The Reluctant Governess (12 page)

“I'm going to kiss you good night now. With your permission, of course.”

Eliza wished he wouldn't ask. Or say anything at all. If he just acted, she wouldn't be complicit and she could harden her heart against him.

But no—that traitorous muscle was beating fast, and her face lifted a fraction to his.

“I take it that's a yes?”

She shut her eyes. He would steal his kiss. But she was going to steal from him tonight, and didn't want him suspecting.

Fool. Fool. Fool. Tomorrow she'd be gone and put this odd series of incidents behind her. What was the harm? It was only a kiss, and the first had been quite lovely until her embarrassment set in. It was ridiculous to be twenty-four years old and been kissed only once. She couldn't count little Jonathan Hurst's sloppy kisses as he tearfully bade her good-bye.

Eliza wanted to be a modern woman—not so modern that she behaved like a trollop and betrayed her principles. But surely a second kiss with an attractive man wasn't so very sinful? She wasn't going to make a habit out of it. This was more or less an experiment—an educational experience, as it were.

She nodded.

She would lull him into comfort, then take his notebooks. She might even do so now, slip her hand onto his broad chest, so very near that inner pocket, scrabble at the silk lining but lose her nerve.

Eliza could feel his heart beating, too. So she wasn't the only one affected by . . . whatever this was. He may have kissed one hundred women—or a thousand—but he was not unmoved.

His mouth brushed hers, as gentle as the fingers on her cheek. This was not a kiss of possession. If anything, it was somewhat tentative. Delicate, as if she might break or change her mind at any second.

Or punch him, as she did before. But Eliza wasn't surprised this time, or ashamed of her wanton response to him. She would use this interval in the hallway, file it away like Oliver filed his news clippings, place it in the scrapbook of her heart.

She
did
have one, thwarted though it had been by circumstances and duty. It wasn't easy to stop herself from yearning for what would never be, but she'd disciplined herself to accept her lot in life. She'd mooned over Richard Hurst much too long for a sensible young woman.

But, quite frankly, Eliza was a little tired of being sensible, and was certain Nicholas Raeburn didn't have a sensible bone underneath his linen shirt and silk waistcoat. She would not think what was under his striped trousers, though she had seen with her very own eyes what she should not have seen.

Oh, she had to get away before it was too late. Tomorrow could not come soon enough. Nicholas Raeburn confused her, aggravated her, made her feel addled. In his presence, she struggled for self-control, and longed for the simplicity of a balance sheet or a row of well-memorized ivory typewriter keys. His buttons were almost the same size as those keys, but felt vastly different. The raised filigree tickled her fingers and made her want to slip them through their threading.

Evidently Nicholas had the same idea, for the hand that was not cupping her cheek was fumbling with the tiny hooks and eyes on her shirtwaist collar. She would have much better luck than he.

It was quite thrilling to do several things at once—tongue dancing and sliding, fingers nimbly exploring, remembering to breathe. Standing upright was becoming a touch difficult, but Eliza would not fall prostrate in Nicholas's arms even if the idea was appealing.

He nibbled at her lower lip and somehow it felt different from when she worried it herself. Her mother was always after her to stop that bad habit.

Best not to think of her mother right now. She would not approve of the sudden breeze at Eliza's neck as her collar drifted down, or Nicholas's touch as he skimmed her throat with rough fingertips. She shivered and blazed simultaneously. How very odd.

“Eliza,” he sighed into her mouth. She'd never loved her name more.

Her fingers had been busy, too, and her hands now lay flat against his bare skin. He was hot, but not feverish, and the sparse auburn curls on his chest felt silky.

Good Lord. She had exposed his chest. She was undressing the first male who was not little Jonathan Hurst, who would, as she recalled, squirm at standing still for it. Nicholas Raeburn was absolutely still except for his tongue—even his fingers had stopped their exploration at her brazen touch.

What was she
doing
?

What did it matter? Tomorrow she would be gone.

By the gods. Nick was kissing Eliza Lawrence.

No, that wasn't quite right. She was kissing
him.
And fondling his bare chest with clever fingers that had unbuttoned him without any awkwardness, while his leaden hand was useless with her damned hooks. Her blouse seemed to fasten down the neck and over one shoulder, but it was all he could do to work at the lace-banded collar. It must pull over her head, but he hardly thought she'd allow him to do that in the hallway.

In fact, she should not be allowing any of this at all. Nick was wise to the ways of women, and he was fairly certain Eliza Lawrence did not hold him in high regard. Just a few minutes ago she'd been angry at him, and he was not so convinced of his own prowess with the fairer sex that he'd made her love him as they climbed the stairs.

What was she
doing
?

What did it matter? Tomorrow she'd be gone.

But they still had tonight, and if Eliza was wondering over the wisdom of her continued virginity, Nick was happy to help her examine the issue.

No—he wouldn't go so far. She'd really hate him tomorrow. But what was the harm in a little play and pleasure? He might get to see those elusive breasts that brushed against his chest as her hands stroked the column of his throat.

Nick dearly hoped she wasn't about to strangle him.

She'd said she wouldn't disrobe for him, but maybe she was changing her mind. He'd settle for a glimpse of thigh or calf or ankle if he had to, all in the name of art. The vision forming for his newest painting thrilled him, and the more smooth skin he was able to see would be very helpful.

Yes, this extraordinary moment was an artistic exercise. Research. Like a good governess, he'd go on a field trip and leave no stone unturned, no golden leaf unexamined, no sensual path unexplored.

How far would Eliza let him travel before she coshed him on the head? There was only one way to find out.

His legs weren't particularly steady, but he managed to maneuver them to the elaborate molding surrounding his bedroom door. Surely she could feel the ridges and grooves against her spine and realize where she was. Her backward step over the threshold would answer his question and grant him time to formulate a suitable plan.

Nick didn't want to scare her. He just wanted to kiss her. And kiss her. And kiss her.

Everywhere.

Or at least where she would let him. He wondered if a girl like Eliza Lawrence knew where her tastiest morsel was, and how delicious it would be for both of them if she permitted its discovery.

He was robbed of breath as she nipped the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes to see her lashes flutter against her cheeks, a tiny V of confusion between her brows, as if she wasn't absolutely sure she knew what she was doing.

Perfect.

Nick didn't know, either. It was not his style to take advantage of the help . . . except for that maid so long ago, and she'd taken advantage of him, really.

Eliza was pressed against him now, her hand on his erratic heart, her navy skirts against his burgeoning erection. It wouldn't do to take her against the doorway, tempting though that was. He wasn't going to take her at all, just teach her a lesson that would inform them both.

But first, he'd have to get her to dance backward into his bedroom.

Nick deepened the kiss until he felt the pulse jump at her throat, his other hand moving from her shoulder to her waist. He could feel the bones of her corset beneath the layers of fabric, a cage keeping her erect when he wanted her relaxed. His hands were shaking so badly he wondered if he could untie the vicious laces when the time came, as surely it must.

This was no ordinary kiss—or else he'd been too long without a bed partner and was making more of it than he should. Nick was a realist and not a romantic, yet this encounter threatened to take over his senses
and
his good sense, just as it appeared to be doing to Miss Eliza Lawrence, professional prude.

He wouldn't question her change of heart. Lapse in judgment. Whatever it was.

No matter what you called it, it felt good. Nick felt almost human for the first time in days, his body humming with alertness. Eliza's every little gasp was music to his ears, her touch electric against his needy flesh, the taste of her impossibly sweet.

But he had to break the kiss, if only for a few seconds.

She looked up at him, eyes clouded, lips wet and pink.

“Come into my room, Eliza,” Nick whispered.

“I—I shouldn't.” She didn't say it with much conviction.

“I promise I won't do anything you will not like.” Nick hoped he could keep his promise. It was hard to know when the old Miss Lawrence would return, and she was not apt to like anything he had in mind.

“Just for a few minutes,” he coaxed, thumbing her cheek. “I want to kiss you properly, not up against a wall. You can't be comfortable with the doorframe digging into your back. And quite frankly, I'm not sure how much longer I can stay on my feet.”

“Only kissing. I cannot—” Her words were raspy silk, as if her tongue had forgotten one of its purposes.

Nick stilled her objections with one finger. “Don't worry. I have no nefarious designs upon your person. Well, I do, but I value my life, and you terrify me a little. I still see you with that sword, you see. I will do nothing more than kiss you. You'll leave tomorrow as pure as you are right this minute.”

“You swear it?”

“May I be struck blind and never paint again,” he affirmed. He dearly hoped the gods weren't listening—it was just his luck that he'd forget himself, tread over the line, and spend the rest of his life in darkness. Right now the only darkness Nick sought was in his bedroom, though he hoped Eliza would allow the glow of his bedside lamp. He wanted to watch her flush with desire and writhe beneath his hands and mouth.

“I will not take my clothes off.”

“I wouldn't dream of asking you to,” Nick lied. She would ask
him
if things went his way, or he'd work his way around the obstructions. He'd see enough of her to imprint his mind with her beauty—he almost could not wait for dawn to paint her.

But first things first. Nick reached for her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and led her into the shadowed room.

“Shut the door, please,” Eliza said.

It wouldn't do to have Sunny come upon them, so Nick locked it for good measure. He could swear he heard Eliza swallow at the resolute turn of the key.

He turned to her and opened his arms. Eliza stumbled over one of his bedroom slippers and he caught her before they both crashed to the carpet.

“It seems I'm not the only one who is having difficulty remaining upright. Shall we lie on the bed?”

“The bed?”

“You know, that big white thing over there. Soft. Cozy and warm.” Nick felt her tension right through the fabric of her clothing.

“What else will I step on to get there?”

Nick had not made an effort to tidy up his room as he dressed earlier, never expecting Eliza to grace it with her presence. “I'm not sure. Let me turn on a light.”

“Must you?”

“I want you and your precious toes unharmed, my darling. There could be deadly collar studs or dastardly neckties about—I was a bit hasty coming down to dinner.” Exhausted, too, but it had seemed important to be with Sunny and her delicious governess.

Nick left Eliza standing by the door and switched on the bedside lamp. The shade was thick and fringed, and very little actual light pierced the grayness. “There. Not too bright, but enough to see the battlefield. Mind the stocking.”

Eliza bent to retrieve it. “You mean
mend
the stocking. There's a huge hole in it.”

Surely they were not discussing sewing at this moment, were they? Nick tugged it from her hand. “Which is why it was rejected tonight.” She was slipping away, no longer the breathless girl in his arms. He had to mend
that
.

“Come, my beauty. We haven't got all night, have we—just a few precious hours to give each other bliss.”

Eliza frowned. “You said minutes. And no one said anything about bliss.”

Nick ignored her caveat about the time. “One doesn't speak of bliss when one can show it. You've liked my kisses, haven't you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a trick question? If I admit to it, you'll preen like a rooster. I have no interest in feeding your alarmingly large sense of consequence. You've had years of kissing practice, after all.”

“Eliza, Eliza, you wound me. I've never known such perfect kisses as you've given me. All else pales in comparison.” Lord, he was overdoing it, circling her palm with a fingertip, willing her to gaze into his eyes to see mostly the truth. Nick
was
smitten. And harder than marble, which he had to ignore if it killed him. He had given his word, and a Raeburn never broke his oath.

Blast the Raeburn honor. It was dashed inconvenient tonight. Most nights, really. Nick never made promises he wouldn't keep. He had never sworn love even if it would have paved his way, not even to Barbara, who was lovable indeed. He wasn't swearing love now, for Eliza would snort in his face and reach for a flying object if he did. But Nick liked her even if she was prickly and prudish and quite unlike any of his conquests.

Nick had a feeling no one would conquer Eliza Lawrence, but he would give it his best effort. He led her to the bed, sitting down beside her. At some point he hoped they'd topple over onto the mattress, but for now he was satisfied to have her close. Her scent reminded him of the lemon groves climbing gentle Italian hillsides under a brilliant sun.

She sat up so straight one could have measured a right angle with her bottom and back. Lifting her chin, he made her look at him. “Relax,” he whispered.

“Easy for you to say,” she hissed. “You do this sort of thing all the time.”

“Why wouldn't I? Kissing is most pleasurable. I admit, I try not to deny myself much. What is the point? Tomorrow we might all be dead and then what's the good of all that self-abnegation?”

“
Carpe diem.
How convenient a philosophy.” Her lip-chewing would not be far off in coming. Nick thought of the many lazy hours spent in Parisian salons and Italian
penziones
discussing the purpose of life and the nature of love. Perhaps if he plied Eliza with sufficient wine she might see things his way, but she was probably the one woman on earth immune to Bacchus's charms.

“Is yours any better? It's criminal that you've never been kissed. What is wrong with all your beaux?”

“I haven't had any,” she snapped. “I've been too busy.”

“Then I'm grateful you've taken pity upon me in my weakened state. You do me great honor.” He stroked her cheek. Really, it was so soft, as downy as a peach and just the perfect color.

“Why are you still talking?”

She sounded so cranky Nick almost laughed. “Patience, my sweet. Sometimes the anticipation is half the fun.”

“I'm not here to have fun. Just get on with it.”

Just get on with it? She made it sound as if he were a dentist with a drill. “Where's my Eliza?” he asked. “The girl who trembled in my arms?”

“I am not
your
Eliza. I am my own.”

“We belong to the universe and its fickle gods,” Nick murmured, pulling a tortoiseshell hairpin from behind Eliza's ear. She snatched it from him and thrust it in a pocket of her skirt.

“I lost too many the last time. I don't suppose you saved them for me.”

“In the bedside drawer.” He'd had a devilishly uncomfortable night until he realized her hairpins were poking into him in places they had no business being. Nick reached over her as if to get them and brushed her breasts with his arm.

“I don't need them right now!”

“After, then. Remind me—you are bound to cloud my senses and make me forget my own name.”

“Piffle.”

He quirked an eyebrow and immediately regretted it as the stitches pulled. “Piffle? You underrate yourself, my dear. You are young and beautiful. Hot-blooded—just filled with passion. Look how you've wanted to throttle me in our short acquaintance, even now. Your hands are clenched and your pearly teeth are grinding. Why, you're coiled as tightly as a spring. A golden tigress, or would it be lioness? I'm not sure my kisses will be enough to satisfy you.”

“This is the most ridiculous conversation of my life. You make me sound like an insane person. I can assure you that until I met you, I was every bit as boring as you accused me of being.”

“Boring? Surely I was not boorish enough to suggest such a thing.”

“You said my life was boring.” She had a mulish set to her mouth Nick wanted to kiss away.

“Well, isn't it, just a little? You're a dutiful daughter, an exemplary employee. But where's the fun, Eliza? Do you never get tired of being good?”

She gave him a look he couldn't interpret. “I'm here, aren't I?”

“Indeed you are, and I am wasting our time together talking, as you so wisely pointed out earlier. Come, let us be friends, if not lovers.” He pulled another pin and handed it to her.

Nick was careful as his fingers moved through the glorious mass of her hair—this was as close as he would come to “undoing” her. He'd pledged not to remove her clothes, though she hadn't said anything about rearranging them. Eliza sat still as her curls cascaded past her shoulders, her eyes downcast as he dropped the pins into her upturned palm. What was she thinking? He hoped she wasn't thinking of anything at all.

“Lovely,” he whispered, smoothing a strand behind her shoulder. “Like honey and silk.”

“You don't have to—”

He placed a finger against her lips again. “Hush. I say nothing I don't mean. Word of a Raeburn. We only fib when it's a life-or-death emergency, and this hardly qualifies, though you
will
kill me if you don't permit another kiss.”