Secrets of a Perfect Night (26 page)

Since his arrival, her home had become a virtual magnet for visitors. She couldn’t recall ever having been quite this popular. Every afternoon her parlor filled with curious callers, mostly eager mothers with marriageable daughters in tow, each and every one seeking information about the new earl. What was his income? Was he planning to stay in England? Were his affections engaged?

Were they? Hah! Who knew what the damnable man was thinking? She certainly didn’t. When he was present at these impromptu gatherings he was charm
ing and quite delightful. Rachael had watched the proceedings with growing annoyance. She would have wagered a great deal that each of the ambitious mamas had left with the distinct impression that the Earl of Lyndhurst would not be at all averse to pursuing a match with her flirtatious offspring. It was revolting and more than enough to set one’s teeth on edge.

When Jason wasn’t occupied enchanting the sweet young things flitting through her parlor, he was constantly coming and going and scarcely home at all. Even when she’d had the opportunity to speak with him, he’d muttered something about errands or business in explanations that were less than vague. How was she expected to decide anything if he was nowhere to be found?

Whatever he was doing, it was apparently more important than resolving the issues between them. Reluctantly she had to admit, if only to herself, she missed him, even though he was always on her mind. She’d wanted time to think, and she’d done nothing but think, without reaching so much as a single conclusion.

No, that wasn’t entirely correct. In the last few days, observing his disarming manner, listening to his infectious laugh, watching the confident way he moved through life, if she’d resolved nothing else, she had faced the realization that she very much wanted him.

She pulled her wrapper tighter around her and paced the room. Jason was at home now, although, once again, he’d missed dinner. They hadn’t dined together since that first night. It was probably for the best. The way he ate…She pushed the memory to the
back of her mind. There was far more to consider here than mere desire.

Could she and Jason truly be together again? The more she searched her heart, the more confused she became. One moment she was convinced she’d never stopped loving him. She’d simply hidden the too painful emotion under a veneer of bitterness and, yes, hate. Now there was no need for either, at least not directed toward Jason. Toward her father certainly. And as for George…

No, she could never hate George. Jason was right. George’s deception was prompted by love, and it was hard to fault him. Even now, through his letters, he was doing what he could to right the single wrong in an otherwise good and honorable life.

But what if it was too late? She certainly was not the same girl she’d been ten years ago. Life itself had forged her in ways she would never have foreseen.

Death had forced her to resolve, or at least face, her feelings about her father. Marriage to a kind and loving man had shaped her into a good and honorable wife. George’s illness had required her to take a hand in his affairs and shown her a shrewdness for business matters she’d not suspected. And the long years of his dying had bequeathed her a calm strength. Now she relished the freedom and independence that came with widowhood. A prize, of sorts, for survival.

And what if her feelings for Jason weren’t love at all but simply the memory of love? What if the woman she’d become was so far removed from the girl she’d once been, there was no possibility of rediscovering the lost love of youth?

Blast it all, what was she going to do? Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions, desires and fears. It was enough to drive her mad. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t rest, couldn’t sleep. Perhaps she was already mad.

Without thinking, she snatched a book off the table beside her bed and heaved it against the door. It hit with a dull thud and tumbled to the floor. At once she regretted the immature action. Was this what she’d come to? Throwing things like an undisciplined child? She retrieved the book and glanced at the title:
Pride and Prejudice
. How appropriate.

Wasn’t it prejudice that now held her back? A bias sprung from the knowledge that her life had been shaped by the deceit of the men in it and a reluctance to now trust any man at all? The motives behind the lies scarcely mattered anymore: her father had lied for power, George for love, and Jason’s lies, of omission but lies nonetheless, stemmed from his love for them both.

And it was surely pride that kept her from crossing the hall to Jason’s room at this very moment and demanding that he take her in his arms and…and what? Sweep away the uncertainty? The fear? Bring her back to a day when she had no question as to the joy the world could hold?

Maybe that was all it would take to resolve the confusion that plagued her. Could she find the truth, the answers to all her questions, in his arms? In his bed?

Probably not. Still, where would be the harm in trying? Jason was the only man she’d ever desired, and that, if nothing else, the years had not diminished.

It had been a very long time since she’d been with a man. George had been ill for several years before his death, and he and Jason were the only men to ever share her bed. In that she was surely unique. If even half of the gossip she heard was accurate, then Rachael was the only chaste widow in all of London.

She shifted the book from one hand to the other. That annoying pride of hers wouldn’t allow her to go to him, but she certainly couldn’t prevent him coming to her.

She drew her arm back, muttered silent apologies to Miss Austen, and flung the book at the door with all the strength she possessed. The satisfying thunk reverberated in the room. She waited and strained to hear footsteps in the hall.

Nothing.

She pulled her brows together in annoyance. She had noted the noise in his room when he had thrown a single book at the door a few evenings ago. Now she’d thrown two. The servants, at this time of night either finishing their duties downstairs or already retired to their rooms on the floors above this, would never have heard, but surely Jason would have. Then why wasn’t he at her door this very moment inquiring as to whether she was all right?

He could be asleep already, although it did rather seem too early for that. Or he could be ignoring her. She wouldn’t put it past him. For all intents and purposes, he’d been ignoring her for days. Perhaps if she opened the door and threw the book harder yet, at the wall beside the door, she could finally attract his attention.

She picked up the book and jerked open the door.

Jason stood before her with upraised fist, apparently about to knock.

For a moment she simply stared at him, and any courage she had mustered vanished.

“Good evening,” he said with a grin. “Is there a problem?”

“A problem?” He looked quite rakish in his dressing gown and altogether too handsome for his own good. Or for hers. At once her plan seemed ill advised. She swallowed hard. “Why?”

“I heard a noise and thought perhaps there was an intruder in the house.” He craned his neck to see around her. “Are you alone?”

“Of course I’m alone. I was”—she waved the book at him—“reading.”

“Really? I was reading myself just the other night.” Once again he peered past her. “Are you sure you’re alone?”

“Quite sure.”

“Perhaps I should check.” He stepped past her into her room. “One can’t be too safe these days. I believe I heard something about a recent rash of break-ins in this section of London.”

“No doubt mentioned by one of our numerous eager visitors of late,” she said dryly.

He raised a brow. “Jealous, my lady?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She huffed.

He glanced at the door. “If the servants should see me in your room…”

“Concerned about my reputation?” She shrugged. “You needn’t be. You said yourself you hadn’t heard
anything scandalous about me. Besides, at this hour, the servants are rarely on this floor.”

“Nonetheless…”

“Nonetheless, if I close the door, there will be no risk of being seen at all.” She shut the door with an unconcerned air as if she were well used to locking gentlemen in her bedchamber. Indeed, this was precisely what she’d wanted. Then why was her every nerve stretched taut?

He chuckled as if he could read her mind, then strolled the perimeter of the room, stopping at the window to look behind the curtains. “Nothing here.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Perhaps I should check under the bed.”

“If you wish, although I daresay I would have noticed if there was someone lurking under my bed.”

“One would hope so,” he murmured. He bent down, glanced under the bed, said, “Nothing here either,” then straightened. “Now that we have made certain of your safety, I should take my leave.” He started toward the door.

“Wait.” She stepped to block his path. “Don’t go yet.”

“Why?” His expression was innocent, but his eyes gleamed wickedly. Blasted man. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Probably more. Yet he was not about to make this easy for her.

“Well, I thought…we are both adults now…It might well clear up quite a few…” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “Would you like to kiss me?”

He folded his arms over his chest and stepped back to lean insolently against the bedpost. His gaze flicked
over her, and she resisted the urge to pull her wrapper tighter around her. “I kissed you the other night. Have you forgotten so soon?”

“Not at all.” She frowned in irritation. “I was simply wondering if you’d care to do it again.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she said with disbelief. “What kind of question is that?”

“Short and to the point.”

“I thought…Never mind.” She whirled and stalked to the door. “You’re right. You should go now.”

She grabbed the doorknob, and without warning, he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders holding her still. His voice was soft beside her ear. “I should very much like to kiss you again. I have not forgotten what it was like.”

“It was just a few nights—”

“No. Long before then.” He drew her back against him.

She held her breath.

“I remember the warmth of your lips on mine. And I remember so much more. All of it,” he whispered against her neck. “The way your hair glowed in the moonlight. And how your scent reminded me of summer.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head against him, his words leading her back to another life.

“I remember the silken softness of your skin next to mine.” His hands slipped up and down her arms. “And the way you shivered beneath my touch. And the way I trembled at yours. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I remember the warmth of your arms around me.”

“And the way your body fit with mine.”

Her blood pulsed in rhythm with the movement of his hands. “As if they were made one for the other. How could I forget…”

The mad insanity that dashed aside all reason? The insatiable hunger? The indescribable joy
?

“I remember everything.” She twisted in his embrace to face him and braced her hands on his chest, the heat of his body warming her fingertips and washing through her. She stared into his eyes. “The first time we kissed. And the first time we lay together. And the first time you told me you loved me.”

“And I remember the last.” His arms tightened around her. His gaze bored into hers and the years vanished.

“It was a lifetime ago,” she whispered, raising her lips to his.

“Or was it yesterday?” His lips met hers tentatively as if he were as afraid as she. A yearning she’d long forgotten rose within her. Her lips parted and their breaths mingled. He gathered her closer and deepened his kiss. A kiss of exploration, of discovery, of reunion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tighter to her.

His lips slipped from hers to kiss the line of her jaw and her neck and the base of her throat. His hands slid slowly down her back to cup her buttocks and hold her firmly against him. The hard evidence of his need pressed into her. Waves of shock and excitement and recognition coursed through her.

She gasped for breath, gently pushed out of his arms, and stepped back. He stared at her silently, his eyes darkening with desire. She met his gaze but didn’t say a word. There was no need.

Slowly she undid her wrapper and let it drop to the floor. Her hands trembled. She unbuttoned her nightgown and slipped it down over her shoulders. It drifted lightly to her feet. And still her gaze locked with his.

He drew a ragged breath.

She stepped out of the circle of her clothes and moved to him. Her blood pounded in her ears and she could barely breathe.

For a long moment he stared and she waited, her body tense with anticipation. Then he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. And still neither said a word.

He laid her on the bed and she watched him undress, his actions as deliberate as her own had been. She’d never seen him fully disrobed and she drank in the look of him. The muscles of his arms rippled with his movements. His shoulders were as broad as she’d thought. The planes of his chest were defined and strong and lightly dusted with hair, tapering lower to the juncture of his thighs and his hard erection. Her heart beat faster.

He stepped to the bed and lay down beside her and pulled her close into his arms. For a moment they lay still and she reveled in the feel of her skin next to his. She raised her face to his and their lips met. At once, desire gripped her with an unrelenting power and all gentleness between them vanished.

Her hands, her lips, moved over him with a selfish need to know, to remember. He caressed her with touch and teeth and tongue, everywhere at once with an urgency that rivaled her own. They were a tangle of limbs and flesh and spiraling heat. Passion filled her senses and her soul.

Once more she shivered at his touch and he trembled at hers.

Yesterday met and melded with today. There was no past and no future, only the ecstasy of being in his arms. She was a girl lying in a stables with the boy she loved. She was a woman hungry for the man she’d never thought to know again.