A Season of Seduction (24 page)

He moved over her neck and shoulders until they felt warm and languid. She sagged in the chair as he rubbed and kneaded, working away what felt like years’ worth of tension.

Finally, he curled his palms over her shoulders. “I’ll take you to bed now.”

He slid his arm beneath her knees and scooped her from the chair. In a few steps, he stopped at the edge of the bed. He laid her down, and he slipped his hand up her leg, his fingers brushing over her stocking, to her garter. He untied her garter and set it aside, then rolled her stocking down, taking his time, his fingers a rough heaven over the exposed skin of her calf and shin as he progressed downward.

She wanted him hopelessly. Desperately. She’d wanted him in London, and she wanted him now. Yet as much as her body yearned to be his, her mind struggled against it. It wouldn’t be wise, logic told her. This was different from those nights in the hotel. Now, she was drawn to him in a deeper way, which made him far more dangerous.

He went to work on her second stocking, the feathering brushes of his fingertips sending her senses into a pleasurable spin.

He walked away to lay her stockings on the dressing table and returned seconds later.

His broad body loomed over her. He reached out, stroked a fingertip down her arm, pausing at her twisted elbow. He cupped it in his palm and bent his head. She stared at his square, masculine jaw, shadowed by the beginnings of a beard, and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His lips, supple, full, the softest, most masculine pink, descended inexorably toward hers.

His mouth brushed hers. She reached up with her good arm, filtering her fingers through the softness of his hair, holding him but resisting the urge to yank him against her. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue swiped along her upper lip.

Their breaths collided, mingled, and brushed over her mouth, tantalizing, feather-light. He tasted of wine, but his salty masculine essence was far more intoxicating. His hand left her elbow and clasped her around the dip at the side of her waist, traveling lower to her hip, then her thigh, then sliding back up and slipping over her bottom.

Her breasts tingled, the nipples brushing against the fabric of her chemise, aching for something—to be touched, that was it. They ached for his touch.

She wiggled and arched, pressed her legs together to quell the throb building there.

Then she did tug him closer, pressing her palms to his neck and pulling him tight against her. She opened to him, exchanged brushes of tongues and lips, nipped and licked, her need and pleasure building with every taste, every breath they shared.

“Jack,” she whispered. The ache grew bolder, the desperation to be close to somebody—no, to
him
. The desire to lose herself, to lose all awareness of where she ended and he began.

His hand traveled from her body over her stomach and up, brushing her tightly beaded nipple. She whimpered as an electric sensation whipped through her, straight between her legs.

His hand didn’t linger on her breast. It moved up, over her collarbones and shoulder, up her neck, over her jaw until he cupped her cheek. Energy simmered between his fingers and her skin, a subtle buzzing that resonated through her veins.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured against her mouth.

“I…” She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

He pressed a kiss to her lips then gently pulled himself free of her grip. “Good night, Becky.”

He swept up the lantern and he was gone, leaving her alone in the dark.

Chapter Thirteen

J
ack lay wide awake in the small bedroom, staring at the ceiling. It had taken what seemed like hours to calm the raging need that had roared through his blood before he’d left her. The struggle to remain in control had taken more power than he’d known he possessed. After he’d shut the door behind him, he’d stood in the corridor for long minutes, pressing his forehead against the cool plaster of the wall.

Patience
. He could not sacrifice the fragile bond developing between them; could not let base desire overrun common sense.

Becky required time to sort through her feelings, to pry off the stranglehold her dead husband held on her heart. If Jack had six months, he could seduce her into loving him completely, honestly. Hell, he could seduce her into begging him to marry her.

He didn’t have that luxury. The fifteenth of December was three weeks away. Tom was near. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he lingered outside the cottage on this frosty night. The man was wily, and he was experienced at tracking Jack.

When Jack was sixteen years old, a school friend had invited him to spend the winter holidays at his family’s home in Somersetshire. One night, Jack had looked out the window to watch the first snowfall of the season only to see Tom Wortingham standing on the lawn, smiling and waving at him. Too shocked to think clearly, Jack had told his friend, and his family had invited him in for the night. Tom had invented some story about visiting relatives in Somerset. But Jack knew Tom had pursued him all the way from Kent. It had made him uneasy at the time, but those had been his days of carefree youth, and he’d shrugged away his friend’s strange behavior.

Now, years later, Jack had no doubt that Tom Wortingham was still capable of such actions. Not only that, Tom now had a vested interest in knowing his whereabouts. Until the fifteen thousand was safely in his hands, Tom would be close.

Sighing, Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He’d realized many years ago that Tom Wortingham was not quite right in the head. The man had spent so long hiding that raw edge of insanity behind his guileless manner and bookish intelligence that the truth hadn’t struck Jack until Anne had died. He would never forget Tom’s primal scream when he’d told him what had happened to her. Her death had been enough to erase any impulse Tom ever had to pretend at being an upstanding member of society.

From the beginning, Tom had insisted that Anne’s death was Jack’s fault. Along with squandering what little money his father had left him, Tom had probably spent the past years planning his vengeance on Jack.

At times, Jack believed himself responsible, too. Not a day passed that he didn’t feel the twinges of guilt and regret. It was only the soul-deep knowledge that he’d done what he could for her, that he’d tried his damndest to save her, that kept him holding his head high.

Despite all that had happened, Jack had known Tom Wortingham since they were children, and he knew what to expect from him. If Tom could be trusted in anything, it was staying true to his word. His threats weren’t empty. If Jack didn’t deliver the money, Tom wouldn’t hesitate to take his damning evidence to the authorities. If Jack did hand over the fifteen thousand, however, Tom would relinquish the evidence to him and leave him alone. The man always kept his word. He was a vicar’s son, after all.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter how close Tom was tonight. Jack wanted to stay in England, damn it, and he didn’t want to die a wanted criminal on the run from the noose. Tom would have his money in time. And then, as promised, he’d be out of Jack’s life forever.

Jack turned onto his side and stared at the closed door to the tiny bedchamber. The bed was hard and narrow, unlike the bed Becky slept on, which was soft and more than double the size of this one. Perfect for two.

It had been necessary for him to leave her, but it had nearly killed him. She’d wanted him tonight. She’d sighed sweetly into his mouth, kissed him with abandoned passion, her fingers tight around his neck, locking him in place against her. She’d still been gasping when he’d walked away.

What was she doing now? Did she lie awake as he did? Was she thinking of him? Of that kiss? Was she touching herself, imagining his hands stroking her in those places his fingers ached to explore again?

Desire rose in his veins once more, and he hardened, thinking of her slender, delicate hand roaming over her body, her lips parted but her eyes closed as she imagined it was him who pleasured her.

He was burning hot, stiff as a pike, pulsing angrily. And it was damned painful.

“Hell,” he said through clenched teeth.
Focus on something else!
But he couldn’t. All he could think about was Becky. Her sweet, soft, willing flesh. Her sighs of pleasure as he sank into her and she closed tightly around him.

Just Becky.

Becky turned restlessly, first one way and then the other. Though the bed was soft, she could find no comfort. The sheets felt scratchy against her, her chemise bunched at her waist, she was cold, and the weight of the blankets did nothing to warm her.

Worst of all, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. About the heated press of his lips on hers, the way his hand had cupped her deformed elbow. Not as if it repulsed him, but as if he wanted to protect it from further harm.

Perhaps it was a delusion; perhaps he had no such thoughts when he touched her there. Yet one thing was blatantly clear—he wanted her. She’d seen the shadowy bulge in his trousers as he’d walked away. He’d wanted her badly, and yet he had not taken advantage of his power over her. He was waiting for her to trust him.

Could she make that leap for him? As she lay there, cold and lonely, the compulsion to try grew stronger with every minute.

He’d made it clear he still wished to marry her, despite how she’d tried to push him away. He still wanted her. He seemed to enjoy her presence. He took pleasure in conversing with her. He found her beautiful on the outside—and possibly on the inside as well.

She rubbed her twisted elbow and flexed her tingling fingers. She wanted to trust him. If she was going to trust anyone beyond the closest members of her family, she wanted it to be Jack.

Oh, God
. She clutched the blanket to her chest and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. She was falling in love with him.

No
… no, it couldn’t be. She had believed herself incapable of loving anyone after what William had done to her. But how else to explain this restless feeling, these feelings of need, of desire, of
hope
? These feelings were so different from the fluttering excitement she’d felt when she’d agreed to run to Gretna with William. The feelings were deep, intense, so powerful they almost hurt.

Her position was very precarious indeed. Yet Jack professed to care for her. He wanted to marry her. He wanted to make her his. His actions had proved he cared for her. They also proved he understood her in a way no one ever had.

All she needed to do was believe. Release the shields she’d spent so long building around her and trust him. That was the difficult part.

There was no reason for him to pretend to admire her if he didn’t. He was so very different from William. She’d been stubbornly cautious ever since she met Jack, but she’d failed to take into account the fact that she was older now—she was wiser than when she’d so stupidly believed William’s protestations of never-ending passion. Now, if William came to her and sobbed his undying adoration for her, she would know it as deception and false flattery. She would smell it, sniff it out like a hound.

When Jack professed his admiration for her, she saw the truth of it in his dark eyes, and the eyes were the windows to the soul.

Was he lying awake in one of those rooms across the corridor? Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him?

She was still so very afraid. But Jack was right—there would be no peace for her until she conquered her fear and allowed instinct to prevail. Instinct told her to trust Jack Fulton. And her heart told her she wanted him, perhaps even more than he wanted her.

Since she was a little girl, she’d desired only one thing: to be happy. She’d always been lonely, always by herself, always withdrawn into a distant world of fantasies and imaginings. Then, four years ago, she thought she’d found what she’d longed for. Someone who loved her desperately, who would fulfill her every need. For a few fleeting days, she’d been in true bliss. But then William had yanked that away from her, thoroughly and cruelly, and with it he’d stolen every one of her dreams. She’d spent the past four years believing happiness was just another impossible fantasy. Yet in the past weeks, Jack had offered her fleeting glimpses of it.

She kicked off the blankets and slipped out of bed. The air was frigid, and she wrapped her arms around her as she padded on bare feet over the cool planks of the floor. Across the passageway, both bedroom doors were closed. Jack could be beyond one of those doors, asleep or awake, or he could be downstairs. No light or sound emanated from any of those places.