Fifteen
Much as Yvette knew she should resist him, she couldn’t for the life of her. Certainly not in this place that reeked of sensual encounters, with its red velvets and its heavy perfumes and its half-naked rogues.
That in itself should have reminded her of what happened to women who gave in to men. But when he kissed her with such ardor, all she wanted was to kiss him back. Forever.
The forever part was a problem.
Breaking the kiss, she gazed up into his too-handsome face. “Yes, but why me? Why do I make you jealous?”
She knew he wasn’t going to answer when his eyes glittered in the firelight . . . when his breathing grew hard and his body even harder as he backed her up against Mrs. Beard’s desk. “You ask too many questions.”
Then he kissed her again, with sweet, hot plunges of his tongue that tore down her walls and swept her into a maelstrom of conflicting urges. She’d wanted so much for so long. Why must he be the only one to knot all her wants into one giant need that had her flinging her arms about him, straining for more of him?
“My luscious lady.” He untied her cloak and shoved it off her shoulders, then covered one of her breasts with his hand, fondling and kneading and thumbing her nipple to a fine point. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
She had some idea. She could feel the hard length of him through his Cavalier breeches and her flimsy shepherdess attire. She should have worn more petticoats.
But then she wouldn’t feel the exquisite excitement of his hand sliding down her belly. And when he cupped her between her legs, she was definitely glad of her dearth of petticoats. “Heavenly day!”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “A most heavenly day.”
Somehow she doubted he meant the same thing as she. Because his eyes burned into her while he rubbed her down there, as if he knew what his touch did to her and roused those feelings deliberately.
Well, of course it was deliberate. He might not be quite the scoundrel she’d assumed, but he had experience that he put to good use. Such good use. Her blood fairly stampeded through her veins. Every sense was attuned to his clever, wicked fingers plucking and plundering with a deftness that made her moan.
“You like that, don’t you, my pretty wanton?”
She couldn’t deny that she liked it. And if a wanton was a woman who enjoyed being touched and caressed and kissed, then clearly she fit the bill.
Then he slid her skirt up her thighs.
“Jeremy!” she squeaked, and caught his hand.
His breathing warmed her cheek. “I want to look at you.”
“T-there?”
“Yes, there. Just look. For now.”
Why must that send a heady anticipation kicking through her? “All right. But only if you promise never to paint what you see.”
He choked back a laugh. “You give me credit for more talent than I have. I wouldn’t have to use models if I could paint from memory.”
“Oh.”
Apparently he took that for consent because he dropped to his knees and pushed up her skirts to expose her slitted drawers. With a gleaming gaze, he spread the split farther open, then gazed upon her. “What a fetching frame your drawers make for your lovely Garden of Eden.”
She gulped. That cant term she knew.
When he lifted her leg to hook over his shoulder, she was mortified. It opened her up to his gaze most shamefully. Could he tell how it made her throb down there? Heat up? Dampen most embarrassingly?
“Have you . . . seen enough?” she whispered.
“Not quite. I need to get closer.” So he did. But he didn’t just look. He put his mouth on her. There.
Oh, dear, was it intentional?
His tongue licked her, and she gasped. Oh yes. Most definitely intentional. And shocking.
Not to mention thrilling. “Jeremy . . . ohh . . . This is . . . very naughty.”
He chuckled but kept on what he was doing. Which was amazing.
As if fully aware of how her private parts ached, he stroked and soothed and laved them with his tongue so eloquently that her heart beat in places it never had before. What he was doing felt like . . . like . . .
“You taste like sin, my Juno,” he murmured against her.
That was it. It felt like sin. Very good sin.
A wild laugh rumbled up from her throat. She was sinning in a nunnery that was really a bawdy house. And she wanted more, too. More of his devilish caresses. She wanted them harder. Deeper.
Deeper?
Heavens, his tongue had slipped inside her. She might just explode. Or faint. Or both. Could a person faint and explode at the same—
Ohhhh, good Lord. Her knees gave way and she gripped the desk for dear life. His lips were . . . and his teeth were . . . and . . . and . . . oh, marvelous! She pushed into him, greedy for more.
With a growl, he gripped her hips to lock her against his insolent, clever mouth. A drumbeat call to pleasure sounded in her ears, and, like a soldier blindly following, she marched toward it, faster, determined to catch the elusive sensation running just ahead of her.
“Jeremy . . . please . . . oh, please!”
He quickened his strokes, and she strained to capture that delicious feeling that was so very . . . very . . .
She hurtled over the edge and plunged right into bliss.
Oh yes . . . yes . . . yes!
A fractured cry escaped her, and her body shook and writhed with her enjoyment. What exquisite heaven!
It took some moments for her gasps to subside, and her body to settle into a luxurious contentment. So this was what it could be like with a man. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, wanting to touch him, to be close to him.
His motions had already slowed. His mouth turned gentler, softer. Withdrawing. He kissed her thigh, wiped his mouth on her drawers, then slipped from beneath her leg and rose.
She leaned into him, unable to look at him. “That was . . . I didn’t know . . . I never guessed—”
“I knew you would take your pleasure with the fierceness of a lioness.” Enfolding her in his arms, he nuzzled her neck. “And I had to see it, at least once. Forgive me for that.”
At least once. Why did he insist on building walls between them when there was no need? She didn’t understand him. He wouldn’t let her.
“Now that is something I wish I could capture on canvas,” he said. “You in the throes of pleasure. But alas, I could never be that good an artist. No one could.” He kissed the pulse at her temple. “That should tell you right there that you’re more than a model to me.”
“But not enough to be a wife.” When he stilled, she wished she could take back the words. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I could never make you a good husband. I lack an essential—”
A loud knock came at the door, and they jerked apart. Then they heard someone try the handle. Frantically, she sought to restore her clothing, to don her cloak and find her mask.
“I told you, my lord,” Mrs. Beard said to someone else, “he’s in there with his actress friend, Miss Hardcastle. He’ll be out when he’s ready.”
“He’ll be out now, if I have anything to say about it,” growled a male voice.
Oh, Lord, it was Warren. How in heaven’s name had he known to come here? Hastily she tied on her mask and worked at closing up the cloak’s frog fastenings to hide her shepherd’s costume.
A pounding began on the door. “Keane, you’d better open up! I want to talk to you!”
“Just stay calm, sweetheart,” Jeremy breathed. “He thinks you’re an actress. Keep quiet, and I’ll get us out of this.” Showing a remarkable presence of mind, he went to open the door. “What the devil, Knightford? You have no business—”
Warren pushed his way into the room, his gaze scanning it . . . and her. “You, Keane, have no business stealing . . . er . . . Miss Hardcastle from me. She and I have an agreement.” Warren stared hard at her, and she could fancy he saw right through her mask. “Don’t we, love?”
“You can’t have her,” Jeremy bit out. “Go back to your other wenches and leave her be.”
“She’s leaving with me, right now,” Warren said with a meaningful glance in her direction.
Oh no, he obviously knew who she was. And he would tell Edwin, if she didn’t stop him.
She headed for the door, but Jeremy caught her arm. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
“Take it outside, gentlemen!” Mrs. Beard said. “I’m not having any disputes over a light-heeled wench who ain’t even one of my girls. Out, the three of you!”
This time, Yvette was glad to be ordered out. Warren mustn’t be allowed to talk to Edwin; she still hadn’t learned where Samuel’s boy was! But she didn’t dare ask more questions of Mrs. Beard, not with each man gripping an arm as if he’d carry her out if necessary.
None of them said a word until they were in the street. Then Warren spoke in a low voice. “My rig is around the corner. Yvette’s going with me, Keane.”
“The hell she is! Everyone will see your crest when you drive up to the damned ball, and they’ll know that you’ve been out alone with her. I’m not taking that chance.” Jeremy waved to their hackney driver, who scurried to bring the horses round. “She and I already had a plan, and we’ll stick to it.”
That seemed to flummox Warren. “A plan? For what?”
“Let me explain—” Yvette began.
“No time for that,” Jeremy said. “If Knightford has come after us, we’ve already lingered longer than we should have. Your brother will be looking for you.” He opened the door to the hackney. “Get in.”
“I’m going, too,” Warren said firmly.
Jeremy glared at him. “Fine. It’s better we have this discussion in private anyway, so we can get our stories straight.”
Then Warren was half helping, half lifting her into the carriage. He sat next to her, as if to protect her from Jeremy, who jumped in and took the opposite seat with a glower that would have done Edwin proud.
As soon as the carriage set off, Jeremy snapped, “How did you find us?”
“How do you think?” Warren said. “I followed you to Mrs. Beard’s.”
“But that makes no sense,” Yvette said. “I’m in disguise.”
Warren snorted. “Some disguise—Clarissa’s cloak.”
“But any number of women tonight wore cloaks.”
“True, but I didn’t happen to see any of them leave with Keane.”
“Thunderation,” Jeremy said to Yvette. “Let’s pray no one else recognized you.”
“I don’t think they did,” Warren grudgingly admitted. “I only noticed when I headed out into the garden for a bit of air and saw you go off with a woman in a black cloak. At first I thought nothing of it. Although I knew Clarissa had worn one, she hasn’t even been introduced to you. Then I spotted Yvette’s crook behind a bush and put it together.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said.
“It took me a bit to figure out where you’d gone—I had to question the coachmen milling about—but I finally found one who’d overheard Keane giving the direction to the hackney driver, and I recognized the address.”
“Of course you did,” she said archly. “You’re a frequent visitor to Covent Garden nunneries, as I recall.”
Warren muttered a curse. “That’s neither here nor there.” He jerked his head toward Jeremy. “Besides, so is Keane. And he actually had the audacity to bring you with him!”
“Because I asked him to!” she cried. “He’s doing me a favor.”
That took the wind right out of Warren’s sails. He sat back hard against the seat. “If this is about getting more words for those bloody dictionaries—”
“It’s a serious private matter that’s none of your concern. Mr. Keane was merely helping me learn the truth about . . . something.”
“A truth that necessitated being locked up in a room with him?”
Thank heaven he couldn’t see her crimson cheeks beneath the mask. “That was because I got into a dispute with Mrs. Beard. I became . . . rather hysterical, and Mr. Keane got me off alone to calm me down. And to discuss what to do next, since she refused to give me the information I required.”
“What information?” Warren demanded.
“It’s none of your concern,” Yvette repeated.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Why couldn’t you ask me to help you?”
“You would have gone right to Edwin. And I didn’t want him sticking his nose in it.”
Warren blanched. “Bloody hell, girl—”
“I am not a girl! I am a full-grown woman with a mind of her own.”
“More than you could possibly know,” Jeremy muttered.
“Damn it, Keane,” Warren said, “couldn’t you stop her from whatever her scheme is? Why didn’t you refuse to help her?”
“We are talking about the same female, aren’t we?” Jeremy drawled. “The Lady Yvette I know is rather bullheaded.”
Warren swore again. He was swearing an awful lot for a respectable gentleman.
“We’re nearing our destination,” Jeremy said. “So here’s what I propose. The three of us will enter the garden by the same gate we left through. Once there, Lady Yvette will remove her cloak and give it to you. Then she’ll retrieve her crook, and we’ll return to the ballroom. If anyone asks, you say you were retrieving Clarissa’s cloak, and found us talking in the garden.”
Warren crossed his arms over his chest. “Here’s what I propose. I march her straight inside to Edwin, and tell him you’ve been squiring her to a brothel and God knows where else.”
“Warren!” she protested.
“You would see her publicly ruined, is that it?” Jeremy said icily.
“No, not publicly. But I think he should know—”
“If you tell him,” Jeremy said, “he will either challenge me to some idiotic duel—which I won’t fight—and word of the challenge will get around and she’ll be ruined. Or he’ll demand that I marry her—which I’ll agree to do—and then her life will be ruined on account of being forced to marry me. Which do you want? Neither sounds like a particularly good choice to me.”
Yvette gaped at him. He would marry her? To protect her reputation? Or just to pacify Edwin?
“Damn it,” Warren said. “When you put it that way . . .”
“My plan is better,” Jeremy said.
“God rot it.” Warren rubbed his chin. “Very well. But what if someone sees us enter the garden and recognizes her? Or if Edwin is outside, checking every equipage? Or if anything else goes wrong? What then?”
“If the choice is taken from us, I’ll offer marriage right then and there. I won’t have her life destroyed.” Jeremy’s gaze met hers, veiled and enigmatic. “I never intended that.”
Though his manner was cold, the words were so sweet, she wanted to cherish them. Except they were drowned out by Neither sounds like a particularly good choice to me.
Why was Jeremy so hell-bent on avoiding marriage? If he really wasn’t a rogue, then there was no need for him to remain a bachelor.
Curse Warren for showing up and interrupting what Jeremy had been about to tell her. She was almost sure he would have explained his reluctance to marry. Tomorrow night, when they were alone in the schoolroom, she would demand an answer.
“Is all of that acceptable to you, my lady?” Jeremy asked.
Her throat tightened to see him pulling away from her, returning to his earlier formality. Didn’t he see that she couldn’t do it after sharing such intimacies?
“That’s fine,” she said wearily.
But none of it was fine. She was rapidly coming to care for him, and like every man she’d known—with the possible exception of Edwin—when things got too difficult, he ran.
At least he’d offered to marry her if she were ruined. But she could never let him go through with it—because the last thing she wanted was a husband who’d married her out of duty, who’d abandoned his family for Lord knew what reasons, and who kept his cards always close to his chest.
So she’d better pray they were not caught. Because she also refused to end up a social outcast.
Jeremy was in a panic the entire way back to his cousin’s town house, though he didn’t dare show it in front of that ass Knightford, who would blast his way through any chink in Jeremy’s armor.
But looking at Yvette, so still and pensive across from him, made Jeremy want to pummel something. She deserved better. And he’d nearly ruined her entirely in Mrs. Beard’s office, all because he’d wanted to pleasure her, to see her reach her ecstasy at his hands. If Knightford hadn’t shown up when he had, God only knew how far Jeremy might have gone.
What a selfish devil he was. Which was precisely why he shouldn’t marry her. He couldn’t give her what she needed.
But he could protect her from disaster. Since Yvette clearly mustn’t keep running off to brothels with him in search of her nephew—they’d be lucky if they got her through tonight unscathed—he’d have to help her another way.
That meant involving Bonnaud and the Duke’s Men. Though she’d begged him not to, there was something she didn’t know. Bonnaud and Zoe owed him quite a bit. Last year Bonnaud had uncovered the fact that Zoe wasn’t the legitimate heir and countess in her own right that the world had assumed. Which meant that Jeremy was the legitimate heir to his cousin, the Earl of Olivier. He’d agreed to keep their secret because he had no desire to be an English lord.
That hadn’t changed, but his relations were aware that they were indebted to him for their entire future. Bonnaud would be utterly discreet, would even be willing to investigate on behalf of the son of his brother’s enemy, Samuel, if Jeremy asked it.
So he would ask it. It was the least he could do for Yvette. It was vastly superior to her risking her reputation searching the city for her nephew. And it was better than his marrying her.
He glanced out the window. Was it? She’d make a wonderful wife. He could easily imagine her in his bed, easily imagine her joining him on every adventure.
The image of her gawking at that bare-assed fellow in the brothel leapt into his mind, and he bit back a smile. Oh yes, his curious and clever lady might be eager for any exploit. And once they headed into the logical next adventure—having children—she’d make a wonderful mother.
His smile faltered. If she survived childbirth. If she even survived marriage to the reckless and wild Mr. Jeremy Keane, whose very presence in her life would provoke more scandal.
Yet, God help him, he was tempted to risk it. How dangerous was that?
“We’re here,” she said in her low, melodic voice, tightening something deep in his chest.
Not his heart. He had no heart. He couldn’t risk having one, because hearts always ended up broken. And he’d spent too long protecting his to offer it to her just because he wanted to bed her.
The three of them got out, slipped through the garden gate unseen, and put their plan into action with surprisingly little trouble.
Until they reached the doors into the house and Blakeborough walked through them. “Where the devil have you been?” he barked, directing the question to Yvette.
“In the garden,” she said without missing a beat. “Why? Were you looking for me?”
“You haven’t been in the garden all this time. I went over the entirety of it a while ago.” Blakeborough fixed his gaze on Knightford. “Tell me the truth, Warren. Where has she been?”
Jeremy held his breath.
Then Knightford smiled. “With me and Keane, of course. They encountered me while I was fetching Clarissa her cloak. We stood a while talking. Then Keane wanted to get some air, so we moved outside.”
“I went past the coatroom as well,” Blakeborough said tersely.
“Oh, that must have been when we went to get refreshments,” Yvette said shakily.
Jeremy could tell that Blakeborough had noted her nervousness, so it was best to distract him. “Knightford and I were discussing our club,” he said boldly.
Knightford blinked. “Er . . . yes. Your club.”
Blakeborough’s whole manner softened. “Not just my club and Keane’s, old chap. We want you to join, too.”
“I told him,” Jeremy cut in. “I made it clear that we couldn’t do it without him. But he’s still hesitant.”
“I’m surprised,” Blakeborough told Knightford. “Given all your trouble with Clarissa and her antics, I’d think you would make good use of a club where men compared notes concerning suitors for their womenfolk.”
A stranger’s voice sounded from beyond Blakeborough. “Is there such a club?” asked a fellow Jeremy didn’t recognize, accompanied by another gentleman Jeremy didn’t know.
“Not yet,” Blakeborough said. “But we mean to start one, Mr. Keane and I. And Knightford, if he agrees.”
“The idea is growing on me,” Knightford assured him. “Keane has only given me the sketchiest of details, however. Perhaps we should have a drink and discuss it.”
“Can I join you?” said the other fellow, and his friend echoed the request.
Blakeborough frowned. “Actually, gentlemen, I was looking for my sister so we could return home. But I’ll call on both of you when next I’m in town, and we can discuss how to go about forming such a club.” He nodded to Knightford. “I’ll call on you tomorrow. We can talk about it more then, if that’s all right.”
“I look forward to it,” Knightford said. “Actually, I believe Clarissa is ready to leave, too. That’s why I was fetching her cloak.”
Jeremy had no doubt that Clarissa would support her guardian’s story, since she’d obviously been allowed into Yvette’s confidence to some extent.
“Well, then,” Blakeborough said, any suspicions he’d had about what Yvette had been up to seemingly having vanished. “Are you ready to leave, Yvette?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Quite ready.”
Taking her arm to head into the ballroom, Blakeborough asked, “Are you coming, too, Keane?”
“Actually, no.”
Yvette tensed, and Blakeborough stared at him questioningly. “No?”
“Not tonight.” He couldn’t spend another evening with her alone and control himself. He needed time to think, to figure out how to go on. His work was becoming entangled with her, with his feelings for her. He had to sort things out.
“I need some additional pigment for the portrait,” he went on. “I also want to take care of a few business matters, and to find out if there’s been any word about my mother’s ship. I’ll return to Stoke Towers in a day or two.” He met Yvette’s gaze. “You’re not rid of me yet.”
Her face fell, and the sight of it cut him to the bone. But it was for the best. Even if it hurt her temporarily, they needed to cool their friendship. Then maybe when he saw her again, they could keep a more professional distance. A safer distance.
It took everything in his power to walk into the ballroom away from her, knowing that her feelings were probably wounded. And that such wounds would harden into anger by the time he saw her again. Or, worse yet, indifference.
But at least he hadn’t compromised her.
“Hold up, Keane!” called a voice behind him.
Knightford, damn him.
Jeremy faced the ass. “What?”
The marquess grabbed him by the arm and steered him back out into the garden. Blakeborough and Yvette had already disappeared, probably headed for the entrance to call for their carriage, so it was just the two of them in the corner as Knightford released his arm with a little shove.
“You are not to go near her again, is that understood?”
With a nonchalance borne of the armor he’d developed through the years, Jeremy examined his fingernails. “It will be rather difficult for me to avoid her while painting her portrait.”
“You know precisely what I mean, you arse. I’d better not hear of any more private rendezvous in locked rooms.”
Jeremy cast him a bored look. “I’d better not hear of you speaking one word about them to anyone, her brother included.”
“Why? Because you care about what happens to her? I have trouble believing that.”
And Jeremy wasn’t about to contradict it. Knightford mustn’t suspect how deeply he did care, or the man would surely go to her brother. “Because Blakeborough has commissioned her portrait from me, and I mean the painting to be my ticket into the Royal Academy. You understand.”
Knightford cocked his head, as if uncertain whether to believe him. “I understand that you have a reputation.”
“A well-deserved one, I assure you. So if you think I would settle down with some English chit who probably dresses in the dark, you’re mad.”
“But you’d seduce one, I daresay,” Knightford said grimly.
“And be caught in a parson’s mousetrap? Not I. Besides, she put me in my place very effectively.”
Knightford relaxed his stance. “She does have a way of doing that.” His gaze turned speculative. “Tell me what she was looking for at the brothel.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She asked me not to. I may be a scoundrel, but I’m no tattletale.”
“But Edwin should know of it.”
“Then she’ll tell him. In her own good time.”
Knightford scowled. “You’re an arse, do you know that?”
“It’s a popular opinion,” Jeremy said dryly. “I live down to it as often as possible.”
But he grew weary of playing that role. Once, it had suited him to assume the mantle of Byronic artist. It kept people from getting too close. Ever since he’d met Zoe and Bonnaud, however, he’d begun to see that family could be pleasant to have around sometimes. Lately he’d been less inclined to hold people at arm’s length, which was probably why he’d foolishly allowed Yvette beneath his guard.
“Are we finished here?” he asked Knightford.
“For now. I may still call you out.”
“Go ahead. But you’ll be proclaiming me a coward the next day. Because I will not fight you.”
Knightford’s eyes narrowed. “That wouldn’t help your aspirations to be part of the Royal Academy.”
“But it would keep my neck intact, wouldn’t it?”
He headed away from Knightford, toward the ballroom. But it was only as he entered that he remembered something disturbing.
He still didn’t know who Lieutenant Ruston had been to Yvette.