Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) (22 page)

There ought not to be a next time. There shouldn’t be a
this
time either.

“I adore a challenge,” Jack said, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I suspect you do too.”

“You’ll know soon enough, if you cease prattling and get your falls—”

He was on her in the next instant, his arms around her, his mouth covering hers, and that was exactly, precisely, gloriously where Madeline needed him to
be.

In India, erotic pleasure was a respected and celebrated aspect of married life—and of unmarried life. Jack had sampled as broadly of the local
customs as the next bachelor officer, and yet, he’d never come across a woman quite as sure of her objectives as Madeline Hennessey.

She gave him orders—with her hands, with her mouth, and with her body insinuated against his.

Like that.

Again.

Closer.

Madeline set the pace, urgent but not frantic.

She got half the buttons of Jack’s falls undone, lest there be any mistaking what all of this privacy was in aid of.

And she towed Jack by his cravat across the room, then scooted up onto the table, occupying the spot where Jack had perched earlier.

Jack heeded her commands willingly—
like that, again, closer
. He adopted the pace she set, and he tucked himself up against her heat when she
spread her knees and tugged him within kissing range. He capitulated to Madeline’s whims and commands not because she demonstrated great confidence
about her desires and how Jack ought to fulfill them.

Just the opposite
. Jack suspected—would have bet his best team, in fact—that Madeline Hennessey was a woman desperate to avoid yet another occasion of
disappointment.

In her kisses, her caresses, her muttered directions, and restless shifting, Jack sensed bitterness and hope warring for the upper hand, resignation and
rejoicing battling for control of the lady’s heart.

“Now,” she whispered against Jack’s mouth. “I want you now. Enough fumbling about, enough teasing—”

Fumbling about?

“Madeline Hennessey, I have not yet begun to tease you.”

Fine words, and bravely muttered, but coming from a man who’d spent ten years pretending sexual indifference was
just fine
, those words were
balderdash. Jack wanted Madeline Hennessey with the same passionate craving he’d once reserved for his pipe of opium, and that—that honest,
terrifying truth—gave him some self-restraint.

He gentled their kiss and stroked a hand over Madeline’s hair. “There is no hurry, Madeline. We have all night if you want all night.”

She pulled back, her expression wary. “Five minutes ought to suffice.”

Hell hath no tragedy like a woman inured to disappointment. “I will swive you until your bum wears that table smooth. I will kiss you until you taste
nothing but desire. I will pleasure you until you ache with satisfaction.”

Jack spent the next five minutes elaborating on his promises. He began the kissing all over again, but delicately this time, patiently, tenderly. He kissed
Madeline as if she were his every dream incarnate, his secret wishes come to life. When she was tucked against his chest, sighing gently, he acquainted her
with the delights his hands could wreak on her breasts.

Her nightclothes were unadorned with embroidery or bows, but Jack imbued his caresses with every grace note and flourish he could muster.

And Madeline Hennessey bloomed for him, with as many nuances and hues as the passion flowers Jack had first seen in India. Breath by breath, sigh by sigh,
she exchanged desperation for surrender, and hurry for wonder.

“You excel—” she murmured.

“
We
excel.”

As the fire burned down in the hearth, Jack built a conflagration. He took eternities to insinuate a hand under Madeline’s skirt, and treated himself
to every curve and contour of her limbs at a pace intended to aid memorization.

Sturdy, feminine, graceful, strong, warm, interesting—between Madeline’s ankle and knee, Jack mentally applied a dozen adjectives to the
territory he explored. 

New
territory, and that occasioned both pride and sorrow. The sorrow was an acknowledgment that the love won in India had been lost there too. The pride was
Madeline’s gift to him.

Despite herself, despite all the disappointment she’d endured previously, she was trusting Jack now as a lover, if nothing else.

He shifted, so the only place he touched Madeline was the seat of her pleasure. She leaned back, bracing herself on her hands. Her hair had come loose, a
cascade of russet curls rioting over her shoulders and down her back.

Madeline rocked minutely into his touch. “When you do that….”

Jack pushed her skirts up, so he could see where he caressed. The candles and firelight didn’t illuminate much, but that she’d let him look at
her meant worlds.

“When I do this, it makes me want to be inside you,” Jack said, illustrating his words with a single finger. “Like that.”

“Wicked,” Madeline said. “Wickedly lovely.”

Jack made it lovelier still, and very, very wicked, though his cock was clamoring to finish what his fingers had started. Madeline allowed the pleasure and
let herself find satisfaction when she might have resisted. As Jack let her skirts fall over her knees, and held her panting against his shoulder for a
drowsy moment, he realized she might not know how to delay her own gratification.  

“I don’t want to let you go,” Madeline said. “I can’t move.”

“Good.”

Jack finished undoing his falls and took himself in his hand. He used his cock to nudge and tease at Madeline’s sex, and at first, she remained
passive. Then she began to move, to anticipate Jack’s explorations, and reverse the cat and mouse.

Jack dipped, Madeline scooted, and before he’d maneuvered the requisite quantity of self-control into place, they were… joined.

“Yes,” Madeline whispered. “Don’t just stand there now.”

“I need a moment.” A moment for the jolt of pleasure to fade to a throb. Madeline was heaven—like coming home, and like waking up in an
exotic paradise, both.

“You need—?”

Jack felt comprehension suffuse her—her kiss tasted of smugness.

“Take as long as you like,” she said, stroking his bum. “We have all night if you need it.”

He’d never last all night. At some point, his shirt had come off, along with his cravat and his waistcoat. Madeline entertained herself by applying
her tongue to Jack’s nipples, which entirely defeated his efforts to regain his composure.

“Madeline, I’m trying not to disappoint you.”

She goddamned wiggled. “You taste like sandalwood and”—more torment, counterclockwise—“fruit, or clove maybe. You’re
delicious.”   

I am doomed.
“I will not remain like this, all but buried inside you, and discuss my bath soap.”

Madeline shimmied, so her robe and chemise fell off her shoulders.

“Madeline Hennessey.”

“You can call me Maddie,” she said, taking more of him.

Jack had promised himself that Madeline’s dictates would determine the details of their joining. She’d set the pace, the tone, the tempo.
Now
, not disappointing her wasn’t enough. He needed to please her, to recalibrate her grasp of how much pleasure was possible when two
people set about indulging their passion.

A fine plan.

Jack’s plan went up in flames as Madeline urged him deeper and locked her ankles at the small of his back. He tried to hold back and managed to send
Madeline through the fire once more, but that was the limit of his endurance. When she re-established a tempo, Jack let go.

He wrapped his arms about her, moved in close, and gave her the short, hard strokes that sent pleasure ricocheting through him. Madeline’s nails dug
into his back, and he gloried in the intensity of the sensation.

She shuddered and gasped and might even have called his name. When Jack was sure he’d done right by his lady, he withdrew, and spilled his seed
against her belly.

As they held each other in a loose embrace, breathing in counterpoint, Jack thanked the gods of disporting widowers that he’d been
able
to
withdraw—the timing had been a near thing, indeed.

And now came a pleasure Jack had forgotten—the blend of relaxation and invincibility that a good swiving bestowed in its wake. His legs and back
burned as if he’d run halfway to London, and yet, his mind was utterly tranquil.

Jack groped about on the table behind Madeline and drew her chemise and robe up over her shoulders, for protectiveness had edged its way onto his emotional
agenda along with… humility.

Madeline Hennessey had chosen to take him as her lover, and Jack could only hope he hadn’t disappointed her, because he very much—very
much—hoped there would be a next time.

Many next times. Preferably in a nice, big, comfortable bed.

“Managing a household like this would be a challenge for any woman.” Mrs. Fanning ran a finger down the length of the family parlor’s
mantel. “The problem is not the size of the dwelling, of course.”

Was she disappointed that not a speck of dust was to be found?

Madeline pretended to focus on her embroidery, a pair of doves cooing amid a leafy bower on the corner of her Sunday handkerchief. Mrs. Fanning would find
no soot on the mantel, no andirons that wanted for blacking, no rugs in need of beating, though not for lack of searching on her part.

“I’m sure you’ll tell us what the difficulty is,” Miss DeWitt said.

Mrs. Fanning paused directly in front of the hearth, blocking some of the light and heat the fire cast in Madeline’s direction. The evening was
chilly, the wind having picked up as the sun had set.

“My dear Lucy Anne,” Mrs. Fanning said, “can you imagine introducing a woman’s touch to a household that has not only been deprived
of a lady’s guiding hand for years, but has also been managed by that foreign fellow Jack seems to treasure so dearly?”

This again.

“Mr. Pahdi seems quite competent.” Miss DeWitt held up her cutwork, which was more holes than paper, so diligently had she been snipping away.

“That is the very problem,” Mrs. Fanning retorted, smacking her hand on the mantel. “Mr. Patty
seems
competent. Jack will
forgive him anything, witness Mrs. Abernathy’s unfortunate situation. That’s very pretty, Lucy Anne. Can you make another to match it?”

“I can certainly try.”

Lucy Anne DeWitt was good at trying, at persisting in the face of obstacles, at dealing constructively with the cards fate handed her. Madeline would have
hated her for that, except she respected Lucy Anne, and knew all too well the burden of being an attractive female of marriageable age.

“I think a little variation in a pattern can make the results more interesting,” Madeline said, knotting off the gold thread. “Mrs.
Abernathy will likely be happier in a new position.”

Lucy Anne shot Madeline an incredulous look, for Madeline’s observation came close to arguing with Mrs. Fanning.

Which was just too damned bad. Since making love with Jack in the herbal two nights ago, Madeline had become a different person. How blind she’d
been—how ignorant. All the men she’d permitted intimacies previously had been bumblers at best, and inconsiderate louts more likely.

When Jack Fanning made love with a woman, she was cherished, pleasured, cosseted, and ruined for anything less than unfailing consideration from her
partner.

What a cruel irony that Madeline should learn this lesson from him, whose attentions she ought to have discouraged at every turn.

“Mrs. Abernathy was a fool,” Mrs. Fanning sniffed. “Doubtless the butler was stealing, but he’s the head of the domestic staff and
has Jack’s loyalty. Only a daft woman risks confrontation under such situations.”

Madeline tucked her hoop back into her workbox and closed the lid.

Mrs. Abernathy had been a bigot, a martinet, lazy, and unkind. And yet, she’d thought she was calling her employer’s attention to wrongdoing,
much as Aunt Hattie had. When a man spoke the truth, he was credited with integrity and courage. When a woman spoke the truth…

“Oh, piffle!” Miss DeWitt set aside the tiny scissors she’d been using to fashion her creations. “I’m so clumsy.” She
tucked the pad of her index finger against her lips. “One wants the scissors to be sharp, but then one fails to exercise adequate care.”

Madeline passed her a scrap of cloth from her workbox. “I’ve done the same thing countless times. Wrap it snugly, and the bleeding will soon
stop.” Madeline’s mishaps had been with kitchen knives, not parlor scissors.

“The woman who takes this house in hand will have a great challenge before her,” Mrs. Fanning said, resting a hand on the mantel as if starting
over on a scene at a theatrical rehearsal. “Jack must be made to see that his bachelor ways no longer serve him. He should be entertaining, riding
out to the local meets, spending the Season in London, and donating to the Oxford charities. The lady of the house will have to guide him in these
undertakings without being seen to influence his choices.”

Lucy Anne’s cutwork lay in her lap, a spot of blood marring the white paper she’d been snipping at.

No help from that quarter, but then, Lucy Anne was shrewd.

“Why not simply explain to your son that he’s neglecting the responsibilities of his station?” Madeline asked.

 She respected Jack for choosing the magistrate’s responsibilities over weeks of waltzing in London. She understood why a soldier who’d
seen too much violence would eschew fox hunting, and she grasped why lavish meals intended to impress the local gentry would hold no appeal for Jack.

Jack Fanning was not a boy, not a lordling playing at life. He was a man who’d spent months with death as his cellmate, and he need not impress
anybody by appeasing appearances.

“Do you think I haven’t tried to show Jack the error of his ways, Miss Hennessey?” On an indignant swish of skirts, Mrs. Fanning took the
place on the sofa beside Lucy Anne. “He’s as stubborn as his father. Thank God for Jeremy, who has become my sole comfort, despite his
unimpressive demeanor.”