Passion Wears Pearls (23 page)

“Oh my …” she gasped, but it was more of a sigh than a protest, and Eleanor failed to close her thighs to him before his fingers discovered what he desired to touch most. The taut little pearl of her clit jutted out from the zenith of her ripe entrance, and Josiah swept his thumb across it and experienced pure triumph as Eleanor’s reaction was total and unashamed.

Working that lovely pearl with the dewy issue from her own body, Josiah marveled that her pleasure had become his so entirely. Whatever conceit he’d once had for being a generous lover gave way to a new dedication to pleasing Eleanor and Eleanor alone.

The rhythm of his fingers escalated with the rate of his
kisses affirming the lesson that she was entirely an interwoven creature of sinew and muscle, nerves and pulse, and that not one touch of his body to hers would leave any other part of her unaffected. Josiah could sense the build of tension in her frame, and ended a kiss only to look deeply into her eyes to drink the sight of his Eleanor aroused and experiencing the first hints of what pleasure her body was capable of.

This. When there’s nothing that I can see, I’ll close my eyes and I’ll have this.

He dipped one finger into the hot damp of her body and instantly knew he’d gone too far. Eleanor’s eyes opened wide in alarm, the green storm immediate and unmistakable. She froze, and clutched at his arm, reaching down to grab his wrist and push him away and end the liberties he was taking with her most private and sensitive places.

The game had gone from passionate kisses and caresses to the threshold of something far more serious. A rogue would have retreated only to try again while she was still off balance and confused—but Josiah Hastings was no rake.

Damn it! She’s so close—but only an ass would press his advantage.

Josiah yielded, withdrawing as gently as he could, and watching her as she recovered her senses, ignoring the ignoble demands of his own body.

“Oh my!” She reached up to caress his cheeks, framing his face in her hands. “The effects are—remarkably undiminished, sir. Is that … proper?”

“Don’t think to apply rules to this, Eleanor.” He put his hands over hers and gently pressed them against his chest to cover his pounding heart. “But we should leave off while we can.”

“Leave off?” she asked, her voice wobbling with distress. “Yes. I mean, should we?”

He guided her hand down over his stomach slowly, leading her touch toward the stiff heat of his cock, its length pressing his swollen head painfully up against the
waistband of his pants. He drew her palm down over the cloth to demonstrate in no uncertain terms the state of his arousal, his flesh jerking as her fingers spasmed in panic. He had to hold her wrist to keep her from jerking her hand away, and he watched her eyes widen in fear at the length and mass of him—the implications for her virginity were all too clear.

“J-Josiah?”

“I don’t want to ruin you, Eleanor. Not now, not ever. And for you, is my touch not the very definition of ruin?”

“No! Yes … I don’t know anymore.”

“This is no flirtatious game, Miss Beckett, that ends in chaste kisses.” He let go of her hand, hating the taste of defeat. “I know you well enough, Miss Beckett, to know that until you are sure, I have my answer.”

It was a long, lonely carriage ride home. Eleanor was awash in confusion, and even more uncertain of her feelings now that she’d achieved another taste of sin. Her mother had told her that when she met the right man, she would simply
know
and that everything would peacefully fall into place just as it should; that there would be a calm resolution that would erase all doubts.

But nothing about Josiah evoked calm.

He unsettled her senses and challenged everything she knew of reason and balance. He looked at her and she forgot all the rules of etiquette and social restraint that had been drilled into her since she could first walk. Nothing about him conveyed quiet resolve or muted affection. Instead, there was the promise of an exotic sanctuary in his eyes, and when he kissed her, she didn’t care about anything else.

She was falling in love. The attachment was overwhelming, but tangible. It just didn’t seem to match a single sentiment described by Lady M. Eleanor had overstepped infatuation into deeper waters, and every instinct heralded that drowning was a very real danger. But instead of frightening her away, the acknowledgment made her only want
to run like a madwoman back to him and throw herself at his feet and beg him for some merciful resolution that would restore her mind.

Or just beg him to kiss me until I don’t care what any of it means. To touch me until there is nothing of this anxiety and hunger left.

From the moment he’d rescued her, Eleanor’s ideals of what it meant to be a man had morphed into Josiah until she couldn’t see anyone else. Every gentlemanly gesture and charitable act had laid a foundation of trust, and instead of seducing or mistreating her, Josiah had kept himself in check. She was in the odd position of holding the reins on her own fall.

I’d have yielded to him completely today, if he’d pressed me. But he saw the fear in my face … and here I am again, sent back to the Grove to recover my senses and decide what to do next.

He’d said he had no secrets. But Eleanor knew better. And it wasn’t just that mysterious note about the Jaded.

There was something wrong with his vision. She was more and more sure of it. The intensity of his gaze gave way to the habits of a man who looked as if he were trying to peer around something or constantly working to get something out of his field of vision. Unless something was directly in front of him, it was as if it didn’t exist. At any new sound, he turned his head to look, never leading with his eyes.

He’d spilled the paints more than once and overturned more glassware than any man had a right to, and when he’d fallen in the park, it had been another clue. He’d even said something about being more clumsy “these days,” as if it were a new experience and not just part of his general physicality.

There’d been a dozen subtle moments where he’d missed something or made references to colors lost or a quest for more light. And the candles … as the days had passed, more and more candles had been added until his studio rivaled any cathedral nave for its glow. Eleanor tried to recall
every incident where he’d given her pause, worrying over each fleeting memory and its implications.

He doesn’t trust me with his secrets, great or small.

Not yet.

A part of her ached to be brought into his confidences and to know more of him if he would allow it. Or did such men only open themselves up to women who shared their beds? Was that part of it—the bond between men and women, sealed with intimacies she couldn’t yet fathom?

The carriage stopped in front of the Grove, and Eleanor climbed down with the driver’s help and made her way inside the inn’s doors.

“Are you all right, then, dear?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Clay.” She started up the stairs and then stopped. “Mrs. Clay?”

“Yes, dear?”

“How … often are your instincts about people incorrect?”

“Never, Miss Beckett. Not in all my years have I missed spotting a bad egg.”

“How can you be so sure?” The question had a sad, desperate edge to it, but Eleanor longed for a reassurance that only the motherly Mrs. Clay might provide.

“Has something happened, my dear? Has someone—”

“No, Mrs. Clay! Please don’t worry. I spoke out of turn. It’s just that my instincts have never been very good, and I’m almost afraid to trust my own judgment.”

“Aren’t you a lamb?” Mrs. Clay wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I say actions never lie. If you’re not sure, then you look at the work of a man’s hands and not the prattle coming out of his mouth. Does that help?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” It sounded so simple.

Tally met her on the landing, as he often did, shyly making sure she had light enough to find her way into her rooms and that her fire was tended before withdrawing. Her miniature attendant was naturally quiet, but Eleanor had come to enjoy his companionship and she usually chatted with him as best she could.

But tonight, she was too distracted for conversation and simply handed over a small bag of jellies she’d bought for him. “Here, sweet boy. I only hope your mother doesn’t disapprove. … I should hate to disappoint. … Well, good night.”

She closed her door only to rest her forehead against it to wait for her emotions and imagination to settle. She felt feverish and giddy, miserable, and yet, oddly, alive and whole.

Josiah’s actions had been honorable and kind. His behavior was faultless. Eleanor accepted that she had been the one to brazenly press him for more kisses and invite every manner of indiscretion. She was having trouble blaming him for any of it, since it was Josiah who had ended it even after her secretly base nature had almost taken over.

Eleanor’s heart pounded at the twist.

Almost
is a slender thing to hang one’s virtue on. I’d no thought of stopping, but then—suddenly I did. But what happened? Is he right to think I still fear ruin?

It hadn’t felt like fear, but more like a seizure of uncertainty. When his hand had slid up her skirt, the panic had come not from virginal terror, but from the intensity of her own shameless reaction. For Eleanor knew that for her there were no half measures. One followed the rules completely. Once set on a path, one did not look back. One did their absolute in all things worthy of their time and attention. Eleanor smiled.

My passions and affections for him are becoming extremely absolute. But if I’m mistaken … I’ll have lost more than my virginity.

He was keeping things from her, his failing vision and this business with his friends. And who knew what other secrets he was shielding from her, or what else he was hiding.

What kind of man pays for a woman’s company?

She shuddered as a quieter voice inside of her ruthlessly answered.
What kind of woman takes a man’s money for her time?

She found the contract she’d set aside in her drawer after their dinner together at the inn. She’d avoided it, repulsed by the strange commerce of her life. Then, when she’d become so charmed with his presence, she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of it.

But now, Eleanor broke the seal and opened it, forcing herself to actually read it for the first time. She slowly worked through the short document, determined to understand what it truly meant. For here was the work of his hands and a reflection of his true intentions, was it not?

Eleanor read on, her hands trembling as the language of the contract sank in.

It didn’t bind her to him at all. In fact, true to his word, it gave her the money, as he’d said, once the painting was complete or by a certain date if he failed to finish. But then she saw it—a last clause tucked in before his signature and the witnessed signatures of his solicitor and a clerk.

Whereupon if Miss Eleanor Beckett refuses to participate in the proposed creative venture, all monies are to be transferred to her immediately. She is to have the full amount, despite any objections she may have, with the understanding that if Miss Beckett doesn’t wish to retain the fifteen thousand pounds, she may dispose of it to charity as she sees fit. It is Mr. Hastings’s sole wish that she be happy.

“He gave me my freedom. I’ve been my own woman all along,” she whispered.

The paper fell from her numb fingers to the floor, and Eleanor sat down on the floor in a daze.

He didn’t send for her for three days. For three endless days and nights, Josiah worked alone in his studio, a man possessed. Escher brought him meals and trays, only to take most of them away untouched as Josiah poured his heart and soul into every brushstroke.

Everything was coming to a head. The blasted note Escher had read aloud had reminded him that his life was far too complicated to explain to the likes of Miss Beckett and his existence far too precarious; Josiah had barely managed to allow reason to rule over the sweet insanity of kissing the lady.

Why haven’t you kissed me again?