Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (10 page)

A tremor of nervousness shot through Brianna—would he like what he saw? Her breasts were small, her nipples tight and pointed with arousal, their outline clear against the pale silk.

Jonathon drew in a breath, then let it out slowly.

“Lovely,” he said, his gaze fixed on her chest. He raised his hand and lightly, almost reverently, brushed his hand over her breasts. She strained against his hand. The smooth silk felt almost raw against her overly-sensitized nipples. “Absolutely lovely. So delicate and perfect.”

He began loosening the ribbons on her chemise. He brought his head down, brushing his lips over the upper swell of her breasts. As his jaw moved across her flesh, the light stubble on his chin tickled and teased her skin. She drank in each dizzying sensation: the firm male grip of his hands as he cupped her breasts, the surprising softness of his lips, the prickly rub of razor stubble. He drew one taut, dark pink nipple into his mouth and lightly grazed it with his teeth.

Shock coursed through her body. Brianna gave a soft gasp and arched her back, dragging her fingers through Jonathon’s thick golden hair. He flicked his tongue over her nipple, causing it to tighten into a hard, rosy pink bud. Desire bloomed within her and became an aching, hungry thing.
Oh, Lord
. She threw back her head, allowing him greater access to her skin. Maddening—yes. But this was good. This was very, very, good.

She pressed herself closer, reaching for something she couldn’t define.

The lamp sputtered and extinguished itself. Apparently their meager ration of oil was entirely spent. As they had not yet drawn the curtains, moonlight shone in the room, giving them some means by which to see. But the abrupt change in light seemed to bring about a change in both of them, as well. Or perhaps just a recognition that they’d veered dangerously close to something for which neither one was entirely prepared.

Jonathon drew back. He kissed her on the lips, long and hard. Finally he pulled back. Emitting a sigh of deep regret, he assisted her into the bodice of her gown. His fingers lightly traced the path of her spine.

“I warned you, angel, I don’t believe in love.”

She shrugged out of his embrace. In the moonlight, the hard, handsome lines of his face looked as though they’d been chiseled from marble. “What do you believe in, Mr. Brooks?”

“I believe…”

“Yes?”

“I believe you should call me Jonathon.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” His gaze traveled from her, to the bed, and then back to her again. He attempted a smile, but it appeared strained. “I believe I’ll sleep on the floor tonight.”

Chapter Twelve

Jonathon set down Brianna’s bag and shifted the burden of its weight to his opposite hand. The weather was not nearly as pleasant as yesterday’s had been, with a brisk breeze blowing and ominous thunderclouds gathering overhead. The road—a liberal term for the long, narrow expanse of dirt, rocks, and potholes that stretched before them—appeared without end.

“You do realize,” he said, “when I suggested that we walk all the way to London, it was merely a jest?”

She slid him a sideways glance. “It’s not my fault the coach schedule is inaccurate. How should I have known they would alter their route?”

He sighed. True. Nor was it her fault their skinflint landlady’s breakfast had consisted only of one boiled egg apiece, a hunk of stale bread, and a mug of weak tea to wash down the unappetizing fare. Nor could she be blamed for the fact that the road seemed to travel in only one direction—uphill.

Brianna could be blamed, however, for the stiffness in his shoulders and back. That was a direct result of his spending the night on the floor, rather than beside her in the bed. Until last night, he had viewed himself as a man of dignity and restraint. No longer. Had he joined her in bed, with the heat of her body and the scent of her skin drifting all around him, the temptation to seduce her would have been too great to resist.

Absurd. His dispassionate relationship with Lila Featherstone aside, there had been no shortage of women in London. Beautiful women with comely eyes and sly smiles that clearly conveyed a knowledge of how to satisfy man’s more carnal appetites, no matter where his personal proclivities lie. And like other men of wealth and privilege, Jonathon had not hesitated to avail himself of their abundant charms.

So it wasn’t abstinence that caused Mrs. Donnelly to spark such unparalleled hunger in him. Nor was it mere sexual curiosity. Something about his traveling companion struck a chord deep within him. He loved the way her hands danced as she read from her silly book. He couldn’t drive the taste of her lips from his mind. Or the feel of her fingers entwined in his hair. Or her soft gasps and whimpers as he nuzzled her neck and caressed her pert breasts—noises she likely hadn’t been aware she made, but had resonated inside him nonetheless, fueling his desire.

He wouldn’t marry her. Couldn’t marry her. Couldn’t conceive of offering her anything more than a mere dalliance before they reached London and parted ways.

But he wanted her. Lord, did he
want
her. Her pert tongue and wry grin, the sexy sashay of her hips, her bold manner of speaking. Even now, exhausted as he was, the mere thought of parting her thighs and thrusting into the tight, silky space between her legs caused him to ache. His balls tightened and his cock—sly, traitorous creature that it was—stiffened like a sailing mast.  

Biting back a groan, he adjusted his stride, lest the steady rub of the cloth of his britches against his erection caused him to spend.

Brianna glanced at him and her brows knit together. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, a habit he found ridiculously adorable. Misreading the source of his stress, she reached for her valise. “Here. I’ll carry that.”

“Thank you, but I’m quite capable of managing a single valise.”

They strode a few minutes in silence. “So tell me,” she said at length, “Were your parents in service, as well?”

Jonathon nearly choked at the question. The image of his formal, stodgy parents performing manual labor of any kind was beyond the absurd. Act as servants? His parents had rarely even acknowledged the presence of servants in their home.

Not that they had been cold, precisely, merely supremely aware of their position in the world. While some of the titled developed an affection for their staff over time, that wasn’t true of his parents. One cook was easily exchanged for another, one maid for another, one footman for another, and so on. They remained perfectly indifferent to the individuals who served them, almost as though they were props in a play, rather than actual human beings.

“No,” he said, in answer to her question, and then ‘no’ again when she asked if he had any siblings. If he died, his title would fall to his cousin Richard. The thought cast a dark shadow on an already bleak day, and served as a reminder of the necessary urgency of his return to London.

Brianna, however, remained blissfully unaware of his shift in mood. “All right, then,” she said, eyeing him with unabashed curiosity. “Tell me about the friends you had growing up.”

Caught unawares by her question, Jonathon hesitated. No ready answer came to him. When he was very young, he would sneak out of his rooms to play with the sons and daughters of cooks, maids, and groomsmen. But those treasured escapades were few. Servants never seemed to stay long enough for him to build a solid friendship with their offspring, and his heavy load of studies and the demands of his tutors occupied most of his time.

So he found himself telling her about Derek Jeffords, whom he had met while at Eton. “He was born in India. His mother is a native, his father’s a British officer. He reminds me of you.”

She nodded. “Because of his mixed heritage?”

No. Actually, he never saw Derek in those terms. Nor, frankly, did he see
her
in those terms. It was more Keating’s direct way of speaking. The man didn’t say things that were expected, only things that were true—a trait that amused Jonathon, while terrifying the rest of London society. When they were together the heavy burden of societal expectation was lifted, replaced by an easy companionability. He felt the same way with woman walking beside him. How passing strange. Aloud he said, “He inherited a title after his uncle died, making him a baron. Baron Keating.”

She drew to a sudden stop. Her eyes widened. “Royalty? Truly?”

“Hardly royalty. Merely a baron.”

“Still. Exciting. Does he look like Prince Harold?”

Jonathon let out a bark of laughter. God, now that he thought on it, Keating was the image of the storybook prince—being tall, dark, and handsome, with a pirate’s smile and a strong build. A fact which his friend would no doubt loathe, and thus provide an endless source of amusement.

“Do you suppose I might meet him?” she asked.

His smile abruptly faded. An unexpected surge of jealousy coursed through him. “He’s married.”

“I didn’t mean—” 

The sound of a horse’s hooves interrupted her. They’d had the road to themselves all morning. Now they turned to see a farmer’s cart making its way toward them. It slowed to a stop, allowing Jonathon a better view of a sway-backed nag rigged to a crude livestock pen. The conveyance was driven by a lad of perhaps sixteen. A girl of equal youthfulness, presumably his sister, sat perched beside him.

“Ho, there!” the boy called out.

“Hello!” Brianna called back.

“Are you on your way to Stafford?”

“That depends. Will the mail coach to London stop there tomorrow morning?”

“It will, indeed.”

“Then that’s where we’re heading!”

The lad conferred for a moment with the girl beside him. Turning back he said, “You’re welcome to ride along with us, but it’ll cost you.”

“Oh? How much?”

“A song.”

“Payment you shall have,” Brianna declared with a broad smile.

Jonathon assisted her into the back of the cart, then climbed in after her. True to her word, the moment they were settled she launched into a popular tune about a young girl reunited with her lost love. Like Brianna herself, her voice had not been shaped or formed or coached into anything other than what it was. Yet it was perfectly matched to the countryside through which they traveled—pure and bright and unapologetically alive. More than that, it warmed the heart and encouraged others to join in, to lift their voices in bawdy praise to the day.

As they rolled along, bumping up and down on a bed of hay that smelled suspiciously of goat, he added his baritone to the others. Together they belted out the risqué pub tune
Duke of Gordon’s Daughter
, the mournful
Soldier’s Homecoming
, and finished with the charming and playful ditty,
Jenny’s Garden.

The singing ended and the cart plodded on. After a moment, Brianna stretched out flat her back, her elbows propped up and her hands tucked behind her head. She stared up at the sky.

“I’ll bet you never could have guessed this would happen,” she said.

True enough. In the course of forty-eight hours, he’d tumbled from wealthy, privileged viscount to mere mister. Jonathon had begun the journey to Liverpool in the company of Lila Featherstone and her parents, riding in their well-appointed coach, with every luxury and convenience of travel at their disposal. Never could he have conceived that he would return to London in the back of a farmer’s cart that reeked of goat, with a bullet wound on his shoulder and a blind man’s widow (who could swear proficiently in five languages) tucked at his side.

“No,” he said. “I never would have guessed.”

“Neither would I.” She was silent for a moment, then she sent a glance his way. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?.”

“What, the cart?”

“No.” She shook her head. Her lips curved upward in a smile of feline contentedness. “Life.”

* * *

“One day it will be a fine inn again,” said their young driver, who introduced himself as Edward and his sister as Anne. They stopped before an oversized, somewhat ramshackle structure. “At present it’s filled with family—our sister and her husband fell on hard times, so they moved back in, same with our cousin Patricia and her lot.” He gave a philosophical shrug. “But what can you do? They’re family. Don’t worry, we’ll make room for you two. My mother lets out the back rooms to bring in extra coin.”

Jonathon and Brianna scooted off the back of the cart and brushed the hay from their clothing. She lifted her valise and followed Anne inside, while Jonathon accompanied Edward to assist with the unhitching of the cart. Once they’d finished the chore and bedded down the horse, he followed the younger man into the house.

They passed through a mudroom directly into the kitchen. Edward had told him that the house was crowded, but that warning did little to prepare Jonathon for the state of domestic chaos into which he found himself. A half dozen children raced in and out of the kitchen through a set of swinging doors, some laughing, others crying. Toys, books, coats, and muddy boots cluttered the entryway. A pair of elderly women canned preserves, while a boy a bit older than Edward repaired a loose cupboard door. Laundry dripped from lines on the back porch, pots bubbled on the stove. The smell of soap and tallow and soup mingled together. In a distant room, someone banged away at a piano.

So alien was this house to his own home, Jonathon felt as though he’d walked into another world. Although his lodgings were far less formal than his parents’ had been, he was nonetheless accustomed to a modicum of quiet and order. He needed only the bare essentials, really. A modest staff to see to his needs. A butler to receive him and take his coat, hat, and gloves. Pour him a drink. Hand him the day’s news sheets—freshly pressed so the ink wouldn’t stain his hands. Plus a cook to prepare his meals, a baker to satisfy his sweet tooth, a handful of scullery maids to handle the cleaning and washing, a valet, a pair of footmen, groomsmen, stable boys, a secretary, groundskeepers, landscapers…

Good Lord. He froze in the middle of his mental inventory. He had become as stuffy and demanding as his parents had been. When in hell had that happened?

Not unsurprisingly, Brianna had already made herself at home in the bustling abode. He found her in the kitchen. She stood before the stove stirring a simmering pot. An apron was fastened about her slim waist and a child of perhaps two years of age sat perched on her hip.

“Oh, good, there you are.” She glanced over her shoulder and motioned him toward her with her spoon, then thrust the child into his arms. “Here.”

Jonathon awkwardly received the squirming bundle. “What am I to do with him?”

“Her,” she corrected. “That’s Molly. Her mother’s in the dining room. Perhaps you could deliver Molly to her, then help bring the tables and chairs out for supper?”

He considered asking where the dining tables and chairs might be found, if they weren’t already in the dining room, but decided it didn’t matter. Instead, he turned and wandered off in the direction of the greatest din. As they moved down a narrow hall, Molly wound her sticky fingers through his hair and gave a slight tug, drawing his attention back to her. He found himself on the receiving end of the child’s bold stare.

“How do you do?” Jonathon mumbled. “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? Viscount Brooksbank, at your service.”

Molly blew a spit bubble in response.

His lips quirked. “Exactly so.”

* * *

Supper was a buoyant affair. Three tables drawn together to accommodate a group of eighteen, all of whom were connected through some familial bond, excepting, of course, he and Brianna. Nonetheless, they were made to feel welcome at the table. The talk was loud and spirited, the meal simple but generous (pork, potatoes, and roasted beets plucked straight from the garden).