Undone by His Kiss (21 page)

Refusing to dally any longer near the window, Emily gathered her reticule and returned to the desk. She located the small brass key which opened the middle desk drawer and withdrew the letter she kept safely locked there. The letter inside never failed to cause an onslaught of conflicted emotions. Like penance, she regularly reread the words, hoping to find some resolution, any understanding, and often feeling only frustration after the ritual. At the least, she sought some type of closure so her memories wouldn’t remain raw. Yet the last time she’d tried to reread the message, she couldn’t bring herself to complete the task. Her mother had been difficult that particular morning and when Emily set about the task of reading, tears had blurred her vision to the extent she couldn’t make sense of the lines and slashes that formed words and emotion.

Now freed from the drawer, the well-read letter unfolded by its own volition its creases nearly worn through. Her eyes grew watery before she managed the first few words, but she fought the emotion this time.

Dearest Emily,

The world where we live is not a fair place. If it were, I wouldn’t be faced with this decision. But alas, it is a choice that possesses only one right answer. Your mother will never understand, but I hold hope you will accept my words of apology and live a contented life, void of the anger and resentment bound to keep your mother in sorrow.

I’ve arranged for you to want little. Financial security is yours. Although I cannot offer you the life you deserve, you need to know this resolution was not easily made.

I will always love you.

Father

The next morning her father was gone and Emily’s life was never the same. Rereading the words offered little solace, but she stared at them a bit longer anyway. How could her father use words of love, when his choice had near destroyed her? He knew well the result of his decision, yet he never looked back. She sniffled past her emotions and replaced the note, securing it was locked where it belonged, away from the light of day.

A flash of lightning disrupted her lassitude. Good heavens, she should start home before the skies opened. A crack of thunder punctuated the conclusion. She gathered her pelisse and reticule, only pausing another minute to try the handle on the desk drawer and confirm it remained locked, but she’d waited a minute too long. Teeming rain struck the roof with such force, she gasped, all at once discomfited.

She chided her foolishness and replaced her things, willing to wait for the onslaught of weather to subside before she’d attempt to find a hackney. It would be a miracle if any driver were available in the foul distempered weather. Walking to the front window, she viewed the street and followed the windblown leaves as they danced across the cobbles. Puddles filled with brisk expedience and a straggling passerby darted for cover.

She knew not how long she stood there, lost in thought and reclaiming calm, but it was the sturdy knock on the door which startled her more than the frequent tremor of thunder. She’d watched Thomasina take her leave, so she doubted a member of the league had returned. Before she could think better of it, she walked to the door and opened it a crack.

“Miss Shaw.”

The deep tenor revealed Jasper St. David stood on the shadowy other side, his unruly dark locks tousled about his head as if he’d been out in the tempest though his clothing appeared dry. She eased the door another margin. “Yes.” A quiver as she spoke exposed anguish in her voice, past emotion betraying her despite she’d locked it away.

“Are you well?”

His voice was all concern, and she opened the door considerably, unaccustomed to addressing handsome gentlemen in such secretive fashion. He waited for no invitation, striding into the room once the space allowed.

“I didn’t see you depart and the weather has become frightful. Do you have enough firewood?” Again he waited for no reply, assuming the role of rescuer as he stoked the flames and poked the logs with aggressive purpose until the ferocity of the blaze would cause a dragon a bout of jealousy. “There now, that will keep you warm.”

She wasn’t chilled in the least, but it had nothing to do with the fire’s intensity. He must have worked diligently at his desk, his waistcoat abandoned and his shirt sleeves turned thrice to reveal the firm muscle of his forearms, the light brush of dark hair an intriguing phenomenon. She chewed the inside of her lip to offset the desire to touch the smooth display of masculinity, the sensation a promise of delight.

“Thank you.” Out came her whisper, although she should be outraged at his chivalrous role. Whenever she shared his company, all thoughts of independence and self-sufficiency seemed to fall by the wayside, easily forgotten. A man who could cause a woman to forget her purpose was dangerous indeed.

“Are you in need of anything else?”

Now there was a question. She took a breath. Then another. “I don’t believe so. The fire is raging and I’ve no choice but to wait for the weather to subside.”

“Perhaps a little conversation then.”

Was he asking? Her gaze settled on his mouth, his firm sensual lips, lips that promised secrets and pleasure. She’d tasted his kiss, never to forget the glory.

“I take it no one needed a corkscrew demonstration today?”

His eyes moved to hers and she basked for a breath in their velvety adoration before shaking her head in bemusement. “We discussed travel abroad, nothing at all as dangerous as liquor.”

Across the room, tall and handsome, he was an interloper in her office, her sanctuary, her life. She took a few steps and a leap in her pulse affirmed it was the wrong thing to do and the veriest right thing too.

“Pirate ships and hot air balloons to the moon then.”

He really couldn’t be more charming. Those long lashes, that dimple. Another injustice of equality. She dismissed the thought so it wouldn’t evoke laughter and stopped when her breathing hitched, a signal she’d gotten close enough.

“What are we to do to pass the time?” He continued the conversation though she’d been quiet all along.

He smiled as if he had already formed one hundred suggestions and a silky shiver of anticipation caused her fingers to tremble.

“What do you suggest?” Out of depth, she answered his question with one of her own, all the while a contingency of inner whims rallied to create unsuitable proposals. Ideas she’d never imagined existed sprung to life with discriminating clarity, remembering his whispers in her ear within their heated embrace. Would it be so terrible to indulge in one more kiss? She wavered with the internal reply.

Chapter 22

He would become addled with unfulfilled desire if he didn’t perish first. One kiss. One taste. One lick, one stroke. His pulse hammered a harder beat than the slant of rain on the roof tiles. She would succumb and he could carry on, if only for one kiss. Then everything would return to normal with his focus on business instead of this unexplainable and rash preoccupation with Miss Shaw.

The lie took hold with secure confidence.

He flicked his eyes around the room, sparsely furnished with neat necessities. An upholstered baluster chair sat across the room, a paisley pattern on the goldenrod seat cushion. The writing desk, tidy and prim, stood erect against one wall, while an assortment of chairs, no two alike, posed in every available corner. The same table where the liquor display was showcased, now held that clever bonnet of green ribbon and peacock feathers. He returned his eyes to hers after the assessment, unaware of exactly for what he’d searched.

Best to spearhead his campaign against insanity. It was now or never, and never was an unacceptable response.

“I suggest we kiss.” Her sharp intake of breath could only indicate he’d surprised her. “Do you agree?”

“Your answer was not what I expected.” Her eyes flared the slightest and a becoming shade of pink colored her cheeks.

“Sometimes things turn out better than expected.” He closed the distance between them, anxious for a closer view of her fetching embarrassment.

“I find that’s rarely true.”

He almost missed the words, said so softly under her breath.

“Close your eyes.” If she obeyed his command, the kiss could get underway, his ravaging passion satisfied, and all back to business easy as that.

Blue eyes settled on his and she gave a delicate shrug. “I don’t think—”

He angled his head closer, his mouth above hers. “Don’t think.”

He took the objection from her lips, swallowed it, forever forgotten as he threaded his fingers through her hair, the pins pricking his skin in their hurry to the floor, but heedlessly he continued, wrapping the lady in a consuming embrace that kept their mouths together, the taste of her kiss the addictive flavor he craved. She wrapped her arms around his neck and offered the slightest whimper, more surrender than protestation, so he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, begging for entry and the lady complied, her body soft and pliant, tightly held against his, hard with need.

He began with a retreat, hopeful she’d take the lead, groaning with desire when she did, the caress of her sweet kiss a mixture of shy vixen and coy seductress. She flicked the tip of her tongue against his lips, and every slow slide and silky caress, every curl of her kiss as it wrapped his, sent shocks of hot desire to ignite his veins like fire to paper, all consuming, devastation left in its wake. Her kiss destroyed and emboldened him, and he wanted more, fancied it with an intense yearning that threatened his control or dangerous lack thereof.

He withdrew, separating them with a gasp, their breaths comingling, his chest heaving, and he slid his hands to her shoulders, bracing her or maybe steadying himself.

A faint smile came out to play and her raspy whisper touched his face with heated amusement. “You’re incorrigible.”

He accepted the words as a compliment and grinned. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she whispered closer, her mouth hovering near his. “What about your kisses?”

“Good point, Miss Shaw, very good point.” He captured her mouth, his turn to dominate and conquer, as he wrapped them close; his hands sweeping down her sides, settling at her hips, the fabric of her gown no match for the smooth curves he discovered beneath. One hand skimmed her back, down to her bottom where he molded her closer still, a perfect fit, certain she perceived the extent of his ardor. The devil knew his body was rock hard.

With effort he left her mouth, the silky caress of her hair brushing his jaw as he spilled kisses down the column of her neck to the delicate skin at her nape and with a quick tug, across her bare shoulder. His decimation of her neckline, lowered to an unseemly and utterly delicious depth, made him groan with desire, his mouth hot and ready to discover more, devour more, if lovely Miss Shaw permitted.

His hands spanned her waist, his thumbs below her ribs and he held her there, timeless, motionless, drawn back to appreciate her tousled loveliness. This is how she’d look in the throes of passion, in his bed, across his pillows. Prim Miss Shaw, in all her disheveled well-tumbled beauty.

She met his stare, wide-eyed and kiss-swollen, and lowered her arms from where she’d grasped his shoulders, one hand accidently brushing against the placket of his trousers. He groaned with unfulfilled pain-pleasure. He no longer wished to stand still. He needed to move, to surrender to the unbearable ache consuming him inch by inch. With two long strides, he carried,
dragged
, her body against his, and across the room, where he spun her slowly, depositing her in the upholstered chair, his lips never leaving hers, their bodies sealed as he dropped to one knee.

How aptly the image suited, his show of reverence for her affection and esteemed permission.

“Would you like more kisses, Miss Shaw?”

It was a ridiculous question. His breeches were tighter than a vise with no release in the damn near future, but he would never disappoint her now or ever. He surveyed her boneless posture, comfortably pliant against the back cushion in a love puddle of soft skin and silk skirts, not at all the well-postured leader of the league. He nearly chuckled with the irony of it all, but it came out a husky growl instead.

“Yes, please.” She said the words as if a command and if it was at all possible, he grew harder.

He braced his hands on the arms of the chair, lowering his lips for a taste of hers. She sighed, a little contented noise that reverberated in his chest and settled in his groin and when she clasped his face between her palms to secure his mouth to hers, he could no longer think. He slid one hand across her skirt, to the floor where he dipped below the edge of her gown, already hitched to a scandalous height, her slender ankle bared. He continued the kiss, imagining the unseen beauty, wanting to kiss and lick a path from toes to nose and back again.

With a hand that trembled, he removed her slipper and traced the arch of her foot, his fingertips gliding over her silk stocking, the lightest touch, and when he reached the back of her knee, she broke loose from their kiss, sagging against the chair in utterly restless pleasure. Her eyes were closed as if in complete surrender, she’d accept whatever he offered.

God damn, where would he draw the line?

Only the devil knew.

She was a gentle, well-bred miss, and he a gentleman, currently consumed with driving need and poor decision skills.

What was he to do?

“Jasper.”

She shouldn’t have called his name, not that way, in a dulcet voice, half plea, half summons, but ever so lovely.

His hand had stilled at her calf, the other white-knuckled on the arm of the chair and he nuzzled her neck, inhaling her delicate fragrance, all the more enhanced by their heated exchange, begging himself to show some decorum but unable to yield. He stroked his fingers, with more pressure now, over her knee and upward, where the top band of her stocking met precious skin,
her bare thigh
. She trembled beneath his touch.

He had to stop. He truly needed to. He knew that and told himself with one more touch, he would.