A Season of Seduction (23 page)

“It’s not impossible.”

“How can you know that?”

Because he’d once thought the same of himself.

“I just know,” he said.

He’d been wrong when he’d so flippantly implied to Stratford that she was worth nothing to him beyond her money. No, she was worth far, far more than the money. Then, he knew she could save his skin, but in the days since she’d left him staring after her at that dinner with their families, something had shifted, and understanding had unfurled like a bloom in his chest.

He’d lied to Stratford about it. He’d been confused and uncertain, and trying to convince himself otherwise, scrabbling to hold on to the youthful vow he’d made to himself twelve years ago—that he’d never love another woman after Anne.

Becky turned away from him to once again gaze out the window. “You’re a trader, Jack, so you should understand it when I tell you that I am damaged goods.”

“So am I,” he said. For more reasons that she would ever know.

“Why wouldn’t you choose someone else, then? Someone easier than me? Someone
better
?”

Lady Rebecca Fisk was the only woman he wanted. The only woman for him.

“No one is better.”

The cottage was a charming, cozy affair situated on the banks of the Thames. As they drove up. Jack explained that this was the house he’d rented on the morning of his proposal, and that he’d intended for them to live here once they were married. Apparently there were no servants, but Jack told Becky he would arrange to have food delivered to them in the morning.

Inside, Jack lifted her domino from her shoulders, and he sat her on a sofa in the dim front parlor. She realized she’d forgotten one argument against coming here—she’d brought no clothes with her.

She gazed up at him, and heat flared, subtly cracking between them. Perhaps there was no need for clothes. A blush warmed her cheeks at the thought.

“Stay here,” Jack instructed.

She didn’t move as he lit a lantern and started a fire. As he worked, she studied him surreptitiously while removing her gloves. For such a large man, he was graceful. Each movement was executed with precise dexterity.

When the fire crackled cheerfully, he took up the lantern with one hand, grasped her fingers with the other, and pulled her up.

“Come. I’ll show you the house.”

He led her from the parlor through a small dining area into a kitchen. They mounted the narrow stairs, which led to a landing and three bedrooms upstairs—two of them tiny and one quite large. On the whole, it was a simple but tidy dwelling, clean and comfortable.

In the largest bedroom, he paused and turned to her, brushing her cheek with a rough finger. She tilted her head toward him, instinctively seeking more of his touch. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes so dark and so compelling her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch him.

At that moment, her stomach chose to growl.

He dropped his hand and closed it around hers. “Are you hungry?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose the night’s adventures have increased my appetite.”

“Well, there won’t be anything fresh, but I think I saw some nice-looking apples in the larder when I was here last.”

He took her through the dim kitchen and into the larder, where there was indeed a basket of apples. He took it, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and they returned to the parlor, where the wood fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. She sat on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. He placed the basket on the cushion beside her, sat on the other side of the basket, and chose two apples, one of which he handed to her.

“Thank you.”

Heat from the fire licked over Becky’s cheeks and filtered through the thick, stiff material of her dress. Taking a bite of the apple, she inhaled, its fresh, crisp scent mingling with the wood smoke, and she sighed in contentment.

She admired his profile as he opened the bottle of wine and poured it into the glasses. Strong chin, high forehead, blade of a nose, and, Lord, those wicked lips…

He looked up and captured her eyes in his own. “I miss you,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed touching you. I still want you, Becky.” He paused briefly before lowering his voice to ask, “Do you still want me?”

She hesitated. “Wanting you was different… before.”

A shadow crossed his face as he handed her a glass. “How?”

“I’d assigned less importance to it.” She took a healthy swallow of wine. It was full and rich, its flavor mingling nicely with the tartness of the apple.

“You thought to be a merry widow like Lady Devore. I thought you were like her, at first. But you surprised me. You’re nothing like her.”

She sucked in a breath. “What do you know of Lady Devore?”

“She is cynical.”

“So am I.”

“No. Not like her. She has given up. You—hope still shines in your eyes. Sometimes you try to hide it behind a wintry mask, but it’s there, begging to be set free.”

“I don’t think so.” Becky closed her eyes and then opened them slowly, hoping to erase whatever Jack thought he saw there.

She’d abandoned hope four years ago. She could place her finger on the exact moment. It was the night before William died. She’d followed him downstairs in the middle of the night and hidden on the stairs while he talked to his servant, and she’d heard the truth. William cared nothing for her—he’d married her only so he could steal her money, money he meant to use to take his mistress to France. After he murdered Becky.

She focused on her apple, and for a while, both of them ate and drank, the silence broken only by the sounds of crunching fruit and the pops and crackles of the fire.

Jack set his apple core aside. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

How could she not be afraid? She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life, and she was scared to death of the feelings he evoked in her.

He moved his hand to her knee, his fingers playing over the tulle overdress and the layers of her skirts and petticoats.

Becky cocked her head. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

She lifted his hand and turned it over in her own. A long scab slashed across his palm. “You’ve been cut. What happened?”

He shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. “I broke a tumbler of brandy in my hand. I suppose we didn’t have anything as delicate as Stratford’s fine crystal aboard the
Gloriana
.” He shrugged. “It is healing.”

Finishing the last of his glass of wine, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. She followed his gaze and saw that it was after one o’clock in the morning.

“It’s late,” she said.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes. I should go to bed, but…” Chagrined, she kept her gaze on the mantel. “I cannot undo the buttons on my dress.”

“I’ll help you.” His voice was low, devoid of undertone.

In an abrupt motion, she rose and turned her back to him. When he didn’t move or speak, she looked at him over her shoulder, her brows raised in question.

He rose, unfolding his body until his presence seemed to overwhelm the small parlor.

He smelled of apples and wine, his scent intoxicating. It made her so dizzy she shifted her stance to prevent herself from swaying.

His hands rested on her shoulders, big and heavy, stabilizing her, his palms covering the entire width of her upper back. His hands passed over the puffs of her sleeves, then smoothed down her wrists before traveling all the way back up again and meeting at her nape.

Brushing his fingertips over the back of her neck, he undid the top button. He took his time, working each cloth-covered button as if the process of undressing her fascinated him.

When he finally finished, he pushed the sleeves of the gown from her shoulders down her arms. She helped him by pulling the sleeves all the way off. Fabric pooled around her knees, and he went to work on the buttons of her petticoats. When her petticoats dropped over her dress, she stepped out of the pile of clothing.

“Well done.” She laid the dress and petticoats over a chair. “You’ve obviously undressed many women.”

She regretted saying that instantly. It was none of her business how many women he’d undressed.

“I’ve never undressed you.” His voice was quiet, yet rough as gravel.

She ran her hands down the front of her stays and looked up at him nervously. “Will you—?”

“Of course. Turn around.”

She obeyed, holding her palms flat against the stiff boning of her stays. He untied the knot Josie had tied yesterday morning and tugged at the crisscrossed lacings, pulling them loose. When the stays gaped open, he lifted them over her head, leaving her clad in nothing but her chemise. She turned and took the stays from him, clasping them to her body.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She bit her lip and looked away, still clutching her stays to her chest.

He gently pried them out of her hands and laid them on the chair. “You shouldn’t be shy with me.”

“I don’t often find myself in the presence of a man in nothing but my chemise.”

“Remember what you wore on that night?”

“Yes.” Becky fought the flush creeping up to her cheeks.

“It was more transparent than what you’re wearing now.”

Her feelings about Jack had been different then, though, and while she’d felt shy about that dress, it was nothing to how she felt now. She gave him a half smile. “You’re right.”

He tugged her gently against him and slid his arm around her waist.

“Come, I’ll take you upstairs.”

They walked out into the tiny entryway and turned to go up the stairs. The steps were too narrow to ascend side by side, so he took her hand and led her up, pulling her against his side again as they reached the landing.

Once they were inside the largest bedroom, he turned away, leaving her standing in the center of the room, and went to set down the lamp on an empty table. He strode to the window, gazed out for a moment as if checking to see whether anyone lurked in the darkness, and then drew the curtains tightly shut.

He evoked such strong, conflicting emotions in her. He made her feel weak and delicate, and utterly breakable. How could she not feel fear when just a look from him made her as wobbly as a newborn foal and as uncertain as if she were poised on the edge of a deadly precipice?

He took her hand and led her to the chair that stood before a small dressing table topped by a square, wood-framed looking glass. “Sit.”

Warily, she obeyed, glancing up at him in question, but he was looking at her hair, not her face. His hands moved deftly over her head, his fingers pressing gently into her scalp, as he unpinned and unbraided her hair and let it fall to her waist.

He took up the brush from the dressing table and brushed through the tangles, strand by strand, his strokes so gentle it was an exercise in pleasure rather than pain. She closed her eyes and nearly purred as the bristles stroked over her scalp and through the strands until they were smooth.

“It is just as I thought,” he murmured.

Her eyes popped open, and she stared at him to see that his focus remained on her hair. “What is?”

“Your hair. Smooth and sleek and so black as to nearly be indigo. Like your eyes.”

“My eyes are blue. Dark blue.”

“Sometimes they look dark purple. And in this light, your hair has that same sheen. I have never seen the likes of it. So beautiful.”

He set the brush on the table and plunged his hands into her hair, sifting his fingers through the strands. Then he smiled at her in the mirror, his hands pressing on the base of her skull.

“Oh,” she whispered. “That feels good.” She fought against the urge to close her eyes and groan with pleasure, for his fingers pushed hard against the tight cords of muscle in her neck.