The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (19 page)

"Bring the light here," commanded his servant.

William scrambled to his feet, and though he kept casting a wary glance over his shoulders, he, too, looked at the hole shredded in the indention in his pillow. His knees buckled as he realized that but for his nightmare and his falling out of bed, this bullet would have shattered his skull.

* * *

"Tony, I hardly think this is appropriate," Felicity protested, but she didn't push off of his lap.

"Neither is a pretend engagement, but you don't have any qualms about that." He'd be damned if he'd miss the opportunity when Felicity's eyes darkened. "And what do you think should be the best way to convince your parents your engagement is real?"

"We are not having an affair."

His good intentions had evaporated when he saw the way her nostrils flared when she looked at him rubbing his leg. She wanted him, no matter how much she denied it. "We should. We must. I ought to tell your parents that I shall be here often, to be able to learn the business and—"

"You are not taking over the businesses!"

"Who better to look after Charles's best interests?"

"Me. You are not simply taking over. Not now, not ever." She glared at him. Her ferocity surprised him.

Later, when she wasn't so ferociously caught up in protecting her son—their son—he would make her realize that he was quite capable of managing things. Damnation, war and troops had to be run much like a business. For now, he could concede the point and try to persuade her of the advantages of his at least being informed.

"No, I'm not, but I should give the appearance of doing so. Then, perhaps, your father shan't bother you. I wouldn't mind learning what goes on, so that when I depart for India, I should have a good basis for becoming a nabob."

"You will never become a nabob."

Did she want him to stay in England? "What choice is there for a younger son but to build a fortune? Especially when an heiress won't have him."

Her cheeks were bright red, and Tony decided that if he could keep her distracted long enough, he could keep her on his lap too long for her to object.

"What heiress?"

"You."

She tried to slide off his lap.

"Mind the leg," he cautioned.

She froze. Her dark eyes fastened on his face, her brow puckered in concern. "I'm sorry. Is it bad?"

Perfect.
He shifted her back to a comfortable position for him. "Only when you wriggle on my lap."

"Tony," she said on an exasperated note.

He had her tight against him now. "I'm trying not to be rude. Trying very hard."

"Your explanation defies logic."

"My dear, Felicity, it will go so much better for us if you stop fighting me."

"You mean, it'll go so much better for
you."

"If you don't want me to go to India, then you shall have to make an honest man of me."

"No. I will not."

"Is there anything we can agree upon?"

She leaned back away from him. "Doubtful."

He grinned and tugged her closer yet. "That you should kiss me?"

"Absolutely not."

He held her gaze and moved his mouth closer toward hers. She strained away from him but stopped when he didn't complete his approach. He simply lingered, her mouth a mere inch or so away from his. Her gaze dropped lower on his face. His mouth and her lips parted. Patience, he cautioned himself.

"Then don't," he whispered.

"I'm not," she answered, but she had shifted infinitesimally closer, and she waited like a woman sure of a man's next move.

It had to be hers. He could play these games, too. He wouldn't be accused of taking advantage of her, as if she hadn't participated in the kisses they'd shared thus far.

And he wasn't pleased with her contrariness. Had she been this prone to objecting to everything he said before?

Swinging her feet to the floor, he dumped her off his lap and struggled to his feet. The surprise on her face was almost worth the denial of his desire—almost. Except that the shock faltered into an uncertain, hurt expression, and she spun away, leaning her palms against her desk.

He held back a moment, but hurting her hadn't been his intention. Reaching out, he put his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the tenseness. "Felicity?"

"I think you should leave now."

"I shouldn't if you are upset." He kneaded the tense knots between her shoulder blades. His mind tormented him with the idea that he should be doing this to her naked flesh. "Invite me to stay, Felicity." He leaned closer, and his voice dropped lower with each word, "Invite me to kiss you, invite me to hold you. Invite me...in."

She turned around and studied him as if surprised by the desperation in his plea. He was surprised himself. It wasn't like him to beg. Not even for sexual favors.

He backed away. "Good God, I'm tired."

Tired, edgy, and disillusioned—and empty. For a moment he'd believed she could fill the void in him. What he really wanted was to be the idealistic youth he'd been the last time she'd invited him into her bed, as if her invitation would restore his long-ago innocence. Would restore her faith in him.

He shook his head. She looked torn.

Neither of them was innocent anymore. She wouldn't invite him back to her bed, because she feared pregnancy. Yet, she hadn't tried very hard to rise from his lap. She hadn't resisted his kisses—turned away once, but she hadn't really resisted. She hadn't extracted a vague promise that he wouldn't kiss her this time. And she certainly seemed to have no problem telling him no these days.

He wouldn't have pushed seven years ago, because he wouldn't have been sure she would have the will to resist. But this was a different Felicity—stronger, and if not entirely self-assured, at least well on her way to it. And he wanted her more, not because he fancied himself in love as he had back then, but because she could meet him as an equal, as forcefully and as passionately as a mature, experienced woman could.

"Ah, Felicity," he said, stepping forward and gathering her in his arms. He leaned down to kiss her, and she met him softly, her lips pliable but not open.

He wanted a better welcome than this. Disappointment warred with desire as he pressed her to open her mouth to his.

She complied, allowing him access, returning his kiss with an almost perfunctory acceptance. Where was the woman whose eyes had grown dark a moment ago? He continued the kiss, feeling a little desperate. He should withdraw, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop, to pull back. Had he misread her so badly?

Finally, she stretched up on her toes and slid her hands up his arms. Her fingers traced his muscles until she reached and pulled his head down. He deepened the kiss, pulling her tight against him, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest. His body ignited. He wanted to be closer. He wanted to remove all their clothes. Instead, he moaned into her mouth and slid his hands down to the curve of her hips. He cradled her against his hardness.

They stayed locked together like that for an eternity, until they both swayed and strained against each other. The kiss made them both breathe heavily. He wanted to rip off her clothes and make her his again, until the blood drained from his head and left him befuddled and urgent. Still he held back. He wanted more than this moment, more than one time, and he waited for an indication
she
wanted more—that this was more to her than compliance.

He waited, and she returned the kiss, returned the pressure against his groin, gave every indication of reception but none of a need as desperate as his. Why did it matter so much?

Because it did. Because that time years ago, she had reached for him in ways that left him shaking and awed. Because then she had wanted him...then.

Almost more than he wanted her, he wanted her to want him. He wanted her to need him, and it bothered him that she didn't.

He backed away from the kiss, feathering gentle nips on her lips an she strained up against him and gave a whimper of disapproval as if to indicate that she didn't want the kisses to end. Her unwillingness to let him pull away tore at him, gave him the encouragement to proceed. Her desire was slight compared to his, and it shamed him that it was enough. He wanted more, but this tiny sign of reluctance to let this end was enough for now.

He slid his hands to her derriere and lifted her up to rest on the edge of her desk. He barely managed to keep from grinding against her. Her hands slid down his back, down lower, until he pushed forward and she pulled him toward her woman's core, wrapping her legs and skirts around him. He thought he would die from this belated show of enthusiasm.

He delved in for a deeper kiss as he yanked his cravat loose. She helped him slide his jacket down his arms as their lips remained locked together. His blood thundered in his ears, boiled in his bloodstream. His skin burned under his clothes.

This was what he wanted, needed, craved with a desperation that went deep into his soul. He slid his hand to her waist and up to the soft curve of her breast, and he brushed his thumb across the tantalizing peak of her nipple. Her whimper into his mouth made his blood thrum with triumphant pleasure. He caught the tight bud in his fingers and tugged. She squirmed against him, and heat rushed through him.

Eager, impatient for more, he pulled out pins, loosening the bodice of her gown. Tony tugged down her chemise, exposing a perfect, lily white breast. Lowering his head to take the rosy tip in his mouth, he reached down to find the hem of her gown. He bunched material in his hand as he suckled her tightened nipple. Finally, he could reach under her skirt. As he caressed the bare flesh of her leg, she trembled.

He rubbed along the soft skin of her thigh and then found the tapes to her pantaloons. While he untied the tapes, she strained against him, her back arched, giving him better access to her bare breast. He moved, kissing the upper slope of her breast, moving up the slender column of her neck until he reached the sensitive spot behind her ear. He savored her skin's salty sweetness, the brush of her silky hair against his cheek, and then he found her mouth for a soul-deep kiss.

He sought her woman's flesh, drawing his fingers through her warm, wet crevice. She shuddered and whimpered into his mouth. He pulled back and studied her flushed face. Gently he circled the little nubbin of her pleasure with his index finger. She gasped. Her face contorted with desire, and her breath came in heavy pants. Her hips circled as he continued his teasing torture of her.

"Absolutely not?" he whispered against her mouth. He feathered kisses along her swollen lips.

She blinked, her eyes dark and stormy with passion. "What?"

He tapped the tip of his finger against the tight little bud.

She shuddered and stared at him as if she couldn't comprehend his question. "Hold onto me," he commanded softly. With her arms around his neck, he pulled out the rest of the pins holding her bodice together and tugged her chemise down while keeping a steady, light rhythm with his other hand. He caressed her ivory breasts while she held on. He slowly and thoroughly brought her to completion.

"Oh, God," she whispered, her breath ragged against his neck. She clenched the material of his waistcoat in her hands.

"Let's go upstairs. Now." He splayed his hand across her bare skin on her back, half supporting her limp body while savoring the silky softness of her skin. He still pressed his hand against the pulsing center of her core. He was wild to tear off the remainder of her clothes and his. Yet he was far too aware of her initial resistance, and he waited for her full consent, his breath caught in his throat.

Instead, there was a knock on the door.

She jolted upright.

"Bloody hell," muttered Tony, yanking Felicity's skirts down and tugging up her chemise.

She slid off the edge of the desk, also attempting to right her disarrayed clothes. "W-what is it?"

Tony jerked across the room, holding the door shut.

"You have callers, ma'am," said her butler. "Actually, I think they are searching for Major Sheridan. I wouldn't have disturbed you, ma'am, but they say it is urgent. A Lieutenant Randleton and a Mr. William Bedford."

Tony glanced over his shoulder to see how Felicity was progressing with righting her clothes. Not well. She looked like a wounded doe struggling to regain its footing.

Tony opened the door a crack, making sure to keep his body between the room and the opening. "Put them in the green drawing room, if you please. We shall attend them in a moment."

Felicity squeaked something that Tony hoped passed for agreement, and he shut the door.

What in blazes were Randy and Bedford doing here? This time of night?

Chapter Twelve

Felicity felt like a ninny as Tony helped her pin her gown back together. She couldn't believe what had just happened and that she'd let it go so far. What on earth had she been thinking? Or not thinking? How had he made her lose herself so completely?

"Go on up to bed, and I shall deal with Randy and Bedford."

"I hardly think that it is appropriate for you to receive callers without me in
my
house." She jabbed a pin in her bodice and stabbed herself. "Ouch! That would imply a great deal of familiarity."

"To appear looking like a well-satisfied woman would imply an even greater degree of familiarity." He took the pin out that she'd just put in, pulled her bodice tighter, and carefully reinserted it.

Her cheeks might as well be on fire, they burned so. "I think you are the one who looks well satisfied."

"Hardly, Felicity."

She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes as she realized she had the only claim to satisfaction at the moment.

He picked his jacket up off the floor and thrust his arms into the sleeves. "I need a looking glass." He fingered his cravat. "Unless you care to do the honors."

"There's one in the front hall." She needed it first. She must look a fright. However, as she patted her hair, it seemed intact. How could that be, when she felt so undone?