Between a Rake and a Hard Place (20 page)

She gasped at how quickly he sent her spiraling back into that hot, dark place. “What are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” he said as his fingers found her particularly sensitive spot. He flicked it lightly and buried his nose in the curve of her neck. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Lord in heaven, no,” she said as his lips brushed her temple, her closed eyelids, and down to the hollow of her throat. He sent her into a second sheet-fisting climax after only a few skillful strokes.

Serena gulped air, her breath catching in the glow of tiny after-shocks. He gave her sensitive spot one last stroke and pulled his hand away as she floated in the aftermath.

He could do anything with her now and she hadn't the will to resist. But Jonah only lay beside her, his head propped on his hand as he watched her struggle to come back to herself. A self-satisfied grin lifted the corners of his mouth.

Then he rocked against her hip. His thick hard length was so hot, feverish almost.

“Oh, yes,” she said, amazed to feel the yawning emptiness inside her again where only a moment ago all had been light and peace. The ache roared back to life once again. She turned to face him and took his shaft in her hands. “Now what about you?”

***

She met his gaze squarely. Her eyes glowed with a soft light that was more than just the aftereffects of two bone-jarring climaxes. She seemed to see into his very soul, but he didn't shrink from her intense scrutiny. He read acceptance on her face.

For all of him.

She began exploring his cock and discovered the sensitive bit at the base of its head when his breath hissed in over his teeth.

“Oh, so that's it,” she said knowingly and began to tease that susceptible spot.

Before she could reduce him to helpless pleading, he showed her how to stroke his full length, how to vary the speed and tighten her grip.

“I won't hurt you if I'm that rough?” she asked.

“I invite you to try,” he said through clenched teeth as he rolled onto his back. “Harder.”

Even though she was inexperienced, he gave himself over to her hands willingly. All he was, good and bad, Serena was welcome to know, to handle. He'd let her push his flesh to the limit and his spirit to the farthest edge it could reach.

A muscle ticked in his cheek when she chanted his name softly. Having her call to him released him. A deep groan tore loose from his throat, and his seed pulsed onto his belly in hot spurts.

It wasn't the same as coming inside her would have been. If they'd been joined, he'd lie still and will himself to remain erect as long as possible so that they didn't need to separate. A spending on his own belly was a pale shadow of that greater joy, but he'd come with her beside him, with her sweet hands urging him on, and that was something.

He'd made himself vulnerable to her in those moments of madness. It was like offering his unprotected chest to an enemy's pistol ball. The way she kissed him as she cupped his balls was a direct shot to his heart.

He swung his legs out of bed and strode back to his discarded banyan.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice small.

“Nowhere.”
Truer
words
were
never
spoken
, he thought ruefully. He didn't see any outcome for them that didn't end in disaster all around.

He snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned himself off. If he wasn't going to ruin her—and he was determined not to taint this night with betrayal—he couldn't leave any stains on her linens.

Then he returned to the bed and gathered Serena into his arms, snuggling her so close no one could have fit so much as a farthing between them. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder while he traced lazy circles on her bare bum. She didn't move a muscle. Evidently, she wasn't willing to separate from him yet either.

At least, that's what he thought till he heard a soft snore.

“That's all right. Sleep, Serena. I've got you,” he whispered. Then when she didn't stir, he felt safe to go on. “I do love you, you know. No matter what happens, I'll love you till my last breath.”

Scholars tell us that from time immemorial, humans have been social creatures, relying on the safety of greater numbers for protection. Acceptance by Society, even of the primitive variety, was mandatory for survival.

In these modern times, it is astonishing how many seek to flaunt Society's rules by going their own way and still expect others to continue to approve them. Many have been astounded to find themselves outside the shelter of Society's communal fire of acceptance.

Be forewarned. The ton is an unforgiving circle. And it seems the higher one's star is in ascendance to begin with, the more Society delights in seeing its luminaries tumble to earth.

From
Le Dernier
Mot,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is
Anyone Should Know

Jonah jerked in his sleep and startled himself awake. His heart was pounding like a coach-and-six. He'd had the dream again, the one where he was falling into a black abyss. Then just before he struck the jagged bottom, he always woke up.

He wondered what would happen if sometime he didn't.

If he died in his dream, would his soul fly from him in waking life?

But at the moment, he had more immediate concerns, chief among them was not being caught in Serena's bed. She mumbled something in her sleep and rolled over, turning her back to him. He longed to trace the sweet indentation of her spine, but he didn't want to wake her.

He slipped out of bed, put on his banyan, and walked over to look out her window. The eastern horizon was brightening to pearl gray. Time to make his way back to his chamber before the maids, whose job it was to scrub the hearths every morning, started their rounds.

He should probably just slip out without a good-bye. If he kissed Serena, he'd be tempted to stay for more. He knotted the belt at his waist with the best of intentions, but try as he might, he was drawn inexorably back to the side of her bed.

Serena's hair was spread over the pillow and half obscured her face. Her lips were parted in the relaxation of sleep. One of her hands rested on the counterpane.

Though he ached to kiss her mouth, he settled for lifting that hand to his mouth and brushing her knuckles with his lips.

“Jonah,” she said, her voice warm and drowsy, redolent with the remnants of a night of satisfaction. “Come back to bed.”

“It's nearly dawn. If I don't go now…” He let the thought dangle in the air. What if he were discovered there? It would settle once and for all any question of a match with the Duke of Kent. Of course, they'd face some public censure if the tale spread beyond Wyndebourne, but surely by now she knew he'd do right by her.

She pushed a wayward lock of hair off her forehead and out of her eyes, which suddenly lost their hazy look as she came fully awake. “I understand. I'll see you at breakfast then.”

He'd have stayed if she'd asked, bedamned to the rest of the world. Jonah tamped down his disappointment. He backed away from her, still holding her hand. She stretched with him till just their fingertips touched. Then the space between them exceeded the length of Jonah's reach and the connection was broken.

He slipped out of Serena's chamber and made his way back to his own, cursing himself for a fool with every step.

***

Serena didn't come down for breakfast. Instead Jonah found the marquis there. He'd arrived late the night before after a difficult journey from Town, but sleeping in his own bed had evidently allowed him to shake off any ill effects from the inconveniences of travel. Lord Wyndleton was full of good humor. Negotiations with the royal duke's factor were at a critical juncture, he confided, but going well.

It was enough to put Jonah off his feed and make him go out of his way to avoid his host for the rest of the day, lest he be forced to listen to more of the marquis's plans for Serena. Fortunately, Wyndebourne was large enough for Jonah to be a recluse without being obvious about it.

He took Turk out for a punishing ride to the castle ruins and back, hoping to find Serena there again because her usual mount was missing from the stable. But when he returned to Wyndebourne, he discovered Miss Braithwaite riding Serena's mare at a sedate walk alongside the marquis. The daughter of the house was either closeted with the under-butler, flustered with the final plans for the house party and ball, or she was avoiding him.

The carriages began arriving in the late afternoon. There was a steady stream of coaches, elegant barouches, and more than a few sporty gigs driving down the tree-lined lane that led to Wyndebourne's impressive front doors. The ton had come to the country, and they'd come to play.

Jonah watched their relentless advance from the window in his chamber, feeling as if time had slipped away from him. Or maybe it was only Serena who was slipping away, moving back into her accustomed orbit with the glittering people of much higher rank than he.

Such things had never bothered him before. They rankled his soul sorely now.

For some reason, Mr. Honeywood seemed to be absent from the estate. The usually well-organized army of servants was in mild disarray as they ported in trunks and escorted the overdressed visitors to their guestrooms. Jonah was gratified to see that no carriage with the royal insignia made its way up the long drive.

So far, the Duke of Kent had been content to woo Lady Serena from afar through intermediaries. Jonah hoped that state of affairs continued. If the paunchy, balding royal ever got a chance to truly know Serena, he'd forget about that German princess in a heartbeat.

Jonah's own heart felt tight, as if his ribs were constricting on it.

What
are
you
doing, Sharp?

He strode away from the window, grinding a fist into his other palm. He shouldn't have wasted the day watching from the fringes while Serena's guests descended upon Wyndleton. He ought to have gone back to Portsmouth to try to find Leatherby again. But he couldn't bring himself to leave now.

Somewhere deep in the great house, a bell tolled. It was a warning. The assembled guests had only sixty minutes in which to array themselves in their most impressive finery before supper would be served in the sumptuous dining room. The upstairs servants likely felt they needed six hands each in order to meet all the demands for assistance in dressing hair and last-minute shaves.

Jonah merely washed his face, combed his hair, and donned his best suit of clothes. He'd make a somber showing in all black, a crow amid a flock of showy roosters. His wrist studs were silver instead of gold, and he didn't possess any flashy brocade waistcoats. Unlike his friend Nathaniel Colton, who was something of a sartorial peacock, Jonah always measured a jacket's worth not by its cut or the fineness of its fabric but by how well he could swing his sword arm in it.

He found himself wishing he had a saber at his hip and that he'd find a reason to use it. A man could lose himself in parry and thrust, footwork and strategy. If impending death was singing in the wind, it only served to make him feel more achingly alive.

Jonah had few equals when it came to swordplay. He was much less adept at the verbal sparring that was as much a part of an upper crust dinner as a dowager's ostrich-plumed turban.

He waited another thirty minutes, then squared his shoulders and strode out of the room like a man destined for the rack.

***

“Of course it's true.
Le
Dernier
Mot
wouldn't print it if it wasn't,” Lord Boswell said as he scraped the last of the lemon trifle from his dessert bowl.

Jonah half-expected the garrulous fellow to lick the bowl clean. Even though there were a dozen guests around the table, the man had monopolized the dinner conversation with mindless drivel. If he was that starved for attention, why wouldn't he be greedy for every last bit of his dessert as well?

“Besides,” Lord Boswell continued, “if the Lady Patronesses at Almack's wouldn't make an exception for the Duke of Wellington, they surely wouldn't make one for Lord Talwin. Rules are rules. If a gentleman wishes to be admitted, he must wear knee britches.”

“Still, one wonders why he refused to honor the dress code,” said Lady Lysandra with a malicious grin. “Could it be he didn't wish to wear the white stockings? I've heard some gentlemen are horribly spindle-shanked.”

Lysandra Grey might be Serena's friend, but Jonah wasn't disposed to like her. With her long neck and longer than fashionable nose, she reminded him of a coursing hound he'd once owned. It possessed beautiful conformation and impeccable bloodlines, but it was also nervously vicious. Every chance it got, the damned bitch bit him.

Lord Boswell returned Lady Lysandra's sly smile. “Perhaps I should suggest Lord Talwin try slipping some wooden falsies into his stockings.”

The lady tittered in mock outrage. “Lord Boswell, such talk! You are desperately wicked.”

“Not quite desperate, but I cannot deny the wicked,” he quipped.

Jonah was relieved when Lord Wyndleton rose from his place at the far end of the long table, signaling that the interminable supper was over.

“Gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the smoking room?” the marquis said. It was phrased as a question, but everyone knew there was but one answer.

Everyone except Serena.

“Oh, father, not tonight, please,” she said, her gaze sweeping around the table. Jonah thought her gaze rested for a bit longer on him than the others. Or maybe it was only that he wanted it to. “Instead of splitting up this evening, I was hoping we might all remain together and adjourn to the parlor to play games.”

The marquis's lips drew downward into an inverted smile, but he nodded grudgingly. Evidently, he had as much trouble saying no to his daughter as Jonah did.

The company rose as one, and pairing off, they all followed Serena out. Lord Boswell had abandoned Lady Lysandra in order to scurry to the end of the table to offer his arm to Serena. Jonah found himself escorting Miss Braithwaite somewhere in the middle of the press.

“Is something wrong, Sir Jonah?” Amelia murmured as they processed in queue from the grand dining room to the equally grand salon. When a family had been wealthy as long as Serena's had, their entire home took on a patina of opulence. From the carefully chosen furnishings to the exquisite
objets
d'art
, every chamber in the great house proclaimed the exalted state of the Wyndleton name more effectively than a trumpet fanfare. “I must say, you don't seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You didn't contribute much to the general conversation at supper,” Miss Braithwaite said.

“I don't think the ton cares what I have to say about its fashions or follies, and no weightier topics were offered.”

“Of course not. Weighty topics are bad for the digestion,” she said. “And I didn't see you chatting with either of the ladies seated at your sides beyond a few words. Miss Bianca Dobby seems quite taken with you, and it wouldn't have cost you a thing to make polite conversation. I do wish you hadn't ignored her like that. I wouldn't have thought you the type to play cruel games.”

Which of the two shy ladies on either side of him was Bianca Dobby? He really ought to have paid better attention when introductions were made before dinner. He'd been listening with half an ear for Serena's voice in the midst of so many mingled conversations and didn't remember most of the people he'd met that evening.

“I'm not one for game playing of any sort,” he said gruffly.

As they entered the salon and found seats, Jonah noticed that Miss Braithwaite's gaze tracked the movements of the marquis as he escorted the widowed Baroness Godfrey to a comfortable chair near the fireplace.

It occurred to Jonah that he and Miss Braithwaite had a great deal in common in this company. As a baronet, he occupied the lowest rung of the social ladder. As a governess, neither officially a servant nor one of the family, she wasn't even permitted to steady the ladder.

Yet if that entry in the Portsmouth church register was to be believed, Miss Braithwaite was, in reality, the highest ranking woman there. Yet for Serena's sake, she was prepared to be the lowest.

What
nonsense
there
is
in
the
world.
It sickened him. Jonah was seized by the almost uncontrollable urge to grab Serena and carry her off till they were someplace free of the insanity of Society and its expectations of them.

The only thing wrong with that plan was he had no idea where that would be.

“Now, what shall we play?” Lady Lysandra clapped her hands together. “What about the Minister's Cat?”

“Begging your pardon, milady, but the Minister's Cat is for dowagers and dotards,” Lord Boswell said, stifling a belch by pressing a fist to his chest.

“How about Sardines?” someone suggested.

“There are plenty of places to hide in Wyndebourne, but I think Sardines might be more fun once you all learn the lay of the house more completely,” Serena said. “We don't want to lose anyone on the very first night.”

“Getting lost is the whole point,” Lord Boswell said with a wink. “Provided you get lost with the right person.”

The under-butler appeared in the doorway and sidled haltingly toward the marquis. He spoke softly enough for only Lord Wyndleton to hear him. The marquis rose immediately.

“Pray, excuse me,” he said. “A matter has arisen to which I must attend. Good night all.”

His glance darted briefly at Miss Braithwaite and then he strode from the room.

Once Wyndleton was gone, Lord Boswell slapped his thigh. “I have it. What about Hot Cockles?”

“An unusual name. How is it played?” Miss Braithwaite asked, dragging her gaze from the door through which Lord Wyndleton had just disappeared.