Authors: Christina Dodd
Taking off her cloak, she laid it across the chair and looked around. Jude’s town house did not have the grandeur of Nevett’s, but handsome furniture filled the room, a fire crackled on the hearth, and, most important, the bed was large and imposing, with bed-curtains that would keep out the chill of a late spring evening.
She smiled at that bed. She curtsied toward it, and said, “Why, yes, thank you, I would love to.” Lifting her arms, she pretended to dance and waltzed toward it.
Jude’s valet had laid his nightwear across the bed: a brown flannel gown and a black velvet robe that would reach to his knees, and a plain white nightcap. How very dull for a man so enamored with color in his clothing.
Without art, without shame, she dropped her clothes, which had been, that evening, chosen with such care. She donned the robe and it covered her from head to toe. The sleeves hung over her hands, and she rolled them up. She tied the sash loosely and climbed between the sheets.
They were heated. Apparently the valet had passed the warming pan between the covers before she came in. The mattress was soft, the pillows thick, the ceiling was plain white with cove molding and curlicues painted at each corner. She lay there, her arms outstretched, and smiled at those curlicues until she drifted into sleep.
M
urder.
Jude nodded curtly to his butler as he entered his house, and Wyatt read his mood exactly and refrained from chitchat. He took Jude’s wool coat and tall hat, and when Jude dropped his gloves on the side table, Wyatt picked them up and stowed them.
Miss Gloriana Dollydear had an opera singer’s ability to memorize and repeat words in a foreign language without understanding what they were. It was, after all, what an opera singer did. That evening at dinner, she’d given Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard information she’d “overheard” from Throckmorton; they’d sat before her and spoken in Moricadian of how that would affect their plans.
Before she could forget the confusion of sounds she didn’t comprehend, Throckmorton had sent for Jude to translate. Although she didn’t get all the words right, one thing was clear.
Murder. They planned to kill…someone.
Despite Gloriana Dollydear’s best efforts, she hadn’t heard, or couldn’t remember, anything about who or where.
As Jude mounted the stairs toward his bedchamber, he loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
The meeting, the secrecy, the revelation of one mystery that created yet more mysteries…all that reminded him too vividly how Michael had died at the hands of these men. Jude was no closer to justice for his brother, and now unless he was both lucky and smart, de Guignard and Bouchard would kill some poor sod here in London, all to keep control of a tiny country and its considerable assets.
Fury and frustration pounded away at Jude’s good sense. He wanted to ride the streets, catch the villains as they left the ball, and eliminate them. That would be justice; those men killed without a thought to the pain and anguish they caused. They’d killed Michael.
Yet if
he
killed
them
without waiting for English intelligence to trap them and English law to sentence them, other Moricadians would arrive with plans to wreak havoc in the name of their freedom, and next time Jude wouldn’t know whom to suspect and whom to follow.
Tonight, while the Moricadians were at the ball, Throckmorton’s man would enter their apartment and steal back the presents that Jude had given them. He would take the other valuables, too, of course—he
was
a professional thief, and they
were
his wages. And he would search for any notes they’d made, any maps, any indication of who their target might be.
It would have to be someone important enough to make an international incident and ruin French relations. But who? The queen? Prince Albert? The prime minister? Until the Home Office discovered that, they couldn’t make a move to thwart the Moricadians’ scheme.
Entering his bedchamber, he tossed off his jacket, his waistcoat, and loosened his cuffs and his collar. Where was his valet? No matter. His valet loved Jude’s clothing. Jude loathed it all. It fit his mood to rip off his purple shirt and kick off his black boots and…
He stood with one foot lifted above the floor, staring at the form slumbering in his bed.
Caroline.
What was she doing here?
Here. And…naked.
Or at least it looked as if she were naked. As good as naked. One soft hand was tucked beneath her cheek. Her chestnut hair waved across the white of his pillow. His black velvet robe sliced across her pale skin and gave him a glimpse, just a glimpse of the plump circle of her breast topped by a warm, peach aureole and nipple. Everything about her was soft and relaxed, waiting…beckoning.
The brandy he’d imbibed with Throckmorton hit Jude hard. That must be the reason his head was swimming. It couldn’t be because all his blood left his head for other regions.
He searched for his principles. No matter that she was here, and
naked
, he couldn’t take her innocence. He’d be no better than Freshie if he did so.
But she’d come to him of her own free will, and she was
naked
.
His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers.
He wanted to be more like Michael, yes, but he understood what Michael didn’t—that love carried responsibility, and sometimes love could hurt. He didn’t want to hurt Caroline.
But she was
naked
.
He stripped off his drawers.
Something must have happened at the ball to send her fleeing to him. His stepmother would kill him for dishonoring Caroline. It would be unfair to take advantage of Caroline’s turmoil.
But she was
naked
.
And now, so was he.
She was everything he needed. Arousing, female, so alive and vital, and Caroline, purely Caroline. Lifting the covers, he slid into bed and slid his arm under her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him as if he were the man she’d been waiting for all her life.
“What took you so long?” she whispered. Putting her hands on either side of his face, she pulled him into her kiss.
The warmth of touch.
The taste of passion.
The scent of anticipation.
When he lifted his head, she was startled to see stark need and bitter desperation in his eyes. “Huntington,” she whispered. “Jude.” With a brush of her fingers, she pushed his hair off his forehead.
His expression cleared, became heat and pleasure in one. “Caroline,” he echoed, and slid the robe off her shoulder. In a deep, silky voice, he asked, “What brought you here tonight?”
Then, for a moment, she lost her easy pleasure in his company. “I realized that I can do what I want to do because I’m”—
angry
—“in control of my life.” Wrapping her hands around his shoulders, she pushed him over. “In control of every single facet of my life.” Lifting herself above him, she grinned savagely down into his face.
This was good. This was right. With this man, she could love and fight and win, and there would be no repercussions, no gossip afterward, for she implicitly trusted him to never, ever betray the secret of her visit.
His fingers rode down the slope of her neck, over her collarbone, and under the robe toward her breast. “Let me…”
“No.” Taking his hands, she wrapped them around the bars on the headboard.
“You really don’t think I’ll be able to resist touching you, do you?” he chuckled. “You underestimate your allure and my restraint.”
She sat up, pulled the robe up over her shoulders, and scrutinized all the long length of him. The blankets covered him from the waist down, but from the waist up, he looked completely different than a dilettante should look. Muscles corded his arms, and a fine, black hair, darker than the hair on his head, covered his armpits. His broad shoulders owed nothing to padding. His bones were better suited to a stevedore than an earl. Coarse black hair covered his chest, then on his belly it thinned and descended like an arrow under the covers. Every inch of his chest and arms showed the results of hard work, or hard loving, or hard fighting…her gaze shifted to the two red, round holes not far above his right nipple.
Hard fighting, indeed. God knew how, but he’d lived through two horrible wounds. Gunshot wounds. And all along his right arm was a long, thin, red line that ended in a divot in the muscle and a nasty looking scar.
“How did you get these?” She traced the scars on his chest.
“A silly duel. It was nothing.”
No one knew about his wounds. She’d heard not a hint of gossip, but somehow she knew he hadn’t won them in a silly duel. These were the marks of a warrior.
No. This was no man to toy with. Anything he wanted to do to her, he could do. Anything.
Not that he would ever do anything to hurt her, but in the heat of passion, he might—would—inflict his will on her.
She’d had enough of men’s wills for one night. At least until the dawn, she would do what
she
wanted, take the pleasure
she
desired, dispense bliss as
she
decided.
“I’m your governess.” Taking the velvet belt of his robe from around her waist, she used it to truss his hands together. “You’ll do as I say.”
His eyes grew wide, and he grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You think I’m jesting.” She tied the whole contraption to the bed. She knew nothing of knots, nothing except what she’d learned in embroidery, but she knew these would last. “I’m not. Try to free yourself.”
He twisted his hands against the velvet, but his hands, like his feet, were oversized, with broad palms and large fingers. His grin became a grimace. He jerked against the headboard, rattling the frame, but the solid wood didn’t budge. “This is absurd,” he said. “I have to be unbound to touch you.”
“No, I have to be free to touch
you
. This way, I know you’ll do as I say. This way, I’m in command. Now, my lion.” She petted his hair, his mane. “Let me make you happy.”
He growled, a low rumble of sound in his chest.
But she didn’t experience any doubt, any fear. This was the right thing to do. The thing that would heal her anger and give her…she didn’t know exactly what it would give her, but it was time she found out. She’d been so afraid, all this time, of ending up in a man’s bed, a victim of his lust, that it never occurred to her she could hold the upper hand. She could take him, shape him, torment him.
“I wish you didn’t have that smirk on your face,” he murmured.
“Why?” She clenched her hands in his thick hair. God, he was handsome. He had a jaw that declared his strength. His neck, usually covered by a cravat, was huge, strong. Not like an earl’s. Like a bull’s. Like a man who worked on the docks or in the fields, or rode into battle swinging a battle-ax. Her fingertips skated over his ears, nicely curled and set close against his head. Over his jaw, rough with the growth of his beard. Down that neck.
And all the while, she stared into his blue eyes, which watched and weighed…and threatened, and promised.
“You’re going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” His gazed caressed the bare skin revealed by the opening of her robe. “You’re going to make me pay for all the men who have hurt you, all the men who have judged you.”
She kissed his lips, a long, slow, open kiss. She took his breath and gave him hers. Against his mouth, she asked, “Are you afraid?”
“No. No….” His scowl betrayed his doubt.
“Good. Because I like being your governess.” She scraped her fingernails across his collarbones and down his chest. “I like doing things to you. I like having you helpless and subject to my whims. Although I do wish I knew exactly what to do.” Before her eyes, gooseflesh rose on his skin and in their nest of hair, his males nipples tightened. She was fascinated—and surprised, for exactly the same thing happened to her at exactly the same moment. “Oh.” The word was a mere breath of air.
“You can do nothing wrong,” he assured her in a deep, strangled voice. “Anything you want to try will be torture.”
“Exactly what I want.” She pulled the robe close at her waist, but as soon as she moved it slipped off her shoulder again.
His gaze followed her motions and eagerly sought out each glimpse of her bare skin. “I don’t know how long I can bear it.”
“You’ll bear it until I let you go.” She stroked the hair on his chest, taking pleasure in the rough texture and the way it curled around her fingers.
This was mesmerizing. Enchanting. She had never touched a man’s skin, never imagined a man’s reactions…had never cared. Now curiosity drove her on and on…her fingers danced over his ribs. She liked the smoothness of the skin on his belly, and gave in to the impulse to touch it with her lips.
He made a noise, not pleasure, not anguish.
She nuzzled him with a smile, laid her cheek against him, savored the warmth and the decadence of his prime body.
Something about her enthralled expression must have alarmed him, for he said, “You will let me go when I tell you to.”
“If I allowed such insubordination, what kind of governess would I be?” she mocked.
She knew what tented the blankets below his waist. She’d lived in dreadful conditions where whores worked their trades. She knew what men were made of and how they rutted. But knowing in her mind and being there with him were different. With Jude, she didn’t feel horror or dread. She wanted to see every inch of him, kiss him until he writhed with need, take him…lifting the blankets, she tossed them down at his feet.
His body was a sculpture, shaped by forces she couldn’t imagine. His muscled belly, his long, muscled legs, his erection…knowing what a man had in his trousers was nothing like seeing it for the first time. His penis thrust out of the nest of dark hair at his groin, long, pale, and massive, with blue veins and a broad head. Revealing him made her want to…she didn’t know what she wanted. To laugh with pleasure. To cry with awe. Instead, she whispered, “Oh, my.”
He laughed, a short burst of strained amusement. “I think I’m flattered.”
“You’re magnificent. That’s no flattery.”
“I’d like to see you, too.”
“No.” Absently she pushed the robe up on her shoulder again. “Not yet.”
She climbed between his legs and stroked his thighs, liking the way each heavy muscle was contoured. She traced the bones of his knees. She cupped his calves in her hands and allowed her hands to descend to his feet…“Huge feet,” she whispered.
He smiled at her, but his eyes were dark with strain, and the skin on his face looked tight, as if it were stretched over his bones. His cheeks flamed with color, and his lips were bloodless. “For pity’s sake, Caroline, untie me.”
“No.”
“Then put me out of my misery.”
“You speak so forcefully. You should have more respect for your governess.” Sitting up on her knees, she leaned forward and hovered over the top of him. “I shall have to teach you.”
“Retribution will arrive when you least expect it.” He no longer smiled, and his eyes watched her…
They watched her, and for the first time, he did remind her of a lion. A lion sighting its prey. Yet tonight she feared nothing. No man, no beast, could prevail over her. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“And that’s where you’ve made your mistake,” he said ominously.
She caressed him with long strokes of her palms, down his chest, down his belly, over his hips. Each time, she got a little closer to his erection.