Courtney Milan (31 page)

“Very well,” he said. “But I’ll choose the lock, and it will be a proper thick one. And I will have the only key, mind you, and I’ll wear it around my neck.”

“Of course,” Jonas said. He leaned over and took his father’s hand in his. “Of course. And just as soon as you’re well…”

But he couldn’t make himself finish the sentence. These next months wouldn’t be easy. But now, for the first time, he could see his way through them. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his father’s wrist, feeling the pulse of the man who had given life to him.

It beat, tired but steady, and Jonas let out a sigh of relief.

B
Y THE TIME
J
ONAS CAME BACK TO HIS OWN HOME
that evening, he was exhausted. It had been a day of many house calls—eight in all, the last one interrupting his dinner. Interspersed between them, he’d managed to engage the services of a locksmith for the next day, and to hire a few men to move the things his father would need for his journey.

He’d not had a moment to himself to think of anything other than work, and given the state of emotional fatigue he found himself in, it was all to the best. His housekeeper had gone by the time he let himself in the front door, and the maid who answered his door had gone to her parents’ home back in Nottingham for the holidays. The house was dark and empty. He made his way to the back, where his dinner—now cold—had been laid under a dome. Potatoes, beef, and peas were prosaic enough. He ate methodically, while making notations in his visit log.

By the time it was ten o’clock, he’d cleaned his plate and had finished recording his thoughts for the day. He’d shed his coat, and replaced his shoes and stockings with slippers. He was on the verge of finding his way into bed when a knock came at the door.

For a moment, he stared wearily at the table. The last thing he wanted—the very last thing—was to stand up and go answer that knock. But it was urgent if someone had come at this hour of the night. He was needed. It didn’t matter how tired he was. He could sleep later.

He stood and made his way to the door.

A solitary cloaked figure stood there. For a moment, he stared blankly. And then—

Lydia.
Because of that wager, he wasn’t even able to speak her name aloud. He thought it instead. He felt it with his whole body.

“I’m so sorry for coming at this hour,” she whispered, “but I had to wait for my parents to go to sleep.”

He looked around, but nobody else was about. And ultimately, his was the one door where a visitor in the night would not be remarked upon.

He could feel his weariness sliding from him. He opened the door wider and gestured her inside.

She hadn’t said he could speak, and so he didn’t. Not because he felt bound by the wager, but because… Because she needed to choose him at her own pace. To understand that he was willing to wait for her. And he wanted to know that she would choose him over her own dark fears.

He wasn’t going to talk, but he helped her take off her cloak, running his hands over her shoulders as he did. He could almost feel the aching tension in his head slip away as his fingers brushed her skin. He hung her cloak on a hook.

When he turned back to her, she faced him. She was holding a gift in one hand—a small sack of gold velvet tied with a green ribbon. It was a ridiculously elaborate presentation, and he couldn’t help but smile at it. Ribbons at ten at night? Only Lydia.

She held it out to him. “I brought you a Christmas present.” She looked down. “And yes, I know the decoration doesn’t change the contents, but it amused me to make it pretty.”

No, Lydia would never bring him a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He wouldn’t want her any other way.

He took the package.

“You should open it now.”

Bemused, he undid the ribbon. It took several minutes to figure out the complicated bow she’d made. He folded it carefully, and then opened the sack. Inside, he felt the crinkle of paper. He pulled it out. For a second he thought that she’d given him a note—a note to match the one he’d written for her earlier that day. But then he rubbed it between his fingers and realized that this wasn’t paper all the way through. It was…

He unfolded the paper and swallowed.

She’d given him a French letter. How in the hell had she found a French letter? He could not mistake the intent in that.

He let out a shaky breath and looked over at her. Her eyes were dark, dark. She reached up and pulled two pins from her hair, and her curls tumbled over her shoulders.

Ever so slowly, he held out his hand to her. Just as slowly, she set her fingers on his. “I would have had Mrs. Hall get me a Dutch cap instead,” she said. “But I believe I have to be fitted for one, and, ah…” Her fingers curled around his, and she moved closer to him. “I wanted you to do that.”

She stood so close to him now. His entire body yearned for hers.

“I am afraid,” she said quietly. “I am afraid because I like you. Because I think back on our conversations and smile. I am afraid because when I see you, my heart beats faster. The truth terrifies me, and the truth, Jonas, is that I want you carnally.”

Oh, God. He’d never thought to hear those words from her.

“And in other ways.”

He was riveted by her lips, that dusky rose that demanded his touch.

“I think,” she said, “that if you could talk right now, you’d offer to marry me first. You’d wait until you laid all my fears to rest before taking me to bed. But I don’t want to cosset my fears any longer, Jonas.”

As she spoke, he felt his pulse pick up. His body grew tense—not with the aching, painful tension that he’d felt in his shoulders before she’d arrived, but with a warm anticipation. He smiled at her, long and slow.

“I want to face what I fear,” she said, and then swallowed. “Tonight.”

For an answer, he picked her up in his arms. She let out a little gasp, but he pulled her close and she hooked her arms about his neck. For one moment, she leaned her forehead against his. For one moment, they traded air, their lungs seeming to work in tandem. And then he kissed her.

This time, there was no bitter to the kiss, just light sweetness, a sweetness that built with every caress they traded.

He wasn’t sure how he made it to his bedroom, kissing her, holding her, wanting her. As soon as he was inside, he undid the laces of her gown, pushing it down over her shoulders. She stepped out of it—and then smiled as he shook it and hung it on a hook in his wardrobe.

“Really, Jonas?” she asked.

He spread his hands, and crooked a finger. She came toward him and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. “You know,” she said, “I was always so intimated by your great height. There’s something about being tall that gives a man an unnatural advantage.” She took off his waistcoat, looked at him… and then winked at him before folding it carefully.

God, he loved her. He couldn’t quite believe she was here, that she was touching him,
wanting
him. She slid a finger in the waistband of his trousers and then pulled the tails of his shirt out. When she ran her hands up his bare abdomen, he let out a gasp. She gave him a scandalous smile, one that brought his blood to a slow simmer. He took off his shirt, carefully, and set it atop his vest. And then, before she could get those wicked fingers on the waistband of his trousers, he undid the laces of her front-facing corset. It peeled away, leaving her in chemise and drawers.

From here, lit by the flickering light of oil lamp, he could see the devastating silhouette of her body. The curves of her hips, the weight of her breasts, no longer supported by her corset. He could see the shading of a dark triangle of hair through the thin fabric of her drawers, the darker points of her nipples. His whole body pulsed with need, the desire to press against hers.

“You’re distinctly good at that,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “But I suppose you’d have to be. If you needed to treat someone in a rush…”

He shook his head.

“No? You didn’t learn to remove women’s clothing through your profession?”

He crossed the room to his desk, and took a letter opener off his desk.

“Jonas?”

He turned back to her, a smile on his face. What he wanted to say was that when he was in a rush—if minutes had made the difference between life and death—he wouldn’t have bothered with laces. But since she hadn’t given him leave to speak yet, he’d have to show her. He stalked up to her, hooked his finger in the neckline of her chemise. She just had a moment to look up at him in confusion, before he set the letter opener against the fabric and sliced it clean through.

That. That was what he would do in a rush, if he needed to get at something. Her skin pebbled in the night air, but not for long.

She gasped. And then he pushed her on the bed, the two halves of her chemise falling to either side of her. He dragged her drawers down, baring her body for him. Her eyes were wide, so wide, and dark. She hadn’t said a word of protest, and so he spread her legs.

She’d said she wanted him carnally.

Before she could think, he set his lips on her sex in a full-mouthed kiss.

Her hips jerked under his tongue. Her hands found his hair. “Oh my God, Jonas,” she gasped. He kissed lightly at first, licking at the edges until her breath stuttered, until he tasted the liquid of her arousal. Then he deepened the kiss, licking up the length of her, finding the hard nub of her clitoris with his tongue.

“Jonas,” she said, “Jonas. That feels so—so—”

He couldn’t speak, and right now, he didn’t want to. He lost himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, her legs clasping around his shoulders, her hands on his scalp. Her sex underneath him, open for him, open for his taste, his tongue. She was open for him to bring her pleasure, and he brought it on her bit by bit, until she trembled beneath him, until she begged incoherently. Until he could taste the edge of her desire, until there was only want in her and no fear.

God, it felt so good. So damned good, just to feel her on his lips, to feel that trembling wave pass through her as she screamed, her back arching, her whole body flushing pink and warm with the orgasm.

He sat back on his heels, grinning.

Slowly, she propped herself up on elbow and looked at him. “You,” she said, “are a man of hidden talents.” She crooked her finger at him. He stood and walked to her. Her fingers at his waistband—brushing the head of his erect penis—had him gasping. She undid the buttons and slid his trousers down, waiting for him to step over them before setting them neatly with the rest of his clothing. He wished he could make this moment last forever—this moment where she reached out and slid her fingers down him, sending a shiver of sensation through him. Instead, he handed her the French letter.

And when she bit her lip, he showed her what to do with it.

When it was on, she looked up at him. “Make love to me, Jonas,” she said.

He joined her on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He kissed her until her breath came in stuttering gasps, until her limbs trembled under his. Then he spread her legs, set the head of his penis against her vulva, and slid inside her. She was wet around him, wet and tight and so good. So, so good. So good to be seated inside her. To have her breasts to hand, her lips close enough to kiss. So good to thrust, unbearably sweet, into her. To have her arch up into him, gasping, as he took her.

After all this time, he had to bite his lip to keep himself from spilling his seed too soon. But she was already deeply aroused. Every thrust brought a moan from her; every circle of his hips had her moaning. And when he found her nipple with his finger and rolled it around, her vagina clamped around him and another orgasm swept through her.

God, she felt so good around him. So good. So damned good. He came in a great rush.

Afterward—after he’d pulled out, after he’d gathered her up and given her a thousand little kisses, after they’d held each other in laughing wonder…

“There are twelve days of Christmas, yes?” he asked. “Keep the turtle doves and the partridges. This was lovely. Let’s do it again.”

She sat up and very, very slowly, she smiled. “You cheat. I didn’t say you could talk yet.”

“I’m no expert,” he said, “but I think that when you screamed my name for the second time, it counted as tacit permission.”

“You and your technicalities.” But she only leaned against him, running her hand along his hip. “I suppose you want French letters instead of French hens? That’s not very romantic of you.” But she kissed him as she spoke.

“There is really nothing less romantic than chickens,” he told her. “They leave droppings all over the place, die at the slightest provocation, and are stupid enough to spend three weeks trying to hatch rocks. You keep your chickens. Let me have my true love, and hang the gifts.”

She let out a little breath, ducked her head and put it against his shoulder.

“Lydia.” He pulled her close, breathed in the scent of her.

“I need your advice.” She spoke without looking up, her breath whispering against his skin.

“Mm.”

“There’s this man. He’s had his eye on me for months, but I haven’t always treated him kindly.” Her words faltered. “He gave me the truth for Christmas. The first time—and the second time—and the third time he offered it, I couldn’t take it. How do I let him know…” Her voice faltered. “How do I let him know that I want nobody but him?”