I've Got My Duke to Keep Me Warm (The Lords of Worth) (15 page)

“You’ve been the epitome of polished elegance. You’ve
proven yourself clever at the card tables. You’ve saved a duke’s son from making an ass out of himself, and that I couldn’t have arranged better myself if I had tried. And”—she paused with a twinkle in her eye—“you’ve been brave enough to be seen with a crazy old bat like me.” She patted his sleeve. “Dashing, gracious, sharp, humble, and likable. Your name was on everyone’s lips tonight.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’m happy to hear the evening was a success. I think.” The strain of the past day suddenly crashed down around him, crushing him with a bone-numbing exhaustion. He pulled out his shiny new timepiece and checked it. “Do you think it would be acceptable for me to leave? It’s nearly three.”

“A fashionable man would not consider leaving until well after three,” she chided. “Perhaps four.”

Jamie sagged. He wasn’t sure he could keep up the draining act for another minute, much less another hour. His cravat was choking him, his shoes were crippling him, and the heat had melded his shirt to his back. He was tired of dancing, tired of smiling, tired of thinking. Tired of talking about a war he wanted to forget, tired of pretending he was the hero he wasn’t, tired of trying to be someone who didn’t exist.

“But, should I create a diversion, you would be more than justified in slipping out and returning home. My coach will be in the line on the north side. Just make sure you tell my coachman to return to collect me.”

Jamie shook his head. “I should escort you home.”

The duchess laughed loudly, her shoulders shaking. “Very few leave with whom they arrived with, dear. And I have the company of Miss Hughes now anyway.” She
considered him. “No, you head home. We’ll speak again very soon.”

“But how—”

Jamie didn’t get to finish his sentence before the duchess grasped the hen in both her hands and launched the bird into the air. The squawking chicken veered frantically about the ballroom before coming to land on the head of a dour-looking woman. Instantly the matron began screaming as her husband lunged and tried to swat the bird out of her headpiece. No fewer than four drinks were dropped, glass shattering on the floor and creating a slippery surface that sent two men and one woman sprawling. The Countess of Baustenbury fainted dead away, reducing a pink upholstered footstool to kindling. More screaming ensued, and with determination the orchestra increased the volume of its piece to be heard over the commotion.

“You may go now, dear,” Eleanor whispered to Jamie.

The last thing Jamie saw before he slipped out the front door and down the wide stone steps was a footman, hanging by one arm from the balustrade of the grand staircase, waving an appropriated walking stick at the hen, which was now serenely roosting in the center of the Countess of Baustenbury’s elegant crystal chandelier.

When Jamie let himself in the door of the apartment, the remnants of a fire still glowed in the hall’s hearth. He prodded the coals with the poker in an effort to create a little more heat to combat the increasing chill. Kicking his ridiculous shoes off and leaving them wherever they came to rest, he padded into the drawing room.

A faint light filtered in through the windows from the lamps on the street outside, enough for Jamie to see that the room was as empty as it was silent. He moved into the bedroom, and even though he hadn’t really expected her to be there, disappointment still stung as he gazed down at the undisturbed bed. He’d not realized it at the time, but now he understood he’d not been in a hurry to leave the ball. He’d been in a hurry to come home. To Gisele.

For a foolish moment, he considered seeking her out. She had a room in the attic somewhere, and he didn’t imagine it would be that hard to find. She’d want to know what had happened tonight. She’d ask him whom he’d met and how he’d gotten on. She’d ask him what had been said and what had not. She’d want to know about her former husband.

Jamie wanted to tell Gisele he understood so much more now. She hadn’t been married to Valence—she’d been imprisoned in a carefully constructed cage of isolation. And all the while, the marquess, with all his smooth social graces and easy lies, had remained untouched.

He understood Gisele’s fate had been directed by men too many times. First by her father and then by her husband, and it had taken extreme measures for her to finally free herself from that oppression. She had apologized to Jamie tonight for prying into his past, but he understood now it had never truly been about him. For Gisele it had simply been about the acquisition of knowledge. For with knowledge came control. With control came safety and the ability to steer her own destiny.

And he understood her imposed distance. This… attraction, or whatever it was that had ignited and begun
to burn between Gisele and himself, was powerful and reckless and uncontrolled. Everything Gisele had spent the last four years avoiding.

Jamie stared at the empty bed. He still wanted her, now more than ever. His growing respect and admiration for this courageous woman only served to make his desire for her that much more intense. But he understood she wasn’t ready yet.

And for as long as it took, he would wait.

Chapter 12

G
isele slept fitfully and restlessly, finally abandoning the endeavor just before dawn. She had lain awake in the dark, straining her ears for the rattle of a carriage or the sound of a door, but so far removed from the streets and the apartments, she heard nothing but the groaning of the building’s timbers and the rattle of the wind as it harried the roof.

Washing and dressing in the near dark, she crept downstairs, only to find Sebastien already rummaging in the kitchens, half a roll stuffed into his mouth.

“Where are you off to so early?” she asked in surprise.

“To renew some acquaintances,” he told her. “Every servant from every residence will be out and about very shortly. I’d like to discover what we’ve missed these past four years. I’ve been told the Marquess of Valence has only a single scullery maid left in his employ, who also serves as his housekeeper and his cook. I thought it prudent I should pay her a visit sooner rather than later. See what she has to say about her illustrious employer.”

“Ah. Then you’ve already renewed some acquaintances?”

“But of course.” Sebastien gave her a wink.

“Did you see Jamie when he came home last night?”

She watched in fascination as a flush crept over Sebastien’s collar.

“Did you even come home last night?” she teased.

“I will not ask whose bed you slept in if you return the favor,” he shot back.

“Very funny.” An unwanted frisson of desire at the mere suggestion caught her unaware. She pushed it aside. “So you didn’t speak with him?”

“No.” Sebastien eyed her. “Neither did you, I assume?”

“Of course not.” She wished she didn’t sound so defensive.

Sebastien shook his head. “When you do, be so kind as to remind James we have appointments all afternoon.” He crammed the last half of the roll into his mouth as he shrugged on his coat. “As much as he may wish it, he cannot live in his boots and his riding breeches indefinitely,” he added around a mouthful of crumbs. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Please have James awake and fed by then like a good little lass.” He gave her a cheeky grin and then disappeared.

Gisele began making herself a simple breakfast by setting water to heat. Above her head she could hear the sounds of a stirring city, though she knew it would be a long while before those who had been out at last night’s entertainments stirred. She sighed in frustration and resisted the urge to march upstairs and shake Jamie awake to drag every detail from him, though at this time of the morning she was quite aware he’d probably had less than an hour of sleep. Gisele needed him sharp and coherent, not exhausted and dazed.

But all of this… waiting was going to be the death of
her. She was more accustomed to doing. Not waiting for someone to take action on her behalf.

Unfortunately, until she could come up with a better plan, she was stuck.

It was midmorning by the time she opened the door of the apartment, a tray heaped with plates of food carefully balanced in her hands. She placed it on the desk in the drawing room, glancing at the bedroom doors still shut against the morning light. Jamie was obviously still sleeping.

His shoes had been discarded near the hall, and Gisele retrieved them and set them neatly against the wall. Jamie’s evening coat had been left draped over the settee, and as she picked it up, a whiff of tobacco smoke and perfume escaped the fabric. The scent was enough to remind her of the few balls she had been allowed to attend with the marquess, and despite everything, she remembered how she had loved watching the swirl of color and excitement. How she had longed to be part of the dancers or the little knots of women giggling and whispering about everything and nothing.

She ran her fingers over the shoulders of his coat. Jamie Montcrief would have been the most captivating man at that ball, titled or not, and she wondered if he had been forced to dance until the very last set by grasping girls and their watchful mothers. She wondered if Jamie had met Lady Julia. If he had danced with her and, as Gisele had suggested, plied her with pretty words and empty promises in an effort to turn her head. Perhaps Jamie had even managed to steal a kiss.

A vileness tore through her innards, curling ruthlessly
into her chest and leaving a toxic taste in her mouth. She froze, examining this new sensation for what it was. Jealousy, she realized. Pure, unadulterated jealousy.

Dropping Jamie’s coat back on the settee, she paced to the window. She should be shocked, a little voice inside her nagged. Horrified. At the very least dismayed. Yet she wasn’t any of those.

It was ironic she should flog Jamie with ideals of honesty when she couldn’t even be honest with herself.

Because, in truth, Gisele wanted the man sleeping just beyond those bedroom doors badly enough for it to leave her breathless and weak-kneed and sleepless. She had kept her distance, and he had let her. Yet the more distance she’d put between them, the worse the wanting had become.

She had told herself she couldn’t afford the distraction. But she was now realizing the futility of that argument. Jamie had been a distraction since she had sat down across from him in that tavern. He was a distraction just standing in a room. Riding a horse. Eating his eggs.

She pressed her forehead to the glass. So where did that leave her then? Trapped somewhere between desire and denial? Between needing to believe she could take what she wanted and not knowing if she would find the courage to do so? Hiding behind excuses and fear of the unknown?

It was the last thought that sent her striding across the room. Gisele Whitby had ceased being afraid a long time ago, she thought fiercely. Before she could consider the wisdom of her actions, she turned the knobs on the bedroom doors and silently slipped inside.

Jamie was stretched out on his back, a bedsheet
wrapped around his waist, his breath slow and even. The soft light filtering through the drawn curtains made his skin glow and etched the hollows and planes of his body in fluid shadow. Taut muscle flowed from his arms into his shoulders and across his chest, the expanse broken only by a faint scattering of hair that couldn’t quite hide the furrows of scar tissue marring the perfection.

She studied him from the doorway, unobserved and unhurried. Mother of God, but he was beautiful. His honor and decency made him even more so. Her heart squeezed, and she took a step forward, teetering on the edge of folly.

“Good morning.”

She jumped, nearly tripping backward.

He was watching her through sleepy eyes, a faint smile playing around his mouth. “Normally I’d be troubled, but this seems to be quite a regular occurrence for me of late.”

“This?” she squeaked, her heart hammering in her chest.

Jamie gestured at the sheets. “Waking up naked in a bed to find you watching me.”

Gisele could feel the color flood into her face.

“That wasn’t a complaint,” he teased. He pushed himself up on his elbows.

She couldn’t seem to move. Couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. Couldn’t seem to think.

Jamie shoved the pillows up against the headboard and leaned back, making space beside him. “You’re wanting to know about last night.” It wasn’t really a question.

It wasn’t entirely the right answer either.

He gave her a puzzled look at her lack of response. “Is something wrong?”

No. Yes. She had not the faintest idea what she was doing here.

“Gisele?”

She stepped closer to the edge of the bed, looking down at him.

“I met him last night. The marquess.” Jamie was watching her carefully.

She froze.

“I can’t imagine what you endured at his hand, Gisele, but know that no one else ever will. I promise that to you.” His face was hard.

She caught her breath, a sense of inevitability prodding her from her silence. “You want me to tell you what he did—”

“No.” Jamie stopped her before she could finish. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. Because it is something that you’ve defeated. It no longer controls you.
He
no longer controls you. You are the master of your destiny now, Gisele. No man shall ever again dictate how you choose to live your life. Not your father, not the marquess, and certainly not me. No one can put you in a cage ever again.”

Gisele let out a shaky breath, her truth exposed in a handful of simple words. Something deep inside her soared.

“Yes.” She sat down on the edge of the bed next to Jamie, her legs suddenly unwilling to support her.

Jamie rested his head back against the pillows, a soft smile on his lips. “I missed you last night, you know. The waltzes were positively tedious.”

Gisele gazed at Jamie, watching as his smile slowly
faded. His eyes darkened, yet he made no move to touch her.

“Jamie…” Gisele felt a slow burn start in her cheeks, move through her body, and lodge at the junction of her thighs.

His eyes were hot now, and the room suddenly became stifling. Her skin thrummed, and her breasts tingled and ached. Gisele curled her fingers into her skirts so he couldn’t see that they’d started to shake, even as desire flexed violently at her core. She was staring into the depths of Pandora’s box, uncertain if she had the strength or the willpower to close it.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Jamie hadn’t moved.

Oh, God. The idea was both empowering and excruciating at once. To taste what she’d believed was lost to her forever. Jamie was the leap of faith she’d never thought she would take.

He never took his eyes from her, nor did he reach for her. She was free to step away from him and this madness. And she was free to stay.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, and she understood then what he was offering. It would seem Jamie Montcrief understood her more than she understood herself.

She leaned down and kissed him.

Softly at first, his head angling up to meet hers, his lips soft and inviting. She took her time, nipping and sucking at his lips, tracing the outline of his mouth with her tongue. She increased her demands, and Jamie obeyed instantly, opening himself to her. He groaned into her mouth, yet remained where he was, his hands clenched into the sheets.

She left his mouth, her lips exploring the underside of his jaw and the hollow of his neck at the base of his ear. She smoothed back the hair from the side of his face, feeling the rough stubble beneath the pads of her fingers. Slowly she slid her fingers down the sides of his neck to his shoulders. Under her touch she could feel the muscles tense, and she spread her hands over and around them, kneading the tautness.

She continued her exploration down his arms, stroking the steely sinew and strength. She twisted, kneeling beside him and splaying her fingers over the expanse of his chest. The ridge and valley of each rib passed under her touch, her fingers tracing the definition of the muscle straining across his abdomen. She reached the edge of the sheet at his waist and paused. His entire body was rigid now, and his breath was coming in painful gasps.

“Shall I stop?”

Jamie shook his head almost imperceptibly and shuddered.

Gisele dragged the sheet from his waist, letting it fall to the floor. In a single movement, she slid over him so that she straddled his thighs, her skirts bunched around her waist. She took his erection in her hand, feeling it pulse and throb. Jamie hissed, and his hips bucked. She placed her thumb over the tip, feeling the bead of moisture that had already gathered.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

She leaned forward, her weight pressing him back, her lips finding his, kissing him deeply. She kept her hand beneath her, sliding it down his shaft to cup his balls. He rocked against her palm hard, and she could feel her own core throb in response. She dropped her mouth to his
chest, sliding farther down his body. Her teeth scraped against his nipple, and he arched into her mouth.

“God, Gisele,” he gasped.

She brought her hands up and slid them down the sides of his ribs, to the ridge of muscle at his waist and to the bones at his hips. His buttocks were straining now beneath her touch, his muscles trembling in an effort to remain still. But he had yet to touch her, yet to guide her. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, the whiskey-colored depths fevered, sweat glistening along his temples.