Seven Nights to Forever (5 page)

Never had a man made her
feel
beautiful.

Until now.

She could only answer with a breathless “Thank you.” The tingle building in her belly spread out to her fingers and toes in a wave of light, airy sensation. She dipped her chin to her chest, trying but failing to hide the smile she could not keep from her lips.

“I quite like your gown as well.”

A little giggle bubbled up from her chest. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. The color is nice, too.”

“Mauve. Is it a favorite of yours, then?” she teased.

“Not in general. I usually prefer blue.”

“I have a blue gown. Well, more navy than a true blue. If you’d like, I can change . . . and you can assist me.”

His smile transformed his face, erasing the years. With his imposing build and rugged features, she had taken him for a man at least a decade her senior. But she now doubted he was more than a handful of years older than her two and twenty.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he said with a chuckle that warmed the room.

She read the desire, the need, clear as day, in his eyes. Yet the realization hit her that her body was not the primary commodity he sought. He wanted her time. Regardless of his compliments, she had the distinct impression she could be passably pretty, and he would be equally content with her.

The weight of expectation, of duty, of obligation, lifted from her shoulders. The last lingering bit of tension eased out of her and she shifted, moving closer to him. Drawn to him. With her shoulder pressed against his biceps and her arm draped lightly over his, their hands still entwined, she rested against him. His coat held the cool, crisp scent of the night air and a light, spicy hint of a man. Of James.

“Since you are not a guest, I take it you reside in London. Do you also work in the city?”

“Yes. My office is near the docks.”

Not the most pleasant part of town. Surely he could afford to situate himself in a more prosperous area. “By choice?”

“By convenience. My interests are in shipping.”

She could well imagine him on the deck of a ship, effortlessly working the rigging. His skin coated in a light sheen of sweat, his muscles bunching and flexing under the hot sun. Though merchants were apt to spend their days behind a desk, his work-roughened hands indicated he was not averse to a bit of hard labor. “You must be experiencing quite the boom since the trade restrictions were lifted and Bonaparte’s ships no longer troll the seas.”

“I’ve seen the benefits, yes.”

She paused, waiting for him to elaborate, but he remained silent. Modesty. Not a trait often seen in men. Most grabbed any opportunity to try to impress her with their successes, however large or small.

She tried to discover more about him, but all of her questions led to the same answer. He worked. He did not belong to a club, had a decided preference against the theatre, and judging by the frown at the mention of social functions, he did not care for those, either. “Do you spend every waking moment at your office?”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“Why?”

“I prefer it there over being at home.”

What an odd response. “Do you at least enjoy your time at work?”

He shrugged, the wool sleeve of his coat a soft rub against her bare arm. “Do you enjoy your time here?”

Was that a thinly veiled “no” to her question, or was he merely indifferent? Viewing his work as a nonnegotiable facet of life. Regardless of how luxurious the surroundings, surely he could not believe she would ever go so far as to classify her nights spent on her back as enjoyable. That was the last word she associated with this house.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely correct. Her gaze traced his strong profile, from the straight line of his nose to his jaw darkened with a shadow of a day’s beard. It wasn’t that she had never had a handsome client. A rarity for certain, but not unheard of. It was more . . . him. James. She sensed a quiet kindness in his soul, along with a distinct echo of loneliness that matched her own.

“I enjoy being with you.” The truth fell from her lips before she could stop it.

A little smile tugged on his mouth. “Thank you.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. A gentle, almost absent motion that spoke of companionship and nothing more. “Have you tired of the subject of me?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Alas, I have. I find you much more interesting. Will you tell me about yourself? Do you have a family?”

“Doesn’t everyone? None of us are simply placed on this earth.”

He cast her a glance, one eyebrow lifted, at her glib retort. But she found no shade of censure in his expression. Rather, a touch of humor lurked in the depths of his eyes.

And he continued. One question after another. He never pressed too hard, but nor would he be diverted. She parried to the best of her abilities, fortifying each response with just enough truth to keep it from ringing with the hollow note of a lie. For the sum her clients paid Rubicon, they received the use of her body, her expertise in the art of pleasure, and her conversation skills, if so desired. But she never gave them herself. And no matter how enjoyable her time with James, she knew it would not and could not last beyond the dawn. A fact etched in stone.

So she pushed aside the temptation to open even a tiny bit of herself to him, and instead cherished the evening for what it was. The reprieve she had desperately needed when she had entered her sitting room but a handful of hours ago.

Even reprieves, however, must come to an end. She could not say who had allowed their conversation to lull. Perhaps it had been by mutual design. The silence was only broken by the occasional pop and crack of the logs shifting. The fire in the white marble hearth was in sore need of a prodding, yet she made not one move toward the iron poker. She had passed the point of merely resting against him some time ago, and now leaned into him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her legs folded beside her on the settee. The solid weight of his body a comfort she did not want to give up.

He glanced about the room and then over his shoulder. “Do you not have a clock?”

“Not in here, no.” As clients rarely lingered in the sitting room, she had never bothered to acquire a clock for the room. And more importantly, with only one client an evening, time was of little importance. The only requirement a departure by dawn.

Shifting, he pulled a plain silver pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at the face. “It’s quite late,” he said, tucking the watch back in his pocket. “I don’t want to keep you from your rest, so I will be on my way.”

She took the cue for what it was and reluctantly swung her feet to the floor. He stood and, with her hand still in his, helped her to stand. Her skirt was a wrinkled mess, but it was the least of her concerns as she led him the short distance to the door.

He stopped and turned to face her. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.”
Please, ask for me tomorrow night.
She tamped down the words, kept the request hidden within. James would never return. She felt it in her bones. He was not a man who made a habit of spending his evenings with a woman like her.

His gaze dropped down to his shoes and then back up to meet hers. “You must think me quite odd.”

He could not be further from the truth. She thought him wonderful, and she would ever be grateful for whatever had prompted him to enter this house.

“Why must I think you odd?”

“Because I spent an evening with a beautiful woman and didn’t once attempt to steal so much as a kiss.”

She took a half step toward him. “That can be remedied,” she whispered.

His grip on her hand tightened, and she swore she felt the tremor race through his body. His eyes darkened. No longer a soft, olive green but banked with an undeniable need. He slowly, ever so slowly, lowered his head. Her free hand coasted up his sleeve to his biceps, the muscles hard as iron beneath her touch. She tipped her chin up, her spine lengthening, reaching for him. Her pulse pounded through her veins. She felt his arm wrap around her waist. Just before her lips brushed his, he ducked his head. Then warm lips pressed against her neck. The lightest of touches. The lightest of kisses.

The short, rapid puffs of his breaths singed her skin, the hint of beard the gentlest of scrapes. The soft strands of his hair tickled her ear. A flush of heat washed over her. Gooseflesh pricked her skin. Breath catching, she rocked on her feet, swaying into him, her eyes drifting closed. A small part of her mind marveled at the intensity of her response to him. Just his lips gliding over the delicate skin of her neck made every nerve in her body hum with a need for more.

A sigh of longing fluttered past her lips. She arched her neck, granting him greater access. His lips slowly whispered up over her jaw, across her cheek. And finally found hers.

His kiss was light, reverent, a soft slow meld of skin against skin that she never wanted to end. At the flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips, she eagerly opened to him, needing more. His hot tongue found hers, twined decadently with hers, and she lost herself in him. Gave herself over to the pure need and longing in his kiss.

She somehow kept the moan of protest from shaking her throat when his lips left hers. He pulled her that last remaining distance toward him, until she was pressed full against him, until she could feel his heart slamming against his chest.

For she didn’t know how long, he simply held her. Her cheek resting against his chest, his powerful body folded around her, their hands still entwined.

Then he pressed his lips to the top of her head and took a step back, his arm unwinding from around her waist. His lashes swept down, a harsh wince flickering across his face, tightening his lips into a straight line. But when he opened his eyes an instant later, that desperation was gone. The need was still there, lurking in the olive green depths, but the stark, painful desperation had vanished.

And it struck her. He had needed this evening as badly as she.

His grip on her hand loosened. It took all of her willpower to relinquish her hold on him as his long fingers slipped from hers.

Without another word, he tipped his head to her. In a daze, she reached out to press against the wall. The well-oiled latch made nary a sound as it released, the hidden door swinging open. And he turned on his heel and disappeared down the darkened corridor, leaving her standing there in her elegant little sitting room, her hand, still warmed from his grasp, clenched at her side.

JAMES
tied his cravat in a simple knot and went into his dressing room. After donning a cream waistcoat, he grabbed his nut brown coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Most gentlemen employed the services of a valet, but he was of the firm belief that dressing oneself was not all that difficult of a task. He had managed it as a lad and could continue to do so as an adult. The size of his bank account had thankfully not stripped that knowledge from him.

Doing up the buttons of his coat, he went back to his bedchamber. He tugged on the edge of his sleeve, righting it beneath his coat, and looked to the window beside the bed he had recently vacated. The navy drapes were drawn back, revealing a never-ending swath of gray that hung low in the sky. The weak, hazy daylight gave little indication of the time of day. But that the sun even showed itself reminded him he had risen far past his usual hour.

He had never had need of a servant or a valet to wake him. Even his sleeping mind wished to limit the hours in his bed. But he had slept better last night than he had . . . ever. With that kiss playing itself in his mind, he had laid his head on his pillow, not to stir again for hours.

He had spent countless nights in his bed with only his hand for companionship. Long, lonely, sleepless nights. The only light from the smoldering embers in the fireplace, the massive town house quiet as a grave about him. He certainly would not have refused an offer from a woman during any of them. Yet the one night when he had actually received an offer, and not just one, what had he done?

Refused them.

He gave his head a self-deprecating shake, the beginnings of a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “James, you most definitely have become an old man.”

But the offer had not truly been an offer, and that he had not been able to forget. Rose had been beyond beautiful. An image conjured straight from his fantasies. But once he had stood face-to-face with her, the thought of using her to sate his own selfish desires had posed too formidable an obstacle.

His body had been more than willing. His damn prick jumping to life, eager and needy, at every one of her smiles, never mind when she actually touched him. He could still feel the path her delicate fingertips had taken as they had coasted up his thigh, branding the arch of his arousal with her touch. No doubt in his dreams that touch would shift, his trousers slip away. Her grip would turn sure, gliding up and down his length slicked from the lush pleasures of her beautiful mouth, her eyes glinting with a need that matched his own as she urged him to completion.

He let out a short grunt and reached down to adjust himself. That thought alone would fuel his fantasies for many nights to come.

But above all, it had felt so good to hold her, to have the soft, light weight of her body pressed against his. To have her small hand held tight in his. To have the sweet, subtle feminine scent of her fill his every breath. It had been much too long since he had simply held a woman. Before his marriage, he would never have considered such a simple act a luxury. But after three years of famine, he had soaked up Rose’s presence as if she were a precious drop of rain in the desert.

He would have much preferred to stay with Rose, to extend their chaste evening through the dawn, to not have to return here. Even though days upon days could pass without him even laying eyes on
her
, just being in this house was difficult. That damn stark desolation settling about him like a cloak whenever he walked through the front door.