Undone by His Kiss (17 page)

But now, she had
this
night in the arms of a charming gentleman. Was it wrong to enjoy the evening before facing all the troubles that comprised her existence? Why waste this rare opportunity to escape for one night?

When she’d formed the league, her goal was to teach self-sufficiency, not erase happiness. Establishing independence didn’t mean being alone. The difference in the two was as vast as the chasm of disappointment shown by her father. She wouldn’t fall through the crack this time.

With this heart-stopping revelation, came another. She didn’t want to hold Jasper. She wanted,
needed,
to be held. To share her emotions within his warmth. The concession didn’t diminish her independence in the least. It strengthened her character, emboldened her resolve and reaffirmed her worth. A deep-seated calm overtook her disposition.

Decision made, she vowed to shed the weight of her misery and surrender to her senses. The soft brush of fine wool against her cheek, the powerful security of being locked in Jasper’s embrace, the deliciously masculine smell of leather and shaving soap. She lost herself to these pleasures and relaxed against his chest, her ear pressed to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

His arms locked tighter, as if he knew she needed to draw from his strength and he swayed the smallest movement, though the faintest whisper of music could be heard. She unfurled her hands from where she’d fisted them and placed her palms on his chest, tilting her face so she could look at him; positioned so intimately, the tip of her nose brushed his chin, the sensual touch sending a tremor of arousal to her soul.

The position prevented her from reading his expression, his eyes shadowed by height and angle. She’d never been so close to a man, so intimate, nestled against his chest, and the thrill of the experience flared the remembrance of their kiss in the carriage until it rushed through her in a flash of anxious heat.

This past afternoon, she’d held his face, drawn his mouth to hers as if grasping a lifeline. She’d never behaved so unabashed, so wanton…but glory, his kiss was heaven, a resurrection of hope.

The clouds parted canting moonlight across the balcony and a subtle wind teased the ruffled sleeves of her gown. Her skin pricked to awareness, every sensation amplified.

“Kiss me.” She whispered the words, trying them on her tongue before repeated the same with bold intention. “Kiss me. Please.”

He shifted the slightest before he answered, his husky murmur adding to the magic of the night.

“As I mentioned earlier, Miss Shaw, I am but your slave.”

Chapter 18

She asked for a kiss.

One kiss
.

He would offer her an experience that dissolved any fantasy she’d dare dream.

He lowered his mouth, mindful not to frighten the little bird about to leap from the nest, but oh, how he was wrong.

At first her breath caught, her body tensed, as if in wait of the inevitable, but when his lips came down on hers, taking her mouth with the fervor raging in his veins, she was the one who stole his breath away.

She tasted sweet and pure and wicked, if ever a combination was created, and he captured her closer, his hands sliding along her ribs, across silk and satin to reach the velvet of her skin, her bare shoulders, the line of her neck, cool against his fingertips. He pulled her closer still, striding backward, dragging them both to the shelter of the eaves, cloaking them in darkness as they dipped into sin. He could die from a kiss like this, perish from the pleasure.

Her tongue, silky hot, played a game with his, pursuit and retreat, a duel of sorts, that sent electric sparks straight below, his pulse throbbing a mad chase, urging him for more. Her hands slid from his chest, upward across his neck cloth, to twine around his shoulders, her fingers locked in the hair at his collar. She held firm and he grew hard, the rustle of her skirts against his trousers a suggestion too much space remained between them.

He remedied that.

Angling his head, he recaptured her mouth in case she might pull away. He wasn’t finished yet. He might never finish, the soft sweet weight of her breasts against his coat, the tight hold of her fingers at his nape, all the more reason to continue. Desire hummed over his skin as if by new invention, the need and want, to taste, feel, explore. He shifted their positions in one fluid movement, her back to the smooth limestone wall, his body a shelter in dark secrecy.

Some voice in his head told him to stop, to slow. She only asked for a kiss, but then her fingertips trailed his jaw, one curious touch to his lips, and he was lost to desire, no longer able to rein in, his brain scorched from reason, aware of nothing but rapacious longing and raw possession.

Pins tumbled from her hair, the rasp of a low chuckle vibrating against the delicate skin of her neck where he trailed kiss after kiss, unable to resist nipping a taste. She made a sound of pure pleasure, deep, unwilling, in the back of her throat, while her hands grasped him tighter, his body pressed closer. How he’d dreamed of threading his fingers through her hair, its gossamer beauty meant to fan his bed pillows or trail across his chest during love play. He wrapped the length around his fist and gently tugged her mouth to his, then hesitated…her shallow breath against his lips the rarest aphrodisiac.

Something about this woman released an ache within him, a yearning that begged to be fulfilled. He had no way to explain the phenomenon. It ignited the moment their eyes met and intensified into a white hot burn.

Still, the kiss persisted. He captured her mouth in tender reverence, prolonging the pleasure, achingly slow torture as his tongue coasted over her lower lip, sucking, biting, just enough to produce a husky sigh of permission, while hot driving desire pulsed through him, settling in his cock, hard and unfulfilled.

Again, that voice chided, he needed to stop despite blood drummed in his veins. He tempered his withdrawal, not wishing the moment to end, yet knowing he’d reached his breaking point. He released her mouth with reluctance.

They stood quiet, heat radiating between them, words left unspoken, until reality intruded, the sound of a door opening and closing not far from where they stood.

He reached to the left overhead and removed a lantern from the hook, holding it high so he could see her mussed hair, tousled sleeves, and passion-kissed lips. She never looked more beautiful, yet now any notion of reentering the festivities remained obliterated. He smiled despite himself.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, her eyes wide with curiosity, he strode to the marble balustrade and peered over the side. A scant three feet, give or take a yard. He set the lantern aside, braced a hand on the balustrade and launched over with ease. Miss Shaw scurried to the edge, seemingly concerned for his welfare. He gazed up at her, only a shade visible in the moonlight as he reached out, anxious they would escape the terrace, their luck already long overdrawn.

“Take my hand. I’ll bring us around the front via the gardens and hail my driver before anyone discovers our indiscretion.” He voiced the husky command expecting sharp compliance.

“We’re leaving?”

Her astonished whisper prompted another grin.

“You can’t possibly return inside looking all love-tumbled and delicious. I haven’t had a good fight in months, but I’d never be able to hold off the surge of randy cads when they gather an eyeful of you.”

She answered his reply with a delighted giggle. Still, she hesitated.

“Trust me.” The two words a resolute vow.

She slid her hand into his grasp and leaned forward, hindered by indecision.

“I have you, Miss Shaw.”
You have me as well.

Her silence didn’t bode well for his plan of escape. Then, when he was certain he would have to scale a trellis to return to the marble terrace, she gathered her skirts, shimmied her bottom atop the balustrade ledge, and leapt into his arms.

He caught the glimmer of a smile, the night drawn in elegant navy, the candle glow emanating from the wall lanterns slanted at best. He tugged her toward the path, a glance over his shoulder securing she remained his companion in mischief, her profile completed with bemused expression, an image stolen from the pages of a childhood story, a beautiful vision of make believe. Objecting branches of honeysuckle trailed their sleeves as they discreetly accomplished the first corner of the estate, her heels a light cadence on the slates in contrast to the heavy beat of his heart. He paused to swish a wayward moth away from his ear and in the stillness he heard her soft exhales, her bemused expression, as if he could see her lovely smile without looking.

They circled the property, held fast, palm to palm, and managed their furtive escape with minimal notice. Only a few servants raised a brow or stifled a smile, most others well trained to not see a thing while Jasper hailed his driver with prompt efficiency.

Within the carriage, scarce words were exchanged and it added to the enchantment, the bewilderment of it all, that they’d left an affair minutes after arrival, and finding her in his arms, he’d lost a piece of his heart.

She didn’t object when the carriage stopped before his apartments or when he dismissed the driver who might have otherwise returned her home. Anticipation, like a spark of ingenuity, urged he continue his journey of discovery.

“We’re here.” He removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the paneled door to usher her inside. “Allow me to light the fire and lantern.” A gentle lambency soon illuminated the room.

Near the fireplace, he made quick work of the task, one eye on Miss Shaw, still adorably mussed and that much more delectable. At first, she hardly moved over the threshold, but then like a bird who discovered the cage door left open, she took a tentative step and with confidence restored, set out to explore his sitting room. Her expression displayed puzzlement and he rose to gain a better view, unknotting his crushed cravat and tossing it aside, aware he appeared as disheveled as the room.

“What is this? Some kind of writing machine?” She pointed to a large black case on the floor that housed a mechanism with multiple rods, its painted dial inscribed with the alphabet.

“Yes, interesting isn’t it? That’s William Burt’s typographer.” He smiled at her keen acuity. “There are four legs in the case that attach to the bottom so the machine can be operated at desk height.”

“But what does it do?”

Her irrepressible curiosity mirrored his. “When one rotates the dial, one can ‘type’ the letter shown.”

“What would be the point?” She examined the typographer from all angles, granting him generous views of her slim figure. “I’d imagine the process takes a long time, more tedious than pen and paper.”

“Correct, again. The necessary procedure takes far too long to introduce a better way to write, but I’m pleased Burt shared one of his models. He’ll need to keep improving the design before the invention can be considered a success.”

A lengthy pause followed their exchange and as Miss Shaw rummaged about his cluttered sitting room, he perused her person. Her gown was wrinkled beyond repair and her gloves had been discarded. Glossy chestnut tresses fell in becoming disarray about her slender shoulders, her coronet askew, the flowers long ago lost. He remembered the smooth velvet of her skin. He rubbed his fingers together in an attempt to stop his restless desire.

What were they doing here anyway? He should have escorted her home straightaway. It was unseemly and highly improper for an unchaperoned woman to be in a bachelor’s apartment. It edged on scandal, more suited for Kellaway than himself. Still he couldn’t resist. Something about Miss Shaw…

“Whatsoever is this?”

His gaze jerked to where she stood with arm outstretched, a long hollow tube of wood and its counterpart, a matching round plug nestled in her palm.

“Aah, now there’s an invention worthy of respectful consideration.” He strode forward and removed the pieces from her hand. “It’s called a stethoscope. Conceived by a Frenchman named Laennec. Quite a clever instrument.”

“Instrument? It plays music?” Her incredulous tone expressed severe misgiving although her eyes shone bright with interest.

He shook his head and reordered the pieces. “I haven’t explained well.” He attached the plug to the wooden tube. “A stethoscope is used for listening to the heart.” He’d stepped closer, in hope she wanted to examine the design and function of the piece.

“But how would it work? I don’t see how—”

“Let me show you.” With his cravat long abandoned, he parted his collar, a vee of skin exposed for the experiment. “First, place the bottom piece over the heart.” He did so on his chest. Her eyes followed his every movement. “Then one listens at the other end of the tube for the heart’s rhythm. Would you like to try?”

Emily raised her eyes to his, aware of their shared secret, as if an excuse to get closer and offer the chance to relieve the unrelenting tension radiating between them. If she held the stethoscope where it was, her hand would be poised over his bare chest, her fingertips nearly atop the smooth hard muscle, against the light dusting of masculine hair. If she leaned in to listen, his mouth would be a breath away. The intertwined thoughts had her heart pounding so loud it would be a wonder she could hear anything above the roar in her ears. Yet without further encouragement, she complied.

Her apprehension, coupled with long-lost timidity, caused her to stall mid-motion, the scrape of his chin against her forehead a bit of pleasure pain, the slightest growth of whiskers reminding he was solid man. Yet, Jasper didn’t move, standing patiently strong while she lowered her ear to the tube.

She was supposed to listen for the rhythm of his heart, but instead, as before, she detected the alluring scent of his sandalwood shaving soap and the memory of their ardent embrace on the terrace flooded her senses. The taste of his kiss, the feel of his body pressed against hers, distracted from her purpose. His question took her by surprise.

“Can you hear anything?”

She meant to remove the stethoscope from his chest, for she couldn’t listen past her thoughts if she tried. Instead her fingertips grazed his skin and his chest pulled taut, the hot smooth muscle at once hard beneath her touch. The moment stretched and his breathing came short and fast, as if he’d run a long distance and abruptly stopped, yet they stood perfectly still, face to face at the center of the room. Her palm trembled in answer and his muscles jerked beneath her fingertips. Still she did her best to appear unmoved.