“A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
“Miss Bourne is here, my lord.”
Nicholas checked the mantel clock and felt the tug of a frown at his brow. Half past two. “Have my aunt and cousin returned from their shopping excursion?”
“No, my lord.”
“Forgive me,” Briar said, skirting around the butler’s back. She entered the room in a flurry of pale pink, from the ribbon on her straw bonnet to the toes of her slippers peering out from beneath a rose-embroidered hem. Accented with white piping along her bodice, sleeves, and sash, she looked like a baker’s confection. “I realize I’m frightfully early, but I was at the mercy of my sister’s carriage. I promise I won’t be a bother until Temperance arrives. You could even stuff me in a cupboard until then if you like. Out of sight, out of mind.”
She dusted her hands together as if it were a simple matter. But Nicholas suspected that tucking Briar out of sight was akin to having a plate full of decadent little cakes perched on his desk, and the only thing to keep him from devouring them all was a frilly pink cloche.
He shifted in the wingback chair, conscious of a surge of lust as he imagined her sitting on his blotter. “Delham, would you be so kind as to tell the kitchens that Miss Prescott’s guest has arrived and to send up a small tray.”
“No, Mr. Delham, I assure you that isn’t necessary. I don’t want to be any bother. So I’ll tour the gallery and leave Lord Edgemont to continue scribbling in his ledger.”
The butler hesitated, looking from Briar and back to Nicholas.
Nicholas expelled a breath. “I’ll escort Miss Bourne to the gallery.”
“Very good, my lord,” the butler said with a bow, leaving the door ajar when he exited.
Briar huffed and—casual as you please—lifted her arms above her head to remove the pins from her hat. “Honestly, I don’t want to be any bother. All this fuss because my family refuses to allow me to hail my own cab.”
“At least that they’ve realized.”
“Oh, I haven’t gone on another dawn jaunt. After I had come home and the . . . um . . . flask had lost its potency, I realized just how dangerous it might have been.”
“Good.” Nicholas had wondered if she’d heeded his warning. He’d even had Adams wait outside of Sterling’s for nearly a fortnight at dawn in case Briar—that once-nameless young woman—had decided to be reckless again.
Then, after Adams had pointed out how foolish it was, considering they weren’t actually acquainted and never likely to be, Nicholas had decided to leave London for north Hampshire. An ill-fated family visit, as it turned out. And during the whole of the ordeal that followed, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d wished he would have stayed here instead.
Taking a step toward his desk, Briar’s rosy lips tilted wryly. “Which reminds me. Do you happen to know what became of my stocking and gloves? Though, truly I’m only concerned about the stocking because I still have the other, though it has lived a lonely existence at the bottom of my wardrobe. Of course, I had to replace my gloves straightaway, and I’ve kept them pristine all this time. See? My lucky gloves.”
She flashed the white kid leather, fastened with a pearl button just beneath her delicate wrist bones. Above them, her arms were bare all the way up to the banded sleeves above her elbows, exposing two tempting lengths of creamy skin. He had the peculiar desire to sink his teeth into her, not hard, but just enough to leave an imprint in her flesh. As if he wanted to mark her.
“Given up on slippers, have you?” Unable to control the impulse, he reached out and tugged playfully on her fingertips.
“In a sense. My slippers have been acting rather peculiar,” she said, her voice becoming even breathier than usual as she slipped free of his grasp. And as her cheeks colored, she averted her gaze down, adjusting the seam of her glove. Then she frowned and splayed her hand in front of him once more. “If that is a spot of ink, I’m going to be cross with you.”
Sure enough, there was a dark smear near the tip of her ring finger. With a glance down at his hands, he saw that his thumb was the culprit.
She grumbled, flicked the pearl fastening free, and began to yank it off, finger by finger. “Is it your aim to leave a mark on everything that brings me a bit of luck? Bother. Do you think your valet could remove the stain before I depart? I should hate to always leave your company with fewer clothes than when I arrived.”
Nicholas grinned. “What a dreadful burden that would be for me as well.”
“It was not meant as a flirtation. I’m thoroughly vexed with you.”
“I know, love. Give them here, head upstairs to the gallery, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.” And damn it all if he wasn’t already looking forward to it.
Even before he consulted his valet, Nicholas already knew there was no hope for india ink on brushed kid leather. So, in the end, he sent Winston on an errand to replace the pair with an exact replica. Since society believed it was an egregious error for a man to buy a woman an article of clothing, he decided to keep the matter between himself and his valet. With any luck—as Briar would say—Winston would return before his aunt and cousin arrived, and no one would be the wiser.
Shortly thereafter, Nicholas found Briar scrutinizing a portrait of his grandsire in the long paneled room. He stood still for a moment, caught by the sight of her there. The golden light that spilled in through the tall windows caressed her with familiarity, knowing every curve and every line. The shadows knew her as well, nuzzling every dip and hollow. She looked perfectly at ease here, and Nicholas felt a strange sort of jealousy that his townhouse had grown accustomed to her all these months while he had been away.
“If I squint, I can see the family resemblance,” she said without turning toward him, speaking as if she’d known he was there all along and they’d been in the middle of a conversation.
He walked toward her, his footfalls echoing up to the gilded cornices on the ceiling and back down. “Is that the secret, then? For I’ve never seen it.”
“It does surprise me, however, that your ancestors have all been very blond, blue-eyed, and with handsomely soft features.”
Handsomely soft. Ah yes, he kept forgetting what a monstrous countenance he had, to her way of thinking. “What you meant to say is that there isn’t a big nose among the lot of them.”
“There is that, of course. You are far more”—she tapped her fingertip against her lips as if contemplating her choice of word—“chiseled than they are. Where you have been carved from granite, they have been molded from clay.”
“And now I have the face of an ancient stone?”
“Are there rocks as old as you?” She turned toward him, feigned innocence in the upward arch of her brows and the slow curl of her lips. Then her grin stalled. “I was only making a small observation, hoping to understand a riddle that has plagued me since our first meeting.”
“From my recollection, you professed to knowing everything about me. So what conundrum has the structure of my chiseled countenance offered?”
Twin spots of color stained her cheeks carnation pink. “I meant no insult. To be honest, I’ve been contemplating your potential application—should you ever change your mind about becoming a client—and I’m not sure what I would put down as your description.”
“Is that so?” he asked, making no secret that he didn’t believe her.
Turning to walk to the next portrait, Briar linked her hands behind her back and nervously thrummed her fingertips together as she continued. “You couldn’t guess how often our female clients request tall, blond, and handsome—as well as tall, dark, and handsome. But who is to say what attributes are attractive from one person to the next? Some may find beauty in a pair of eyes and completely ignore a lack of chin.” She nodded in the direction of his grandsire. “My sister Jacinda always talks about the breadth of her husband’s shoulders, while I’ve heard him whisper comments about her ears. And they are just ordinary shoulders and ears to me.” She shrugged and cleared her throat. “And then there is you.”
“Yes, the riddle,” he murmured. “But I’ll offer you a bit of wisdom that you can share with your female clients the next time they request a handsome husband. Tell them that unattractive men make better bed partners.”
On a gasp, she whirled on him. “I would never supply that information to a client. And besides, that statement is as ludicrous as it is unseemly.”
“It makes perfect sense, if you think about it. Unattractive men have to try harder to earn a woman’s affections. They don’t have the luxury of having swooning maidens falling at their feet or even randy milkmaids offering a wink.” He tugged impatiently at the sleeves of his coat, feeling confined in the garment. “So perhaps such a man might do a fair amount of reading ancient texts on pleasure. Or he might buy inordinate amounts of jewelry to pay courtesans to share their secrets. Until one day, the courtesans start sending him baubles and trinkets in the hopes that he would call on them.”
Briar blinked up at him in open curiosity as if he’d just imparted the oracle of the sphynx, then squinted in confusion. “But how would you know this? Is it something gentlemen speak of in coffee houses and clubs?”
Now it was Nicholas’s turn to be puzzled. “Are you truly asking how I’ve come by this information?”
Without hesitation, she nodded.
He raised both brows in disbelief. “Wasn’t it last year that you proclaimed me the founder of the rhinoceros club?”
Then, as if she was only now understanding the true context of their conversation, her pink blush turned a deep rose. “First of all, I may have noted the proportions of your features, but I never said your countenance was disagreeable. At all. Second, if your outrageous tale was a poorly disguised effort for a compliment, then you should be ashamed of yourself.” She tsked at him for good measure. “And third, teasing me, under the guise of dispensing a lesson, is not part of our bargain.”
Huh. Well that was an unexpected revelation. The downward trajectory of the fractious mood he’d been in all day stopped abruptly, and slowly began a course in the opposite direction.
“Come with me.” Feeling a grin tug at his lips, he slipped a hand beneath her elbow and walked toward the end of the gallery. “See this portrait of the ungainly child atop a pony and looking as if his head might topple off his shoulders from the weight of his most prominent feature? That was me at eleven years old. And that one there is me at eighteen. Beanpole thin, ungainly, and little more than a nose sitting atop a pair of shoulders.”
She stared from the two hideous portraits and then to him, homing in on his most prominent feature. “The portrait artist made it much larger than it is.”
“Actually, the opposite is true.” He chuckled. “My mother paid him to make this outcrop of granite appear smaller. It wasn’t until I was four and twenty that the rest of me started to fill in around it. A young man who looks like that has to work very hard to gain a woman’s attention and to keep it.”
Something he knew firsthand.
“That young man and I have a bit in common. We both know what it’s like to be underestimated. And we both sacrificed pride to hire a tutor to teach us the things we could not learn on our own—though, of course, our currency is slightly different,” she amended quickly, shyly averting her gaze.
“Slightly.”
“And perhaps that young man, upon meeting a rather persistent matchmaker, might have agreed to—”
“I am not going to become one of your clients.”
“I suppose I cannot force you. Nevertheless, I am still determined to discover the characteristics you find irresistible in a woman. Then someday, I’ll introduce you to her and you’ll feel all the more foolish when you change your mind about marriage. But never fear, I promise not to gloat too much as I throw rice at your wedding.” She grinned, unashamedly badgering him.
The problem was, he didn’t mind it. Disturbing realization, indeed.
Shaking himself free of it, he gestured to the archway of a small sitting room. “That was your lesson for today. Now come along and we’ll continue our discussion on currency.”
Her breath hitched, drawing his attention. But she averted her face and he could not tell if she was eager with anticipation or full of dread. Then she expelled a sigh, and seemingly all her cheer with it. “Very well.”
He frowned. Her obvious reluctance was not her own fault, but his. He’d been a poor tutor for her first attempt, and then he’d made it worse by chiding her. He was determined to be a better taskmaster this time. “Contrary to what you might believe, kissing should be enjoyable, not a trip to the gallows. You should start by pleasing yourself. Do whatever you have in mind. Explore.”
“Explore,” she repeated with a nod as if taking notes for an examination.
As he led her to a pair of straight-backed chairs near the window of the small chintz-papered room, it was difficult not to grin at the way she pursed her lips in concentration. He’d never given a kiss so much thought before, not even his first.
He’d been about seven or eight—before his nose had altered to its current magnitude—and lying on the ground after falling out of the vicar’s tree. The youngest daughter, a girl of twelve, had rushed out of the house to see if he’d died. Kneeling beside him, she’d leaned over to check if he was breathing and that was when Nicholas lifted his head and kissed her. And liking it so much, he’d kissed her again.
A youth’s rite of passage, he supposed, and one that Briar had never done. She’d been sheltered and protected. There was something about her that made him want to do the same. And yet . . . there was also something about her that made him want to do wicked things with her. For hours.
But he wouldn’t, he reminded himself.
She sat and situated her skirts, frowning at his mouth as if it were a mathematical equation he’d asked her to solve. With that level of calculation, he could already imagine her planning to put her tightly closed lips to his and simply press harder, longer. Then, they would both be disappointed in the end.
No, that would not do. If nothing else, he would teach her how to enjoy kissing—one of life’s simplest pleasures.
“Better yet,” he added. “Pretend that the other person’s mouth is something you crave with your entire being.”
She perked up at this, her countenance bright and intrigued. “Like chocolate?”
“Yes.” He watched her tilt her head to study him, her gaze roving from brow to chin and lingering on his mouth. An un-tutor-like rush of anticipation warmed his blood. “Now, imagine that you’ve just heard the news that the dry climate this year has inhibited the production of cocoa beans. West Africa cannot export any more for a very long time. And worse, just before you walked into the room, I drank the last cup of chocolate in England.”
Her irritated gaze flicked up to his. “You would do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Perhaps,” he said, his lips giving way to a grin. “Though, if you’re lucky, you might capture a fleeting trace of it.”
“And you accused me of conjuring dire scenarios,” she grumbled, scooting forward to the edge of her chair in a susurration of pink silk.
Drawing in a breath, she leaned closer, then stopped. “This isn’t going to work. You’re far too tall. Perhaps if you slouched a bit?” But when she looked down to where her knees were between his sprawled thighs, she quickly shook her head, her cheeks coloring again. “I’d better stand or else I’ll end up on your lap.”
“I wouldn’t mind, love,” he crooned. Patting the tops of his thighs, he earned a perturbed glare.
Too intent on her goal to tease him now, she stood and settled her cool, delicate hands on his face. The simple touch of her fingertips, soft and uncertain, stirred a low flame of arousal.
“I thought your rule was ‘no hands.’”
“Hush. I am immersing myself in the full experience,” she whispered as if afraid of breaking the spell. “Besides, it was my rule for you, not for me. Now close your eyes, if you please.”
He complied, half humoring her and half curious to see if she would balk and shy away. Yet she lingered. Her warm, clean fragrance filled his nostrils, making him think of fresh bed linens, sun-kissed and wind-beaten into a decadent suppleness. He wanted to lie down with that scent, tumble with it, bury himself inside of it. And all this was before he felt the sweet rush of her breath over his lips.
He held still. It seemed an eternity before the barest contact. More whisper than kiss. A featherlight back and forth sweep without the slightest bit of pressure.
“See here. That isn’t a proper kiss,” he rasped, disgruntled and more than half aroused.
“Hush.” Her chide was a soft caress, the dark golden fan of her lashes resting against her cheek. “Such a disagreeable cup of chocolate. I told you before that the froth is the best part.”
His pulse quickened beneath the heat of his cravat. As she continued, he wondered if any cup of chocolate ever felt this eager to be consumed. Willingly, he gave himself over to this intoxicating game of pretend, his breaths mingling with hers like steam rising from his depths, drawing her ever closer.
If this was just the froth, then he wondered what it would be like if she delved to the bottom of the cup.
Skimming her fingertips along his jaw, she shifted closer, her legs nudging his further apart, her skirts bunched between them. He was determined to keep his responses in tandem with hers, brush for brush, press for press. Yet the urge to take hold of her hips, to haul her closer was so strong that his hands ached. Every joint yearned to grip the curve of her flesh. So, he gripped the sides of the chair instead, knuckles straining against taut flesh. And since he was a good and patient tutor, his pupil rewarded him with a firmer press of her lips.
The same galvanic jolt that struck him last night riffled through him again. But this was stronger than before, every nerve ending exposed and raw.
Her upper lip nuzzled between his, the lower parting in a small sip of a kiss. A surprised hmm rose from her throat, as if she’d made a new, unexpected discovery. Then she repeated the action, drawing on his flesh in small seeking suctions, and a shudder swept through him, setting off a series of heady pulses that settled low and heavy at the base of his cock.
He gripped the chair tighter as she grew bolder, testing alternate angles. Willingly, he gave his lips over to her study, feeding them to her in whatever manner she would have them. And he felt as if she’d just invented a way of kissing that he’d never encountered before—Briar Bourne’s patented cup of chocolate kiss.
He’d seduced countless women, finding ways to drive them mad with wanting. Giving pleasure was a matter of principle as much as it provided him a sense of power and control. He’d been blindsided once by a woman who’d used seduction to manipulate him, and he’d vowed long ago that it would not happen again.
Never in a thousand lifetimes would he have predicted that sweet Briar Bourne’s untried kisses would have this effect on him.
Again, he wanted to lift his hands, hold her, curl his fingers over the nape of her neck, plunder her mouth until she was trembling and sprawled across his lap. But she was trusting him in this moment, comfortable.
This is such fun, her kiss told him. You should have told me sooner.
I’m just as surprised as you are, love, his own kiss answered.
Another warning jangled at the back of his mind. They would be expected downstairs for tea soon. He opened his mouth to say as much. When he did, the tip of her tongue slipped over the edge of his bottom lip and a quick rush of sweet breath shuddered out of her mouth.
Thoroughly absorbed in her task, she only hesitated for the barest instant before her small hands cupped his jaw and she pulled him closer to lick the seam of his lips for another taste.
Her throat vibrated on a soft hungry purr, and he felt the grip on his control—and on the chair—relax. He didn’t want this to end, and his pleasure-drugged mind agreed, turning with possibilities. A simple word to Delham could ensure that his aunt and cousins did not know that Miss Bourne had arrived. He could say she’d sent her regrets and could not attend. And as for Nicholas, he would be only too happy to spend the remainder of the afternoon and evening locked in his rooms, kissing her. And whatever else she might enjoy.
He lifted his hands and settled them over hers. “Briar, love, would you like to see my bedchamber?”
It took two more tastes before she lifted her gaze, her eyes a dark, hazy summer-sky blue, her lips a damp rose-petal red. Then she blinked down at him. “You’re attempting to scandalize me again, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps,” he said, pressing a kiss into both of her palms, drawing in the fragrance of her skin. “Or perhaps I’m being a gentleman and offering to make you more comfortable while we . . . sip chocolate together.”
Face flushed, she slipped her hands free and smoothed them down her skirts. “Trying to use chocolate against me is positively reprehensible. It is fortunate that I know you’re only teasing.”
“Yes, you know me so well,” he said wryly.
“I took your advice and imagined the chocolate from the coffee house, though without having the satisfaction of drinking it . . .” As she spoke, she fidgeted with her sash and moved to the door only to stall partway there, her gaze fixed on the clock in the corner. “Half past three? Surely, that cannot be correct.”
“Delham winds the clocks each day,” he said, distracted by her words . . . without having the satisfaction of drinking it. Did she mean to say that she was unsatisfied with that kiss?
“But that would mean we were”—she pressed her lips together—“touring the gallery for a terribly long while.”
Rising, he turned away to put the chairs in place, surreptitiously adjusting the fall of his trousers. There was no need to show her just how much she’d affected him. And yet, he was still her tutor and so he could not let her walk away without providing some insight. “That’s what happens when it’s done properly.”
Except, for her, apparently it hadn’t been as satisfying as a cup of chocolate.
When he turned back around, her eager, hopeful face greeted him. “You mean I’m actually . . . not an abysmal failure?”
“You could add this to the list of your accomplishments.”
“Oh, Nicholas. I’m so happy that I could . . . well, I could kiss you again.” She laughed. “Lucky for you, we don’t have the time.”
Yes. Lucky me.