Chapter 27
Jack remained the most vexing man she’d ever met. That really wasn’t saying much—as a gently reared Bath female, her male acquaintances had been limited. However, here she was in his lair, and he refused to take advantage. He didn’t even know that beneath her coat she was wearing…
Nothing. Not a stitch. She was completely, utterly nude, except for her gloves, the thick woolen stockings squeezed into her sturdy boots, and the dark blue cap on her head—which she’d made all by herself today in a frenzy of haphazard knitting. Its lumps were giving her a headache, but that might also be attributed to Jack’s reluctance to cooperate rather than the generous size of her head.
Nicola had tacked special fastenings all the way down the front so the coat didn’t flap open and expose her legs. She’d been so nervous dashing here she hadn’t even had a chance to get cold. She was cold now, however, awash with goose bumps after those lovely odd kisses. They were as stimulating as those he had placed on her lips, perhaps more so, being unexpected.
She was not much interested in tea at this hour, but found herself sitting in the poky kitchen, curtains drawn, as Jack messed about with the stove. Gingerly, she pulled at a ribbon near her ankles, wondering if Jack would notice.
He did not. The blasted man was measuring tea into a sad brown teapot, so different from her pretty flower-sprigged one. Slip, slip, slip went the knots up over her knees. The cool air stirred beneath the red wool, and she crossed her legs. They gleamed very white in the flickering lamplight. Surely he would notice now.
No. He was fetching a pitcher of milk from the oak ice chest, avoiding her with unnerving determination. She cleared her throat, but of course no noise resulted.
Look at me, she screamed, silently as usual. Nicola tried to kick a boot off but the jammed-in sock prevented it from flying through the kitchen.
She twisted the silver frog clasp at her throat, revealing pale skin until the next ribbon. She had never felt so ignored in her entire life, which was saying something. Modest young women were generally ignored, forced to fade into the background, and Nicola had been the definition of modest for twenty-six years.
Not any longer.
She stood and pulled all the added ribbons free. Her coat slid to the floor, and Jack dropped the ironstone sugar bowl. Lumps of sugar bounced and exploded on the tiled floor.
“Holy Mother of God! What are you doing?”
Nicola thought the answer to that was obvious. She shook her unbound hair free of the wretched cap and smiled, wobbling only the tiniest bit.
Jack covered his eyes, then thought the better of it. His dark eyes peeked between his fingers, his brows raised in question.
“Nicola. Please.”
Please what? Put the coat back on or climb on the table like Christmas night? Nicola actually had a better idea, had formulated it this afternoon while she was so furiously knitting. She picked up the notebook.
You are an excellent artist. I thought you might sketch me for posterity.
“Posterity? If you mean mine, you’re going to kill me in about forty-three seconds. I won’t have time to draw a fingernail. I beg you, cover yourself before we ignore our better angels.”
At the moment, she’d prefer Jack to be a little devilish, but it was not to be from the stubborn jut of his bearded chin. Not quite as stubborn as he—or as brave as she had hoped—Nicola pulled up the puddled coat, draping it over her shoulders. It was not easy standing naked in Jack’s cottage, no matter how much she had practiced in hers. It had taken no little time to look insouciant about pulling at those grosgrain ribbons, and Jack hadn’t even paid attention.
Nonsense. I trust you not to touch me.
And she did, damn it.
You will have something to remember me by when you leave.
It wasn’t as if she was propositioning him tonight, not really. Nicola hoped the drawing would be inspiration, that he would glance at it several times a day—all right, more than several—and eventually act upon the lust she hoped it would trigger. She only had ten days to snare him, and imagined some of them would be Jack-less for various reasons. This was her best chance of getting through to him, or so she had thought earlier.
Clearly, she had lost her mind as well as her power of speech.
“I won’t ever forget you, ever, I promise. Please button that thing up.” Jack bent and began to scrabble about on the floor, picking up pieces of the sugar bowl and clumps of sugar. Nicola hoped he wouldn’t get them mixed up, swallow the wrong one, and kill himself.
A broom stood in a corner. With all the dignity she could muster, she stiffened her spine, fetched it, and began to sweep. The movement of her arms naturally resulted in her coat falling off one shoulder, giving Jack a very clear picture of what he was missing.
He ran his hand through already-wild hair. “Really, you might as well put a bullet to me. No, I will not sketch or paint any part of you. Sit down this instant.” He grabbed the broom from her and a cloud of sugar sparkled into the air.
Nicola complied, allowing the coat to fall open again. Jack struck himself on the head and kept sweeping, muttering about deserved punishment and hell on earth. He was agitated, and it would have been almost amusing, if he hadn’t been so thoroughly resistant to her advances.
Nicola did not know enough about men or seduction, and it appeared she wouldn’t be learning anything new tonight. She decided not to take Jack’s rejection of her too personally; she had, after all, interrupted his footbath and caught him in outlandish pajamas. No man liked to be seen at a disadvantage. The trouble was, no matter what Jack wore—his ill-fitting work clothes or his colorful paisley costume—she found him very attractive.
The feeling had appeared mutual. Which was why he, she supposed, in his quest to uphold his stupid honor, refused to look at any part of her except for her boots as he swept the sugar crystals off them. Nicola was slightly encouraged, but annoyed as well.
He did like her. But not enough.
Or was it too much? Was he putting her up on a pedestal she’d like to jump from and knock down?
Time was ticking away. With irritation, she began to fasten her coat. It had been easier to pull the ribbons loose than to tie them with gloves on, so she removed them. Her palms were damp, her fingers less than dexterous. But she managed to conceal her naked body, losing her one chance at love. Grim, she shoved her hair back in its cap and stood.
Jack needed a cap of his own—his hair was every which way. He still looked too good to her, clutching the broom with violence. She walked toward the kitchen door, ready to put this embarrassing display behind her.
“Wait! I’ll go home with you!”
That was all she needed, having to dig deep and pretend nothing had happened for two-hundred twenty-six steps. Well, to be truthful, nothing had happened. Nicola shook her head and was out the door before he could find shoes to put on his long bare feet.
Puddling was silent. The night sky was lit by scores of bright stars, but she felt no astronomic temptation tonight—she needed to watch where she was going and not fall on her rump. She’d been foolish enough surprising Jack; she didn’t need to be found en deshabille on the street by a Puddlingite out walking his dog.
Nicola counted each step as she hurried down the road. She’d left her cottage in darkness, so the neighbors wouldn’t suspect what she was up to. Not that they were apt to. Never in their wildest dreams would they believe their wordless Guest was trying to woo another one. Nicola had been a model patient.
Until Jack arrived and aroused her womanhood.
Now that she knew what she’d been missing all this time, she was verging on anger. And the worst of it—she’d fallen in love with someone she could never have.
She kicked a chunk of ice in her path, and it skittered away to thunk up against a garden gate. A dog inside the cottage took exception and let out a volley of barks.
Where was she? In front of the Countess’s temporary home, and Wellington had an excellent set of lungs. Nicola ran the last of the way, forgetting to count. She let herself into her cottage, tore upstairs, and threw off her coat. The result of what she’d thought had been ingenuity—reversing the bright-colored wool to the dark fur—had made her bottom itchy.
No good deed goes unpunished. Although what Nicola had been engaged in was not precisely a good deed.
Her nightgown lay pristine upon the coverlet. She pulled it over her head, then worked the boots off. There. She was ready for bed, if she could regulate her heartbeat. A cup of tea might have come in handy. A soothing book. Something with a happy ending and plenty of kisses.
She allowed her hand to tug up her nightgown. Nicola had no one to give her kisses, but she could touch herself, couldn’t she? She was not in the habit of doing so, but she could see no clear reason not to, now that she knew what Jack had taught her.
She imagined a broader hand, one with some work-roughened skin. A hand that had more practice than hers did, that knew where to touch. The exact spot. Yes, there. A hand that could cause all the twists of anxiety to dissolve, push away the foggy, half-remembered past. A hand that would keep her safe, cradle her, cure her.
No one heard her cry out or saw the tears stream down her face.