Chapter 5
The marquis was, as Jocey had already known, an expert horseman. Even so, she could not help but admire him as she rode a short distance behind his black stallion. Jericho seemed to be as one with the horse, bent low over its mane as they galloped across the meadow.
He finally reined in his mount beneath a big oak tree that stood on the edge of a dense copse, dismounting as he waited for Jocey to join him.
Seconds later, she untied and drew off her bonnet as they stood side by side to gaze out across the magnificent view of woods, farmland, and farm buildings.
Jocey gave him a sideways glance. “Master of all you survey!”
He turned his head to look at her through hooded lids. “Not quite.”
She frowned. “This is all your own estate, is it not?”
He gave a slight inclination of his head. “The land, livestock, and buildings are, certainly.”
Jocey looked at him quizzically. “What else is there?”
His mouth twisted. “I am not master of you.”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
Jericho knew from the flush on Jocelyn’s cheeks that he should not have taken the conversation in such an intimate direction as this. But the allure of her, the temptation of her, was becoming more and more difficult to resist. For instance, he had known he should not accompany her on her morning ride, but that knowledge had not stopped him from donning his riding clothes and joining her at the stables.
Jocelyn turned to him fully. “Do you want to be the master of me?”
Jericho’s breath caught in his throat as he wondered if Jocelyn knew exactly what she was asking. Probably not, he decided self-derisively. He very much doubted that, for all her bravado, Jocelyn was experienced enough to be aware of how much the thought of mastering her body excited and aroused him.
An arousal and excitement that made him throw all caution to the wind. “What I should like is for you to remove the skirt to your riding habit.”
Jocey felt her face flame with color before it as quickly paled. “How did you know the skirt could be removed?” She had felt so very daring when she had the riding habit made by a Parisian couturier. But now, faced with Jericho’s interest in the garment, she was less sure of that daring.
The marquis’s brows rose. “As your guardian, your French relatives forwarded all your shopping bills on to me for the time you were staying with them. I found the purchase of ‘a riding habit of dark gray velvet, with removable skirt’ and ‘pantaloons of soft black leather’ to be the most interesting of those numerous purchases.” His gaze moved slowly down from her face to the slenderness of her waist. “That is the riding habit you are currently wearing, is it not?”
Jocey had known her shopping bills would be forwarded to him, of course, but had not considered Jericho would do any more than glance at the total before paying them, rather than perusing the individual items. “Yes.” What was the point of denying something that appeared so obvious?
“And the leather pantaloons?”
She winced. “Beneath it.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. “Do you wish me to go back to the house and change?”
Jericho had been curious about both these purchases since the bill for them arrived on his desk. The moment he saw Jocelyn this morning, standing in the stable yard talking quietly to her mare and wearing a dark gray riding habit, her horse saddled very much like his own would be rather than a lady’s side-saddle, he had guessed she was probably wearing both items of clothing.
He knew he should not encourage her in such indelicacy of attire, but his own curiosity and arousal were now such he could not deny himself the opportunity of seeing her wearing them. For all his physical experiences, all his clandestine visits to France in his work as an agent for the Crown, he had never known nor seen a woman wearing pantaloons before.
Yet another first for him, and once again, Jocelyn was the cause of it.
The other first was his physical response to her, a woman of Society.
He might have cause to regret his curiosity… No, Jericho had no doubt he would regret it. But for the moment, he wished for nothing more than to see Jocelyn dressed in the soft black leather pantaloons described on her shopping bill.
“No,” he answered her gruffly. “They are bought and paid for, so you might as well wear them. But only”—he sobered, a frown creasing his brow—“when you are in my company.” The thought of other men ogling Jocelyn in such scandalous clothing was completely unacceptable to him.
Jocelyn brightened the moment he gave his permission. “The design is quite ingenious,” she told him excitedly as her gloved hands moved to the back of the velvet skirt. Only seconds later, with a swish of the soft material, it was removed completely.
Jericho almost swallowed his tongue as he looked at her. Without the fullness of the skirt, the fitted tailoring and military style of the bodice became more apparent, emphasizing the fullness of her breasts and the slenderness of her waist.
But the pantaloons…
He did not believe any man would ever look that good in pantaloons, no matter how adept their tailor.
The black leather was so soft and supple, it molded to every curve of Jocelyn’s lithe and curvaceous hips and thighs. So much so that the mound of her pussy was visible at the front, telling Jericho the sweet curve of her bottom cheeks and cleft would be as clearly outlined at the back.
The clothing was beyond scandalous.
But it was shocking attire Jericho’s cock once again showed its approval of, having surged to instant attention inside his riding breeches the moment Jocelyn removed the skirt.
He cleared his throat before speaking. “I repeat, you are never to wear this clothing in the company of anyone else but me.”
Jocey lowered her lashes. “Yes, my lord.” She was too relieved at Jericho not being angry with her, or being ordered back to the house to change her clothing, to want to argue the point of when she would be allowed to wear her risqué outfit.
A single gloved finger beneath her chin raised her face until she found herself looking directly at the marquis. “Never,” he repeated tersely. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
His mouth thinned. “Does this feigned demureness tend to convince my Cousin Gwendoline of your innocence?”
Jocey held back a smile at being so thoroughly outed. “Yes, my lord.”
No, Jericho acknowledged self-disgustedly, he should never have allowed this to happen. Most especially when the two of them were completely alone and so far away from Wessex Manor.
Jocelyn moistened the fullness of her lips with the tip of her tongue as she continued to look at him with those long-lashed and deep gray eyes.
Jocey.
He must continue to think of her as Jocey and not Jocelyn.
Jocey was his young and slightly rebellious ward.
Jocelyn was so much more than that.
She was a woman. A very desirable woman. And one that Jericho very much wanted to kiss and taste.
He had almost given in to that temptation in her bedchamber the night before, but managed to stop himself at the last moment. Alone here, when Jocelyn—Jocey!—was wearing such revealing clothing, he was not sure his self-control was up to the challenge.
He stepped back and turned away from her. “We should continue with our—” He froze as he felt the curl of Jocelyn’s fingers about his forearm, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched cheek his only movement. “We need to leave,” he repeated, very much aware he sounded far less forceful than he had seconds ago. No doubt the effect of the warmth of Jocelyn’s touch and having that heat seep through his jacket to his skin.
“I do not wish to go just yet,” she said huskily.
Jericho closed his lids briefly before turning to look at her once again. Her eyes held a slightly feverish sheen, her cheeks were fully flushed, and her lips were slightly moist and parted. As if she was waiting for, inviting him to kiss her.
He could not—
Should not—
He wanted to taste Jocelyn’s lips more than he needed his next breath.
“Fuck it!” Jericho cast aside his grip on the reins to reach out and pull Jocelyn into his arms before his head lowered and he breathed his satisfaction as his mouth laid claim to hers.
Jocelyn was sure she was dreaming. Still asleep in her bed at Wessex Manor. She had to be dreaming that Jericho was kissing her.
But if she was, then she had no desire to ever wake up, wanted to remain lost in this universe where Jericho kissed her with the same desperate hunger she imagined a man might feel when in need of water in a desert.
Her bonnet slipped from her hand as she curled both her arms up about Jericho’s shoulders, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at his nape as she returned the fervor of his kiss.
The lean strength of Jericho’s hands caressed the length of her spine before cupping the twin mounds of her bottom and pulling her in closer against him. Jocey’s face bloomed with color as she became aware of the long, hard arousal pressing against her abdomen.
An arousal Jericho felt for her.
She had never thought… Never dreamed… Never dared hope…
She had been infatuated with Jericho from the moment he took over her guardianship in his father’s stead and brought her to London to live at Pomeroy House. An infatuation that had only deepened as the weeks, months, and then years passed. But an interest she had never believed a man such as Jericho would ever return.
The physical evidence of his arousal pressing against her and the way in which he was kissing her, his tongue sweeping across her lips to part them even farther before that hot organ laid siege to her mouth, was more than sufficient to tell her Jericho not only returned her interest but that he wanted her. Now.
His hands squeezed and caressed the cheeks of her bottom covered only in that thin layer of supple leather, and caused heat and moisture to gather between the plumping of her nether lips. Her breasts were crushed against his muscular chest. Jocey gave in to the temptation to rub and press those breasts against that hardness as a necessary balm to her aching and hard nipples, the welcome friction sending shards of fresh pleasure coursing between her thighs.
Being kissed and caressed by Jericho was joyous.
Miraculous.
Beyond anything Jocey could ever have imagined—
She blinked her confusion as Jericho suddenly wrenched his mouth from hers and she found herself thrust away from him. His chest quickly rose and fell, and his eyes were dark and glittering as he glared at her.
As if he was disgusted with himself.
Or her ready response and forwardness in easing the aching of her breasts by rubbing them against the muscular contours of his chest.
She—
“That should not have happened,” he rasped in a harsh voice.
Jocey swallowed past the dryness of her mouth. “I— It—” She was completely at a loss as to know what to say after they had shared such a searing passion.
His nostrils flared. “Nor would it have done so if you were not once again dressed like a common trollop.”
Jocey drew her breath in sharply. A burning pain seized her about the chest and squeezed until she felt sure she was going to faint from lack of breath.
Jericho’s gaze raked over her critically. “Cover yourself before we return to the house. Do it now,” he added in a voice that brooked no argument.
Not that Jocey had intended giving him one. She was still too stunned at his sudden rejection. Too devastated by the curl of disgust to Jericho’s top lip to even attempt to defend herself by pointing out the obvious fact he had been the one to initiate the kiss, not the other way about.
Instead, she bent to pick up her skirt with trembling fingers and refasten it about her waist. She did not look at Jericho again before swinging herself easily up into the saddle, no longer caring what he thought of her riding astride her horse. All she wanted was to get away from Jericho and the mortification of his harsh rejection as she urged her mare into a gallop across the meadow and back toward the house and stable.
All the while, she felt as if she might actually die from the pain in her chest.
At the least, she needed to find somewhere to hide herself away and lick her wounds. Somewhere she would never have to face him again.
The magic, the pure pleasure of having Jericho kiss her, had been destroyed the moment he put her away from him so abruptly. Nor would she ever forget the cruelty of his words. Or the expression of disgust on his face as his gaze raked over her so critically.
Tears were stinging her eyes as she entered the stable yard, and it took several seconds to clear her vision. Once she had, she was surprised to see how many of the grooms were milling about.
“Lady Jocelyn!” Poulter, the head groom, quickly approached to take hold of the reins and keep the mare steady as Jocey dismounted. “Have you seen his lordship—” He broke off the question as Jericho entered the cobbled yard astride his stallion. Poulter immediately abandoned Jocey to rush over to the marquis. “A letter has been delivered for you, my lord. I was about to come and look for you after the messenger said it was urgent and must be delivered immediately,” he added breathlessly as he handed the missive to the marquis.
Jericho’s brows rose in surprise at this lack of composure from his usually unflappable head groom. A frown darkened his own brow as he broke Stonewell’s recognizable seal on the letter.
He drew in a sharp breath and staggered slightly, able to feel all the color drain from his face as the words “dead” and “seriously injured” almost seemed to leap off the page to strike him like a mortal blow.