Chapter 24
Who could imagine that a delicate, ladylike slip of a thing could knock him down like this? Jack had been completely unprepared for Nicola’s amorous advances. He’d expected to cuddle a bit on the bed, kiss her senseless, perhaps bare a breast if he was very, very blessed.
He was rhyming again.
He’d drawn the line in his mind that he would not permit his body to cross. He was absolutely determined to leave without doing anything irrevocable.
Of course, some might see this current scenario as the path straight to Hell. Even if he and Nicola were fully dressed—she in a modest nightgown up to her chin and a thick woolen robe over it—there was no arguing that they were both discomposed on an unmade bed, flailing around like landed fish. Nicola was half on top of him, pulling at his collar as she continued to kiss him.
There was no question that being clothed was both unpleasant but necessary, and Jack vowed to himself he was not going to lose as much as a necktie. Kissing was fine. Anything else would be a breach of…something. He was not thinking too clearly at present to come up with an appropriate word.
He needed to calm down, especially in the one area that was threatening to ruin his resolve. With the agility he’d learned in his brief wrestling career, he executed a reversal, so that Nicola was no longer on top of him rubbing up against him so provocatively. He shoved a pillow between them, recalling days of yore when courting couples bundled. Proud of himself for not interrupting the kiss, he let himself relax on his side a fraction, still on guard against Nicola’s next move.
He had not long to wait. One hand left his lapel and moved down his chest. It swelled involuntarily, being a typical manly chest, and regretted it was covered in so many layers. Jack told it to stubble itself and caught Nicola’s small hand before it went farther south. Her fingers interlaced with his, and this simple act struck a chord deep within him. They were connected, even if they couldn’t truly converse with each other yet.
He gave her lower lip one last lick and settled back. Her mouth was rosy and bee-stung, her eyes gazing at him with a directness he was not sure he could reciprocate. Nicola slid her fingers from his and put her fingertips through his beard. His cheek muscle jumped at the soft contact, and he knew he wanted that hand everywhere.
Which was why he should get up and go. Right this instant. Or perhaps five minutes from now. Before the church bells stuck the hour anyhow.
Tossing the pillow to the floor, she sat up on the bed, unbelted her robe and shrugged out of it. Her braided hair gleamed gold in the candlelight. Jack watched as she untwisted the strands and shook her hair free. His throat closed, preventing him from saying anything he might regret when he wasn’t quite so dazzled.
Who was he kidding? Nicola would always dazzle him in her quiet, unassuming way. She was a beacon sent by God himself to guide his way out of the blackness. She’d probably think him crazier than usual if he uttered such a thing, so he kept his tongue still as his eyes feasted.
He told himself he was not disappointed that she didn’t pull that virginal white nightgown over her head. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow and pointed to his jacket.
“You want me to remove my clothes?” Oh, it had not been enough for him to say the word coat—he’d thrown the lot in, right down to his stockings.
She nodded, her eyes bright.
“I—I shouldn’t.” The devil on his jacketed shoulder contradicted him, but Jack brushed him away.
She put her hands on her hips like a displeased schoolteacher.
He needed new rules, if only for his sanity. He and Nicola were far beyond Puddling Rules now.
“We need to come to an understanding. You may, um, look, but not touch. Is that clear?”
She nodded with no argument. Jack didn’t trust her an inch.
“I mean it, Nicola. I have enough regret in my life without adding you to it. I won’t forgive myself if I go too far with you. You are special to me. Precious. You may think my honor is a silly thing, especially when this world seems to be spinning out of control on every continent. I hear you thinking, ‘What’s the harm?’ As much as I—well, that’s reason enough. I want you too much. And I’m not ready to have you.”
Not worthy.
He saw that his lame speech had gotten through. She nodded solemnly, placing a hand over her heart.
Jack knew instinctively she wouldn’t lie. So there was nothing to stop him from taking off his jacket. He’d been in it over twenty-four hours already, and his time on the cellar floor had not done much to improve it.
Jack was sorry he had not bathed and changed before he came tonight, but he’d been compelled to walk the two hundred and twenty-six steps to Stonecrop Cottage as soon as possible. He may even have lengthened his stride and made it in fewer; he had forgotten to count in his hurry. Once again the village had been bathed in silent darkness—not even the Countess’s dog barked this time as he dashed down the lane. The Puddlingites were sleeping the sleep of the righteous, secure now that their Guest had not defected and deprived them of a success story.
Jack didn’t feel like a success, but he pushed his nightly melancholy as far out of his mind as he was able. He wasn’t going to waste time when Nicola looked at him with such eager admiration.
He was somewhat ashamed to admit he’d been to a club once—or perhaps several times—where ladies undressed themselves before an audience of gentlemen. They’d done it through the smoke and music with a casual cheeky seduction which Jack was incapable of. His hands clumsy, he finally unknotted his tie, tossing it on the floor with his jacket. Each button of his fine linen shirt gave him difficulty before his undershirt was revealed; it was as if his fingers had turned into sausages.
He paused. Was this enough? His muscular biceps were exposed, and dark chest hair peeked over his vest. Jack would wager Nicola had never seen a man’s naked arms before, not even her father’s. A well-brought up young Bath miss wouldn’t attend a boxing match or a haying party or a barn raising.
Her hands made that rolling motion again. More, she mouthed.
Blast.
He tore off his shirt and tried to smooth down his hair. She reached out to help but he batted her away. “Remember, I said no touching.”
Nicola stuck out her tongue, then sat back among the pillows, rolling those naughty hands again. With a sigh, Jack rose from the bed and unbelted his trousers. He was going to keep his smalls on. He was. He unhooked his boots and kicked them off, making it easy to step out of his pants.
There he was, with his garters holding his socks up and his hands very firmly over the flap of his drawers. He doubted he looked like an Adonis in the near-dark, but he threw his shoulders back anyhow and tried to strike a pose.
That lasted all of three seconds. By God, he was embarrassed to be examined like this. It was one thing to disrobe in the natural course of things, being generally too busy to wonder what his partner was thinking. Preferably, she wouldn’t be thinking anything if he’d done his job right. But Nicola’s shrewd blue eyes were noting his every twitch. Her mind was definitely not in any sort of mushy state.
He cleared his throat, but it still sounded as if he had a mouthful of peastone. “This is all I’m prepared to surrender. You’ll just have to imagine what my bare toes look like.”
There was that tongue again. How he longed to catch it between his fingers and give it a good tweak.
Was he being selfish? After all, he’d seen and tasted Nicola’s most private place. But he was protecting her.
Protecting himself.
He shifted from foot to foot. “I have to say I’m getting chilled. Are you finished?”
Nicola shook her head. Jack focused on the shadows on the ceiling, gooseflesh sweeping over him. He didn’t need to look down to see that his nipples were hardened peaks, matching that other part of him that he was trying so hard to conceal.
She twirled a finger, and he obliged by turning around. It was far less uncomfortable in this position, where Nicola couldn’t see his blushes or anything else rise. His male bottom was no great thing of beauty—at least he’d never thought so. A flat male bottom was so different from all the paintings of luscious odalisques through history. His behaved as it was supposed to, sitting down on sofas and horses and carriage seats. What more could one expect?
He straightened his shoulders and took apart a Foster pencil sharpener in his mind. No, its design was too simple. A Marion had more parts and could distract him longer. It functioned better than a knife, but improvements could be made. Beleaguered teachers across the British Isles would be grateful to pass out sharp-pointed instruments to their dull-witted students.
And what about the design of a school desk that was not bolted to the floor? Jack could never stand to be confined, though he could see why the squeal of moving chairs might get on one’s nerves by the end of the day. Floor finishes would be scraped up too—
It was no use. Jack had never enjoyed the regimented classroom and was not enjoying it now.
He peered over his shoulder. Nicola’s face was in shadow, and it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. He imagined he looked ridiculous in his black stockings and garters, his hairy legs on display. The male human body was an odd assortment of appendages and surfaces, really.
He needed to cover up and go home.