A Lady Never Surrenders (14 page)

She’d never experienced kisses and caresses like these before, tender and searing all at the same time. She was drowning in every one.

“Jackson…” she whispered.

“I love to hear my name on your lips,” he rasped against her ear. “Say it again.”

“Jackson … this isn’t another lesson … is it?” She had to know. She had to be sure.

“It ought to be,” he growled. “God knows you didn’t learn the first one very well, or we wouldn’t be here together, alone.”

When he lifted her onto the table, knocking off some of the books, she gasped. “I’ve never been good with lessons.”

He brushed a kiss over her lips. “Perhaps you haven’t had the right teacher. Or the right lessons, my lady.”

“Celia,” she countered, burying her hands in his thick, raven hair. He had the most beautiful hair, soft to the touch, with lovely waves that spilled wantonly over her fingers. “If I’m to call you Jackson, you must call me Celia.”

His eyes turned molten gray as they locked with hers. “Celia,” he breathed. Then he brought his hands up to flick open the buttons of her redingote and pull out her lace tucker so he could toss it aside.

She caught her breath. “Wha-What are you doing?”

“Continuing your lessons.” He spread open her redingote gown to expose her undergarments. “I want to taste you. Will you let me, sweeting?”

Sweeting? That alone would have softened her resolve, for no man had ever called her such a lovely thing. But the fact that he was asking for what Ned had tried to force from her melted her resistance even further.

“I’m willing to repeat a lesson as often as it takes to learn it,” she said, shocked by her own boldness.

His response was to untie the top of her corset and pull the cups down to expose her chemise. She dragged in a long breath as the chill of the room made her nipples harden beneath the linen. The fire that leapt in his face was so hot it sparked flames low in her belly.

“What lesson is this?” she choked out.

His wild gaze met hers. “That even a low bastard can be tempted above his station when a lady is as lovely as you.”

“A lady? Not a tomboy?”

“I wish you
were
a tomboy, sweeting,” he said bitterly. “Then you wouldn’t have viscounts and earls and dukes vying for your favors.”

Was he jealous? Oh, how wonderful if he was! “And Bow Street Runners?” she prodded.

He shot her a dark glance that was apparently supposed to serve as her answer, for he then bent to close his mouth over one linen-draped breast.

Good. Heavens. What deliciousness was this? She shouldn’t allow it. But the man she’d been fascinated with for months was treating her as if he truly found her desirable, and she didn’t want it to stop.

Clutching his head to her, she exulted in the hungry way he sucked her breast through her chemise, turning her knees to water and her blood to steam.

He pleasured her breast with teeth and tongue as his hand found her other breast and teased the nipple to arousal. Her pulse leapt so high she feared she might faint. “Jackson … ohhh,
Jackson …
I thought you … despised me.”

“Does this feel like I despise you?” he murmured against her breast, then tongued it silkily for good measure.

A sensual tremor swept through her. “No.” But then, she’d been a fool before with men. She wasn’t good at understanding them when it came to
this.
“If you desired me all along, why didn’t you … say anything before?”

“Like what? ‘My lady, I keep imagining you naked in my bed?’” He slid one hand down to her hip. “I’m not fool enough to risk being shot for impertinence.”

Should she be thrilled or disappointed to hear that he imagined her in his bed? It was more than she’d expected, yet not enough.

She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “How do you know I won’t try shooting you now?”

He nuzzled her breast. “You left your pistol on the breakfast table.”

A strange excitement coursed through her. It made no sense, considering what had happened the last time a man had got her alone and helpless. “Perhaps I have another hidden in this room.”

He lifted his head to gaze steadily into her eyes. “Then I’d best keep you too busy to use it.”

Suddenly he was kissing her again, hard, hungry kisses … each more intoxicating than the last. He filled his hands with her breasts and fondled them shamelessly, distracting her from anything but the taste and feel of him.

A moan escaped her, and he tore his mouth from hers. “You shouldn’t let me touch you this way.”

“Yet I am,” she gasped against his cheek. “And you aren’t stopping, either.”

“Say the word, and I will.” Yet he dragged her skirts up and pressed forward between her legs. “This is mad. We’re both mad.”

“Are we?” she asked, hardly conscious anymore of what she was saying.

Because it felt utterly right to be in his arms, as if she’d waited ages to be there. Her heart had never clamored so for anyone else.

“I don’t generally take advantage of my clients’ sisters,” he rasped as his hands slid to grip her thighs. “It’s unwise.”

“I’m your client, too. Do I look as if I’m complaining?” she whispered and drew his head down to hers.

With a groan, he covered her mouth with his once more. They kissed a long while, their breaths entwining, their hearts pounding in tandem. His thumbs swept up the insides of her thighs just above her garters, and a delicious anticipation made her lean into him, wanting him to touch her, to caress her—

“Celia! Where are you, girl?”

The sound came from not far away, outside the room. They both froze. It was Gran!

She tore her mouth from his in a panic. “You have to go.” She shoved at his shoulders. “She can’t find you here. She mustn’t!” Gran would have him dismissed before Celia could even discover how he felt about her. How
she
felt about
him.

He hesitated, his eyes hungry, his lips parted. Then an odd disappointment flickered in his face before he pulled away and that infernal detachment of his hardened his features again. “No, indeed. Your grandmother mustn’t find you being mauled by the likes of me.”

“Jackson—” she began.

“I’m going,” he said sharply and strode for the window.

Before she could call him back or protest his words, he’d opened it and passed through into the courtyard, closing the window behind him.

“Celia, I know you are back here somewhere!” Gran cried, much closer now.

Frantically, Celia leapt off the table and buttoned up her gown. At the last minute, she spotted her tucker on the floor and stepped on top of it, just as Gran hobbled in.

Gran halted, then searched the room with eyes that were sharp and keen as always. “Why did you not answer me?”

Celia forced a smile. “I did,” she lied. “You must not have heard.” What on earth was Gran doing here, anyway?

“Oliver said that you were with Mr. Pinter in the servants’ quarters, but they said they had not seen either of you. And that all the guns were already in order and placed in their racks.”

She clapped her hand to her chest dramatically. “Oh, thank heaven! We headed there, but then I remembered I had a book that explained how to unload the new percussion guns, so I sent him back to the house. I came here, figuring I could handle unloading the gun alone if I found the book passage I was remembering.”

The explanation sounded inane, but it was the only excuse she could think of that was remotely convincing.

Gran didn’t look convinced. Her gaze dipped down. “Do you generally look through your books on the floor?”

“Of course not. You startled me, that’s all. I knocked them off.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she went on the offensive. “And how did you know where to find me, anyway?”

“One of the servants told me to check this part of the north wing—she said she had discovered that someone had been burning coal in one of the fireplaces.” Gran’s gaze narrowed. “Eventually I find out everything that goes on in this house, girl. Do not think to hide anything from me.”

Celia fought not to swallow and give herself away. Gran was like a shark when she scented blood in the water. “And what would I hide from you?”

“That you and Mr. Pinter are up to something.”

“He’s investigating my suitors—nothing more.”

Gran swept her gaze around the room again. “I hope that is true. He cannot afford even the appearance of impropriety.”

“Impropriety? I can’t imagine what you mean.”

Her grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Do not play the fool with me. This is not the first time you have been off alone with him. You must consider how that looks.”

“To whom?”

“To everyone. He cannot afford to have people gossiping about you and him—”

“No, of course not,” she said bitterly. “Because then you’d have to dismiss him, even after all he’s done for our family.”

Gran’s gaze turned steely. “Actually, he cannot afford it because he is very near to being appointed Chief Magistrate. Any appearance of impropriety toward a client’s sister might scuttle that appointment.” Gran searched her face. “Unless, of course, he married the woman. A rich wife of rank would enhance his chances.”

It took all of Celia’s control to appear unconcerned, though her heart clamored in her chest. Jackson was in line for an important appointment? Why had he never mentioned it?

Because he knew what you’d think of his overtures. Because he knew it would put you on your guard while he was pretending to desire you madly.

No, she couldn’t believe that his sweet kisses and caresses had been calculated. They’d been too reckless, too impassioned. Could such a thing really be feigned? He’d always been forthright with her—it wasn’t in him to misrepresent himself.

Was it?

She forced a smile to her lips, determined not to let Gran’s words affect her until she could learn the truth. Gran was known for her devious strategies. This might merely be one more of those.

But to what purpose?

“I don’t know why you think Mr. Pinter would be caught in an impropriety with
me,
of all people. He can’t stand to be in the same room with me.”

“Yet he beat your suitors this afternoon so he could gain a kiss from you.”

Celia gave a brittle laugh. “Rather, so he could avoid having to pay his portion of the rifle they would have owed me if I’d won. Mr. Pinter is nothing if not careful with his money. Didn’t you hear the whole tale? He gave me a peck on the forehead. Hardly the action of a man seeking my favors.”

With an attempt at nonchalance, she bent to pick up a book. “In any case, even if he was trying to court me, it’s not as if I would fall for his tricks. I have three perfectly eligible suitors here this week—why should I care if a Bow Street Runner dangles after me?”

Gran watched her carefully. “So you have no feelings for the man.”

“I have a duke practically in my pocket,” she managed. “What would I want with Mr. Pinter?”

Who made her blood race and her heart soar. Who made her hope, for the first time, that she might still find a man to love her. A man she could love.

Love?
He’d said nothing of love or even affection. He’d spoken only of desire. For that matter, he’d said nothing of marriage.

Then again, if what he wanted was a rich and influential wife, he’d be a fool to make that too obvious too soon.

Blast it all! Gran was muddling her mind, playing with her heart. And for what? To make sure she didn’t marry too low? It was hardly fair, under the circumstances.

“I do find it odd,” she went on, “that you should care how Mr. Pinter feels about me. I thought all you wanted was to have some man marry me. He would be as good as any.”

Gran winced. “Not if he is after your fortune. That is what happened to your mother, and I regret to this day that I did not see beneath your father’s winning smiles and title to his mercenary motive.”

Celia swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Well, since Mr. Pinter has no title and barely knows
how
to smile, you needn’t worry. If he has a mercenary motive, he’s hiding it well.” She surreptitiously kicked her tucker under the table as she stepped forward. “Now, let’s go have some tea, shall we?”

After another hard look about the room, Gran took the arm Celia offered and let her granddaughter accompany her out the door. But while they walked down the corridor, Celia’s mind kept stumbling over Gran’s revelation.

A rich wife of rank would enhance his chances.

It wouldn’t be the first time a man had pretended to find her fetching for his own reasons. But if Gran’s suspicions about Jackson’s motives proved true, it would definitely be the last. Because Celia would rather enter a loveless marriage with the Duke of Lyons than be used by Jackson Pinter.

T
hat night, Jackson stood in the corner of Halstead Hall’s spacious ballroom, downing one glass of punch after another and wishing he could be anywhere else. But of all the events of the house party, he couldn’t miss his lordship’s birthday ball. Even Lord Basto had chosen to stay this evening instead of going home to his sister, though he’d said he would return to London later
.

Jackson surveyed the room, trying not to fix on the one person who interested him. Celia was merrily dancing with that damned Lyons, letting the duke put his hands all over her while Jackson could only stand and watch.

He’d made a muck of things today. He’d let his feelings show, and now he was paying for it. All evening, Celia had vacillated between ignoring him entirely and giving him veiled glances that he didn’t know how to interpret.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her. She danced like a creature from another realm—a sparkling fairy of the forest. He must have been under some enchantment to think he could ever have such a sprite for his own, yet the illusion persisted, no matter how he fought it. After tasting her this afternoon, he ached to claim her before them all.

Sheer madness. She belonged here among her kind, not in Cheapside with a bastard. Perhaps one day, if he became Chief Magistrate …