Kissing Comfort (26 page)

Her fingers had just curled around the spine of one book when Bode's hand closed over her wrist. Instead of helping draw the ledgers in, he directed her hand to nudge them away. They hovered precariously while her fingers scrabbled to catch them. His push was stronger than her pull, and the last three books slid to the floor. Their landing was softened by the ones that had fallen before.

Comfort reared back her head, breaking off the kiss. She had just enough time to suck in a breath. What she meant to say to him was lost as his mouth returned to hers. She heard the whisper and rustle of papers sliding across the desk, the odd skittering sound of rolling pencils, and the flutter of documents as they floated to the floor. Her fingers closed about the crystal paperweight, but he took it from her, afraid perhaps that she meant to bludgeon him with it. She tensed, expecting to hear it crash, but nothing like that happened. She didn't know what he did with it. A moment later, she didn't care.

Bode palmed her hips, lifted her, and set her down on top of the desk. She became the paperweight for those few things that hadn't been cleared away. She laid her hands over his when they came to rest on her knees. His fingers curled around the fabric of her gown anyway, gathering it by inches, raising her hem above the laced tops of her leather boots.

His mouth was humid. Hot. There was a hint of anise on his breath, and the scent of soap lingered on his skin. She had an urge to touch his face, to lay a palm against his cheek, perhaps cup his clean-shaven jaw. It would be like holding the kiss.

Before she could surrender to the temptation, Bode's hands shifted from her knees to her hips. He inched her backward and stepped between her legs. It was the first time she realized her hem was level with her knees.

Startled, Comfort tore her mouth away and turned her head, tucking her chin into her shoulder. His lips touched the exposed cord in her neck. He followed the line to the hollow behind her ear. She put up a hand to push him away, but her fingertips offered no real resistance. He kissed them.

A shiver tripped lightly down her spine. Her breath caught. He teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue and then whispered something rough and hot against her ear. She didn't know what he said. The warmth of his breath tickling her skin was what mattered.

His mouth brushed her cheek, her temple, and for a moment rested against her forehead. One hand slid deeply into her dark hair, loosening the combs and removing a pencil. She made a grab at them before they clattered to the desk, and her hair unfolded over the back of his hand like a bolt of Japanese silk. He twisted one of the cascading waves around his fingers and tugged, directing her head toward him again and her mouth exactly where he wanted it.

Her mouth, her splendidly formed and inviting mouth, was damp, faintly swollen, and rose petal pink. He could see the tip of her tongue where she pressed it against her teeth. It made his breathing quicken and his nostrils flare. He bent his head and rubbed his lips against hers. Her mouth opened. He pressed his entry, deepening the kiss. They shared a single breath, and when it wasn't enough, he tore away and buried his face in her neck.

She moaned softly as he sipped her skin. The sound of it stirred him. That first taste only whet his appetite. She made him afraid. She always had.

In his eyes she was both temptress and innocent, and for as long as he'd known her, the scales had mostly favored the latter. But they were shifting, shifting quickly, and the balance was precarious at best. She was on the precipice of understanding the change. He could feel it in the advance and retreat of her responses, the way she opened to his mouth and closed to his hands.

She was dangerously curious. Wanting, but not certain what she wanted.

And he couldn't be sure that she wanted it from him.

His little brother cast a very long shadow.

Comfort sensed something was different even before Bode broke off the kiss. She raised her face, following the kiss until it was no longer possible. When he straightened, he rested his chin on the crown of her head so she couldn't meet his eyes.

She drew in a shaky breath and whispered uncertainly, “What is it?” His chin rubbed her scalp, and she knew he was shaking his head. “Tell me.”

Bode smiled, but the shape of it was rueful. “It's not you.”

“I know it's not.”

Her response surprised a back-of-the-throat chuckle from him.

“Well, it's not, is it?” she said. “I'm doing it right.”

He raised his head and lifted her chin. “You're doing it very right.”

“That's what I thought,” she said gravely. She removed her chin from the cup of his hand and placed all of her fingertips against his chest. She applied enough pressure to encourage him to take a step back. As soon as he did, she quickly closed her splayed knees and pushed her dress over them. She didn't jump down from her perch on the desk, but she did curl her hands around the edge to help her shove away when she was ready. Right now, Bode was still standing too close. If she moved, she'd be a barnacle on his hull.

Comfort stared at him, her dark eyebrows lifting a fraction in inquiry.

“Apparently I cannot be persuaded,” Bode said.

She frowned slightly, slow to understand his meaning until she recalled their exchange just before she kissed him. She'd told Bode that she did not love his brother and wondered aloud if he believed her.
I could be persuaded
, he had said. And now his answer was
apparently not
.

“Mm.” Her gaze fell away, and she looked on either side of her for the combs he'd removed while she gathered her hair and wound it around her hand. She loosely twisted her hair and stabbed it with the combs to secure it. Aware that Bode was studying her again, this time with wry amusement clearly defining the shape of his mouth, she gestured at him to move out of the way. What he did was pull her chair close behind him, palm the paperweight he'd dropped there earlier, and sit down, effectively blocking her from abandoning her roost unless she wanted to land in his lap. Which she did not.

Leaning back, Bode bobbled the paperweight between his hands and stretched his legs under the desk. He saw her eye his shins as if she were gauging the distance between them and the pointed toes of her leather boots, but he judged it was more show than real threat.

Tilting her head to one side, Comfort considered him. “It's difficult to know what to make of you, Beau DeLong.”

The infinitesimal lift of one corner of his mouth hinted again at his wry, reserved humor. “Is that right?”

She nodded. “Bram is always so engaged and engaging. You're not at all like that.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Do you dislike comparisons?”

He shrugged. “It's what people do. How they judge. But I don't know that it's helpful.”

“I think it must be human nature to distinguish what sets each of us apart, but there are always more commonalities than there are differences. Certainly that's true for you and Bram.”

“Really?” He couldn't recall that anyone had ever said so.

“Of course. There are obvious things like the similarities in your height and frame, your carriage and gestures. You both have a habit of plowing your hair with your fingers, and you arch the same eyebrow. Even the way you sit when formality isn't a requirement is almost identical. While you ease toward leaning but never quite surrendering your spine, Bram, I fear, actually becomes boneless, while you remain alert.”

Bode had a vision of himself as she saw him. He was indeed sprawled in the chair, his legs slightly splayed, his shoulders resting comfortably against the leather, his hips inclined forward, but there was a line of tension that was his constant companion, not unwelcome because he believed it was what made him a sentient being. He supposed it was what she meant when she said he never quite surrendered his spine.

“Go on,” he said.

“I imagine you're more curious about traits of character.”

“That is understating it.”

“Very well. You share a wicked sense of humor and uncanny perception. You're both clever, acutely so, confident, convinced of the rightness of whatever you do, and although it reveals itself in different ways, there is generosity in your nature. You both are frequently at odds with your mother, but you appreciate your family even in those circumstances, perhaps most especially then.”

“I don't know about that last,” Bode said. “But I believe you're right about the rest.”

“Oh, I am.” Her smile was deliberately smug. “About all of it, actually.”

A low, appreciative chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. “Your conceit is rather more attractive than it should be.” He wanted to kiss her again. In point of fact, he wanted to do a great deal more than that. It was tempting to think that he could have her. He wondered, though, if he could keep her.

Nothing was so clear to him as his intention to keep her.

“What are you going to do about Bram?” he asked. Like a shadow overtaking light, distress chased away the lightness of feeling he'd glimpsed in her eyes. He regretted the loss.

“I thought I'd already done it,” she said. “I was firm regarding my expectations. There could have been no misunderstanding.” She compressed her lips, remembering the laudanum.

“What are you thinking?”

“The laudanum that he keeps at his bedside. I wonder . . .” She held up her hands, palms out. “I don't know. Perhaps he never really heard what I was saying.”

“Perhaps. But it's more likely that you're excusing him too easily.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I've never quite understood how that happens. Does he do something to encourage me to make excuses for him, or am I really so charitable?”

“It's not one or the other,” Bode said. “It's both. And you're not alone.”

“Oh, I realize that, but it's always easier to see that he's using misdirection when he's not performing the trick for me.” Comfort saw Bode's mouth twitch. “I suppose he never catches you unaware.”

“He does it regularly. Why do you think he wouldn't?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I thought you'd be a more skeptical audience.”

“I am. But he's good. Very good. And as you pointed out, misdirection is easier to see when you're not the one being misdirected.” Bode folded his hands on his chest. “So what will you do?”

“I'll call on him and remind him of our conversation. If he can't, or won't, tell his mother the truth, then it falls to me. I offered before to sit with him while he told her, but he didn't want that, and now, I don't want him. I'll do it on my own.”

“Are you certain you want to do that?”

“I'm quite certain I don't, but a letter is a cowardly compromise.”

“I wasn't thinking of a letter. I was thinking that you might allow me to explain the situation to her.” Bode saw Comfort stiffen, her surprise palpable. “I guess not.”

“I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't. I offered.”

“Then, no. I can't accept. It will only confuse and complicate.”

“Oh, good, because I thought we were already in those waters.” He ignored the sour look she gave him. “I have more experience than you delivering unpleasant news to my mother, particularly as it concerns Bram.”

“I'm sure that's true, but what is the explanation for your involvement? She'll ask, you know.”

“She will. And there's nothing the least complicated about my answer. I'll tell her that you came to me with the truth about the engagement and asked for my advice.”

Comfort's eyebrows lifted. “Asked you for advice?”

“I thought that would be less offensive to you than telling her you nearly ravished me in the venerable offices of Jones Prescott.” Bode swiveled his chair out of the way in the event she recovered herself quickly enough to deliver a bruising blow to his shins. She surprised him, though, because when she got over her initial astonishment, she had to press her hand to her mouth to contain her laughter.

It occurred to him that perhaps he should be offended.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said through her fingers. “But I'm imagining how your mother would greet that news. I think there's every possibility that she might be rendered speechless.”

It wasn't difficult to understand why that would amuse her. His mother believed there were correct sentiments for every occasion and not having those at the tip of one's tongue was not only ill-mannered and a sign of poor breeding, but also hinted at an impoverished mind. Alexandra had probably shared her views with Comfort; she certainly had shared those opinions with him.

“You make it very tempting to tell her,” Bode said.

Comfort sobered. Her fingers fell away from her lips and curled around the edge of the desk again. “I'll speak to her alone, but thank you for the offer.”

“As you like.”

Now that Bode's legs were out of the way, Comfort was able to slide off her desk. She didn't ask him to vacate her chair, choosing instead to busy herself picking up the papers and ledgers that he'd swept onto the floor. She was relieved that he didn't lend a hand. It would have made the task awkward somehow. This way, when she finished, she could pretend the warmth in her cheeks was the result of exertion and not from the memories of how each object had come to be where it lay.

She set everything on the desk without attempting to organize it. One of her hands rested on an accounts ledger. “You never mentioned what brought you around to see my uncles.”

“No, I didn't.”