Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (14 page)

He ducked into a pocket oasis with a gurgling fountain. It was framed by a curved wall, which would serve nicely to give them a modicum of privacy. Without a word, he captured one of Brianna’s slender wrists, then the other, holding them both over her head. He pressed her back against the wall and thrust his knee between her skirts, imprisoning her beneath him.

“Jonathon,” she said—amazing, the tiny thrill that shot through him at the sound of his name on her lips—“are you sure we should be here?”

“No.”

“No?”

He lowered his head and began to nuzzle the side of her neck. “We’re being very wicked.”

“Are we?” She pulled back slightly, searching his gaze. Excitement sparkled in her dark eyes. “How wonderful.”

Jonathon felt his breath catch.
Sweet Jesus. How much could a man take? And where would it end?
In the brief walk from the common grounds to the secluded gardens, his lust for her had grown,
expanding and curling into something far more reckless and compelling.

The mere touch of his lips on her throat was enough to ignite a fire within him. He swept his tongue into her mouth. Her body melted against his. Her response was hot, scorching, her kiss an open confession of burning need. He continued to entrap her wrists above her head, pinning her between the wall and the solid masculine length of his body, holding her there for him to claim.

All sense of place and propriety evaporated as she thrust her breasts against his chest. Pressed her thighs against his. She wanted to be captured. Taken. Right there, in that instant, no matter who might see them.

He felt his cock stiffen and swell against her belly. The knowledge that he could arouse her as she was arousing him filled him with an intoxicating combination of power and pride. He tore his mouth away from hers, hungrily pressing a trail of kisses along the smooth column of her throat.

He brought one hand beneath her emerald skirts. He drew his fingers over her ankle and up her calf, following the seam of her stocking. He felt a shiver run through her as he traced a path along the back of her knee, then continued up her leg. Finally he reached the lovely space where her stockings ended and her flesh was bare. His fingers teased the soft, creamy skin of her inner thigh. He brushed the delicate curls that covered her sex, then slipped one long finger inside her.

Brianna gave a startled whimper, followed by a raspy moan. She clamped her thighs shut, imprisoning his hand between her legs. Delicious tension rocketed through him. He slipped his fingers between the slick pink folds of her sex, then toyed with the sensitive nub at the entrance to her channel. She rewarded him with another whimper, a kitten-like release of warm breath against his shoulder.

Then she uttered a single word: “Yes.” Again and again. “Yes, yes, yes.” Her skirts rustled as she bucked against his hand.

The scent of her arousal perfumed the air around them. He could come right then, right there, his britches still fully fastened, if he wasn’t careful. He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He wasn’t ready to stop. Not near ready.

He teased her, massaging the wet, glistening pearl hidden within the folds of her sex, lifting her to the brink of orgasm and then pulling back. Finally Brianna could take no more. She struggled free of his grasp on her wrists and reached for the buttons on his shirt, unfastening them one by one. She trailed hungry kisses over his throat and down his chest, nipping at his skin with her teeth, licking him with her tongue.

Jonathon let out a low moan and reached for the delicate buttons that ran down the front of her gown. Impatience careened through him and urgency made him fumble.

He wanted to bite off the damned buttons with his teeth and spit them out. To rip the garment from her body and liberate the silky skin beneath.

Finally he succeeded. He shoved her gown and chemise off her shoulders and slid them down her arms, letting the garments hang loosely about her waist, baring her breasts to the fading afternoon sunlight. He feasted on the sight before him. Smooth, silky skin, delicate shoulders, and saucy, pert breasts capped with dark pink areolas and tight, delectable nipples.

Naked greed overwhelmed him. He bent low and took her left nipple in his mouth. Brianna drew in a sharp breath and arched her back. She dug her nails into his scalp as he laved the nipple with his mouth, sucking and twirling his tongue around the sweet pink bud until it rose stiff and hard. He found a new game: alternating his warm breath with the cool autumn air until shivers wracked her body. He brushed the tip of his teeth lightly over the erect peak, drawing a low moan of approval from Brianna. Then he lavished the same loving attention on her right breast.

Jonathon drew back and studied her in the dappled afternoon sunlight. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her skirts tumbled and her thighs exposed. She looked wanton. Entirely indecent. Achingly beautiful. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly pleasured, and loved every moment of it. But who still needed more.

He unbuttoned his trousers. His cock sprang out, firm and hard and pulsing with life. Pushing aside her skirts, he thrust himself inside her with a force that lifted her onto her toes. Brianna gave a throaty cry and grabbed his shoulders for support. With her back pressed against the wall, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, locking her heels together at his waist, giving him greater access to her silky depths.

He drove into her again and again, long, rhythmic thrusts that elicited soft moans from Brianna. She threw back her head and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. He felt her sheath tighten around his cock in tiny spasms. She cried out, trembling as she came. Her orgasm was fast and hard and furious, a shuddering rapture that triggered his own. He came immediately after. His muscles contorting with glorious release, he gave one final thrust and poured his seed into her.

Spent and exhausted, thoroughly sated, they collapsed at the base of the brick wall. Sitting side-by-side, they drew in deep, ragged breaths. After a moment they exchanged a glance. A glance that spoke volumes—a glance so obviously full of cocky pride and smug satisfaction at the caliber of their lovemaking that they both burst out laughing.

As he gathered Brianna onto his lap, Jonathon was struck by the realization that he’d never laughed with a woman after making love. How extraordinary to discover that the act of laughing together afterward could be nearly as enjoyable as the sex itself.

Chapter Sixteen

“You look perfect,” Jonathon assured her as he led her away from the walled alcove.

Brianna smiled at the compliment but couldn’t help wishing for a mirror. Impossible to believe that some evidence of their coupling wasn’t immediately apparent. Yes, she’d tidied her hair, fastened her bodice, and brushed the leaves from her skirts, but surely some sign of what had just transpired was still visible. It simply wasn’t possible for her to feel this way—her joy so abundant she felt as though she were walking on air—without some physical manifestation of it on her person for all the world to see.

Jonathon reached for her hand and caught it in his. He brushed his lips against her temple. “Ready?”

She nodded. They left the gardens and returned to the Michaelmas celebrations, pausing as a boisterous crowd passed before them. A parade of some sort. In the center of it all, two teams of horses pulled distinctly different wagons: one carried an enormous effigy of a very righteous angel, the other a dark, monstrous figure which emanated both rage and defeat.

She sent Jonathon a questioning glance.

He smiled. “I suppose you never had Michaelmas celebrations in Canton, did you?”

Brianna shook her head. Drums and fireworks, yes. Glowing paper lanterns and silk dragons, yes. But this… definitely not. “What is it?”

“A victory celebration,” he explained. “According to legend, on this day a fierce battle took place between the archangel Michael and Satan. Michael drove the devil from heaven and forever after consigned him to the lowest regions of hell.”

She watched as the exuberant crowd of celebrants rolled past them like tidal wave. They left in their wake a small party of expensively dressed men and women. Brianna glanced at the group and would have turned away, but one woman in particular caught her attention. She was a striking brunette dressed in a gown of rich, shimmering russet. The woman’s gaze locked on Jonathon. Her brows furrowed as her expression shifted from confusion, to shock, to delighted surprise. 

“Lord Brooksbank! Is that you?! Over here!”

Brianna felt Jonathon stiffen beside her. He turned. “Bloody hell,” he murmured beneath his breath.

His hand slipped from hers. Just dropped away. There was no sharp tug, no quick jerk, just a loosening of their fingers and the lowering of his hand to his side, as though their limbs had not been tangled just moments earlier, as though their bodies had not melded into one, as though nothing had passed between them at all.

Nothing. The word sliced through Brianna’s heart and settled stone-like within her chest.

The group of expensively dressed men and women, perhaps seven or eight in number, crowded around them.

“Lord Brooksbank, what a surprise! We had no idea we’d find you here!”

They welcomed Jonathon into their midst, their faces alight with both curiosity and good humor. They took in his clothing with an air of expectant laughter, as though that was sort of jest he would normally play—blending in with the common rabble. So outrageously amusing.

Flashes of words and explanations circled above Brianna’s head. Questions were answered in only the vaguest terms: Separated from his traveling companions, an unfortunate mishap with thieves, left without funds… All told with a lively air, as though the experience had been part of some amusing adventure.

Not a Grand Adventure at all. Just a petty, mildly amusing one. A high-spirited lark. Brianna took that in, and then something else:
Lord Brooksbank
, they said.
My lord
. Not Mr. Brooks. Certainly not Jonathon.

Her mind reeled. Lord Brooksbank. A viscount.

But he had told her that, hadn’t he? He had. Of course he had. Not only had he told her (and she hadn’t listened) the proof of who he really was had been there all along: his unconscious air of authority, his educated manner of speech, his breezy, almost careless charm, as though the relationship between action and consequence held no sway in his world. Then there had been his unshakeable confidence that he could have whatever he wanted: a warm bed, a good meal… her.

So lost was she in her thoughts, she gave a start when she felt the slight brush of his fingers against her spine. It was the lightest of touches, a courtesy really, accompanied by a slight bow. He drew her closer to the group surrounding them. Jonathon, whose voice had been a low, warm tickle in her ear only minutes earlier, now formally explained her presence to strangers.             

“May I present Mrs. Donnelly. She and I were introduced in Liverpool; her late husband was engaged in trade in Canton. It has been my privilege to escort her to London.”

A truth, but not a whole truth. Certainly not
their
truth.

She drew back her shoulders and stiffened her spine, drawing herself up to her full height (which regrettably was not very tall) as the group’s interested gazes lit on her. They regarded her with undisguised curiosity, surveying her from head-to-toe.
Foreign
. The word seemed to float in the air around her.
An exotic specimen brought before them for their perusal.
Speculative gazes shot between her and Jonathon. Their smiles shrunk, and the subtle lifting of an eyebrow or two was enough to tell her that she fell short of some indefinable standard.

Then they were hustled off amid murmurs of sympathy for their plight—sympathy Brianna didn’t want but couldn’t refuse. Swept away with happy assurances that the Unfortunate Episode that had brought her and Jonathon together was now behind them. Traveling by mail coach! How absurd! What stories they could tell!

Brianna’s throat tightened. Impossible to smile while she clenched her teeth, yet she found herself desperately endeavoring to do so. She brought up her chin. She would not fall apart. Not here. Not in front of this group of beautiful, boisterous strangers who clearly adored Jona—Viscount Brooksbank.

In no time at all he was surrounded by men, his friends and peers no doubt, all toothy grins and back-slapping good wishes, congratulating themselves on their helpfulness as they whisked him away. Strangers who were happily acquainted with Viscount Brooksbank. A man who was charming, titled, wealthy, and obviously popular with the London set. A man she really didn’t know at all.

Brianna found herself encircled by women, folded into their elegant, sophisticated set and swallowed by them, as though caught in a tide she didn’t have the strength to withstand.

Jonathon glanced over his shoulder and sent her a look she couldn’t begin to interpret. Unable to meet his gaze she looked away, looked down, looked anywhere but at him. Focused her attention on lifting her feet, carrying herself forward with as much dignity as she could muster.

She examined the scenery surrounding her: lush green lawns, serpentine stone walls, bubbling fountains, late-blooming autumn flowers. A castle perched on a hill. But rather than enjoy the beauty of the site, she recalled with startling intensity a moment from her childhood.

In a fit of rage against the British after they had brazenly violated yet another opium ban, the Emperor had ordered his troops to set fire to the foreign quarter in Canton. Brianna recalled standing on the docks with her parents, watching the fires rage, licking wood and shooting up sparks, her world collapsing around her in a blaze of heat. Swift, vicious, and final.

She’d been numb then, just as now. Unable to stop any of it.

* * *

Lady Warwick, accompanied by her maid, arrived to help Brianna dress for supper. While Brianna would have preferred to claim a headache and skip the whole ordeal, she was aware that to do so would insult her hostess’s kindness. And Lady Warwick had been nothing but welcoming, warm, and kind. Of course Brianna hadn’t a gown of her own—certainly nothing suitable for a formal dinner with an earl and his wife—so Lady Warwick had graciously lent her one of her own: “I haven’t been able to wear this since the birth of our third child. You have the figure I once had.”

And so Brianna found herself attired in a borrowed gown of shimmering gold silk which didn’t suit her at all (the cut did not flatter her frame, and the shade was all wrong for her coloring), but which had been so generously offered she couldn’t refuse.

The dinner proceeded in a similar fashion. A cavernous dining hall, a table so large it was positively medieval, meticulously prepared food (ten courses, though she certainly hadn’t tasted any of them), elegant guests, and white-gloved servants catering to their every need. Impeccable elegance everywhere she looked. And she had looked everywhere—except at Jonathon. She did not trust herself to meet his gaze.

Instead she feigned gaiety. In response to her host’s questions, she heard herself babbling about silks in Canton. The state of Indo-China trade. Her voyage to England. Nonsense words pouring out of her mouth. She had the odd sensation of being outside herself. Laughing a beat too late, smiling a bit too broadly.

Glancing at Lady Warwick, she read concern in the other woman’s eyes. Kindness. Pity. Brianna’s temples throbbed.
Be careful what you wish, for you just might get it.
She swallowed past the knot in her throat as the tired cliché drummed through her mind. A castle. From the day she’d read her first fairy tale, she had always longed to see an actual castle. Now she was within one, surrounded by peers and being feted like royalty, and she had never felt more miserable.

At last the meal ended. The men were led away to enjoy brandy and cigars, while the women were ushered into a feminine parlor for tea. The moment she could leave without insulting her hostess, Brianna plead fatigue from her journey and fled to her room.

* * *

A soft knock on her door. Without waiting for her call to enter, Jonathon slipped inside. He’d come. Just as she’d known he would.

Brianna, who’d spent the entire evening studiously avoiding his gaze, now drank in the sight of him. He looked unbearably handsome. So perfect it made her chest ache. Like her, he had had to borrow his attire for the evening, having nothing remotely formal or suitable for dinner. But unlike her gown, his clothing suited him perfectly.

He wore a crisp white linen shirt, impeccably starched. A burgundy cravat was intricately knotted about his throat. His broad shoulders were encased in a jacket of fine wool serge. Neatly pressed trousers covered his long, athletic legs. His boots gave off a highly polished, satiny sheen. Even the tawny gold waves of his hair, unfashionably long enough to brush against his collar, did not detract from the image he presented.

This new clothing matched the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he breathed. His height, his carriage, his innate nobility. Viscount Brooksbank was the very picture of aristocratic bearing and masculine beauty. Everything about him simply looked
right
, in a way that his ratty clothing had simply looked
wrong
.

Brianna shook her head, chiding herself. She should have seen it sooner. She should have recognized it.

“How did I ever believe, even for an instant, that you were a valet?”

He stepped toward her. She took an involuntary step away.

He froze, a stricken expression on his face. “Brianna. I did tell you who I was.”

“Yes, you did.” She drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “What do I call you? Your Grace?”

He released a brief, humorless laugh. “I’m not a duke. Even if I were,
you
would call me Jonathon.” He gestured to his clothing, his new personae. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Brianna smiled slightly. Of course it did. It had to. Needing a moment to compose herself, she turned to the sideboard in her room. Sitting atop a highly polished tray was a crystal decanter containing an exotic amber liquor. She went to pour herself a glass, but found her hands were shaking too badly for her to accomplish the task.

She clenched her fists at her sides.
Blast and bloody blue hell
. It was her own fault. The pain she was experiencing now was entirely self-inflicted.
She hadn’t wanted to recognize the truth. She had wanted simplicity. Sin. She had wanted Mr. Jonathon Brooks exactly as he was. His miserable shave and ragged clothes. His reckless charm, tousled golden hair, and dimpled smile. Someone she could have. Take. After her marriage to Arthur, she’d wanted to know what she’d been missing. Passion. Love. Lust. Now she knew. For the rest of her life, she would know what she was missing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish it were different.”

“Wish what were different?” she asked softly. She brought up her chin, challenging him. “That you weren’t titled, or I wasn’t common?”

A flash of anger darkened his eyes. “You’re not common.”

“No? You never did ask me why the East India Company didn’t recognize my parents’ marriage.”

“I’m listening.”

“My mother worked a flower boat in the port of Guangzhou. That’s how she and my father met.”

“A flower boat?”

“A fanciful name for the boats that ferried out Chinese women to pleasure the foreign sailors who came to Canton.”