Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 25

Chapter Seventeen

Her fingers gripped the lapels of his waistcoat with a talon-like ferocity, refusing to let him go, her body wanting him against her, wanting him closer than even that if it were possible. Claire revelled in the rough play of it; the devouring press of his mouth, the harshness of the wall’s uneven surface at her back, the hardness of him rising against her, all muscle and male.

‘Claire,’ he gasped her name, a hungry, needy sound that made her reckless. His hands were in her hair, tugging her head back, exposing her throat to his mouth, a most delicious, decadent exposure. She’d never been kissed liked this, not even their hungry kisses in the bookshop rivalled these. She had never imagined kisses could be so primal, so wild, and that she’d want more, so much more than that wildness could offer on its own.

She tugged at his cravat, wanting his throat for herself, too, wanting any piece of him she could get. ‘Jonathon, I don’t want to eat dinner.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, as needy as his.

His carriage, the full-sized town coach, not the open-air curricle, was outside. She had no recollection of exactly how they made the short walk. Her mouth was too busy, her hands too busy to pay attention to such mundane details. Jonathon managed to give the command to drive and they were off. She didn’t care where. She only cared that she was on Jonathon’s lap, straddling him in a most unladylike but convenient manner for what she wanted. For what he wanted. In her current position there could be no doubt of that. The fight had left them restless and roused, every nerve, every sensitivity exposed.

She finished with the cravat and dragged it from his neck, her fingers moving on to his quickly discarded collar, his neck exposed to her at last. She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse beat hard and confident beneath her lips. It still wasn’t enough. Sweet heavens, how she ached! Her body had no trouble recalling what it now knew existed. There could be so much more than this!

Instinctively, her hips ground hard against his, asking for more. He gripped her waist. ‘You will be the death of me, Claire, if you keep that up,’ he warned, or was that encouragement she heard in his rough voice? Gone were the cultured, easy tones she was used to. ‘I know what you want, love.’

His hand slipped beneath the tangle of her skirt, his warm touch sliding up her thigh, unerringly coming to the core of her and the source of her ache. Perhaps later she’d be embarrassed, or feel some shame over the thought of his fingers teasing apart her folds, of them sliding inside her to find her wet and wanting yet again and in a coach no less, not even surrounded by the trappings of a bedroom. But now, in the moment, it was the most glorious sensation she’d ever felt. His thumb grazed the tiny nub, sending a familiar shiver through her. Only now, she knew it was merely the beginning.

‘Like that, did you?’ He kissed her long and slow, his teeth drawing out her lower lip as his thumb made another pass and she gasped, helpless against the twin pleasures he’d coaxed from her.

‘Move against my hand, Claire. Yes, like that. Do it again, and again.’ She did, her breathing turning to pants, the exquisite sensation growing with movement, with each of his passes, caresses. Their kisses turned savage, matching the tempo set by his hand and his wicked thumb—oh, sweet heavens, that thumb!

‘I think I shall burst,’ Claire confessed in ragged breaths, the pressure and the pleasure building in her without release, proof that last night had not been an anomaly; proof that he could be the source of endless pleasure for her.

Jonathon laughed against her throat, a seductive sound all its own. ‘You most certainly will. Let it happen. It’s what you’re looking for.’

She was beyond words when release came, her ability to express herself reduced to husky moans and gasps and a final, rather loud cry as the ultimate pleasure crashed over her and she clung to Jonathon as it claimed her and passed, one thought occurring to her: She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this sensation not only once but twice, this sensation for which she had no name, no adjectives in spite of having four languages at her disposal. And she certainly hadn’t known him. This evening’s events confirmed it. He was so much more than she’d ever imagined.

His arms were about her, her head resting against his shoulder, her legs on either side of his thighs. She was close enough to smell the faint remnants of his soap at day’s end mixed with his sweat, and the scents of the street. How perfectly those smells represented the mystery of him: the boxer, the fighter, mixed with the gentleman. She was close enough to know that while she’d had her need assuaged once more, his was not. She slipped her hand between them to where his erection strained unsatisfied in the darkness of the carriage. She put her hand over him, tracing the length of him through his trousers until she felt the tip of him and heard him groan.

‘Claire, you don’t need to—’ he began but she silenced him with a kiss and whisper. If he was part-street, part-gentleman, perhaps the same could be said of her. Did she smell not only of the lady but the wanton, too? The bold woman who wasn’t afraid to cry out in his arms and give herself over to the passions he roused?

‘I want to.’ Her other hand hunted in the dark for the fall of his trousers. Already, the cloth was too limiting. She wanted to touch him the way he’d touched her, no clothes, no barriers between them.

She freed him, wishing for more light. She wanted to see him and yet the darkness gave her a sense of liberty she might not have felt otherwise. There was no reason to be shy in the dark. Claire ran her hand up the length of him again, her hand encircling him, her thumb exploring the rough under-ridge of him, feeling the wet bead at the very apex of him. ‘I wonder if my thumb is as wicked as yours...’ she purred, skimming over the tender tip.

The answer was a croaked and validating, ‘Yes.’

She stroked him harder, faster, then slower, listening to the sharp inhalations of his breathing to guide her.

‘Please, Claire, faster.’ He arched against her hand. ‘Bring me off, now.’ His voice was no more than a groan of agony and ecstasy. His body was gathering itself, she could feel it in the tensing of his muscles. She stroked faster, once, twice and then the release took him in pulsing spasms while she held him, jerking and twitching with life. As intimate as the moment was, it left her much as it had last night. This was not enough, nor was it an answer to the questions that remained unsettled between them.

Perhaps Jonathon felt it, too. He was silent in the aftermath. The quiet of the carriage was broken only by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of garments. He handed her a handkerchief and she took her reluctant cue to take her own seat across from him. ‘I’ll see if I can scare up some dinner.’ Jonathon rapped on the roof and leaned out the window, the carriage coming to a halt not long afterwards. He jumped out. ‘I’ll be right back. When you’re ready, have my driver light the lanterns.’

Dinner was produced in rapid order: cold meat, cheese, bread and a bottle of wine from a nearby tavern. Jonathon winked as he pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘I bet you’ve never had a carriage picnic before.’ He poured her a small glass of the wine. ‘Careful, it sloshes easily.’ To prove his point, the carriage chose that moment to lurch into action. Claire was ready for it.

She wished she was as ready for the man who sat across from her, coatless, sleeves still rolled up from fisticuffs, slicing bread and cheese. He handed her the food, a tower of meat and cheese built on a piece of bread, and gave her a devilish smile that flipped her stomach. ‘You’re quite a revelation, Claire.’

‘As are you.’ She met his gaze steadily, knowing there were things that needed to be said and questions that need to be asked. ‘It seems we’ve come quite a way from French lessons in the garden, yet I know nothing about you.’ She took a sip of wine and waited for his response. How would he play this? Confession or denial?

‘You’ve known me for years, Claire,’ he replied with a certain nonchalance. But Claire was not fooled. The answer was too casual. The statement discomfited him. She pushed her advantage.

‘Au contraire. You, Jonathon Lashley, are not the man I thought you were.’

‘For better or for worse?’ His eyes glittered dangerously, calling to mind the consummate seducer instead of the ballroom prince.

‘For better, I think.’ Perhaps Beatrice was right after all. One never truly knew the measure of a man. And yet, she found this new side of Jonathon...exciting. It would be an adventure to discover this man who had fought for her, who had drawn blood for her, this man with flashing eyes and a sharp knife, who’d pleasured her thoroughly and intimately twice now and who’d allowed her to do the same for him.

He arched an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not sure?’

That was the understatement of the evening. Claire put down her bread and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Of course I’m not sure. How could I be? We’ve ventured far from the beaten path, you and I. Nothing between us is defined. There are no rules about what will happen next, what can happen next.’ In all her daydreams of being courted by Jonathon, none of them had taken this eventuality into account. Those daydreams looked naïve and shallow when compared to this consuming passion and the complexities surrounding it. Perhaps it was true, that one should be careful what one wished for.

‘What am I to make of this? The only thing I am sure of is that you’ve engaged my services as your French tutor. Beyond that? Nothing. You won’t tell me why we have to accelerate the lessons, yet you send me flowers I never asked for. You’ve danced with me more than necessary.’

You’ve kissed me, pleasured me, shown me what passions the body is capable of.

‘As far as mixed messages go, there are plenty to choose from.’

A flicker of laughter flared in his eyes. ‘You have secrets, too, Claire. You can hardly condemn me for mine when you hold yours so very close. Who is the suitor? Is it Sheriden come around again now that he’s realised what he gave up the first time?’ He continued when she said nothing. ‘See, it’s not that easy, is it?’

He took a final bite of his bread and wiped the crumbs away on his trousers. ‘It does make me wonder, Claire, what kind of suitor this man is if you’re pleasuring me in a carriage instead of him. I dare say after the last two nights you could capture his attentions if you wanted them.’

That stung. ‘You started it!’ She sounded like a four-year-old. She could think of nothing else to say that was a worthy response. L’esprit d’escalier indeed. ‘If anyone has made this complicated, it’s you. You have Cecilia Northam expecting a commitment and yet...’ She didn’t dare voice the rest.

And you were kissing me up against a wall in Soho, and climbing into my bedroom as if there was no tomorrow. You put your hand on me, you gave yourself to me and you made me believe every word you said.

Who was to blame? Him for uttering the words, or her for believing them? They’d both known better. Even if the words were true. He had obligations beyond her, dreams beyond her that she knew very little about.

‘You’re right. And yet. That pretty much sums it up.’ He let out a breath, the unfinished words hanging between them. The anger went out of him. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think we really want to fight or blame. We’ve exposed ourselves tonight and now we’re just trying to protect ourselves from hurt.’

‘I don’t know that we can do that—protect ourselves. It’s too late.’ Perhaps he was right. Outside, the landscape gave way to Mayfair mansions. They were nearly home. The tumultuous evening was over although it was still early by ton standards. Balls would just be getting underway. If she wanted, she could join her parents at the Selfridge rout, but she was in no mood for dancing tonight. It was hard to believe so much had happened and it was only ten o’clock.

The carriage came to a stop outside Stanhope House. She reached for the door handle but Jonathon was faster. ‘Wait, Claire.’ His hand closed over hers on the handle. ‘What if there were no secrets, no Cecilia?’

She gave a sad laugh. ‘But there are, Jonathon.’ Who knew what his were, but did it matter? Secrets were secrets for a reason. They were pieces of potentially damaging information if put into the wrong hands. She thought about telling him there was no suitor and the reasons why she hadn’t told him, probably would never tell him. What would he think of her then? Would he think she’d manipulated him to get his attention? ‘If we shared them they would change everything.’

‘Everything has already changed, Claire,’ he admonished. ‘A French tutor and a pupil don’t need details. But friends do. I thought we’d established we were that at least.’ Jonathon laced his fingers through hers. ‘I think it’s fair to say we’ve moved beyond tutor and pupil.’ His voice pitched low, trying to reclaim the intimacy of earlier, wanting his wicked angel back on his lap.

But he understood, too, that he’d overstepped his boundaries tonight by claiming liberties he had no right to access. They were not affianced, there were no promises between them. He’d had her twice in an intimate manner when he should not have had her even once. He could not have her again without committing to her. The thought of never experiencing passion with her made his stomach tighten and his mind marvel. How had this happened? How had she become so beautiful and dear to him without him realising it? He had wanted to kill for her tonight, an urge he thought he’d left behind in the war. He’d watched the hours slip by too slowly until he could expect her. He’d drunk away the afternoon, regretting not going to his lesson. Now, he had to know. Were those feelings he had to get used to? ‘Do you think there’s no chance for us, Claire?’

She did look at him then, her eyes sharp as her head snapped up to face him. ‘A chance for what, Jonathon?’

‘If I wanted to court you, would I be welcome or would I be too late?’ Doubt stole over him. He’d never asked a woman such a thing. Interest had always been implied. ‘Tell me the truth, Claire—have I been nothing more than a distraction while you ponder your suitor’s offer?’ He didn’t think he could withstand being used in that manner, not by her, and yet he wasn’t convinced he deserved more.

He had stunned her. She would have pulled her hand away if he hadn’t held on. Perhaps it was what he deserved; to reach out for happiness and be denied. It was his penance for Thomas. Why should he claim happiness when Thomas could not?

In the next moment, she was stunning him. ‘You are determined to have my secret, are you not?’ Her brown eyes held sadness, regret. ‘I should have told you from the start and now you will despise me, but it seems I have no choice if you’re to understand why this can’t go any further.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘There is no suitor. There never was.’ The rest came out in a rush he barely had time to process. ‘The only suitor I ever wanted was you.’

‘And now? Have I failed in some way?’

‘No! You’ve exceeded my expectations at every turn.’ She paused and glanced down at her hands, gathering courage. ‘You are much more than I knew and that man is better than any of my imaginings. I did not mean to toy with you, but I can’t help but feel that I have. I have led you on in order to keep your attentions, I made you believe there was a man of interest.’ She shook her head. ‘Now, I’m embarrassed about how I acted. The girls dressed me up, did my hair, May found a way for us to be thrown together and I allowed it.’

‘Because you liked me, nothing more,’ Jonathon said softly. The kaleidoscope of little shards were falling into focus now, the bits and pieces aligning themselves in formation. He’d been right. The dresses were for a man. But he’d not guessed they were for him. He remembered the sky-blue gown with the chocolate piping and how he’d stared when she’d entered the Worths’ drawing room. He remembered, too, how she’d quite fortuitously sat across from him and May Worth had sat beside him. It had been May who’d dropped that little titbit about Claire’s French. Without that information, he might never have sought her out.

Full stop.

He’d only been partially joking with Preston the other day about having no secrets when one’s friends were in intelligence. The Worths were the leak. Preston would have known he was in need of a tutor and May had always been an inveterate eavesdropper even when they were young. He reached for her hand, claiming it again from her lap. ‘You went to a lot of work, for me. I’m flattered. Did you think I wouldn’t be?’

She hesitated. She’d been expecting his anger. She’d not been ready for this. ‘I thought you would feel used, manipulated.’

He shook his head. ‘You merely created an opportunity for us to be together. As you pointed out so succinctly earlier, I was the one who started it.’ He paused here, running his thumb over her knuckles. ‘I started it, but am I right in assuming we both want more?’

Despite her confession, they were back where they started, but perhaps they were closer to an answer. ‘The way I see it, is that it’s easier than we thought, Claire. There is no suitor to stand between us and your secret is out in the open, no longer a barrier to us.’

‘But it is not the only barrier,’ she chided. ‘There is your appointment to Vienna to consider. You will risk that post if you openly pursue me. I can’t let you do that, Jonathon. You’ve worked too hard. I cannot possibly stand in the way of your dream. I hope it is evident that I care too much for you to do that.’ He watched her throat work, noting the effort this recent disclosure cost her. Her free hand fumbled unsuccessfully with the door. ‘Please, let me out before we say things we can’t mean and make promises we can’t keep.’

He released her hand and carefully swung open the door. He helped her out, performing his role with numb perfection until she was safely inside. Only when he was alone in the carriage did he let the full import of the words take him. They were a blow as stunning as any punch Greasy Hair could have landed. He understood her meaning. She wanted out of more than the carriage. She wanted out of their association. No more French lessons. No more long walks in the garden. No more sneaking off to Soho.

What a mess he’d made of things. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to fight back the overwhelming wave of disappointment. He’d lost Claire just when he’d decided he wanted her, needed her.