“I thought we’d agreed that I was stupid when I was a girl.” She narrowed her eyes. “But as much as I regret certain decisions, I wouldn’t change anything, because I have seven daughters I’m very proud of.”
“Seven? You only have six.”
She arched her brow, her heart beating at the significance of his statement. “You’ve been keeping track of me?”
He scowled. “Don’t change the subject. Where did the seventh come from?”
“Summer. She’s Reginald’s from his mistress.” It still held a sting—not that he’d cheated on her, but that she’d tolerated it.
“And you think of her as your own?” Declan asked, dubious.
“Yes,” she said unequivocally, daring him to challenge it.
“Why?” he asked, taking her dare.
“Because our mistakes are not Summer’s fault. Because she has no one else. Because she looks just like my girls, and she’s just as wonderful.”
He studied her, a steady penetrating stare that tried to see under her skin, under her bones to her heart.
It felt naked, and all her life she would have put up a wall to protect herself. But where had that gotten her? Alone.
It was the scariest thing, letting him see inside her—him more than most because he judged her so harshly and would no doubt find her lacking. She braced herself, waiting for him to make his bitter proclamation on the wretchedness of her soul.
His mouth turned down. “You aren’t the same girl you were.”
Thank goodness for that. “Is that good or bad?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t figured that out yet. It’s certainly uncomfortable.”
“I think I enjoy making you uncomfortable.”
“I know you do.”
She smiled. “You could end it.”
He paused in the act of gathering his things. Jacqueline wondered if he was tempted or the opposite, like he didn’t want to go.
Then he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Maybe I don’t care enough either way.”
She blinked, not surprised by his sentiments but shocked by how deep the hurt went. She watched him go out the door.
And then the anger rose, strangling her. Of course he cared. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been so angry with her.
Why was she waiting for him to make a move?
She was done with that. This was her future—her hopes and dreams were pinned on this. If there was one thing her daughters had taught her it was that you had to go after what you wanted with determination. Grim determination, at times.
She pushed her chair back, not caring about the shrill screech it made on the floor. Grabbing her journal and purse, she rushed after him.
His long legs had him down the street already, and she had to jog to catch up to him. She called out to him. “Declan.”
He turned around, his brow furrowed.
He clearly didn’t think she’d run after what she wanted, and that angered her more. Glaring she slowed to a walk and marched right up to him. “You’re operating under the mistaken notion that I’m going to pack my bags and walk away.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“But I’m not doing it again. I’m not going to stop until you agree to help me with my story.”
He studied her for a long silent moment. “I can’t help you with something I haven’t read.”
“Then read it.”
“No.”
She wanted to growl. “Then listen to me talk about it.”
“No.”
She stepped into his face and donned haughtiness from centuries of Amberlin countesses. “Explain to me why not.”
He blinked as if he hadn’t expected her to ask. Then he said, “It’d be a waste of time. I have no cause to believe that it’ll be any good. You’re dry and passionless.”
She gasped. He thought that after their kiss? It validated her fears that she’d withered after all the decades of neglect.
Swallowing down the hurt, she lifted her chin. This was about more than her feelings or the kiss. This was important, and she wasn’t going to get distracted by something she couldn’t change. “I beg to differ. I know passion.”
“Do you?” He stepped forward, crowding her into a doorway.
She hoped so, because she was writing an erotic story. Her back hit the door, her palms reaching back to brace herself.
“This scares you,” he murmured, “and I haven’t even touched you.”
Good Lord, it did—the thought of him touching her took even her shallow breath from her. She watched in slow motion as his hand trailed from her wrist to her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, and under the opening of her sweater and blouse. She held her breath as his fingers tested the lace of the bra, and then exhaled loudly when his hand slipped under and cupped her.
No one had touched her in so long. Her body only knew her own hand, and it startled her how eager it was to feel someone else appreciate it.
What must he think? She closed her eyes, knowing full well that she wasn’t nineteen anymore. She’d had six children, and the signs were written all over her body. As she shifted uncomfortably, her hip brushed him and she froze, feeling the evidence of his desire.
He wanted her. Here—out in the street, in broad daylight, touching her flesh that wasn’t as firm or supple as it’d once been—he wanted her.
Reginald’s death had woken her. She felt like she’d been in a deep coma for years, and when she’d come out of it life had passed her by.
Now that she was awake, she wasn’t going to waste the little time she had left. She was hungry. She wanted to
live
.
Her thoughts melted away, and she began to feel his touch. With each breath she took, his palm abraded her nipple. The tip tightened, needy, greedy, painful in its pleasure.
He did nothing but hold her breast, daring her with his eyes to tell him to stop. She swallowed, trying to stay upright, aware of the people walking by.
She couldn’t help herself—she arched her back a little, a silent beg for him to do more.
Hunger lit in his eyes, too. He slid his leg between hers, his thigh pressing against parts of her she’d thought long dead. His hand moved, his fingers grasping the tip and rolling it, not soft, not hard, just perfect.
She felt her face flush, and she closed her eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp.
“I don’t want you to.”
He muttered a curse and jerked his hand out of her blouse.
She heard something rip. Not sure whether it was her clothing or her heart, she put a hand to her breast.
He ran a hand over his hair, rubbing his neck. He stepped away and cursed again when he looked at her.
She glanced down, feeling a feline satisfaction when she saw his obvious arousal. How marvelous. She’d done that.
She thought for certain that he was going to run away, like he had every other day, but then he said, “Bring me a copy.”
Shocked, she gaped at him. She had to have heard him wrong.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he growled.
“Never.” She shook her head. “I have enough regrets for us both.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Have you talked to Portia?” Rosalind asked from where she reclined on the bed, sketching. “She’s incredibly pro-Sebastian. Who’d have thought?”
Summer set the overnight bag next to her sister’s legs. “He seems nice enough.”
“I was inclined to like him, but now I’m suspicious.”
She didn’t know what to think about the new earl. Part of her understood how he felt, wanting to fit into the close-knit Summerhills. Part of her wanted to protect them for herself.
But that was the least of her problems at the moment. She stared into her closet. “I have no idea what to take. What does one need at a house party in the country?”
Rosalind didn’t look up from the dress she was drawing. “It depends on what one plans to do.”
She planned on saving Ryan. Maybe she needed a cape and boots. Or handcuffs, to trap her masked man in his bedroom.
She stilled, her mind caught by the image of him cuffed to a wrought iron bed. In her imagination, he had no shirt on and his pants were unbuttoned, showing the arrow of hair that trailed down to his sinful parts.
No doubt they’d be
very
sinful.
She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks. She needed to stop thinking like that. She was seducing him in her head, and she didn’t even know his name. She didn’t want him—she wanted Ryan Huber.
Trying to focus, she looked at the clothes she’d laid out on her bed. One pile of shirts, one pile of pants, one pile of skirts, three dresses still on hangers, and underwear. All in shades of black.
She frowned. “It looks like I’m going to a funeral.”
Rosalind glanced at the clothing. “It’s normal for you.”
“Yes.” And she didn’t like it. “Not even my underwear is exciting.”
“Do you want it to be?”
“I hadn’t ever considered.” But since the masked man’s comment about all that black she’d been thinking. She grabbed the bohemian scarf Rosalind had given her and tossed it across everything. That was a little better.
Ridiculous to take someone she thought of as “the masked man” seriously. She didn’t even know his name. He shouldn’t be important.
Rosalind set the pad down and flipped the cover closed. “When do you leave?”
“Friday morning.”
“I think Gigi still has some clothes left here.” She got off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” Summer protested.
“Don’t be silly. You know how Gigi likes a good romantic cause.” She left but returned within minutes. “Look what I found. The perfect dress.”
Summer accepted it, staring at the vivid teal silk with both fascination and reluctance. “It’s a little bright, isn’t it?”
“That’s the point.” Rosalind sat next to the suitcase on the bed and faced Summer. “I take it this is a mission for your Prince Charming?”
“I’m going to his country manor for the weekend.”
Rosalind’s eyebrows shot up. “That was quick. So you’ve seen him again since your encounter at the ball?”
She shrugged, lowering her head as she packed the dress. “I may be going to his weekend party uninvited.”
Chuckling, her sister shook her head. “Sometimes, Summer, it surprises me how much like the rest of us you are even though you didn’t grow up with us. Crashing his party is a bold move.”
“They wouldn’t turn me away if I show up, will they?” she asked, horrified by the prospect. She hadn’t thought of that when she’d asked Beatrice to find the address for her.
Rosalind shrugged. “Depends, I suppose. Do you know anyone there?”
Unfortunately she knew someone well enough to know he tasted like birthday cake. “Yes.”
“Right.” Rosalind nodded. “Prince Charming, obviously. What was his name?”
“Ryan Huber.” She bit her lip. “But that wasn’t who I was talking about.”
“Who were you talking about?”
“The man I kissed.”
“Yes.” Rosalind nodded. “Ryan Huber.”
“No.” She winced. “Actually I kissed a different man. I don’t know his name.”
Her sister gaped. “But you kissed him?”
She thought of his hand trailing up the inside of her thigh and blushed.
Rosalind sat up, alert. “Apparently kissing wasn’t all you did, and yet you don’t know his name?”
“I’m awful,” she moaned.
“You’re not awful at all. You’re methodical, so for you to impulsively kiss a man whose name you don’t know is significant.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Hadn’t you?”
Summer flushed. “He was a good kisser.”
Rosalind raised her brow.
“Okay, he was a great kisser. The best. I felt every cell in my body come alive. I hated it.”
“I can see that,” her sister said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m supposed to want Ryan.”
“That is a dilemma. So is the fact that Ryan has a girlfriend.”
“Are you attempting to make a point?”
“Far be it from me to make a point.” She grinned. Then she took her hand. “Summer, just go and have fun.”
“Fun? How could I have fun when Ryan may be thrown in jail?”
“What?”
Summer nodded. “The anonymous kisser wants to arrest Ryan for embezzling. I’m going to stop him.”
Rosalind frowned. “That’s the only reason you’re going?”
“Yes.” And to show Ryan we should be together, she added belatedly.
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” Summer asked, suspicious.
“Nothing.” Rosalind went to the drawer and rifled through Summer’s lingerie, pulling out the pink underwear Summer had never had the nerve to wear. “Here you go. For whichever man you decide to get. Happy hunting.”
She wasn’t going to be hunting—she was going to stop the hunter and save the prince.
The entire way, Summer rallied. She went over the arguments in her head, prepared questions she was going to ask her masked offender, and generally worked herself into a righteous indignation. Who
was
he to just kiss her like he had the right?
As she drove into the circular drive in front of the manor, her nerves kicked in. They always did, right before she had a big presentation.
The stakes were bigger here. She’d come to save the hero. She fancied herself a blond Belle next to a green-eyed Beast—
Not green-eyed
. She shoved the car into park, shaking her head. The masked man had green eyes, and she had no interest in saving him. Ryan had …
She frowned, staring into space. What color eyes
did
Ryan have?
Someone opened the door, startling her.
“Hello, miss.” A uniformed man smiled at her. “Can I help with your bags?”
“Er, no.” She slid out of the car. “I have it.”
“Very good.”
She had the impression he’d have said that even if she asked him to unload a dozen trunks.
“Daisy will show you to your room,” he said, gesturing to the girl in the maid’s uniform waiting at the front entrance.
Swallowing her nerves, Summer nodded as she moved slowly toward the porch steps. Pretend you belong, she commanded herself.
Pretend you belong.
“Hello, miss.” Smiling, Daisy held her hand out, taking Summer’s bag without any discussion. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Okay,” she said, at a loss. Rather anticlimactic, wasn’t it? She’d prepped herself with a convincing argument the whole drive up about who she knew and why she was supposed to be there. It was a letdown not getting to use it.