A Season of Seduction (4 page)

Becky leaned forward and kissed her friend’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Cecelia’s laugh tinkled pleasantly, reminding Becky of a tiny waterfall. “It is my pleasure. I know you will have a perfectly lovely time.”

She glided down the hall, her heels clicking over the wooden floor. Becky stood staring at the door until she couldn’t hear the sound of Cecelia’s footsteps anymore. Then she took a deep breath, thrust the key into the lock, and turned it.

Chapter Two

A
t the sound of the door handle, Jack turned from the crystal decanters at the sidebar, a tumbler of brandy in his hand.

Lady Rebecca closed the door and glided in, her steps whispering over the dark gray and blue swirls of the carpet. She reminded him of the Queen of Winter, icy perfection, petite, sleek, and flawless. Her behavior was aristocratic, reserved, her demeanor stiff and chilly, at times downright cold.

A smile twitched at the edges of his lips. He’d watched her melt, turn warm and soft, and bloom like the spring. His goal was to see that happen again tonight, and Providence willing, many more times in the days to come.

After acknowledging him with a nod, she stripped off her cloak, turned, and hung it on the gilded coat rack that stood beside the door.

His pulse had leapt to his neck when she’d entered, and now it sped. He clutched the glass of spirits and froze as every nerve in his body spun in somersaults.

She wore a diaphanous gown of gauze, reminiscent of the turn-of-century styles of France rather than the stiff, thick fabrics of today’s fashions. It clung to her feminine shape and molded her into an Aphrodite. The neckline swooped low, revealing the plump top curves of her breasts, and a fine braided gold rope was belted just below, gathering the fabric to draw attention to her décolletage and hint at the dark shadows of her nipples. The skirts hugged the subtle flare of her hips and revealed an outline of the willowy legs beneath. She stood there, breathless, like a beautiful offering.

She trusted him, he realized with a jolt. She trusted him not to hurt her.

A dagger point of guilt sliced through all the masculine cravings roaring through him and pricked at his soul.

Damn it. There was no other way. He took a steadying breath.

“Do you like it?” The melody of her voice chased away his guilt, and his gaze snapped to her face.

“I do,” he murmured. “Very much.”

Some of her stiffness receded. “I’m glad.”

He turned back to the sidebar and retrieved the glass he’d poured for her. “Sherry?”

She took it with a grateful smile, wrapping her pale, delicate fingers around the glass. “Thank you.”

He followed her to the silver sofa at the center of the room and waited until she settled on the sleek cushions and took a sip of her drink before lowering himself beside her.

This was where he’d kissed her the night before last. He could see the memory of it in the depths of her gaze. She possessed the most fascinating pair of eyes he had ever seen. Sometimes a dark, midnight blue, other times—like now—the deepest indigo.

The need to take her mouth again burned through him, and his body hardened in anticipation. He schooled himself to temperance, however. Tonight was special. He couldn’t botch this.

For a long moment he stared at her. Then he tossed back his brandy and set the tumbler on the side table.

Reaching out, he clasped the back of her pale neck and drew her to him. She came without resistance, with a sigh—a near desperate sound—escaping her lips.

He pulled her close, closer, until their lips met in a touch that lit the fuse running through his veins.

Her lips were like rose petals. So soft, so enticing. Delicate and sweet.

He held her there. Closing his eyes, he breathed in flowers and spring. Proof that she had already begun to thaw. Their noses bumped as he brushed his lips over hers. She held still, waiting, her skin warming, anticipation humming over her flesh.

“I could stay here all night,” he murmured against her mouth. “Right here.”

Again, he bussed her lips, a light graze. He firmed his grasp on her neck, keeping her steady, and touched his tongue to her upper lip, rewarding himself with the tiniest taste of her.

“Jack,” she sighed, her lips barely moving beneath his. She clutched his arms; her fingers locked around his biceps.

“What is it?” He brushed his lips against hers in a sensuous glide with every word. “What do you want?”

She stilled. It seemed she had stopped breathing. He opened his eyes to discover that she’d closed hers. She held herself immobile, a flawless porcelain statue.

He drew back just enough to study her face. Its oval shape, smooth skin, red lips. The dark sweep of thick eyelashes and the midnight arcs of her brows. The silky black hair he suspected was naturally straight, curled to frame her face.

Her lips parted, and he resisted the urge to touch them again, either with his own lips or by tracing them with his fingertip.

“I want you,” she said simply.

He sat frozen. Stunned.

He’d sensed that she wanted him, of course. In all their previous assignations, she’d been receptive to his every advance. She’d confirmed it by wearing that sheer gown tonight.

He hadn’t expected her to say it, though—at least not this early. He’d planned to take all night to coax her free from her innate shyness, calming her, softening her, making her comfortable, willing. Making her not only want him, but
need
him.

He’d met her five times before, each time honing his strategy for tonight so that he could execute it without a hitch. The seduction had been timed perfectly. It was flawlessly planned.

Hearing her voice her desire fired his blood in a thousand different ways, but he couldn’t submit to either her wishes or his body’s demands. Not yet. Not for—he slid his gaze to the clock on the mantel—another hour.

He gritted his teeth.
Damn
.

“Becky…” His hand slid down her neck, between her shoulder blades and lower, until it rested on the small of her back.

He did kiss her then. The tug of her hands on his arms was irresistible. Their lips met in a fierce clash, and he groaned inwardly. She was an intoxicating mix of fiery hot aggression and sweet question, tentative yet brave. Fierce yet submissive. Darkness and lightness.

His breath caught, and Becky stilled, leaving the kiss suspended as if in midair.

“What is it?” she whispered, her words a soft puff of breath over his cheek. “Why do you hesitate?”

Drawing her closer within the confines of his arms, he tugged her onto his lap. Tilting her head, she gazed up at him, still trusting.

He traced his fingertip along her hairline then across the smooth skin of her cheek. She was so young and looked even younger, but an air of experience radiated from her, giving the impression of someone much older.

She reached back for her sherry and took a healthy swallow of the liquid, grimacing a little as she lowered the glass.

Sliding off his lap, she moved away from him and set her glass on the table. He watched as she erected those barriers again, turned chilly and distant. Spring retreated as quickly as it had come.

She stared straight ahead. “I don’t understand.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I truly don’t understand why you’re here with me.” Sighing, she pressed her fingertips over her injured arm. “I am a novice at this, Jack. Surely that truth must be unappealing, when you can have your pick of any widow in London with a much broader arsenal of sensual skills than I have. So why—”

The sick feeling in his gut tightened until it felt as if a cannonball had lodged there, and he covered the hand that was restlessly kneading her arm. “If I wanted anyone else, I wouldn’t be here. You must know that.”

“But why?” Her dark blue gaze searched him, trying to seek out the truth, and he knew he must lie to her once again.

“You’ve intrigued me from the beginning.”

That was no lie. Perhaps this would be more a matter of omission of facts than lying.

“Why?”

“Because you remind me of myself,” he said before he could think about the wisdom of that response.

“What do you mean?”

He slid his fingers up her crooked arm. “You have suffered. You have experienced pain.”

She shuddered.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Becky. A perfect lady. But ever since I first saw you, I’ve wanted to know you better.”

“Where did you first see me?”

“At the British Museum.”

“I remember that day. It was the first time I saw you, too.”

“Was it?” He thought she hadn’t seen him at all.

“Yes. You leaned against the wall, your stance so casual, yet you watched everyone with sharp eyes. You seemed so interested in the people surrounding you.”

He gave a low chuckle. He’d only been in London for a short time, and he’d been studying the people of England, of his homeland, comparing and contrasting them with the people he’d encountered on his travels.

“I found you… intriguing, too,” she said. “Appealing. I wanted to know who you were, but none of the ladies I was with was acquainted with you.”

“I asked Stratford about you that afternoon,” Jack said, “and in turn he questioned Lady Devore. And here we are.”

Her brow furrowed. “But what could you have seen in me that day? I was doing nothing but studying the artifacts with my companions.”

He shook his head. “
You
studied the artifacts. They chattered. You set yourself apart from them.”

Her frown deepened. “Unknowingly.”

“Nevertheless, you did. I watched you. I couldn’t place it, but there was something very different about you.”

“And now you have learned more about me, and you understand it is because of the loss of my husband that I appear distant at times. And because of the carriage accident that left my arm crippled and deformed.”

His fingers, which had been trailing up and down her injured arm, stopped, tightening over her elbow, and she flinched.

His grip loosened instantly. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” she murmured. Yet her eyes glistened.

“Your arm speaks of a tragedy, but please don’t call yourself crippled and deformed. I’ll never think of you as either.”

She took a steadying breath. “But what of you?”

“What of me?”

“You said I reminded you of yourself because of my suffering. You seem to know all about my suffering. Now you must tell me of your own.”

A wry chuckle escaped him. “I shouldn’t have hoped you’d forgotten about that, should I?”

She shook her head, her expression somber.

He knew he must reveal the truth to her, but how much of it? There must be more omissions, and now, most certainly, there would be lies. But these were lies he was accustomed to telling. She’d hear some of the story in the next few days, of that he had no doubt.

How much easier it would be to take her straight to bed. To possess her sweet, delicate, willing flesh. To seduce her, to bring her to rapture, to dive deep within her, and experience the fulfillment he’d been anticipating for what felt like forever. His body commanded him to act.

But he’d taken it this far. Surely he could control his base desires for a while longer.

“Twelve years ago, I was a youth of eighteen.” At her nod, he continued. “I was… well, I was involved in a scandal.”

Twelve years ago, Lady Rebecca had been a child of ten sheltered in the Yorkshire dales. She’d have heard nothing of the events that had defined him for the past twelve years.