A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (117 page)

He groaned and tried to look away, to
look at anything other than the creamy, full breast bouncing below
him. “We could have used my cravat,” he said wryly.

If his sarcasm was returning,
particularly in a moment like this, perhaps he was finally
regaining his sanity?

“
This was faster than
undoing such a fussy knot.” She tore the strip in two, then cleaned
his hand with the first and wrapped the wound with the other. “This
should do. The cut isn’t deep.”

After she finished her work, she
stepped away from him—and finally remembered about her bared
breast. Two hands flew up to cover her bosom, one clutching
desperately at the remnants of fabric dangling precariously about
her chest.

Too bad. It had been far too long
since he’d seen such a lovely sight.

Good Lord, he was a cad. He was almost
as bad as Utley, to think a thought like that at a time like this.
Good thing the minx couldn’t see into his thoughts.

“
Thank you,” she
said.

Thank you.
He certainly wasn’t deserving of her thanks at the
moment—not while he was thinking about taking her to his chambers
and undressing the rest of her. Not while he couldn’t remove his
eyes from her.

“
For...for rescuing me like
you did.” Her voice trembled.

Please, Lord let her not
cry
. He could handle anything—well,
almost
anything—but a
crying female. He had to do something to keep her tears from
falling. “Thank you,” he blurted out. “For taking care of my
hand.”

Bloody hell. Something shimmery and
wet slid down her cheek, barely visible in the faint candlelight.
She was crying. He had to find some way to stop her.

He searched his mind, and came up
empty. There was nothing to be done but to kiss her.

Peter closed the scant distance
between them in less than a heartbeat. His good hand fisted in the
loose curls falling loose from her knot. With his bandaged hand, he
dried the tears falling from her eyes.

Then lip met lip and she sighed—a
shivery, needy sort of sound that Peter devoured. He could drown in
her. She tasted of peaches, and her warmth was like a
drug.

His tongue parted her lips and Jane
shuddered in his arms. Tongues stroked against each other, plunging
then retreating.

Her hands left her torn gown and
wandered over his chest and arms, pulling him closer, searching for
more. Giving more. Everywhere she touched him, he burned. Feathery,
fiery trails slithered across his abdomen, his neck, his
back.

He felt greedy. She gave and gave, but
still he needed more. Wanted more. It wasn’t enough. It would never
be enough.

Peter needed...he needed her. He loved
her. Good God. The realization hit him like a careening carriage
slamming into a brick wall. He needed to taste her. He left her
mouth and trailed a wet path with his tongue over her chin, down
her neck, to the swell of her bared breast.

“
Heavenly,” he said. “So
sweet.”

When he suckled the hardened nub, she
gasped and lost her control of her legs, collapsing against the
desk behind her. There was no choice to be made—he had to follow
her there, because her hands were clamped into tight fists in his
hair, pulling his head closer to her breast.

A tiny nip of his teeth, and she
moaned.

A breath of air on the wet heat, and
she sighed.

Hands were everywhere. His dipping
into and kneading her soft, luscious curves. Hers running beneath
his coat, stroking over his chest, arms, abdomen.

Footfalls sounded in the hall, moving
closer to them, and Peter pulled back suddenly. Christ, what had he
been thinking? “Straighten yourself,” he ordered. It might be Neil
or Sinclaire, but it could very well be any number of other people.
His house was full to bursting at the moment, and Lord only knew
where his servants were.

Jane looked up at him with fuzzy,
confused eyes. Confound it. She was still lost in the haze of
passion. She had no idea her entire life was about to change in the
blink of an eye. Damnation, he should have killed Utley instead of
letting him leave.

He pulled her to her feet and situated
her hands on the torn fabric, holding it in place. “You must
prepare yourself now, Jane.” Peter made certain his tone was firm,
not leaving any room for her to misunderstand his
meaning.

Realization reached her eyes just in
time, and she stood a bit straighter.

“
And just
what
have we in here?”
demanded a sharp, shrill female voice.

Devil take it. That was certainly not
either Neil or Sinclaire. Who on earth had discovered
them?

“
I daresay you
wanted
to be caught, you
did, since the door’s wide open to the hall,” the unknown intruder
continued, coming closer into the room and holding aloft a
candle—the last candle burning in the hall—to see their
faces.

Lady Plumridge. Damnation. Peter used
his body to block the old biddy’s view of Jane, but it was too
late. The damage was done.

Jane was ruined—and it appeared, at
least to anyone in society, to have happened by his own
hand.

The woman inched closer, surely trying
to make out for certain who the victims of her vile gossip were.
Blast, she wouldn’t be able to hold her discovery in for even an
hour, let alone until morning.

Another step closer, then, “Your
Grace? Oh, dear. Why, I was expecting...er...well, this is
certainly a surprise, sir.”

Clearly, this had been
Utley’s plan. Only he intended to be the man caught with Jane
himself, instead of Peter. Thank God
that
hadn’t come to pass. He would
never be able to forgive himself if Jane had to suffer such a
fate.

“
Well, step aside, Your
Grace,” Lady Plumridge continued. “It must be known who your little
doxy is, mustn’t it?”

“
You will watch your
tongue, madam, in the presence of my fiancée.” He kept his speech
velvety-smooth—dangerous.

“
Fiancée?” said Jane, her
voice filled with dismay. She pushed against his back in an effort
to be heard. He refused to budge, even when she kicked him in the
back of his knee. He would have to deal with her later. At the
moment, he was busy protecting her honor and virtue as best he
could, now that he’d effectively ruined the very same. Blast, he
was an idiot, much like she’d once accused him of being.

“
And you’ll kindly refrain
from ever referring to her in such a manner again,” he continued,
ignoring Jane’s efforts behind him. “Remember that you are speaking
of the future Duchess of Somerton.”

“
She most certainly is
not,” Jane said, much more loudly than the last time. She shoved
herself to the side and awkwardly climbed from the desk, clutching
her tattered gown to her chest with one arm while elbowing him in
the ribs with the other. “Lady Plumridge, there seems to be a
misunderstanding, ma’am.”

Her desperation would kill him if she
didn’t compose herself soon. At least in front of one of the two
biggest matrons of gossip in all of London. She could fall apart
later and rail at him for hours when they were alone. But she had
to understand the severity of their situation.

Lady Plumridge certainly
did.

The gossipmonger couldn’t conceal the
burgeoning smile upon her face if she tried—and he doubted she’d
made any such effort. “Miss Matthews, I’m quite certain there is no
misunderstanding at all. Under the circumstances, you have no
alternative. You two must marry, and frankly, dear, the sooner, the
better.”

Sinclaire rejoined them in the parlor.
The combined looks of pity and fury he wore were a clear indication
he’d heard at least the last part of the conversation.

“
I agree with you, ma’am,”
Peter said, looking all the while at Sinclaire. “In fact, I was
hoping my mother would soon join us so we could inform her of the
happy occasion. I’m certain she would wish to make an announcement
this evening. What a coup this will be for her, to be able to
announce her cousin’s engagement at the come-out ball she has
given.” And perhaps, such an announcement would diffuse the
situation Lady Plumridge and her gossip-loving friends would
otherwise cause.

Sinclaire took the hint and left,
presumably to fetch the dowager and apprise her of the goings-on
above stairs.

“
You both,” Jane said
quietly, “seem to be misunderstanding me. I will not be marrying
you,
Your Grace
.”

Damnation, this was not the time. “You
will,” he ground out.

“
I most certainly will
not.” Her glare was heated enough to melt a glacier.

Lady Plumridge giggled with mirth,
sounding far more like his daughter than a woman quite so long in
the tooth as she. Gossip of such magnitude had not been passed
about all Season, and she had to be desperate to be the first to
tell of it.

Blast it, he needed to talk to Jane
alone—to make her understand the repercussions of what she was
saying. “Lady Plumridge, might I have a word alone with my
fiancée?”

“
Oh, no, Your Grace. I
don’t believe that would be appropriate at all. Why, look at the
trouble that’s already happened, simply because the two of you were
alone together?”

“
Ah, but we’re betrothed.
Society does allow for some
brief
time alone for engaged couples, doesn’t
it?”

“
Well...” The busybody
seemingly searched her mind for any excuse to stay and hear
everything that was said.

“
We are
not
betrothed!” Jane said. “You
haven’t asked, I haven’t accepted, and I might as well inform you
now that I
will
not accept, no matter what your ideas on the matter may be.”
With each point, she poked her finger into his chest.

Lady Plumridge smiled in
victory. “It certainly would not be appropriate for you to be alone
if you are not engaged, Your Grace, and the lady claims you are
not. Therefore, I simply
can’t
agree to leave you.”

He couldn’t decide which woman he
would prefer to be the first in his life he’d ever struck: Lady
Plumridge for having the audacity to contradict his edict, or Jane
for behaving like an unreasonable chit hardly out of the
schoolroom.

Cross that off the list. He would
never actually strike either woman, irrespective of how much they
infuriated him. Instead, he settled with drawing a hand through his
hair and coming away with a few strays.

Thankfully, before he thoroughly lost
his temper with the two, Sinclaire and his mother rushed into the
room, both winded from the exertion. They had arrived upstairs in
the blink of an eye. Sinclaire must have put the fear of God in
Mama. Peter would have to find a way to thank him later.

“
Mama,” he said, “I didn’t
want you to learn this way, but Jane and I will be
marrying.”

Jane opened her mouth to interrupt
him—or perhaps more likely to contradict him—yet again. He put an
arm around her waist and pulled her sharply to his side, glaring at
her as fiercely as he had ever done as a warning to remain silent.
Her mouth snapped to a close, and then she stomped on his
toes.

Deuced minx.

“
Quite soon,” he added on a
groan, hoping to further infuriate her.

She elbowed him in the
ribs.

“
Perhaps tomorrow. I don’t
particularly care to wait.”

Jane huffed in response. Finally, she
remained still and quiet. She really needed to learn her
place—particularly now that she would be his duchess.

His duchess. His wife. Good
God.

His mother beamed at them from just
inside the doorway. “Oh, how splendid. We’ll have to make an
announcement this evening, of course. There won’t be time for an
engagement ball, it seems, but we’ll plan a celebration for
afterward, if that will suit you, Jane.”

Mama stopped and truly looked at Jane
for the first time since entering the parlor. “Oh, dear. You must
go up to Meg at once and change into a new gown. Hurry along.
There’s no time to waste.”

“
But...”

His mother had joined them before the
desk and now placed her hand where Peter’s had been. “But nothing.
You can’t possibly rejoin the ball looking as you do. Go.
Shoo.”

Lady Plumridge had been creeping
toward the door. The harridan likely wanted to be the first to
return to supper so she could spoil the surprise or cause some
other sort of uproar.

Mama, ever aware, took care of that
possibility, as well. Once Jane was out the door and headed toward
her chamber to change, Mama turned to Lady Plumridge. “Why, Sybil.
I’ve not spoken with you yet this evening. Will you not be so kind
as to sit with me for supper? We have an opening at our table.” She
firmly took hold of the other woman’s arm and led her away, despite
the woman’s tittering and glancing over her shoulder.