of heat shook him. “You imply that we shall be doing something for which the door would be better locked.”

She blinked hazy eyes. “I certainly hope so.”

“That is a highly intriguing implication. And yet I promised Lady Tallant I would treat you with respect.”

“I have never doubted that you would. Not from the first time I swore you'd promised to dance with me.”

“If you insist, then, I'll lock the door at once. You
did
insist, didn't you?” Without the tiniest pang of guilt, Joss slid from the bed and turned the door's key. “But if you truly intend to marry me, I must place a condition on the agreement.”

She wiggled her bare toes at him. “I should have expected nothing less from a man of business. What is this condition? As a woman of business, I must hear it before I agree. Though I am almost certain I shall.”

All peaches and golds and ruddy tones, she looked like a bowl of fruit he wanted to nibble up. But she must understand what he wanted before there was any more nibbling or tasting or stroking or…

He cleared his throat. “A solicitor shall draw up marriage settlements to protect your control of your own fortune, and especially to set aside money for any daughters we may have. I won't have you or any possible children suffering for want of money that ought to have been yours.”

Her brows knit. “But that's quite generous and lovely. Why would I disagree with that?”

“For no reason, I hope. I just want you to understand how important it is to me.”

“Yes.” Her smile was bemused, watery. “Yes, I do. It's the sort of choice that makes you who you are.”

“I only exist because my mother had no such resources.”

“No, you exist because your mother had a loving, eager heart. It was no more her fault that she was tricked into thinking a dishonest man a good one than it would be her fault if a thief stole jewels from her.” She blinked, her nose crinkling. “And that's true for me as well. But there's one advantage I have, having known a bad man.”

“What is that?”

“I know how to identify a good one.” Catching the cuff of his coat sleeve, she tugged until his balance was overset and he had to catch his weight on his hands. With them planted on the mattress, only a few inches away from her rumpled, bundled, beautiful self, it was so easy to sway forward and kiss her again.

Just once. For now.

All right, twice. Or three times.

Really, anything under a dozen was demonstrating admirable control.

“Have you any other conditions?” she said breathlessly when he pulled back.

“I don't know what you mean. Kiss me some more.”

She laughed, that low, erotic sound that had captured him from the first. “I'm not going to make you an indecent proposition, you know.”

“Damn.”

“Because…” She tugged at the knot of his cravat. “There's nothing indecent about this. I trust you to treat me with honor. Just as I shall treat you.”

He didn't want to be a man like his father, who took advantage of women; he didn't want to be like Sutcliffe, careless and destructive.

And…he wasn't. For all that most people consigned him to the shadows, Augusta saw him clearly; she understood who he wanted to be.

“We're getting a license tomorrow. Today. As soon as I leave this room.” He shut his eyes and let himself feel: her hands playing over him, her breath, warm on his cheek; then her lips pressing to his brow, pulling gently at the lobe of his ear. Her hot tongue in the hollow behind his jaw.

His elbows went loose, and he clambered onto the bed. “I should take off my boots.”

“Do you want to take the time for that?”

“No. Though since I do want you to be as naked as possible, I am willing to return the favor if you wish.”

Her honey-brown eyes went wicked. “I most certainly do wish. Here, let me help you off with those.”

It was not in Joss's interest to disagree. Instead, he yielded to her touch, helping her remove his boots, then tug free the knots of his cravat. After this, she shoved him back to the bed with delightful force. “My turn. Shall I cover your eyes, as you did for me?”

“I would consider that a great unkindness.”

She laughed, and so he watched as she slipped free the buttons of his waistcoat and the fall of his trousers. Her hands were everywhere then, sliding beneath his shirt to explore his chest, over his belly until it twitched with eagerness—and then down, to wrap around the naked length of his cock. Up, then down, she worked him in her hands until he felt his tightly coiled control begin to crack.

“My turn now.” Stilling her hands, he rolled to a seated position. “I ought to be more original in my choice of words, but I really cannot think when you start grabbing at my person in such a manner.”

“If you can string together a sentence that long, I ought to grab at it a bit mo—
oh
.” Which, as Joss learned, was the sound Augusta made when he ran a thumb over her nipple at the same time he kissed her neck.

After that, it was time for more discovery, and it was her turn to surrender. Quickly, though not as quickly as he wished, he unfastened her gown and stays. Her feet were already bare of slippers and stockings; admiring, he stroked the long lines of her legs.

In the bright spill of daylight, she was all curves and faint freckles, even more lovely than she had been by lamplight. Or maybe the extra beauty came from the way her eyes met his, the way her hands pulled him closer. So nothing was done
to
, but was instead done
with.

“Are you ready?” he asked when they were both gasping, facing one another on the bed like naked, kneeling bookends.

“Yes. Are you?”

“You cannot imagine how much.”

“Oh, I think I might be able—”

With a brush of his lips over hers, he cut off the sentence. Then carefully, minding her bruised head, he coaxed her flat on the mattress. When her hands laced behind his back, it felt like the most natural thing in the world—until he thrust into her heat, slow and reverent, and that feeling shook up everything he knew about pleasure. Never had it been like this, when love and trust and honesty were in place. He could unleash himself, laugh with her, whisper in her ear, sigh with the pleasure of each rocking movement. They could
be
, and together they stroked and urged each other on, nipping and thrusting until the climax built like a wave, crashing over them and leaving them gasping.

Afterward, he held her close. They were both far too warm, but neither wanted to let go yet.

Her hair was still in its pins, somewhat. As he cradled her, he plucked one pin free, then another, and worked his fingers into her glorious hair.

With a low hum of pleasure, she settled more tightly against him. “This is a shining moment,” she murmured. “Right now, with you.”

He didn't know the term she used, but he understood the meaning well enough. “Yes.”

“I thought I'd never feel better unless I lost myself, but I was lost already. Then together, we found me.”

“You were always you, even if you didn't realize it.” Raising his hand to the window light, he let the bronze strands slip and play, then drift to cover her shoulder. “And you were always dear. My dear fake widow who shall soon be my wife.”

And so they remained, body against body, talking of things important or inconsequential until the daylight began to slant and dim.

Joss could not turn off his racing mind entirely; the years had built a habit of details, of thinking ahead and preparation and contingency.

He knew there would be weeks to wait before their marriage. A scandal to quash. Sutcliffe to soothe and shepherd toward a new man of business. Plans that might never come to fruition.

But they had each other, and love, and a dream for what came next.

And they had this shining moment of contentment, frail and lovely as a soap bubble. While it lasted, it was…good. Perfect. Precious.

And for the moment, it lasted.

And moments stacked on moments were the stuff of which life was made.