If the Viscount Falls (33 page)

Dom had no choice but to wait for her to return. He drew out his pocket watch. Five o'clock. Two more hours to keep watch. Damn.

The wails of a baby wafted down to him from farther up the street, and he looked up to see a young woman coming toward him, with the crying infant slung on her hip and two squabbling children walking beside her.

“Stop your jawin', the both of you!” she cried at the girl who looked to be about eight and the lad who couldn't be more than five. “You've set Billy off again, you have. If you keep it up, you won't get no cake after supper, and that's a promise.”

As he watched them approach—the children still jostling each other and the mother trying to settle the baby—a fantasy leapt into his head.

He saw Jane playing the old pianoforte at Rathmoor Park. A little boy much like that one sat beside her on the bench, poking at the keys with his chubby fingers and adding dissonance to his mother's performance. His sister, a little girl much like that one, leaned over her mother's shoulder to watch how Jane fingered the keys.

Meanwhile, Dom stood nearby, jiggling a crying babe of his own, trying to console it, swinging it up into the air until it hiccupped, then laughed.

He saw the scene as clearly as a painting—the babe
and young boy still in skirts, the girl with brown curls tumbling down her back, their mother glancing back at him with a gleam in her eye and a teasing smile on her lips that hinted . . .

“Hey, what're you looking at, guv'nor? Ain't you ever seen a crying babe?”

He started. God, he'd been staring. What was wrong with him? He was supposed to blend in, not make a spectacle of himself. He never let his mind wander like that while he was on a case.

Then again, he never had Jane to preoccupy him. To make him want things. To make him hope. That was the worst part—the hope she dangled before him.

With a sigh, he slouched down and tugged his broad brim over his face. Another ten minutes passed. He wondered if he could slip into the coach and nap until Meredith returned. But given how little rest he'd had the past few days, he was liable to sleep well beyond the allotted time.

The clatter of hooves approaching made him glance up at the street ahead. Bloody hell. Was that Max's coach? What was
he
doing here?

It pulled up beside the hackney, and Dom jerked his gaze forward for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. When he heard a window being lowered, he hissed, “You can't be here, blast it. Go away. If Meredith should return early and see you—”

“You don't even know what she looks like!” a familiar feminine voice protested. “But I do.”

For one foolish moment, his heart leapt. Until he
remembered where he was. And what he was supposed to be doing.

With a scowl, he looked at Jane, who sat at the coach window staring out at him. “I don't
need
to know what she looks like. She and her family will enter that house over there at approximately seven, at which time I will knock on the door and ask to speak to her. So go home. You'll just make everything worse.”

He glanced beyond her to Max. “Take her back to her uncle's. If our quarry spots a ducal coach hanging about in the neighborhood before we spot her, it might spook her.”

Jane's lips thinned into a line. “Fine. Then Max and Lisette can go, and I'll wait with you. I'll pretend to be your fare. Or your wife. Or whatever suits you. But I'm not leaving.”

He was still assembling reasons she shouldn't stay, when the door to Max's coach opened and Jane stepped nimbly out, then quickly slipped into his hackney. Before Dom could even protest, Max's carriage was pulling away.

Damn, damn, damn. She shouldn't be here. It wasn't wise. So why was part of him ridiculously glad to see her?

Chiding himself for letting his obsession for Jane overrule his investigative good sense, Dom made a furtive survey of the street. But no one seemed to be around to have noticed the short encounter between the two carriages.

A long breath escaped him. It wasn't as if he couldn't
leave the box; he
had
just been thinking that he ought to go inside and sleep. The curtains could be closed. Meredith wouldn't return for a couple of hours.

So he could talk to Jane and find out what had happened between her and Blakeborough after he left. He could finally get an answer to his marriage proposal.

Proposal? Jane would probably call it a marriage
command
.

He groaned. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to her while he waited. He could always pack her off in another hackney before it was time for Meredith to return home. Yes, that would be best.

Climbing inside the hackney, he doffed his hat and shrugged out of his box coat. But all of his perfectly logical reasons for being there went right out of his head the moment he saw her looking so luscious and lovely in her sunny gown.

Because he desired only one thing. Jane. In his arms. Now.

She must have seen the feral need flare in his face, for her eyes went wide. That was the only reaction she had time for, however, before he dragged her into his embrace so he could take her mouth in a hard, urgent kiss.

God, he wanted her. He would never stop wanting her. Fisting his hands in her puffy sleeves to hold her still, he plundered her mouth the way he ached to plunder her body.

Suddenly she shoved him back. “What are you doing? That's not why—”

He clasped her head in his hands, dislodging her bonnet, which tumbled to the floor. Then he kissed her again, demanding her to kiss him back, to
need
him back. It took her a moment, but then she moaned low in her throat and melted against him.

And he exulted. She was soft, so wonderfully soft, his Jane. So wonderfully giving. Surely she wouldn't be responding to him this way if she had cemented her engagement to Blakeborough.

But then, he'd thought that last night.

He jerked back, gratified to see from her flushed cheeks, reddened lips, and bright eyes that she was now as eager and aroused as he. Indeed, she was already looping her arms about his neck to draw him close once more.

Stopping just short of her mouth, he rasped, “Are you still engaged to Blakeborough?”

Her gorgeous eyes narrowed. “My engagement didn't stop you last night.”

“It would now.”

A coy smile broke over her lips, and she tightened her grip on his neck. “Then I suppose it's a good thing I am not.”

With a growl of triumph, he kissed her once more. She was here. She was his. Nothing else mattered.

Still kissing her, he jerked both sets of curtains closed. Then he tugged her onto his lap and began to tear at the fastenings of her pelisse-dress. He wanted to touch her, taste her . . . be inside her. He could think of naught else.

“I take it that you mean to seduce me,” she murmured between kisses.

“Yes.” Seduce her and marry her. And then seduce her again, as often as he could.

“Well then, carry on.”

So he did. He unfastened her clothes just enough to bare her breasts, then seized one in his mouth. God, she was perfect. His perfect jewel.

She buried her hands in his hair to pull her into him, sighing and moaning as if she would die if he didn't make love to her. Which was exactly how
he
felt.

Working his hand up beneath her skirts and into the slit in her drawers, he found her so wet and hot that he nearly came right there. He slipped a finger inside her silky sweetness, and she gasped, then began to tug at his trouser buttons.

“You're all I want, Jane.” As he stroked her, he used his other hand to brush hers away so he could unfasten his own trouser buttons. “The only woman I ever cared about.”

“You're the only man
I
ever cared about.” She undulated against his fingers, begging for him with her body. “Why do you think . . . I waited for you so long?”

“Not long enough, apparently,” he muttered, “or you wouldn't have gotten yourself engaged to Blakeborough.” He tugged at her nipple with his teeth, then relished her cry of pleasure.

“I only . . . did it because I was . . . tired of waiting.” She arched against his mouth. “Because you clearly weren't . . . coming back for me.”

“I was sure you hated me.” At last he got his trousers open. “You acted like you hated me still.”

“I did.” Her breath was unsteady. “But only because . . . you tore us apart.”

He shifted her to sit astride him. “And now?”

Flashing him a provocative smile he would never have dreamed she had in her repertoire, she unbuttoned his drawers. “Do I look like I hate you?”

His cock, so hard he thought it might erupt right there and embarrass him, sprang free. “You look like . . . like . . .”

He paused to take in her lovely face with its flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and lush lips. Then he swept his gaze down to her breasts with their brazen tips, displayed so enticingly above the boned corset and her undone shift. He then dropped his eyes to the smooth thighs emerging from beneath her bunched-up skirts.

Shoving the fabric higher, he exposed her dewy thatch of curls, and a shudder of anticipation shook him. “You look like an angel.”

She uttered a breathy laugh. “A wanton, more like.” Taking his cock in her hand, she stroked it so wonderfully that he groaned. “Would an angel do this?”

His cock was a rod of iron. “Jane . . .” He covered her hand to stay it, but she ignored his attempt.

“I love it when you can't control yourself,” she whispered. “I love having you at my mercy. You have no idea . . . how much I enjoy seeing Dom the Almighty brought low.”

He barely registered her words. What she was doing
felt so good. So bloody damned good. If she stroked him much more . . .

“I want to be inside you.” He gripped her wrist. “Please, Jane . . .”

Her sensuous smile faltered. “You've never said ‘please' to me before. Not in your whole life.”

“Really?” Had he only ever issued orders? If so, no wonder she'd refused him last night.

Perhaps it was time to show her she didn't have to seduce him to gain control. That he could give up his control freely . . . to
her
,
at least. “Then let me say it now. Please, Jane, make love to me. If you don't mind.”

She stared at him. “I . . . I don't know what you mean.”

He nodded to his cock, which looked downright ecstatic over the idea. “Get up on your knees and fit me inside you.” Realizing he'd just issued yet another order, he added, “Please. If you want.”

Jane got that sultry look on her face again. Like the little seductress she was rapidly showing herself to be, she rose up and then came down on him.

By degrees. Very slow degrees.

He had trouble breathing. “Am I hurting you?”

Her smile broadened as she shimmied down another inch. “Not really.”

Stifling a curse, he clutched her arms. “You just . . . enjoy torturing me.”

“Absolutely,” she said and moved his hands to cover her breasts.

He was more than happy to oblige her unspoken
request, happy to thumb her nipples and watch as her lovely mouth fell open and a moan of pure pleasure escaped her.

His cock swelled, and he thrust up involuntarily. “Please . . .” he said hoarsely. “Please, Jane . . .”

With a choked laugh, she sheathed herself on him. Then her eyes went wide. “Oh, that feels
amazing
.”

“It would feel more amazing if you . . . would move,” he rasped, though the mere sensation of being buried inside her was making him insane. When she arched an eyebrow, he added, “Please.”

“I could get to like this,” she said teasingly. “The begging.”

But even as he groaned, she began to move, like the sensual creature that she was. His sweetheart undulated atop him, her head thrown back and her eyes sliding closed, and for the first time in his life, he was happy to give himself up to someone else's control. To relish her pleasure, which was also
his
pleasure.

Somehow he'd stumbled into paradise, ruled by his own personal angel. His own personal siren.

“You like having me . . . in your power, do you?” he said.

“Yes, oh, yes.” Her eyes brightened as she rode him, harder, faster. “Say it again.”

“What?” He could hardly think for watching her take him. For being inside her so deeply he fancied he could feel her heart, her very soul.

“Please.” Her face was flushed, rapt. “Say . . . ‘please' again.”

“Please.”

Why had he never thought to say it before? This was all he'd ever wanted—to have the enthralling, intoxicating Jane in his arms, in his life. Forever.

A “please” from time to time was little enough to give for that. “Please, my wanton angel.” He clutched her close, his rhythm quickening. “Please . . . be mine. Please . . . marry me.”

His release approached like a carriage thundering toward the heavens. Toward paradise. And as the blood roared in his ears, he plunged his cock deeply and emptied himself inside her, crying, “Please . . . Jane . . . love me!”

“I do.” With a hoarse cry of her own, she strained against him and found her own release, milking his cock with the force of it. “I do, my darling . . . I do.”

20