Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (11 page)

Edward and his elder brothers monopolized Brianna’s conversation. Jonathon couldn’t blame them. The lady was petite and dark and enticing. But her appeal went beyond than that. She emanated warmth, feminine grace, and a lively sense of adventure.

Brianna behaved as though she’d known this family her entire life. Or known
joy
her entire life. Somehow she made that joy contagious. He could easily imagine her in a pub in Canton, effortlessly charming sailors, traders, and other travelers.

Mr. Cummings, Edward’s father and head of the bustling household, leaned toward him. “How long did you say you and Mrs. Brooks have been married?”

Jonathon blinked, having momentarily forgotten the ruse. Gathering his wits, he replied awkwardly, “Only a few days now. We’re still newlyweds.”

“I thought as much.”

“Oh? How did you guess?”

“No ring on her finger yet. You’ll have to get one for her, just to remind insolent pups like this lot that the lady’s already spoken for.”

Brianna, obviously having heard their conversation, turned in his direction. Edward and his brothers, properly chastised, scooted back their chairs.

“Exactly so,” Jonathon agreed, not the least bit discomfited by the fact that the entire table was now listening. His gaze locked on Brianna’s. “Whatever my bride prefers. Silver or gold? Diamonds, pearls, or rubies…or perhaps all three?”

He was playing an idiot’s game, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He wanted a mark of possession on her, something to prove that she belonged exclusively to him.
His.
Amazing. He’d seriously considered marrying Lila Featherstone, yet he’d never felt this… this… whatever it was.

She tilted her head to one side, as though considering his offer. “I have it,” she rejoined playfully, “Gold, to match your hair. And a dragon with ruby eyes to bring us luck.”

“Done.”

The young ladies at the table gave dreamy sighs, and before Jonathon or any of the other men could protest, the conversation was swept toward the newest romantic installment of
The Prince of Thorncastle.

“Warwick Castle is less than a day’s ride from here,” Anne informed Brianna. “If you’d like to see a real castle, that is.”

Brianna fairly squealed in excitement. Her eyes lit up. “A real castle? Truly?” She pivoted in her seat to face Jonathon. “Could we? Please?”

“Only the gentry are permitted inside,” Mrs. Cummings warned. “But during Michaelmas celebrations the grounds are open to all. There’s food, music, entertainment, all manner of wonderful things to see. It’s a lovely time.”

Jonathon absorbed the information in silent surprise. They were closer to London than he’d thought. As they’d meandered through back roads and small villages, he’d lost track of their progress. But here they were—only a day’s ride from Warwick Castle. He should be delighted at the news. Instead, he felt strangely conflicted. He’d left Liverpool anxious to reach London as quickly as possible. Now he wanted to slow time, not speed it up.

“Let’s do stop,” Brianna said, her face aglow at the prospect of seeing an actual castle. “We can make a small detour, can’t we?”

“What? Oh. If you like.” Jonathon nodded absently. “I’m certain Robert wouldn’t mind if we dropped in for tea.”

“Robert?” said Mr. Cummings.

“The Earl of Warwick.”

Mrs. Cummings sent her husband a worried frown. “Mr. Brooks, did you just say you intend to drop in on the Earl of Warwick
for tea
?”

Ah… yes.
. He had indeed. He and Lord Robert Cosgrove, the Earl of Warwick, had attended the same schools, belonged to the same clubs, and served on the same committees. Hell, they’d even chased the same women. They’d known each other for so long the familiarity had been offhand.

But there was no way to explain the remark other than to tell the truth about who he was. Make a full confession. Well, Jonathon thought, he might as well get on with it. He found himself surprisingly relieved to do so. Pretending to be someone he was not had been a damned nuisance.

His gaze locked on Brianna. “The truth is, I’m titled. I’m a viscount, not a valet. My full name is Jonathon Clifford Beaman Hollinshed IV, Viscount Brooksbank, Baron Contreau.”

Shocked silence descended around the table. Brianna regarded him with a look of blank confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose I should have mentioned it sooner.”

The silence deepened. Then Edward burst out in a deep guffaw. His brothers joined him, and so did his sister Anne and the other young ladies. Soon the whole table had erupted in laughter.

“Well done, Mr. Brooks,” said Mr. Cummings, slapping him on the back. “You had us all going for a moment there.”

His gaze shot back to Brianna. She rolled her eyes. “Most amusing.”

“I’m the Duke of Dungarees,” proclaimed Edward, coming to his feet.

“I’m the Prince of Pantaloons,” said his brother, shoving back his chair.

“And I’m mad King Henry,” squealed one of the youngest cousins. He reached for an umbrella and wielded it like a sword. “Off with his head!”

“All right, your lordships. That’s enough of that.” Mrs. Cummings rose and briskly clapped her hands. “Hurry up, now. We’ll need the dishes cleared and the tables and chairs put away.” Turning to Brianna, she continued, “You’re in for a treat. Today’s our Mary’s sixteenth birthday. We have a few neighbors coming over to celebrate. We’ll have music, dancing, and cake.”

Once again, the occupants of the room spun into motion, clearing the room to make way for the party.
What a pompous ass,
Jonathon thought. He’d arrived in a cart that reeked of goat, dressed in clothing acquired from a charity bin. He’d expected his admission to be met with awe and reverence? Of course they’d laughed in his face. A better reaction than Molly’s spit bubble, perhaps, but far from the desired effect.

He had little time to dwell on the matter. The guests arrived and the younger children—amid wails of protest—were trundled off to bed. The evening, simple as it was, was surprisingly enjoyable. They sipped homemade wine and nibbled tiny iced cakes. A few of the older gents played reels and polkas. The younger men argued good-naturedly over dance partners.

The night dwindled to a close and Brianna made her way to his side. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked. Her voice slightly breathless from the dancing. As they’d spent the evening dancing with other partners, he’d hardly seen her. Now he drank his fill. Her hair was slightly tousled, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled.

“Last dance,” one of the musicians called out.

Jonathon recognized the opening notes of a waltz. Without a word, he swept her into his arms and directed her toward the makeshift dance floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Claiming my bride.”

“But we’re not— And besides, I’ve already promised—”

“It doesn’t matter.” As this wasn’t a London ballroom, neither of them wore gloves. Fine by him. He wanted the heat of her hand in his.
He wanted the brush of her body against his, the swirl of her skirts, warmth of her smile, the scent of her skin. And he definitely, absolutely, was not about to share that pleasure with anyone else.

He sent a pointed glance to Edward and his brothers. They stood off to the side, their faces heavy with disappointment.

“Sorry, lads, but the lady belongs to me.”

Chapter Thirteen

It was late by the time Brianna and Jonathon were shown to their room. She looked around the chamber, charmed by what she saw. Faded wallpaper in the pattern of wild roses clung to the walls, complemented by a handmade quilt done in shades of pink. A large, four-poster bed dominated the center of the room. The mattress looked plump and inviting. A small fire had been lit in the hearth and the lamps had been turned down low.

“How lovely.” She released a contented breath and crossed the room to a small pine vanity. Her gaze met Jonathon’s in the mirror. He stood near the door, silently watching her, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.

She froze, not daring to turn around. “I wonder how Father Tim and Sister Mary Louise are faring,” she said, grasping for something, anything, to fill the silence.

“You enjoyed traveling with them?”

“I did.” She thought for a moment. “Oh, perhaps at not at first. It seemed so awkward, all that shouting on street corners. But after a while…”

“Yes?”

“Father Tim was right. Despite the spectacle we made of ourselves, his work had meaning. Not the preaching, exactly… but the spreading of hope. No matter where we went, we found people who were hungry for salvation. People who were poor, tired, and alone, who’d found nothing but emptiness at the bottom of a bottle. People who just needed a little help to turn their lives around.”

“So you became a believer.”

“I suppose I always was.” Afraid she’d revealed too much of herself, Brianna gave a small, embarrassed smile “I do believe there’s someone greater than me, watching over us all.”

“Whomever is charged with watching over you is doing a rather poor job of it, or you wouldn’t have been left alone with me.”

Her breath caught. She shook her head, unable to interpret his mood. She felt ensnared by his gaze, as frozen as a rabbit caught in a trap. “I’m perfectly safe,” she said.

He moved slowly toward her. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“No.” He made a
tsk
ing sound with his tongue. “In fact,
safe
is the last word I’d use to describe this situation.”

He stood behind her stool and reached for her hair. Working slowly and methodically, he removed the pins. Her hair spilled free and tumbled down her back. Jonathon released a ragged sigh and combed his fingers through her long, dark tresses.

Brianna watched her reflection in the mirror, not certain what to do with herself. A score of emotions fluttered through her, all too confusing to name. Never before had she felt the way she did at that moment. Jonathon's presence was inescapable, almost overpowering. His attention was too focused on her, his expression too intimate. She saw none of the haughtiness, the boredom, or the restlessness she had read in his face before.

Instead, a hungry, possessive light filled his brilliant blue eyes. The moment stretched endlessly between them. Her stomach swarmed with butterflies and her mouth went dry. She was awkwardly conscious of her hands, her hair, her clothing—none of which seemed to be in the right place, or looking as it should.
Brianna was aware that nothing was showing, and aside from the fact that her hair was down, her gown was properly fastened up to her throat.

But she felt positively lewd—as though her longing were a physical force.

Especially when he stood just behind her. Every fiber of her being was attuned to his presence. His scent, his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the rich timbre of his voice. Nervous tension flooded through her, making her body tremble in anticipation of his touch.

Their eyes met in the mirror. He drew his fingertips lightly along the tops of her shoulders. She shivered. He traced the column of her throat. “Your earbobs…” he said.

“A wedding gift from Arthur.”

“Take them off.”

She obeyed, dropping them carelessly on the vanity.

“Very good.” He leaned forward, his words falling softly against her ear. “Now let me touch you the way I've been wanting to all night."

She gave a small, tremulous smile. “You want me?”

“I
ache
for you.”

The knowledge that Jonathon had been wanting her as badly as she had been wanting him banished the last vestige of her hesitation. She needed to know that. She need to know that the erotic current that pulsed between them affected them both just as deeply.

Without another word, she turned toward him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against him, capturing her mouth with his. Her lips, cool at first, quickly warmed. She felt the slight pressure of his jaw against hers as he softly coaxed her into parting her lips. Once she did, he immediately deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, skimmed her teeth, danced with hers.

Her knees nearly buckled as pleasure engulfed her. Stormy desire shot through her as his kiss robbed her of all breath and thought. Unlike the first time their mouths had met, this was no tender kiss. No soft coaxing, no gentle tease. His lips covered hers in a kiss of hard insistence, crushing eagerness, raw need. A kiss of total possession.

She offered no resistance, yielding completely beneath his fiery onslaught. Her own hands, which had been fumbling at his back in search of a home, locked around the base of his neck, clinging for support. She arched her hips and pressed herself tightly against his, aching for more.

Yes, yes, yes.

The word, a single, ceaseless beat, drummed through her mind. Hot, quivering yearning spread through her limbs. She wanted to be taken,
now
, by him.

She tasted the wine they’d had earlier, dry and crisp. The sugar that had dusted the cakes. Then came a taste she’d come to recognize as uniquely Jonathon. A taste she’d already begun to crave. Her passion sparked as fiery flames of desire coiled through her belly. She wanted more. Her appetite for the man could not be satiated. Instead, the deeper their kiss, the more her hunger grew. She felt as tightly coiled as a watch that had been over-wound. A bow that had been over-strung.

Jonathon's hands moved over her body as though memorizing her every curve. Brianna reacted purely on instinct, writhing against him in a rhythm that mirrored the heat and passion of their kiss.

She pressed her body against his, expressing without words the primitive need to meld their bodies into one. She flattened her breasts against his chest, slid her thigh between his. Jonathon stumbled slightly, then gave a frustrated groan and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

“Mr. Brooks—”

“Say my name.”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Jonathon.”

“Again.”

“Jonathon.”
She pressed her lips against his throat. “Jonathon. Jonathon.”

He carried her across the room as though she weighed no more than a child. They reached the bed and fell together, collapsing clumsily in each other’s arms. Brianna gave a husky laugh she barely recognized as her own.

She braced her body on top of his, her skirts bunched up around her knees as she gazed down upon him. Jonathon Brooks was a tall, powerfully built man, so opposite in every way to her own feminine form. As that fact impressed itself upon her brain, a shiver of delight coursed through her. The very
maleness
of his body thrilled her in a way she’d never anticipated. She was possessed of a sudden, urgent need to explore every inch of him.

She reached for his shirt. Clumsy with haste, she slipped the buttons free and tugged it open, giving her unrestrained access to his skin. His skin felt like rough velvet to her touch. A light smattering of chest hair tickled her fingertips. How utterly fascinating. She couldn’t stop moving her hands over his broad chest, tracing the rippled lines of his flat stomach, his brawny forearms, his steel biceps. His muscles quivered and bunched beneath her touch. His reaction gave her a heady, intoxicating sense of power, emboldening her to continue her daring explorations.

The wound at his shoulder was a jagged pink line, still slightly puckered and swollen. She pressed her lips to the injury, then moved on, drinking in every subtle nuance of his body. With a low groan, he threw back his head to give her greater access to his skin. She trailed light kisses down the column of his throat and across his collarbone.

Wondering if he would derive the same pleasure as she had, she flicked her tongue lightly against his masculine nipple—a nipple so unlike her own, so broad and flat and dark. Yet the nub stiffened slightly when she teased her tongue over it. Seized by an impulse she couldn’t restrain, she brought it into her mouth and gave a gentle bite.

Jonathon emitted a hoarse sound that fell somewhere between a laugh and a moan. He pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly, deeply, then drew back and began to unfasten the band of her skirt, muttering as he worked, “Brianna, it’s important you understand something.”

“Hmmm.” She nibbled at his ear. “You mean, what you said about love?”

“No. Well, yes, but not that.” He removed her outer skirt, leaving her in just her petticoat and drawers. He drew his hand over her ankle and up her thigh. “The other thing. Earlier. About being a viscount.”

He pulled free the ribbons of her stockings. Traced his fingers over the sensitive spot behind her knees. Brianna gasped. Shivered. Arched her back and lightly bit his throat. “Oh.”

“It’s true. I swear it.”

“Hmmm.” His touch was so rich with erotic promise she felt drunk with desire.

“Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, I understand,” she agreed readily, not caring. His words were a nuisance, a detraction from the real goal, which was this: “Kiss me.”

A wicked glint entered his eyes. His lips curved in a devilish grin. “As you wish.”

Her lips parted in anticipation, but he didn’t lower his mouth to hers. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of her petticoats and tugged them upward until they pooled about her waist, leaving her legs fully exposed. Brianna’s stomach did a queer somersault and her heart rate doubled. Smiling, he traced his fingers up her leg, softly caressing the velvety inner skin of her thigh.

She instinctively slammed her thighs together at the intrusion of his fingers. Her reaction only drew a low chuckle from him. 

“Easy, angel. It’s just a touch… a light touch.” He parted her legs and stroked her thighs. “And a simple, sweet kiss.”

Without further warning, he lowered his head, bringing it to rest between her thighs. To her utter shock, he pressed his lips against her most secret, private region, nuzzling the slick, hot entrance to her sex. Brianna gasped in surprise. She clutched his broad shoulders—whether in protest or delight she couldn’t say—she only knew she was shocked beyond words.

This couldn’t possibly…

He
couldn’t possibly…

Then words failed her altogether. All she knew was what she felt. And that was absolutely divine. Her head dropped back and she heard herself give a soft, mewling moan.

He made a low, rumbling growl of pleasure in response. The stubble on his cheeks brushed against her thighs, stinging her with a million pinpricks of heightened awareness. He licked the outer folds of her sex. Tickled and teased. Then his tongue entered her. Brianna stiffened. She gasped again. Sharp, blistering pleasure rang down her spine. She fisted the quilt beneath her and arched her back. Her knees reflexively dropped open wider.

Jonathon’s kiss deepened, becoming less gentle, more exploratory. Insistent. Driving her upward, toward some remote goal she could sense, but not articulate. Moving with an expertise she didn’t want to consider, he stroked, he sucked, he scraped her gently with his teeth. A quiet frenzy built within her, but it was directionless. Just a steady building of sensation, with no release in sight.

Sensing her frustration, Jonathon pulled back. “Easy, angel,” he soothed, his words flowing over her like honey. “I’ll show you what to do.”

His mouth slanted over hers. Brianna tasted herself on his lips, on his tongue. Her warmth and spice. The dewy wetness of her desire mingled with the taste of Jonathon’s kiss. A heavenly elixir. Fire and heat and yearning. A kiss that left her gasping and panting for more.

After a beat, he pulled back and nuzzled the sensitive column of her throat. He drew his hand to the spot between her thighs where his tongue had been and pressed his thumb against the tiny, sensitive nub at the entrance to her sex.

She cried out. An electric shock of pure pleasure tore through her. But it was too much. Too much sensation for her body to assimilate. Her muscles clenched and she bucked like a frightened horse. But she didn’t pull away as he rhythmically stroked the hidden bundle of nerves between her thighs. Instead, shamelessly writhed against him. He was her lifeline. Her only way through the dark, toward some blinding, beckoning release. His touch was both her downfall and her salvation.

Without warning the pleasure that had been building within her spiraled out of control. Gasping and crying out his name, she peaked. Her hips jerked, her toes curled, and undulating waves of fiery satisfaction shot down her spine. Sweet, sweet, bliss. Blinding bliss. She collapsed, trembling and quivering in Jonathon’s arms.