The Reluctant Governess (20 page)

Somehow when Eliza had imagined a man and a woman together—not that she had very often—talking had not been involved. Certainly no laughter. The room would be hushed and dark, the coupling quick yet sweet and satisfying.

Instead, an electric lamp blazed on the bedside table. That was entirely her fault—she should have turned it off before she tackled Nicholas. And tackled him she had, with a kind of ferocity she hadn't known she possessed.

Eliza had tried to make up for it, barely touching his body as she positioned herself over him. Every place they made contact—a hip, even a shin—had caused a fiery jolt clear through the rest of her. When he caressed her breast she thought she might just incinerate.

The copper hairs on his perfect body gleamed in the lamplight. She had mussed his pomaded hair, and he looked nearly innocent against the pillow. But his kiss had been as hungry as hers, which was gratifying.

For a short while earlier, Eliza thought Nicholas might refuse to go through with this, and her impatience had risen—and her risk. Getting down on her knees had been somewhat brazen, especially since she didn't have the first idea what to do.

But the heedless gesture had prompted him into action, so she couldn't regret it. It was not every day she threw away her virginity, but she was not going to berate herself over it tonight. There would be plenty of time for debate with her conscience in the future.

His hands had been sure as they smoothed over her skin, finding the neediest spot between her folds. When his fingers inched inside, Eliza marveled at the ease and inerrancy of his touch. It was only when he canted himself up and touched her center with his manhood that her resolve wobbled. Eliza felt so dreadfully exposed. Vulnerable. She wasn't sure this was the way she could
ever
relax.

Nicholas brushed the tears from her cheek. “The first lesson: We are not going to ‘get it over with.'” He gently removed her and rolled her on her back. “Perhaps we'll be conventional after all. You are a very proper sort of girl, aren't you?” Leaning up on one elbow, he smiled down at her.

“Not at the moment.” Why was he
talking
instead of doing something? She wanted his fingers back where they had been.

Nicholas must have read her mind. He kissed her nose, of all places, then began to circle that bud of flesh that was so remarkably sensitive, watching for her reaction. It was not long in coming.

Eliza knew what to expect now. Her spine relaxed, and she shut her eyes so she couldn't see him staring at her. Looseness was slowly replaced by a building expectation. The tautness slithered right down to her toes, locking her body in its feral grip. Her gasping breaths should have been embarrassing, but Nicholas murmured words of encouragement.

She didn't mind his talking now, even though some of his words were rather shocking. Moving, no, writhing, was de rigueur—she didn't require his suggestion to let herself go. She was more or less gone already, and when his mouth came down on her breast and captured her nipple, the last knot pulled free. The waves hit her hard, and she rose to meet them. Nicholas slid his fingers inside her and touched something that made her climb even higher.

And then he covered her mouth and her body with his and sought her heat. The kiss strengthened and so did his attempt at entry. A stretching glide aided by his hand—so gentle yet inexorable. She shuddered under him, swallowing a cry. There was no real pain, just unfamiliar pressure as he seated himself within her.

The waves had subsided, but Nicholas sought to build them back up, rocking slowly until she felt her stomach flutter again. He broke the kiss and she felt the cool air creep between them.

“Open your eyes, Eliza.”

She didn't want to. To see him would be to admit that she cared more than she wanted to. He would know at once. She was no actress, and would be incapable of pretending that this was simply an ordinary evening diversion between two consenting adults.

Reluctantly, she blinked up at him. The expressive face she saw could have been her own. There was tension. Uncertainty. Lust.

Perhaps the tiniest scrap of love. His eyes were dark with desire, his voice rough, near breathless.

“There will never be another night like this,” Nicholas said, pushing himself in deeper. Deeper. It seemed impossible.

“Just as it was meant to be,” he said. “I adore you.” With every word, his cock thrust within her.

Her lashes fluttered shut. “No. Look at me. I want you to see . . . and feel . . . what you've done to me.” One muscled arm was at her shoulder, the blue-tinted snake alarmingly near. His other hand was still at their connection, working her clitoris as he had before to drive her mad again.

His curls were damp, his throat corded as he held himself above her. Eliza wanted to wipe away the lines of strain at his mouth and eyes. She dug her heels into the bedcovers and something inside her constricted. Nicholas's eyes flashed, and he hissed in pleasure.

“Move with me. Ah, fuck, just like that.” His eyes didn't leave hers. Eliza felt like she was falling into an abyss, a dark place from which there was no return. They were falling together, she clenching, arching, catching his rhythm after a few false starts, building to what she knew would be another stunning climax. Even better this time, because they were fitted together in exquisite friction.

She wondered how she'd survive.

When the tremors began, he bent and kissed her, all the while extricating himself from within. As if his kiss would distract her and make up for the loss. Hot liquid spurted on her hip. This time he'd had his completion, too, and she didn't feel quite so selfish.

They lay heart to pounding heart. Eliza gloried under the weight of him—somehow, despite everything, she felt protected. Peaceful.

And not so very improper.

Nicholas took a ragged breath. “Are you all right?”

Eliza nodded. Speech wouldn't come.

He used a corner of the sheet to wipe away the evidence of their coupling. Eliza supposed he'd done the gallant thing—how awkward it would have been if he'd spilled inside her and there had been consequences.

As there had been with Barbara. Eliza pushed her pointless jealousy into a corner where it belonged.

Nicholas was very pale. Eliza was certain she looked like she'd just popped out of a furnace, her face—all of her—was so very hot. “Are—are
you
all right?”

He rolled off her suddenly and lay on his back. “I really don't know.”

Alarmed, she sat up, covering her chest with a pillow.
A little late for that, my girl.
He'd seen and touched and licked everything. “Are you ill again?”

“I can't be. I don't have time.” He drew a breath. “Eliza, please forgive me.”

“For what?”

His hand swept the distance between them. “For this. My judgment is execrable. Everyone knows it. It was wrong for me . . .” His voice trailed off.

Anger shot through her. She was not lying here regretting anything, and if anyone should be having second thoughts, it was she. “Are you saying you made a mistake taking me to bed?”

“Yes. No. I'm truly humbled by your trust in me, Eliza, but you shouldn't—we shouldn't have—damn it. I don't know how to put it.”

“How about you put it right up your—” Eliza shut her mouth. She wouldn't allow the moment to be completely ruined. She wanted Nicholas to hold her in his arms and murmur sweet, wicked things as he'd done before. Instead he was a marble-white martyr to his faulty honor. “Never mind. Don't torture yourself. It's not as if we'll be making a habit of it.”

He mumbled something unintelligible, and she wanted to press the pillow over his face.

No man could pretend
to like something with such enthusiasm and mastery as Nicholas had shown. Nicholas
had
liked it, had liked her. She'd seen straight into his soul—he'd made her watch. This belated crisis of conscience was annoying in the extreme.

Eliza was no porcelain doll. She wasn't going to shatter because her hymen had broken. Hell, she hadn't felt more than a pinch, a moment of discomfort. What had all the fuss been about? How very silly she had been, and how very silly Nicholas Raeburn was being right now.

She swung her legs off the bed, feeling only a trifle woozy. She didn't have far to go, just across the hall, where she could fall onto her own bed and cry her heart out. Muffled, of course, so Nicholas didn't get the wrong idea and go hang himself. Honestly, men were idiots.

No, not
men
. What did she know about the tribe, really? Just one particular man was taking her to the brink of insanity.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room, of course.” She stuck a foot into her borrowed dress. Hopefully none of the servants would see her with a bare back as she ran across the carpet.

Nicholas sat up, his hair tousled over his forehead. “No! Please don't leave.”

“Well, I'm not going to stay here and face your recriminations.” Her other foot joined the first, and she bent to pull up the gown. Her nipples, she noted, were still sharp enough to cut glass. All sorts of sensations still rumbled through her nether regions like a runaway train, making standing very unreliable.

He pushed the hair out of his face. “I'm not recriminating!”

“That's not even a word.” She shoved an arm into the little puffed sleeve, scratching herself on the gold appliquéd leaves.

“Eliza!” Goodness, he sounded somewhat desperate, almost in agony. Before she knew it, he was bouncing off the bed and grabbing her elbows.

“Let me go!”

“No, not like this. I'm an ass. I'm not usually such a—such a—”

“I believe you've settled on ass,” Eliza said, trying to shake him away. His grip only got firmer.

“Listen to me—you've made me so stupid I can't think.”

“Why should I listen to you, then, if you've got only nonsense to say? And anyhow, I've done nothing to you. It's as if you think I've cast a spell on you!”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “Haven't you just? You are a witch, Eliza Lawrence. A complete and utter witch.”

She couldn't take umbrage verbally—he was kissing her again, keeping her lips fully occupied. A savage, wicked kiss that could not be repelled or denied, at least in Eliza's present frame of mind. She was as confused as he, angry a second ago, abandoned to all good sense the next.

Abandonment felt so, so much better. She rejected the idea of stamping on his naked foot. Instead, she rubbed it lightly with her own and he startled as if she'd touched his manhood. The kiss was urgent, wilder. There was nothing but teeth and tongue, soft wet hollows, snatched gulping breaths. Eliza shook as if she'd taken a chill, though she was as hot as a living flame.

But then she became tangled in the dress that had slid back down to her ankles. She had no recollection of Nicholas pulling the sleeve from her shoulder. He lifted her from the puddle of fabric and carried her back to the bed. She was not as light as a feather and Nicholas was still recovering from his wound, so there was a moment when Eliza wondered if they would make it to the mattress in one piece. Fortune was with them as they toppled together, bare skin bonding.

Could she bear any more sensation? It seemed she could. Nicholas's hands and mouth were everywhere at once, and she followed his direction, shyly touching when instructed, gaining confidence, marking this man as her own, if only for one night.

Once again he had placed her above him. This time she knew exactly what to do. How fast, how slow, a clever angle to drive him deeper—she controlled it all and watched the torment on his face. Marveling at her brazen behavior, she didn't stifle her scream as she reached her crisis when he touched her center. Let the servants imagine what they would. Eliza didn't care—she was much too far over her self-imposed line. Boundaries were nonexistent in her new universe.

She was brought down to earth as Nicholas lifted her hips and hastily disengaged. Eliza gazed down in curiosity as his seed spurted between them. His cock was not a pretty thing, but it had the power to give life and remarkable pleasure. She touched it with a fingertip and he quaked.

“See,” he gasped. “Witch.”

Eliza had power, too. What would she do with it?

Nick had been unable to persuade Eliza to stay the night with him. She'd crept from his room near midnight, flushed and beautiful, her braid finally unraveled. They had talked of male anatomy, of all things, drifting into half sleep between sentences until she had the good sense to kiss his cheek and leave him. Peppered with questions after their lovemaking, Nick found himself trying to translate physical sensation into words, and proved to be completely inarticulate for an experienced man.

How could he explain that intercourse—such a sterile word—had never been quite as perfect with any of his lovers as it had been tonight? He didn't want to compare Eliza to anyone—she was incomparable.

He'd sworn not to touch her if she stayed in his bed until morning—beast that he was, he'd abused her twice in rapid succession and deserved to be shot. But by the gods, he'd had no choice. He
was
bewitched. The real Eliza had exceeded his fantasy Eliza by miles. Being with her was like seeing a sunrise sober for the first time, or tasting a strawberry after a year of going without. She was fresh, vital—and not for him.

A leopard didn't change his spots. Nick couldn't saddle Eliza with his life's choices. She deserved someone proper and honorable, like that bloody Hurst fellow. Nick punched the pillow and tried to fall back asleep, but without Eliza in his arms there was an aching emptiness.

He rose and put on a borrowed dressing gown. Brandy would help, and Tubby had some on his drinks tray in the library. The house was silent, the halls still illuminated. He trod lightly down the stairs, not wishing to attract any helpful servants.

The lights were on in the library, too. After a moment's hesitation, Nick turned the knob and discovered Tubby in full evening dress, his tie only somewhat disarranged.

“You're home early,” Nick said, helping himself to the decanter at his friend's elbow. He took a cut glass snifter from the tray and poured an unhealthy tot into it, then sat across from his friend in front of the fireplace. The warmth was welcome—he should have donned Tubby's pajamas as well as the robe.

“These things are a dead bore, you know. You
do
know—that's why you hied off to the Continent all those years ago and hardly ever came home. Much more amusing revelry there, I expect.” Tubby took a meditative sip and stared into the hissing coals.

“What's wrong? Did you fail to get the financial backing you were looking for? You know you can finance the artists' project yourself, and on your own terms.”

“My accountant doesn't see it that way. We have a meeting tomorrow morning, and I will be called on the carpet by the ink-stained wretch.” Tubby sighed. “It's my money, isn't it? It's not as though I have a houseful of little Featherstones to leave it to.”

Nick grinned. “Hop to it, then. Find some poor girl and marry her.”

“I'm like you in that regard—why should we give up our freedom, eh? We're too young to marry and have children.” Tubby flushed at his error. “What I mean is, one can have children and not be married and still have a life worth living. You do.”

“Do I? I wonder.” Nick wasn't questioning Sunny's parentage. She was his in all the ways that mattered. But the rest of his life? It was past time for a reckoning.

“Nicholas! You are the envy of all your friends. Jaunting here and there, painting and pursuing naked women—and making damned good money for your trouble. You're a rising star in the art world—hell, you've already risen. Plus, even if you never sell another painting, that dead aunt of yours left you a pile of loot. You don't have to go home to your brothers, hat in hand.”

No, he didn't. And there was Sunny's inheritance to consider. If he were a different sort of man, he might look to it to plunder.

Like Daniel Preble.

He knocked back his drink, poured another, and repeated the process.

“I say! You'll fall down my stairs at the rate you're going,” Tubby teased. “We want you and the luscious Eliza to leave whole and healthy in the morning.”

Whole. Eliza wasn't whole, thanks to Nick and his selfishness. But, he acknowledged, she'd been the angelic architect of her own ruin, impossible to resist.

No, not
ruin
. He was not some bitter arbiter of morals, some shriveled Pooter like Miss Scully. In Nick's opinion, far too much was made of so-called innocence anyway. He didn't believe in shaming someone for merely seeking their God-given bliss.

And bliss it had been.

Nick realized Tubby was still speaking to him and set his drink down. He pretended to have understood what his friend said and nodded.

Both of Tubby's eyebrows raised. Wrong answer, apparently.

“It's not like you to kiss and tell, Nicky. But now that you've started, fill me in. Was she as good as she looks?”

Rage and brandy were an unfortunate combination. Poor Tubby felt the brunt of Nick's fist. Lucky for Tubby that he reared back in his leather chair and lifted an arm just in time to cover his leering smile and keep his teeth.

“I say, you're not very grateful!” he said, rubbing his elbow. “Here I've done your bidding all damn day. I threw money at that dreadful Scully woman. Scooped you up from Lindsey Street. Kidnapped your governess. Contacted my solicitor. Fed and housed you. And to thank me you want to knock my head off. Not cricket. Not cricket at all.”

Appalled, Nick looked down at his fist. “I'm sorry. I'm not myself.”

“Who are you, then? I know you're under a cloud at the moment, but it will all come right. Coningford's a brilliant fellow. And if you've managed to talk Miss Lawrence into warming your bed, you are luckier than most men.”

Nick gritted his teeth. “You are to say nothing of that if you value your own luck. It was a mistake. An aberration, and it will not happen again. Eliza is much too good for me. She's leaving tomorrow once we deal with Daniel.”

“Pity. I don't suppose you'd approve if I offered her carte blanche? I'm between mistresses at the moment.”

Nick was stopped from another lunge when he saw the mischief on Tubby's face. “That's not funny. At all.” He swallowed the last drop of brandy.

“No, I guess not. You are well and truly hooked, aren't you, old friend? I don't blame you—Eliza is a lovely girl. Intelligent. Too smart for me, probably, but then you always got better marks than I did in school. She might just do for you for a while until you get back into the social scene.”

“I'm not getting back into the social scene. I'm going to Scotland when this is settled, and Eliza—Miss Lawrence to you—is going back to her old job.”

“Best laid plans,” Tubby murmured. He stifled a yawn. “I'm done for the day. I'm going upstairs.”

Nick reached out and laid a hand on Tubby's arm. “You must promise me to say nothing to Eliza—or anyone—of my indiscretion about tonight. She doesn't deserve any more gossip about her reputation. She is—she is above reproach. Don't give her one of your knowing looks. You must forget I ever said anything.”

“Well, you haven't
said
anything anyway. A vague nod is not a confession to sin. Why, I believe you weren't even paying attention to me to begin with. You might have agreed to anything I asked.” Tubby rose from the chair and extended his hand. “Your ladylove's secret is safe with me, I swear it.”

Nick was even more awake than he had been after Tubby left. Though his head was pounding, he poured a few more fingers of brandy. It was excellent stuff—trust Tubby to have the best.

Nick was slipping into unfamiliar territory. His wits were wanting, his heart racing, his skin alive with the memory of Eliza's touch. For the love of God, his robe was tenting at the very thought of her.

What would she do if he slipped into her room? Probably stab him with a hairpin. She'd been most definitive that their night was over.

Nick knew what he had to do next with his enervation. There really was no choice. He took the stairs two at a time, continuing up past the bedroom wings to the attic studio Tubby lent out to friends. Nick had spent enough time up here on his last visit to London to know his way around. He'd even helped Tubby stock it with all the necessary art accoutrements.

This was two nights in a row that Eliza had inspired him. He should be dead on his feet, yet instead it was as if someone had switched on an electric light in his brain. Last night he'd worked in a frenzy, but tonight he approached the canvas with calm. This time he truly knew his subject, the exact size and taste of her, the color of her nether hair, the sheen of her skin.

The painting would be for Nick alone. Nick would destroy the other, or alter it so that no other Scully-like creature could assume it was Eliza Lawrence. This painted Eliza would have no need to touch herself—she was curled into the comforter, warm and well pleasured, her golden hair spread against the pillow, her lips parted by another question. Her blue eyes were dark with knowledge.

The Education of Eliza
.

It was she who had taught him.

Nick worked long into the chilly night. He would warn Tubby against coming up here, and make arrangements for the painting's disposition once things were settled. He'd heard of private treasure rooms, walled-off from the rest of the house and accessible only by the owner. A place to come and congratulate oneself on one's exquisite taste. His would need nothing in it except Eliza's portrait.

Staring for the rest of his life at a canvas Eliza would not be sufficient. What had Tubby said? Nick was “well and truly hooked.” Something had to be done. Nick was afraid he knew precisely what, and wondered if Eliza would ever agree if he even had the courage to ask her.