When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (13 page)

She shouldn’t want him so.

But she did. There was no denying that truth.

And then, her feet no longer touched the ground. Swept into his arms, she stared up at him. He met her puzzled gaze with a rake’s smile.

“What in blazes are you doing?”

His eyes flashed. Teasing. Yet colored with passion. “Taking you to my lair.”

She wriggled in his arms. “I don’t fancy the notion of being carried off like one of the Sabine women.”

“I rather like it. It’s far less exhausting than chasing you through the streets of London.” He mounted the stairs, two at a time, bearing her weight as if she were no burden at all.

“You must put me down,” she insisted as he reached the landing. The images of several gilt-framed portraits of the Lancaster’s owner blurred before her eyes as he strode purposefully toward his office. “This is no longer amusing.”

“I assure you, amusement is not my intention.” The smile touched his lips again, even as his eyes devoured her. Hungry. Arrogant. Utterly male. “You bring out my primitive instincts. Perhaps I’ll carry you away every night. That might keep you out of trouble.”

Chapter Twelve

Matthew’s confident pronouncement washed over Jennie like an icy deluge. Keep her out of trouble. Indeed.

“I must insist that you put me down,” she said.

He opened the door, carried her over the threshold, and lit a small lamp.

“As you wish.” He deposited her on a plush settee.

She popped up as if the seat had been covered with thorny brambles. “I should leave.”

Matthew draped his coat over the back of a padded chair. “My driver should be arriving shortly. Bertram is late, as is his habit. I’ll have him see you home.”

“I assure you that is not necessary.”

“I can’t chance any harm befalling you.”

“Of course. Especially given that we might have been seen together. You’d be the Yard’s prime suspect.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. Everyone in this cesspool knows I’m a cold-blooded villain. What’s one more sin attributed to my name?”

“Rather dramatic, Mr. Colton.”

He shook his head. “To the contrary. The London press hailed me as the devil incarnate during my trial. Many in the Yard felt deprived of the opportunity to watch me swing. They’ll find a way. Sooner or later.”

His statement struck her like a physical blow. Matthew hadn’t been able to conceal the depth of feeling in his gravel-edged words. Guilt? Or another form of regret?

She lowered her gaze, studying the textured carpet beneath her toes. “And yet, you expect me to trust you.”

“I’m the last man on the planet you should trust. You pretend to be a woman of the world, but you’re not.” He raked a hand through his dark strands. “I should not have touched you.”

“So you’ve gone noble on me, have you, Mr. Colton? It doesn’t suit you in the least.”

“A woman like you deserves better than what I can give. I’ve neither the time nor the patience for gentle wooing. I’ll leave that to the man who speaks his vows at your side.”

“By all accounts, gentle wooing is highly overrated.”

“Indeed.”

He studied her beneath hooded lids. His mouth crooked into a sly smile. Oh, how she loved the taste of that full mouth.

“I must say, I rather liked you better as a scoundrel,” she said, tempting him. And fate.

He prowled toward her. “You’re enough to drive a man to Bedlam.”

“You say the most romantic things.”

“My talent for whispering sweet words is even less developed than my patience. You’re too beautiful to resist. God knows I’ve tried.”

He kissed her again. Slowly. Deliciously. Mercilessly. She coiled her arms around his neck. His clean male scent awakened her to new temptations.

His breath tickled her earlobe. “I need you, Jennie.”

“Yes.” The whisper sounded decadent on her lips. Utterly, positively so, and yet, she could not stop herself. Closing her eyes, she savored every sensation as he opened her blouse with a gentle touch. Anticipation surged through her veins. Finally, he slipped the garment from her body.

“Much better.” His hands moved lower, freeing the closure of her skirt. The heavy wool slid easily to the Oriental carpet. His deft fingers glided her camisole over her skin, and then, he peeled away her corset.

Covered only by the thin gauze of her chemise, she stood before him. Cool air prickled her bare flesh. He freed her upswept hair. Uncensored desire flickered in his eyes.

Her senses were now fully in command. Emboldened, she whispered against his ear. “I want to feel you. I want to see you.”

She slid her fingers under his collar, eased his shirt from his shoulders, and smiled to herself as it drifted to the floor.

Light flowed through the amber-tinted sconce, casting a soft glow over the crisp dark hair on his chest. His skin was rough and velvet beneath her fingertips, his torso a superb melding of lean muscle and flesh and bone.

She drew her thumb over a scar below his right collarbone, a near-perfect circle the size of a shilling. “You’ve been shot.”

“I trusted the wrong person.”

Stunned by the raw vulnerability in his tone, she pressed her lips to the raised circle in a featherlight caress. She heard his rough inhalation, sensed the ripple of awareness that careened through his body.

He watched her with the intent focus of an artist capturing his heart’s desire on canvas. Gently, he brushed her unbound hair over her shoulder. “I need to see you, Jennie. Don’t hide yourself from me. Ever.”

Ever.

The word taunted Jennie with its promise.

“Let’s see how bold you really are.” He claimed her mouth. His tongue parted her lips as his hand stole beneath her chemise. His fingers glided along the length of her thigh, seeking and finding the slit in her drawers.

“Silk,” he murmured. “Nearly as smooth as your skin.”

He slipped a finger within the opening, the most intimate of touches. A tiny sound escaped her lips, no louder than a squeak. “Open for me, sweetheart. I want to touch you. Everywhere.”

His husky plea unleashed a delicious yearning in her core. “I can’t get enough of you.”

His voice, gruff with passion, shredded her meager defenses, soothing her as much as it thrilled her. A single word rang out in her mind. A demanding chorus. Her heart’s desire.

Surrender
.

…

Matthew drank in Jennie’s intoxicating essence. Lavender and rainwater and a gentle feminine fragrance uniquely hers. Devil take it, he should cast aside the damnably inconvenient sense of honor that held him back, the shreds of an inner code he’d believed long dead. Jennie deserved better than what he could offer. Better than the likes of him. Hearth and home and a man who would cherish her for the rest of his life. Not a stolen night in his arms.

In his gut, he knew the truth. Jennie’s worldly attitude was an act, as much a disguise as her shabby, serviceable cape. She wrapped herself in coarse wool better suited to a housemaid while against her skin, she indulged in silk drawers and a corset trimmed in fine lace. Just as that contradiction betrayed her moneyed origins, her heated response to his touch and his kiss told their own story.

Or was her passion also an act? A way to break down his defenses and extract whatever the hell it was she thought to gain from a liaison?

Where did the real Jennie begin?

What madness had overtaken him? A woman like her expected to be cherished and courted. He’d never met a chit he cared enough about to court. He’d never found a woman he cherished.

Until Jennie had fallen into his arms.

Unfamiliar longings burned into his soul, deeper and more potent than he’d known in his thirty-two years. He’d had his fair share of women, beauties who’d honed their sensual skills on his all-too-willing body.

But those women had not been Jennie.

Her eyes framed by smoky charcoal lashes, she regarded him with a look of pure challenge. An inviting smile curved her luscious mouth as her gaze raked over him. Bold. Passionate. Would she meet his seduction kiss for kiss, caress for caress?

Twining her arms around his neck, she glided her fingertips over his flesh. The play of her skin against his stirred the need deep within him. He was hard as granite, the urgent demands of his body as cunning a torture as any medieval despot might have devised. A night in the Tower would have been easier to endure.

“Kiss me again, Matthew.” Her eyes simmered with emerald fire. “Being a scoundrel suits you.”

Pressing her against the wall, he caged her within his arms. He dragged in a long breath. God only knew he’d never craved the sound of his name on a woman’s lips more than his own release.

Until tonight.

He pressed a kiss to her mouth. His tongue parted her lips. Gently. Tenderly. Kindling the searing heat.

Her skin was silk beneath his fingertips. Warm, living silk. The sweet perfume of her body filled his senses, blotted out everything but Jennie. Christ, he wanted her. Wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his bleak existence. But he had to know she was ready. Had to know she wanted this. If she uttered the slightest murmur of protest…bloody hell, how he’d ache for her, but he’d walk away.

“I’m going to touch you. Everywhere.”

“Yes.” Her lids drifted shut as his hands swept over her.

“Your body was meant to be touched. Meant to be pleasured.”

His fingertips trailed leisurely along her thigh, grazing her warm, supple skin. Her whisper-soft moan brushed his lips, and he upped the stakes. Gliding a single finger over her flesh, he returned to the slit in her drawers. Caressing her, each tiny, featherlight stroke drew delicious response. She canted her hips, seeking his touch, demanding he pull her closer to the brink.

His cock throbbed, bucking against the confines of his trousers. There was nothing to be done about it now. Not at this moment. Not when Jennie dug her fingers into his shoulders, as if struggling for purchase at the edge of a delicious precipice. She was nearing utter surrender. So damned near. How he craved her unraveling in his arms.

“Sweet, sweet Jennie.”

“Oh, Matthew.” Her voice was infused with pleasure and passion and longing. He’d hungered for this moment, a bone-deep yearning. Her throaty whisper offered sustenance to his very soul.

A soft cry escaped her, and she shuttered her eyes as the shattering bliss overtook her. Holding her secure in his embrace, he pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts.

“If you were mine, I’d never let you go.”

The truth in his own words stunned him. Never had he felt this need for a woman, an intense hunger that went far deeper than the flesh. Never had he thirsted for a woman’s soft fragrance. Not until he’d drunk in Jennie’s gentle essence.

Such a damnable shame he’d lost his head over a woman he could never have.

She met his gaze, a soft smile curving her plump lips. Without a word, she pressed her palms to the solid plane of his chest and marked his flesh with feathery kisses. Light brushes of her mouth against his flesh. A tempting torment. Nearly chaste. Yet stirring him to the limits of his restraint.

His cock pulsed, issuing its own demands. Much more, and he’d have her on her back. Naked on his settee. His rod sheathed in her warmth.

He had to stop this. He’d brought her pleasure. But there’d be no consequences from his touch. No chance of a babe born into an unwelcoming world, sired by a man who had no future to share with anyone, no good name to bequeath to an heir.

He caught her hands. Her eyes went wide, and she searched his face.

“I want this,” she said. “I want you.”

The questions in her gaze speared him. But there was no choice.

“At this point, you’ve done nothing to regret. I intend to keep it that way.”

Her hands slipped to her sides. Straightening her chemise, Jennie met his eyes.

“Your noble streak has once again reared its head. It does not become you in the least.” Scooping up her discarded garments, she infused her words with ice.

He retrieved his shirt, shrugged it on, and worked the buttons closed. Damn this hollow burn deep inside. The throbbing in his balls could be managed. But there’d be no easing the bitter ache in his gut.

Squaring her shoulders, she faced him as though their night had been quite ordinary. “I require a moment of privacy. It wouldn’t do for Bertram to witness my…disarray.”

He nodded his agreement and retreated from the room. Damnation, he was a fool. Clinging to some ridiculous notion of what was right. She’d wanted him. Bloody hell, he should have taken whatever she was willing to give. He should have savored her kiss and the brush of her fingertips and the passion in her voice. He should go back through that door and drown himself in the pleasure of her touch.

But the damnable shreds of the man he’d once been held him back. Character. Honor. Conscience. By thunder, it didn’t matter what he called it. If he wanted to protect her, he had to start with himself.

He went to the window at the end of the corridor. His carriage waited below. So, Bertram had finally decided to haul his creaky bones to the tavern. The curmudgeon would seize the opportunity to transport Jennie to her boardinghouse. With the old sot’s luck, the owner would be up and about. He’d made no secret of his excitement at the prospect of laying eyes on Mrs. O’Brien. Hard to fathom the dour matron had once been a pleasing sight to behold.

Jennie stepped from his office, her cloak flowing over her skirt. Only the heightened flush in her rounded cheeks gave any hint of what had gone between them.

“I’ll see you to the coach.”

“Thank you.” She’d stripped any trace of warmth from her voice. She might well have been addressing a bloke in the tavern. No one observing her stiff spine and cool gaze would suspect the intimacy they’d shared not a quarter hour earlier.

They proceeded to the carriage in silence. He escorted her to the conveyance and informed Bertram of his instructions. The driver flashed a grin and bounded up to his seat as Matthew opened the door.

“Good night, Jennie.”

Christ, how he wanted to kiss her again. But that would be an indulgence he could not afford. Not now, when his desire for her was ready to break its tether. Not when the urge to carry her off to his bed threatened to overtake his good sense.

“Good night, Mr. Colton.”

He was no longer Matthew. She’d reconstructed the fragile barrier between them. What did it matter? In the morning, she’d realize how close they’d come to an irrevocable mistake. At this point, they’d lost nothing. In the long run, a man like him could only bring trouble. She’d see that after the sunrise.

Damn shame the sense of loss seemed a punch in the gut.

…

Jennie curled beneath a patchwork quilt, one of the few possessions she’d brought to her small, stark room in Charing Cross. The collage of calico and gingham conjured childhood memories of afternoons at her grandmother’s side. Unfailingly patient as Jennie’s untrained fingers moved a needle and thread through the colorful squares in an inefficient rhythm, Grandmother Ginny had guided her until her stitches were even and crisp. Jennie had treasured those visits to Edinburgh, whiling away pleasant hours surrounded by her mother’s warm, loving family, venturing to the places where her mother had passed through girlhood. Those delightful days had flown by in the blink of an eye, the pain of separation that followed, a palpable thing. The quilt’s warmth had seemed her only comfort then. Just as it did now.