One Whisper Away (23 page)

The duke had deigned to attend the festivities, so it was a fairly educated guess that he’d retired first or was still at his club. Roderick Francis hadn’t come home yet, which wasn’t surprising, for most young noblemen with too much privilege and youthful inclinations toward the dissolute pleasures offered to those of their class and wealth did not return home until dawn. So, the two windows with lights made perfect sense because both Cecily and her sister were home. All he had to do was decide which one might be which. Entering the bedroom of the wrong unmarried young lady was not a mistake a man wished to make.

Every good scout could reconnoiter, and he set his hand and tested the strength of the ivy on the house before he began to scale the wall. He climbed with ease, the brick facade giving easy footholds, the old vines in places as thick as his wrist. Moments later he was balanced on the ledge outside the first window, peering in through the lacy curtain. The room was quiet, empty as far as he could see from the light of one lamp on a small table by the bed. He slipped a long, thin knife from his boot, inserted the blade between the window panels and flipped the latch up in a deft movement.

The moment he slid his legs over the sill, he knew it was Cecily’s bedroom. Her scent was familiar now and it drifted to him, evocative and tantalizing, like an intimate touch. He tugged off his boots and set them outside on the ledge in the rain—they’d be less than comfortable, if not ruined later, but he didn’t care—and in bare feet he prowled across the soft carpeting. The bed was hung with pale yellow and the coverlet was a matching shade, the effect feminine and dainty. A dressing table with several crystal bottles, an armoire in the corner in a light wood that was indistinct in the muted light, and several wing chairs covered in a silk to match the bed curtains completed the room. A painting of a small child with blond curls hung over the mantel of the fireplace and Jonathan studied it, wondering once again if their children would be fair or unfashionably dark like him.

How far he’d come from the reluctant earl who’d arrived only a few months ago to assume the responsibilities of his father’s legacy. There was no denying that once he’d offered his assistance due to an unexpected champagne accident in a scandalous way to the lovely daughter of the Duke of Eddington, he’d experienced a change of heart over his forced tenure in England.

Not that he’d changed his mind about leaving. That needed to be addressed between them. Adela’s American heritage was an integral part of her life, and just as Jonathan’s father had wanted for him to experience that side of his background, he wished that for his own daughter. He also hoped that by being given the choice of two cultures, she could control her own life. That meant Cecily would have to accept living between two worlds as well, and he wasn’t sure his proper English lady was agreeable to such a drastic change in her life.

Quite a
lot
needed to be discussed. It was why he’d scaled the wall and invaded her bedroom.

From his experience with his sisters, he now understood that young ladies liked to chat with each other after the evening was over, much, if he was honest, as gentlemen liked to have a drink together at their exclusive clubs. He entirely doubted the conversations were at all the same, but call it what you will, a bit of gossip was a bit of gossip. Since the rest of the house was dark, he assumed Cecily was with her sister.

He chose to lean against the wall in the corner—since his breeches were soaked he hardly wanted to ruin any of the fine upholstery by sitting down. As it was, a moment later he decided to peel off his sodden shirt to protect the floral wallpaper, draping the offending garment over the porcelain washbasin. Then he returned to his shadowed spot and waited. He’d told Cecily he was impatient, and that was true in certain ways, but also false. If the reward was in his grasp, he could bide his time.

Some things were well worth waiting for.

 

Cecily moved into her bedroom, still restive, not sure she was going to be able to sleep, but Eleanor had made it clear she wasn’t in the mood, yet again, for confidences, so there seemed little point in attempting a tête-à-tête.

Despite her own eventful evening, Cecily had seen her sister speaking in the corner with Lord Drury. Even if she hadn’t, she would have heard about it. She did understand how it might not be exactly the right time for confidences between them, but she was also hurt that though they had always been close, Elle still kept this one secret from her.

Men complicated everything, she decided in patent disgust, shedding her dressing gown and dropping it on the floor. It was a toss of the dice as to which one annoyed her more at the moment, Jonathan or Lord Drury.

“We never finished our discussion.”

She whirled, a gasp escaping at the sound of the deep voice in the confines of her bedroom, no less.

Jonathan
, she decided in the next dizzying second as she caught her breath. That solved the puzzle.
He
annoyed her more, for what the devil was he doing there?

He stood in the corner, his brawny arms crossed over his bare chest, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of damp breeches that clung to him in what she perceived to be an indecent manner. In the darkness he loomed taller, his hair was wet and loose, and there was no possible way he could adequately explain his presence. Needless to say, having an almost completely undressed man in her bedchamber was an unprecedented occurrence, not to mention the repercussions of what this meant to her life if they were discovered.

Except, of course, if she married him . . .

Even then, it would cause a furor.

“How did you get in?” She stalled for time, suddenly aware of her nakedness under her simple nightdress. She gathered it around her, crossing her arms over her chest.

He’d noticed, too, his gaze lazily skimming her bodice. “Window.”

It
was
open. She could smell the chimney smoke and the damp, clean scent of the rain. The one-word response was typically Jonathan. “You climbed up the side of the house?”

“Not difficult to do.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She moved to close the window, pulling it shut with a soft thud. “Do you mind,” she asked in a low voice as she turned around, the breath of light rain having dampened her gown, “telling me why you are here, my lord?”

“I would think that would be obvious,
my lady
.” There was just a hint of mockery in his tone. “As I said, our conversation on the dance floor has not been finished.”

Had he been fully dressed, she might have formulated a glib answer. As it was, she couldn’t help how her gaze fastened on the bronzed planes of his bare chest. The defined musculature was . . . fascinating. “This is a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

“I was not going to be granted entrance at the front door for this conversation at this hour, was I?”

“You could call at a more reasonable time—”

“But what if I’m not inclined to wait?” He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her, coming a little out of the shadows.

She’d
set this in motion. She’d known it the minute she looked into the depths of his eyes and practically dared him to seduce her. He smiled, but it was a predatory curve of his lips as his gaze traveled over her. Looking at his sleek damp dark hair and half-dressed state, she suddenly thought Earl Savage a most appropriate nickname. “Jonathan.” She took a cautionary step backward in response to his advance.

“Yes?”

“This is . . . is unthinkable.” She almost took another step backward, but there was really nowhere to go, and besides, she wasn’t afraid of him as much as she was afraid of herself.

One of his dark brows arched upward. “What are you thinking about, my beautiful English lady? If the answer is how it feels when I kiss you, then I confess I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit myself.”

“I’ll be ruined.” It was the merest whisper, and if she was truthful, just words to say while she desperately scrambled for her reason.

“Only if we’re discovered.”

“My father is home.”

“I can be quiet.” He advanced another step, more primal than ever, a tall, bare-chested, elemental presence in her bedroom, and while she should have been alarmed, instead she was filled with a delicious sense of anticipation.

Ever since his proposal during their waltz earlier, she had done nothing but think about what it would be like to accept. Not in terms of being the Countess of Augustine. Not in terms of his reputed wealth. Not in terms of his background or his barbaric nickname either. But with the concept of being his
wife
swirling through her head.

He smiled in that singular way. “Can you?”

“Can I what?” She stared at him, so conscious of his closeness that it affected her breathing.

“Be quiet.” His smile was a swift flash and his voice soft.

She had no idea what he meant precisely, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes that made her pulse race. Heart pounding, no breath left in her lungs; no wonder she was a bit dizzy. “Jonathan, I—”

“Let’s find out.” He came forward then, so swiftly she didn’t even have a chance to react, and he swept her against him and kissed her.

And it was oh so different this time. Hungry. He devoured her, hot, a little wild, demanding, his arms unrelenting and hard, and the sweep of his tongue into her mouth caused a shiver of anticipation. The moment she’d seen him there, so tall and dark in the shadows, she’d known he was intent on claiming not just her acquiescence to the marriage, but
her
.

Maybe it was what she wanted. The decision not given to her, but taken away, for God help her, she was only too willing and wasn’t sure what that made her. Ladies did not countenance men invading their bedchambers, but then again, they did not hare off in carriages with them either, nor did they propose false engagements.

Duke’s daughter or not, maybe she wasn’t a lady.

He doesn’t want to live in England
, a sensible voice whispered in her rational mind.
You need to think about that
. . .
and his daughter and the woman he refused to marry. What happened? It does not seem likely that Jonathan would so shirk his responsibilities . . .

But this wasn’t a contemplative moment.

This—
this
—was a passionate, captivating kiss, and as close to him as she was, she could feel the hardened state of his arousal, which filled her with some trepidation, but also with a sense of overwhelming excitement. It was elemental, but then again, that described the Earl of Augustine very well. He smelled of rain and the night breezes she so missed from the country.

It was a long, determined kiss, and she might be young, naive and in the flush of her first love affair, but she still recognized that it was designed to vanquish, to rule, to dominate. The play of his tongue was wicked, ungovernable, invading, taunting, and then tender and slow, as he changed the angle and sensually wooed her with his mouth.

When he lifted her in his arms as easily as one might sweep up a small child, she understood that the bed was their destination, and the question of their future might be answered in the most definitive way possible.

Clinging to him, she registered the softness of the mattress at her back as he deposited her on the silky sheets, her respiration uneven. He was half naked, his skin damp, his ebony hair swinging forward as he followed her down and kissed her throat, his long, powerful body overshadowing hers. “If you wish to stop me,” he murmured against her skin, “you can.”

“You know I don’t.” Her voice was hushed.

He touched his lips to hers again, softly, gently, at odds with the fiery purpose in his eyes when he lifted his head and gazed at her. “I was hoping you would say that.”

S
eduction. Yes, he’d done it before. In lighthearted ways when failure didn’t matter in the fabric of his life—not that he’d failed ever in this game, but this was the first time the lady’s capitulation had ever meant so much. His usual conquests were women who wished a dalliance with him for any number of reasons, including his looks, his aristocratic status, his fortune . . . his reputed skill in the bedroom.

This encounter was nothing like any of those past liaisons.

Beneath him, so soft and beguiling, Cecily wore nothing but a white gown that did little to hide the curves of her breasts or the neat triangle between her thighs. Her long, pale hair spilled around her slim shoulders, framing her delicate face, and he possessively ran his fingers through those silky strands, reveling in the fine texture, the warmth, the entrancing scent. Her eyes, framed by lush lashes, at the moment poignantly held a look of both adorable confusion and what he recognized as feminine desire.

All along he’d known his cool English miss had an innate sensuality that merely needed to be encouraged and nurtured. He wanted her and she wanted him.

The perfect equation. With a questing finger he traced her lower lip with a light seductive touch, following the sensual curve.

Jonathan’s erect cock advocated urgency while his brain advised caution. She’d just given him her acquiescence. He needed to give something back and assure her this wasn’t only sexual. His breath brushing her ear, his aroused body tense, he whispered, “I’ve imagined this since the first moment we met.” That was a declaration of soul-shattering honesty.

That was why he’d scaled the ivy-covered wall, why he was willing to give up part of his life to marriage. It wasn’t all of it, no, but he could at least tell her that with self-effacing honesty.

Cecily touched his cheek. “I would not welcome you if I hadn’t also.”

She had?
It moved him. He was getting in deeper by the moment.

“There’s more.” His mouth touched hers, teased, tasted, and then lifted. “I’ve pictured our children.”