My Runaway Heart (12 page)

She gasped, Jared releasing her wrist to raise her chin
to face him, his eyes staring deeply into hers. "Is this so gentlemanly,
Lindsay?"

She had no more than an instant to draw breath before
his lips found hers, his mouth so warm, warmer than sunlight, devouring her as
he drew her roughly against him. She didn't think, couldn't think, his body's
lean hardness pressing possessively against her softer form until she no longer
felt herself, only him. Then his mouth was gone from hers and she fluttered
open her eyes, gasping again when he kissed a trail of heat and fire down her
throat.

"Is this gallant, Lindsay?" His voice was
thick and hoarse, his powerful arms crushing her against him. "Tell me to
stop—strike me, scream for Sprigs, scream for help, woman!"

She shook her head wildly, her jumbled thoughts no
match for the sensations overwhelming her until his hand moved to cup her
breast—and it was then Lindsay jerked as if stung.

Yes, she should tell him to stop, she should! But such
a heat had filled her as his thumb slowly rubbed a nipple through her satin
bodice that she felt powerless against it—a breathless inner voice resounding
that he wouldn't be touching her so if his intentions weren't honorable.

"Woman, I vow you're in danger . . . scream, damn
you!"

His breath was like flame as he dipped his head to her
breast. Lindsay, whimpering deep in her throat when she felt his lips touch her
flesh, dropped her cheek to his burnished hair and whispered, "I can't . .
. I won't. You're everything I've always wanted, everything I've always dreamed
for a husband . . . Jared?"

He had frozen, his mouth against the soft, scented
curve of her breast, her heart beating frantically against his lips, the heat
of her body invading his senses even as he cursed vehemently to himself.

Husband? Had the chit said . . . ?

Trembling feminine fingers entwined loosely in his
hair, her voice so hopeful, so trusting. "You're noble and gallant and I
will never believe otherwise . . . a true hero, Jared, no matter what anyone says.
You're only saying these things to dissuade me, because you know the terrible
dangers you face—but I could face them with you. I could—we could—"

"Blast and damnation, woman!"

Jared disengaged himself so abruptly from her that she
nearly toppled backward, but he didn't reach out a hand to help her. He could
only stare at her, realizing with utter disbelief that nothing—no, not even a
full-blown seduction—would convince her that he meant her harm. Which he didn't,
but he had done his damned best to make her believe it, nigh thrown her onto
the bed if he'd gone a moment longer—by God, could any one woman be not only
foolhardy and impossibly naïve, but such a romantic fool?

He thrust his fingers through his hair, realizing, too,
that he must appear a crazed lunatic as he circled the room, stopping to glance
at her only to resume pacing in utter frustration, until at last he threw up
his hands.

There was only one bloody thing to do. With a low curse
he grabbed up her cloak and strode to the door, where he turned and held out
his hand.

"Come, I'm taking you home."

Beautiful blue eyes stared at him in confusion. "Home?"

He gritted his teeth and nodded, doing his best to
shove all thought of the silken texture of her breasts, the perfumed taste of
her skin, from his mind. "Yes, right now. You've read me too well. I
cannot lie to you. All this" —he swept his arm around the room— "was
done to dissuade you, just as you say."

He nearly growled aloud at her sudden smile, its
brilliance hitting him like a blow.

"Oh, Jared, then you
have
thought of the possibility—I mean, that we might be
togeth
—"

"No more, Lindsay; now is not the time to speak of
it. I have to think—what is proper and right for us. Now come."

She did, flying to him with such elation in her eyes
that Jared could have kicked himself right then and there.

How could he have not seen it? Not understood? Damn
him
for a bloody fool!

Grateful that her obvious delight had left her
speechless, Jared quickly led her from his room, down the hall, down the stairs
and through the tavern—sleepy patrons, Della and Sprigs staring curiously after
them—then outside into the street, where he was grateful, too, that it wasn't
yet so late that finding transport might have proved impossible. As he flagged
an oncoming coach, the driver thankfully giving him a nod, he felt a hand upon
his arm.

"Jared, you've forgotten your coat—"

"Don't trouble
yourself
,"
he muttered, flinging her cloak around her shoulders. He waved the driver to
stay in his seat and helped Lindsay alight himself; he could feel that she was
shivering in the cool night air.

After a terse command to make all haste to Piccadilly
for double the wage, he joined her inside the dark interior and, seeing no help
for it, drew her close once he had settled next to her. She immediately
snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand splayed
innocently upon his chest, making Jared groan to himself and pray that the
driver knew the meaning of haste.

It seemed the fellow did when the coach careened around
a corner, Jared bracing a foot upon the opposite seat to keep his balance while
Lindsay was thrown nearly into his lap. With her rump perched atop his thigh,
he groaned again as she laughed, the merry sound tugging strangely upon him
while he thought that she must consider their mad dash through London's streets
some grand adventure.

"I can't believe how fast we're going!" she
cried above the clattering hooves, her hand slipping between his legs as she
tried to right herself. But another jarring turn only made matters worse, Jared
catching Lindsay when she tumbled backward, her bottom now soundly resting upon
a mutinous part of him which had grown swollen and heavy as with a mind of its
own.

And suddenly he was clenching his teeth for a miracle,
that Sixteen Piccadilly was no more than a moment ahead, while Lindsay giggled
in his lap with no thought to her peril . . . her cloak fallen open, her creamy
breasts straining against her bodice as she tried futilely to right herself
despite the coach's furious rocking, her lovely face flushed with laughter.

"Jared, could . . . you help . . . ?"

She was breathless and giggled some more even as she
managed to throw her arms around his neck, and Jared felt something snap inside
him. Why the
hell
not help?

Help
himself
, he amended,
drawing her hungrily against him and capturing her smiling red lips with his
own. He felt her start, only to relax a second later into utter acquiescence in
his arms, which made him kiss her all the harder, her softness,
her
warmth intoxicating him.

Why not enjoy one last moment of the reckless Miss
Lindsay Somerset's charms, when he would never see her again after tonight? The
Season would be over before he planned to return to London again, and by then
she would be safely betrothed or even married and ensconced in the country,
where she would give little thought to the bastard who had lied to her and
disappeared without a word.

She was limp, her arms fallen from his shoulders, when
Jared finally raised his head, and he wondered if she might have fainted. Then,
as the carriage rumbled to a stop next to a lamppost, he saw that she was
staring up at him dreamily, her lips slack and swollen from his kiss.

Struck by more than a twinge of regret, Jared had only
to remind himself that the foolish chit wished to make a husband of
him—damnation, would she shackle herself to the devil?—and it wasn't hard for
him to stifle the unwanted emotion. His harsh self-appraisal reminded him, too,
of the business he'd left half finished at
Offley's
—business
he would not be distracted from any longer. Frowning, he lifted her almost
roughly from his lap.

"Lindsay, you're home."

"Home?" Feeling as if she had awoken from a
wonderful dream, Lindsay attempted to clear her reeling senses as Jared brushed
past her and shoved open the carriage door.

"Yes. Now, gather your cloak and I'll help you
down."

She did as he bade, his gallantry thrilling her, his
husky baritone and the strength of his hands closing around her waist thrilling
her, the ease with which he lifted her thrilling her, everything about Jared
Giles, the Earl of
Dovercourt
, thrilling her. She
knew she was smiling like a lovesick fool, but she couldn't help herself, her
joy so great that her dream was at last coming true.

"Go on, Lindsay. I'll wait here with the coach until
you're safely inside."

"You're not going to walk to the front door with
me?"

Disappointment filled her when he shook his head, but
she felt relieved at once when he drew her into his arms.

"I'll call upon you in three days, Saturday—"

"So long?"

"
Shhh
, I told you I must
think—make the right plans for us. You must be patient and not try to find me,
no more sneaking from your aunt's house, no excursions at night by yourself
into the city, nothing of the kind. Do I have your word?"

She nodded, thrilled that he had said it again—
us
.
Us
!

"Promise me, Lindsay. Say it."

"Yes, yes, I promise!"

"Good. I don't want to find myself having to
rescue you again. Now go."

He released her, Lindsay feeling instantly bereft. But
when he inclined his head almost sternly to the walk, she knew he was thinking
of her welfare and that it was best to oblige him.

Warmed to her toes by his concern, she turned, but then
she spun back to him and, standing on tiptoe, pressed her lips briefly to his.
She saw a flicker of something in his eyes, but she didn't linger, instead
gathering her cloak around her and flying down the walk, closer to floating on
air than ever before.

Once inside the house, she leaned upon the door,
listening with equal measures of longing and excitement as the carriage rumbled
away, her heart pounding in her ears.

Three days. It would feel like forever. But what was
that to a lifetime of happiness?

Hugging herself, she hurried upstairs, paying no mind
to the creaky steps. She wished so desperately that
Corisande
were here to share her wonderful news—but then again, she could rouse Matilda
if the plucky Scotswoman wasn't already awake and up waiting for her. On
Saturday Jared would be back, well under a week!

With a jubilant laugh, Lindsay raced to the attic door.

Chapter 11

"Aunt Winnie, were you ever acquainted with Alistair
Giles, the fifth Earl of
Dovercourt
?"

Lindsay continued stirring two lumps of sugar into her
cup of chamomile tea, hoping she looked and sounded more nonchalant than she
felt as Aunt Winifred glanced up from patting Primrose and Ignatius, the Welsh
corgis snoring contentedly at her feet.

"Alistair Giles? Oh, my, yes, I knew him, as did
my beloved Rupert, God rest his soul. They both had a great fondness for
hunting grouse. A fine man, too, but why, dear girl, would you be asking—"

"No reason," Lindsay fibbed, a very real
purpose on her mind. "I chanced to hear his name in passing conversation
last night at Lady Butler's masquerade . . ."

"How strange. The poor man's been dead now eight
years, although he was quite a dashing figure—so handsome and a staunch widower
for the last decade of his life. Broke many a lady's heart, I'd imagine. Was it
perhaps a woman you overheard speaking of him?"

"Yes, yes, a woman," Lindsay fibbed again,
stifling a pinch of guilt. She took a sip of tea, the conversation progressing
even better than she had hoped. "But I didn't recognize her—only thought
it curious she was speaking so well of a gentleman whose nephew is so . . .
notorious."

"And a pity it is, too!" Shaking her head,
Aunt Winifred brushed some crumpet crumbs from her lap. "At least for the
poor man's memory. Such a tragic story. Such a tragic family."

Lindsay leaned back casually in her chair, trying not
to show her excitement that her idea had worked. She hadn't been quite sure how
to broach the subject of Jared, but with Saturday fast approaching—dear Lord,
grant her patience; could it really be tomorrow?—she hoped by discussing him
somehow, or at least his family, that his appearance at their door wouldn't be
such a complete shock to her aunt.

"Tragic?" she prodded lightly. "How so?"

"In every way, truly, especially what that—that
rogue
has done since to his family's good name. Disgraceful!"

Lindsay winced, but she covered her reaction with
another sip of tea while Aunt Winifred tipped the porcelain teapot to pour
herself
a fresh cup.

"Ah, me, it's been three years since much was said
of the family's misfortunes, but as I recall, that's when Lord Giles—the
present Lord Giles, mind you—returned from India, where he had run off to seven
years before and left his younger sister—what was her name? Ah, yes, Elise.
Broke her poor heart and his
uncle's,
left them with
no more than a note saying he had no wish to remain in England. And the two had
come from India only a few weeks before to live with Alistair, their parents dying
in Calcutta of some strange fever."

"Jar—I mean, Lord Giles abandoned his orphaned
sister?" Incredulous, Lindsay found it impossible to imagine Jared doing
such a terrible thing.

Aunt Winifred poured a generous amount of cream into
her tea and began to stir furiously.

"He did," she replied, "but thankfully,
the girl had her uncle to care for her—at least until Alistair passed away
quite suddenly, no doubt of grief and despair at his nephew's cruelty. That
left the wretched girl alone in the world, well, alone but for Alistair's
mistress—hmm, I've forgotten her name, Sally, Susan, ah, no matter. And her son
became master of
Dovercourt
Manor when he married
Elise a short time later."