Her Proper Scoundrel (17 page)

Nonetheless, she wasn’t sure how she felt about continuing with Christopher’s lessons. True, part of her was ecstatic at the prospect of being alone with him but part of her dreaded it for she was certain her disobedient heart wouldn’t behave.

She sighed and shook her head. She had agreed to teach him how to dance so she must keep her part of the arrangement. If she lost her heart in the bargain, then so be it. Doubtless she would find it again when her time at Midland House came to an end.

The stately chimes of the grandfather clock echoed up the stairs. Two o’clock.

A joyous grin lifted the corners of her mouth and happiness propelled her towards her room. The intervening hours until Christopher’s lesson would be well spent scrutinizing the length of copper satin draped over her wardrobe door.

It would make a perfect dress for the evening at Oakland Grange.

* * *

An unfamiliar glow spilled from the library door, illuminating the hall as Josceline approached. The light was so bright she worried for a second or two that perhaps the room had erupted in flames. Nonsense, quiet ruled the house; it couldn’t possibly be on fire.

But when she entered the room she saw it was, in a manner of speaking, for an assortment of lit candles filled every available ledge. Several branched candelabra, a number of single tapers, wall sconces and even the fireplace flickered with life. An inviting sight and slowly she advanced into the room, eyes darting to and fro in an attempt to take it all in. She scarce heard the click clack of the door as it swung shut and caught the latch.

Christopher lounged against his desk, hands tucked into his pockets. As she came closer, he took a sip from the snifter of brandy beside him before he stood up.

“Mrs. Belton is appalled at the wastage but I reminded her that the room should be well lit if we don’t wish to harm ourselves.” He chuckled. “I daresay the last thing we want is to find ourselves in splints and plasters.”

“That is the hazard of doing things in the evening. It does tend to get dark.” Josceline could have kicked herself at her inane comment – it made her look foolish, which was the last thing she wanted Christopher to think of her.

“We could wish for moonlight,” he said, voice husky. He advanced on her, eyes shadowed, mouth curved in a welcoming smile. His hair was damp, the unruly lock for once neatly tucked into a leather thong, his shirt clean, and boots freshly polished.

Her heart jerked at the sight. He’d made an effort to clean himself up. Her eyes strayed down to her brown walking dress. Why hadn’t she bothered to change into at least the jade green frock?

Because she was here to do her duty, to instruct Christopher on the finer points of the Contredanse. And after that, the quadrille, the minuet and, if time permitted between now and their evening at Oakland Grange, the cotillion.

She gritted her teeth and ignored the fluttering in her stomach as she placed her hand in Christopher’s outstretched one. He grinned at her obvious discomfort and she felt her cheeks flush.

“Shall we begin?” She made her voice stern which merely served to draw another grin from him. “We were learning the Contredanse.”

“Spoken like a true governess,” he teased.

“Which I am,” she retorted. She compressed her lips, aware she must appear prudish but determined to keep her composure.

“You are.”

He agreed so pleasantly she wanted to smack him.

“But I am the pupil,” he continued, a devilish glint lurking in his eyes, “and your employer, which I think gives me the right to request the subject.”

“What subject would that be?” she asked primly.
 

“I request the waltz.”

“The waltz?” Her screech echoed off the ceiling and bounced off the floor, eliciting a hearty chuckle from him.

“By that response do I take it to mean you’re unfamiliar with it?”

“No. Yes. That is.” She stopped, trying to collect her thoughts. She had waltzed with Elizabeth in the privacy of her bedroom but even then they weren’t certain they had been doing it properly. It wasn’t yet common and all they really knew was that it required a three beat.

And a very close proximity to one’s partner.

She blanched at the thought. “No, I don’t know how to waltz,” she squeaked.

“Perhaps I could teach you.”

“You?” She gaped at him. “You don’t know how to dance. That is why you engaged my services, remember?”

“Yes, me,” he said smoothly, drawing her into his arms. “I spent a little time on the Continent. It’s very popular over there. So it’s true I don’t know any other dances but I do know that one.”

“It’s not considered appropriate.” She clenched her fists and held herself away from him stiffly.

“No?” He pulled her close, grabbing one balled fist in his left hand and placing her other balled fist on his right shoulder. “I disagree. I think it very appropriate. It is simply an Austrian folk dance therefore what is the harm?”

“Stop.” Josceline pulled free her fists and placed them on his shoulders to push. “It’s hardly likely the Oaklands shall present the waltz at a country ball.”

He curved his arms around her waist, not letting her go and she bent backwards away from him, her knuckles against his shirt white with the strain.

“And being in the country implies what exactly?” He winked.

“That we are in a boorish backwater,” she snapped. Now she sounded shrewish but she was past caring. She simply couldn’t think straight wrapped up in his arms.
 

“Boorish backwater.” He laughed outright. “But it is the latest thing on the Continent and I suggest we bring it here. To bring the boorish backwater, as you call it, up to the latest mode.”
 

Speechless she stared at him. Bring the waltz to Oakland Grange? It was sure to draw unwanted attention – the one thing they must avoid.

She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to bring undue attention to ourselves. Or have you forgotten Philip and the lengths we went to ensure all believe he is truly your son?”

Shocked, she looked at her hands. Of their own volition, they had uncurled and now her fingers lay long against his chest. Through them she could feel him heave a sigh.

A log in the fire cracked, tumbling onto the hearth, and sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Reluctantly he let her go.
   

“I must tend to the fire. And you’re right, of course.”

She turned away, putting her hands onto fevered cheeks and sucking in a great breath of air as she gazed through the window.

The moonlight Christopher had wished for earlier hadn’t materialized. Not even a star pricked the pitch black outside. The darkness bespoke of danger – like the danger of the forbidden wants tumbling through her mind.

She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to feel his strength against her softness. She wanted him to kiss her again.

“Josceline?” He tapped her on the shoulder.

She started at his touch and dropped her hands to twine them in her skirts.

“The Contredanse it is.” He made a great show of stepping back and holding up a hand. “But don’t think I mean to give up on the waltz.”

“Of course.” She hastened to correct herself when she realized he could construe the wrong meaning. “The Contredanse, that is. I am afraid, Mr. Sharrington, if you wish to waltz you must find yourself another partner.”

She emphasized his name to remind him of her station as his employee.

Clearly he caught her meaning, for he cocked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth lifted for a second. Amusement bubbled in his eyes and at the sight she had the urge to smack him again. He was having great fun at her expense, she fumed silently.

“One two three four.” Glaring at him, she began to count and move through the figures.
 

Her glare appeared not to bother him a whit. With a bland smile, he moved along with her, winking whenever she caught his glance.

She’s not going to get off so easily next time, Christopher chuckled to himself. A waltz with her is what he wanted and a waltz with her is what he would get. At the thought, he inadvertently applied a little too much pressure to her hand and she stumbled.

Two green eyes spit fire at him and she tossed her head so vehemently that a curl shook free to frame her face. With a forceful swipe, she tucked it behind her ear.

“I must beg pardon,” he murmured.

She accepted his apology with a grudging nod then twirled away, counting all the while. He was rewarded with a whiff of violets and sandalwood which just made him want to crush her to him all the more so he could inhale more deeply.

He didn’t, though. He kept his face blank so she couldn’t read his thoughts, allowing him to dwell on the pleasing dream of her in his arms, sweeping her around the dance floor to the strains of a Viennese waltz.

She was right, of course. To put themselves on display at the Oakland’s dinner party would negate the accomplishment of successfully portraying Philip as his son to Lady Oakland. He consoled himself with the thought that a waltz with her would be all the sweeter when it finally came to pass.

Josceline stopped counting and came to a stop, moving away a fraction before she spoke. “You have a splendid grasp of the Contredanse. Now on to the minuet.”

Her cheeks were flushed, and a slight sheen of perspiration coated her forehead. The unruly curl had fallen across her cheek again and he reached out with a finger to tuck it behind her cheek. His finger grazed her skin and she gave him a wary look that reminded him of a startled wild doe.

Lud, never mind dancing. He needed to kiss her. Now.

Chapter Sixteen

Josceline saw the intent in Christopher’s eyes, saw him lean in towards her, felt the pressure of his hand tugging her closer. Candlelight gilded his face, throwing his features into sharp relief.

His very handsome features, she thought boldly before his lips swooped down to hers to obliterate all reason.

He tasted of brandy and oddly, chocolate. Chocolate? When had he eaten chocolate?

All thoughts of chocolate and brandy disappeared when his mouth teased open hers. It was as if her lips were glued to his because her mouth opened as well. His tongue flicked against hers and shocked, she tried to pull away only to find she couldn’t escape his embrace for her hands had somehow become tangled in his hair. He probed her mouth with his tongue, playing with hers such that her knees turned to jelly. She sagged into his bulk.

He must have pulled away for she heard him whisper. “You shall fall.”

And he picked her up to seat her on the desk, pushing apart her knees to stand between her legs. Gazing at her with heavy-lidded eyes, he pulled the pins from her hair and it fell in a disordered mass about her shoulders. He kissed her again, harder this time, raking his hands through her hair and sliding them down her back to land on her hips. Gently, so gently she could barely feel it, he adjusted his hands to massage her thighs then grabbed her knees to pull her closer. Through her skirts she could feel his male hardness as he rubbed against her.

Josceline’s thoughts scattered like seed pods on the wind.

Wrong, oh so wrong
.

She didn’t care.

She kissed him back, following the flow of her feelings, wondering, nay, craving to know where he was leading her. Her heart pounded and her breath came in short little gasps, for she was afraid if she took a deep breath, she would lose the tantalizing sensations he aroused in her.

Cold air wafted on her skin. Without her noticing, he had lifted her skirts. His fingers traced her legs to the apex of her thighs and he rubbed gently the little nub hidden there amongst the crisp curls.

“Please,” she whimpered, writhing against his fingers.

“Please what,” he demanded, his voice a growl. “Please stop?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” What had he just asked her? To stop? How could she stop? It was he who had to stop whatever it was he was doing to her, it was he who had to stop bewitching her.

His scent enveloped her, drugging her senses. Citrus. Leather. Her thoughts were incoherent fragments now for the pressure and movement of his fingers drove her mad.

“No, don’t stop,” she moaned.

More. Faster. Harder. Don’t stop, don’t stop with your fingers there.

“I won’t stop, Josceline. Not unless you want me to.”

She shook her head, and he chuckled low in his throat, spearing her with a possessive gaze before raising his hands to cup her breasts.

Her head spun as the warmth of his palms penetrated the fabric of her dress. He tweaked her nipples through the fabric. They pebbled, pushing against the fabric of her shift and he tugged the dress down off her shoulders to take first one nipple, then the other, in his mouth.

Her head lolled back and shocks of pleasure rocketed from her breasts to her woman’s place. Her legs spread wider and dimly she could feel the edge of the desk against the backs of her thighs. That sharp edge was her last link to reality and it snapped as he slipped his hands under her legs to pull himself even closer, grinding his pelvis against hers before pulling back to slip his fingers in between them again. The outside world faded away and all she could feel was the sweet pressure there, between her legs.