Suzanne Robinson (21 page)

J
ocelin lay between walking and sleep when someone who wanted to die grabbed his shoulder and shook him violently. He snarled, jerked his shoulder free, and sprang up from the covers. His hand met something solid, and he pushed.

“Blast it!”

Shoving strands of black hair back from his eyes, Jocelin peered over the bed to find Nick swearing at him from the floor. Nick scrambled to his feet and returned the shove.

“Slug-a-bed,” he said. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”

Jocelin drew the covers back over his head. “Shove off. I don’t want to go riding this morning.”

He hunched down on the bed, then popped
back up again, glanced at the window as Nick drew aside the curtains, and swore. He launched himself out of bed. Pushing the bell for Loveday, he donned a dressing gown. Nick watched him fly across the room to a chest, yank open the top drawer, and begin tossing shirts out of it.

Already attired, Nick watched him calmly from the comfort of a settee. “Got news.”

“Not now,” Jocelin muttered. “I’m late for an appointment.”

“Sod your appointment. Our friend and the friend of children everywhere, dear old Nappie Carbuncle, well, he’s gone missing.”

Jocelin paused in his search for a necktie. With slow deliberation he closed a drawer and contemplated a daguerreotype of Mr. and Mrs. Elliot that rested on the bureau. Nick’s voice jolted him out of his stillness.

“You’re going to strangle that chest.”

He relaxed his grip on the top of the chest and squared his shoulders. “Then your arrangements have been successful.”

“Course. Alas, poor Nappie. ‘I knew him well, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.’ ”

“Damn you, Nick, it’s not a joke.”

Nick sprang off the settee and approached Jocelin. Taking him by the shoulder, Nick spun him around so that they faced each other.

“You got to laugh or die, old love. That’s why you can’t go on with this.”

Nick folded his arms and surveyed Jocelin, who glanced down at the shirts on the floor.

“How many times you going to kill your uncle?” Nick went on quietly. “I see what you’re doing to
yourself, old love. Might be better if you just killed Yale.”

Jocelin walked away from Nick to stand at the window and stare at the frost-covered rooftops. “Don’t you think I tried?” He lifted his gun hand and stared at it. “I held my Colt to his head once. Pulled back the trigger with my thumb. He was sweating and crying, and … I don’t know.” His hand dropped to his side.

Nick came to him and poked him in the shoulder. “You bleeding fool, he’s just like all the others. Can’t ever be trusted not to do it again.”

“I have him watched.”

“All the bleeding time?” Nick whistled when Jocelin nodded. “Cheaper to—”

Jocelin whirled on Nick. “I can’t, damn you!” He swallowed and lowered his voice. “I can’t. He’s my father’s brother, and at one time I loved him as I should have loved Father. I can’t.” Smiling bitterly, he continued, “Yale knows he’s being watched, so he confines himself to those with sufficient years.”

Nick shrugged and returned to the settee. “I still say you got to stop, but that ain’t why I come. I got me own life, you know. It’s just that I heard two of your cavalry chaps quarreling like they was still at war.”

“Who?”

“Asher and the jealous earl, what’s his name, Halloway. Halloway’s taken himself off. Gone home, he has.”

Jocelin went to an armoire and began sorting through morning coats. “Halloway’s always fighting with someone, though I’m surprised he managed to do it with Asher.”

“Why?” Nick asked. “Old Asher’s not my favorite, always trying to charm everybody.”

“Asher will be good for this country in Parliament.”

“Asher’s good for Asher,” Nick replied.

Jocelin snagged a coat and threw it over his arm. “Go away, Nick. I have an appointment.”

“Well, don’t forget we’re leaving Saturday.”

“I won’t, but, say, old fellow, perhaps not Saturday.”

“I’m getting out of this crypt Saturday,” Nick said, “whether you come or not.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Jocelin grinned at Nick as his friend left. Bearing a tray, Loveday passed Nick at the threshold. Jocelin wrinkled his nose and sniffed fresh, hot tea. Loveday set the breakfast tray on a table by the settee.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Great morning, Loveday. I’m going out immediately.”

“Very good, my lord. Shall we be riding?”

“Yes, and I want my best outfit.”

Jocelin gulped down half a cup of tea, stuffed toast in his mouth, and swallowed that. When Loveday remained in attendance beside him, he glanced up at the valet. Loveday wore his offended nun’s expression, and Jocelin sighed.

“Why can I never keep any of my little offenses from your notice?”

“If we wish to keep a secret, we should take greater care with our apparel, my lord. The evening coat we wore last night smells of lemons and is disgracefully wrinkled.”

“Oh.”

“If I may be frank, my lord?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Loveday’s brows climbed his forehead.

“Carry on,” Jocelin said as he chomped on ham and eggs.

“Hitherto, our peccadillos have never extended to the frail and fair members of the maiden class. Hitherto, we have been most scrupulous to avoid besmirching the reputation of those we know quite well to be above reproach. Hitherto, we have behaved, shall we say, as a gentleman of honor and chivalry.”

Jocelin set down his fork and contemplated the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. After a few moments he shook his head.

“I can’t help it. No, don’t say anything.” He waved a hand helplessly. “I’ve tried, Loveday. I’ve struggled ever since I first saw her skating on the pond. I lay awake nights fighting myself. I lost. And now it seems the lady wants me as much as I want her, so leave it. At first I thought we both had succumbed to simple desire, but now I’m not sure. We seem to get on so well together. We even fight well together. But what if it’s only lust? God, I hate my father for making me endure this torture. I hate uncertainty. How do I know she’s the right woman?”

He broke off and glanced at Loveday. “I only hope I can make a decision before she becomes truly besotted.”

“I fear, my lord, that you are already too late.”

Loveday produced a sealed envelope from his coat pocket. It was addressed to Jocelin in Liza’s handwriting. Exchanging apprehensive glances with the valet, Jocelin opened it and read: “Ten o’clock at the inn. Take a room, and I will follow.”

He released his in-held breath. “No cause for alarm.” He handed the note back to Loveday, who placed it in the fireplace. “Not one syllable that could be called adoration, no effusions, no inflamed prose,
no sentimental verse. Good. This way I can make a logical decision.”

Loveday’s skeptical look annoyed him.

“I can,” he snapped.

“As you say, my lord.”

He poured another cup of tea as Loveday prepared to draw his bath. “A logical decision. That’s what I need. Careful thinking, which means I must be freed of this maddening lust first.”

After sneaking out of Stratfield Court by way of the servants’ hall, butler’s pantry, and lamp room, he galloped most of the way to Willingham. He took a room and paced it so long in his agitated state that he was sure he’d grown gray hairs. At last he answered a knock, only to find a widow at his door.

“I fear you’ve got the wrong room, ma’am.”

The widow brushed by him, and he smelled fresh lemons.

“Liza, you clever thing.”

He grinned as she spun around and lifted her heavy veil. Yards of black satin trimmed with jet gleamed in the morning sunlight. He yanked at an inky ribbon and tore her bonnet away. Tossing it aside, he gathered her close. Jet beads poked at his chest through his shirt. He paid no attention to her as she began to speak and covered her mouth. She opened her lips and played with his tongue. When she slid her hands beneath his coat to knead his waist, he went wild. He forgot years of skill in the art of seduction.

“My lord?”

“Jocelin,” he said before he submerged in a boiling sea of urgency.

He pressed her to him and dropped to the carpet. She seemed unable to stop kissing him long enough to frame her questions. Not that he could have
answered. His fingertips burned when they raked through tawny curls. He lifted his mouth from hers, for mad as he was, he couldn’t bear to frighten her. She paused in her kisses then and met his gaze. Relief flooded him when he perceived the heavy-lidded, burgeoning appetite he had created.

The relief prodded him, emancipated him from restraint. He held her gaze as he caressed and petted his way to her center. When her eyes closed and she moaned, he freed himself and entered her. Sinking deep, he allowed himself free rein until he heard her cry out. At the sound, he lost himself, engulfing himself in pleasureful insanity.

A long moment passed before he realized he was lying on top of her fully dressed and still inside her. He lifted his head, disconcerted, and looked down at her. Liza gazed up at him drowsily. She traced his lips with her fingertips, then nipped at them. He felt himself twitch. She gasped and then giggled.

“Hang it, woman. Don’t laugh.”

“Why not?”

Blast the silly midge, she was making him blush. He hadn’t blushed in years. Years.

“Just don’t,” he said with his jaw clenched. “I’ll explain some other time.”

He left her then, righted his clothing, and sat with his head in his hands while she tended to herself.

“I’m a monster,” he said. “I’ve ravished you. You, an innocent.” He cast a sideways glance at her as she stepped out of her torn drawers and began using them as a cloth. “Have I frightened you?”

“A mite,” she said with a smile. “At first, but after I touched your lips, I forgot everything else. You see, I had all these dreams last night. I must be quite
sinful to have such dreams about you, but there you are, I’m beset by them and by you.”

She rolled the drawers in a ball and stuffed them in her reticule. He watched her close it with an efficient snap, then look at him with uncertainty. He took her hand. Leading her to the unused bed, he sat beside her on it and cupped her chin.

“You’re quite the most unusual young lady I’ve ever known, Miss Elizabeth Maud Elliot.”

She winced. “Please, I hate the name Maud. Such an ugly name.”

“Maud was a queen, and you’re the queen of my delight.”

“I am?”

“Why are you so astonished?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Intent on his own thoughts, he allowed this mystery to pass. “Will you come to London in the spring?”

She had been playing with his lips again. At his question, she dropped her hand and looked away.

“I don’t think so.”

“But your father is determined to marry you off, isn’t he? It’s the only prudent course, attending the season.”

She turned then, and gazed at him with blank eyes. “Marry me off? Yes, how stupid of me to forget that you would know all about it. Yes, I’m to be put in the market again.”

“Then, will you see me in London?”

She blinked at him, and suddenly he got the feeling she was only half listening to him. Something had alarmed her. Perhaps he’d been too cavalier about mentioning their irregular dealings so soon. Women like to preserve great fantasies about their affairs.
They wanted gushing avowals of everlasting devotion. Well, she couldn’t have them yet. He needed time.

As he thought, he struggled with the demands of his body. She was sitting beside him, trussed from neck to foot in tight black bombazine, not a bit of ankle or breast showing, and he could feel himself filling, swelling, pressing against his clothing. God, he wanted Liza, wanted her again, now, as violently as he’d wanted her but a few minutes past.

While he struggled for the presence not to leap upon her in mindless rut, he realized he wasn’t going to get enough of her in a mere week or so. The way his sex felt now, stiff as a fence post, he was going to need Liza for a long time. He had to keep seeing her. But old Elliot wanted her married. He frowned at the idea of Liza’s gracing the bed of some complacent and neglectful blueblood. His annoyance made his tone sharp when he repeated his question.

“Will you see me in London?”

“Perhaps.”

She was avoiding his eyes. All at once he came alert. Why this reluctance?

“What’s wrong?”

Abruptly she sprang off the bed, turned to him, and smiled brightly. “Nothing at all, my beautiful lord. Can it be that you don’t know how cataclysmic your very presence is? You make love to me, turn me into a screaming madwoman, and then expect me to make sense.” She hesitated, then said, “My lord—Jocelin, I mean—may I touch you?”

He frowned at her, but she gave him a look of tremulous longing. His suspicious mood vanished, and he inclined his head. She came back to him and began unbuttoning his shirt. Shoving him back so that he rested on his elbows on the bed, she bared his chest
and smoothed her palms over his bare flesh. She traced the indentation that ran from the hollow of his throat and between his ribs.

Pressing her hand against the flat of his stomach below his navel, she tugged at his trousers and bared his hips. She discovered the indentation between his hip and his buttock. Scraping the backs of her nails along it, she pinched his flesh. He bit his lower lip, but tried to remain quiescent. She paused, blushed, and glanced at him again before relieving him of the rest of his clothing. However, when she stood beside the bed with her hands hovering over his chest, she stopped. Touching her hands to her inflamed cheeks, she whispered.

“Oh, you’ll think me a—a, you’ll think me shameless.”

He smiled at her. If he told her how her ingenuous appreciation gave him more pleasure than any mistress’s practiced compliments, he would embarrass her even more. Instead he sat up and took her hand. Placing it flat on his thigh, he looked into her eyes.

“God, Liza, if you set out to enslave me, you couldn’t have thought of a more devastating manner in which to do it.”

She gaped at him, and her lips formed a quavering smile. Her gaze dropped to his hips. To his delight and no little surprise, her hand slid upward, and she touched him. He gasped, lost control, and shoved against her. Liza’s hand vanished. She shoved it behind her back and stared at him. He captured her hand and returned it to him.