Two hours later, Jamison House, Grosvenor Square
Richard, Earl of Winchester, stood at the bottom of the flight of worn stone steps and gazed upwards, studying stately Jamison House and its five levels of red brickwork. The house testified to the foresight of previous generations, who had built in an area of the West End that represented solid family values and financial security. Though any financial stability currently enjoyed by this family was due to Becca’s mathematical genius and her determination to elevate her siblings from country poverty to city surplus. He metaphorically dipped his hat in admiration of a fellow investor.
This residence radiated a magnetic pull Richard couldn’t resist. He wasn’t drawn here to discuss railway shares with Becca, or to indulge sweet Lottie’s fascination with his skull as a phrenology specimen, nor to tinker with Jonathon’s latest mechanism. And though he enjoyed sharpening his wits by parrying quips with quick-minded Michael, his compelling reason for returning, time after time, was to reassure himself of the well-being of the fifth Jamison.
Laura’s knowledge of curative plants and herbs astounded and fascinated Richard, and her siblings and servants were grateful for her remedies. Yet her father continued to ignore her unique gifts. Her disparaging pater reserved his sparse praise for Michael as heir, or Becca as financier.
Richard’s hackles had risen a month ago when the Earl had paid an unannounced visit to his children, only leaving his latest Roman site because funding for the dig had run out. The bastard had harangued Laura, before family and guests, over her inadequate contribution to the family’s coffers. Richard had been halfway across the drawing room before he’d realized his fist was raised and his sights set on the old hypocrite.
Michael, being closer, had stepped in front of his father, allowing Laura a moment’s grace to steady herself. Only the presence of ladies had stopped Richard from reprimanding the older gentleman, physically and verbally, for not respecting his daughter. In his wilder days, Richard had scuffled with the best of them in a few tavern brawls, but never had he felt so driven to plant his fist in a man’s face.
He’d ridden to Jamison House early the next morning, telling himself the whole way his presence wasn’t necessary. Laura’s two brothers wouldn’t return to university and leave their sisters to battle with their demanding father. Even knowing that, Richard couldn’t concentrate on the letters and accounts his man of business piled on his desk each morning, until he’d seen for himself that Laura’s self-worth wasn’t again being shredded by the old earl and his self-interested attitude. He wouldn’t rest easy until the old man had gained what he’d come for—more funding—and had left again
Laura fearlessly argued with every other man, including him, yet she accepted her father’s criticisms with such silent stoicism that Richard wanted to scoop her up and carry her far away from the soul-destroying comments the Earl heaped on her. A bizarre compulsion that would no doubt anger Laura and make an enemy of her father.
Being both financier and brother, Richard understood the value of Laura’s herbal remedies, soaps and scented products for their large household. He wanted to stand on the Earl’s rooftop and broadcast Laura’s accomplishments far and wide. And though it wasn’t his place to do so, he wanted everyone to hear about Laura’s work at the Women’s Betterment Society, where she helped financially-strapped women support themselves in ways other than on the streets, or on their backs. Laura allowed the women to replicate her potions and sell them to the hundreds of middle class gentry, who were desperate to imitate every aspect of their beloved Queen Victoria’s life and use the potions to cure their ills the way her doctors did.
Richard saw the heavy brocade curtain in the bow window of their drawing room twitch and, even from this distance, knew it was Laura watching him. He lifted a hand, waved, and reassured her with his everything-is-fine grin. When the hand clutching the drapery released and the fabric dropped back into place, his smile widened. The splinter of light between the curtains’ side partings told him Laura still peered out at him, and the knowledge that she cared enough to wait for his safe return swelled his chest and filled him with a sudden urge to hum, sing, or whistle.
Displaying his happiness was undoubtedly a stupid idea, especially following Sherwyn’s lectures—his last duty before his wedding—when he’d issued a few stern words of warning to his brothers and cousin. The Duke had stunned all of them when he’d given a long list of advisements on how to survive in his absence. He’d spoken with the authority of one now related to the Jamison women, of their contrary attitudes and fiery temperaments. He’d left them his list of three solid rules for males dealing with them.
Never betray your feelings — like their many over-eager suitors.
Never let them acquire the upper hand.
Above all — never, ever let them know you want to worship at their prettily-shod feet.
The sisters, though all ridiculously beautiful, showed an unusual indifference to their looks and placed much more value on how a woman proved her worth in the world. Even impervious and controlled Sherwyn had tripped over his tongue when reintroduced to Becca, Laura and Lottie after his four-year absence. The Duke’s nonplussed attitude when confronted with a room full of dazzlers, instead of the young girls he’d known, had become the day’s jest for the entire Jamison family. Until Becca had stomped on his toes and captured his attention, as well as capturing his heart.
Following his cousin’s path would be a fatal mistake. Richard sucked in a deep and calming breath. He’d been very careful to avoid being alone with these ladies, especially Laura, as he’d no intention of becoming entangled, physically or emotionally, with any well-bred lady. Not yet anyway, not until he’d seen his sisters down the aisle.
Nor would he love a woman as desperately as his father had loved his mother. Loving relationships invariably led to heartache and grief for one or other of those involved. Not a path he intended treading, no matter how much Laura tempted him.
The two Jamison brothers compared their sisters to the Royal Flag. Becca’s redheaded attributes and fiery temperament defied disagreement. Lottie’s pale hair, light as mythical strands of spun gold and offset by the bluest of bird’s shell eyes, inspired poetry.
Flanked by the flag’s red and white stripes waved Laura, the most unpredictable of the three sisters, whose locks gleamed with the blue-black sheen of a raven’s wing. Their vibrant and varied hair colors, red, blue-black and white-blond, resembled the navy’s ensign and, to many, the girls were as dangerous as the Admiral’s fleet.
To his own mind, Laura’s midnight coloring reflected the concealed depths of her psyche: intelligence that intrigued him, honest humor that made him roar with laughter and her never-ending quest for knowledge that equaled his own.
He sighed, surrendered to momentary regret over his desire for the unattainable, before he primed his cannons for the next round of battle. Luscious Laura, as he’d dubbed her in a loose-mouthed moment one drunken night, remained as distant from his ideal countess as the moon. Strange that he was eminently suitable as the man with whom she played their games of friend and foe and advance and retreat, yet she considered him totally unsuitable to be the perfect husband she was determined to seek and marry.
For his own sanity after she married, he’d shock the world by delaying his sisters’ marriages and setting sail to the Continent. Or India. Or the Americas. Or whatever point on the globe that was most distant from Laura’s devotion to her carefully-chosen match. Worse still, would be watching the vitality seep from her body and doubts override every future decision if she chose wrongly, and her days with her spouse were miserable rather than exhilarating.
In the past, his friends had teased him over his deliberate avoidance of Laura, yet it wasn’t because of an often-chased bachelor’s normal dodge from being alone with an unmarried woman. Though he cursed his titles and wealth as a blasted nuisance when they made him a target for marriage-minded chits. In his heart of hearts, he believed Laura deserved far, far, better than him.
Better than a man who publicly decried her notions of sexual selection to preserve the strength of their species. More than a rogue who preferred light dalliances with a list of willing widows, rather than risk involving his heart in deeper relationships. More than a man who’d concealed his inability to read an entire page aloud, without stumbling over every third or fourth word during most of his four and thirty years.
He didn’t honestly know if he was more ashamed of his childhood reading troubles, or of having been too cowardly to ever disclose his struggle. But if Laura learned of his hard school years, the ridicule and bullying, he’d be unable to look her directly in the eye. Overcoming his handicap had been far less humiliating than asking for help.
He’d merely had to spend hours, days, and weeks alone while he repeated words and phrases until he’d locked them in his mind and could recite passages by rote. Yet his terror of disclosure persisted in nightmares, featuring boys from his old school who thronged through London’s busy financial center to broadcast news of his illiterate childhood. Over and over, his tormentors pronounced his secret shame until his business cohorts mistrusted his financial acumen.
Richard shook himself. There was no time for such mawkish thoughts when Laura remained in danger. Striding up to the door, he rapped the brass knocker, hard and loud. Experience had taught him the Jamisons’ servants were a ramshackle lot, a group of lame or stray curs the sisters had collected from the streets. The butler, using the term in a loose fashion, acted more as a protective guard than a dispenser of visitors, cards and tea.
No one responded, as normal. Cursing under his breath, he raised his arm to create a louder racket on the paneled oak door. All of a sudden, it flew open and the subject of his many erotic dreams popped up under his sleeve.
Richard leaned over her to place his open palm on the door frame and stared down at her, his shoulders sagging a little upon seeing Laura ensconced within her own walls and her cheeks flushed with a little color. As he’d searched the labyrinth of narrow streets around St James’s church, he’d not been able to clear from his mind the look of fear etched across her face. Oh, fearless Laura might be ready for any adventure and as expert at hiding uncertainty as he was at concealing his craving, but he knew every one of her moods and terror was something she rarely showed.
He rested his forehead on his sleeve and battled to subdue his tumultuous emotions. Laura, with her determination to prove her competency in caring for her aunt and sister, would subject him to a tongue-lashing if she saw how anxious he’d been over their journey home. He didn’t want her to compare him to her father, with his constant pecking holes in her self-esteem, yet he could barely restrain himself from grabbing her and running his hands over her body and assuring himself she was hale and hearty.
If Laura noticed the strength of his angst she’d be furious. But if she glimpsed the depth of his desire she’d be blinded. Wanting Lady Laura Jamison and having her were two entirely different things. The wanting he’d accustomed himself to. The taking would be an unforgivable sin against his cousin and bride.
When he looked into her eyes again Richard caught a hint of his own feelings reflected back. He half smiled, contrarily pleased that Laura had fretted over his safety. Surely though she wasn’t as frightened for his safety as he’d been for hers? He’d learned self-preservation as a stripling lad whereas Laura, despite her declarations to the contrary, was of the fairer sex and therefore needed shielding.
Before he could blink, the confounding minx lifted her hand to his eye level and casually fluttered her fingers, before turning and disappearing down the hall. He watched her retreat, all swaying hips and a flurry of lavender skirts, with nothing left but the lingering of her enticing aroma. The scent was one of her preferred mixes and the one he loved best: violets, determined to grow and thrive, strong in color and fragrance, and yet fragile beneath their wildness. Exactly like Laura.
Stiffening his spine and strengthening his resolve, Richard stepped inside and closed the door. No sign of the butler, although the footman who considered himself a cohort in the Jamison’s undercover affairs poked his head around the kitchen door.
“Your lordship,” the burly sod said with unusual deference, startling Richard into imagining his manners had finally improved. “Oh, dearie me. ′Tis not good,” the footman said, as he frowned and caused plough-deep furrows across his enormous brow.
“Ah, what isn’t good?” Richard’s head was already spinning, and he hadn’t yet confronted Laura, or her family.
“Well, I can see that milady left you high and dry. Again. Don’t show ye any sorta respect, does she?”
The man’s grin wiped out Richard’s momentary hope that the servant might have developed a respectful attitude. He bit back his reprimand, despite the galling realization that the man was correct, and followed the noise towards the gathered family. All eyes turned to him as he strode into the morning room, mainly displaying their interest, yet Laura’s managed to burn straight through to his soul, blast her. He needed to resolve the situation with the shooter and retreat again.
Michael stood near the mantle, recounting his movements for the last three hours for the benefit of his sisters and aunt. “I coerced Jonathon into returning to university. But only by promising, on your behalf, that you will not put yourselves in danger again. Even if it means refusing all invitations for a time.”
Michael pointed at Laura. “Do not roll your eyes at me. I’m as worried as Jonathon about leaving you. Neither of us would go if we didn’t believe Winchester,” he waved towards him, “and his friend, the firearms expert, will keep after the shooter.” He shuddered. “So, if you wish to leave this house, you’ll need to ask Winchester to escort you. He promised Sherwyn he’d escort you and keep you safe. ”
Winchester walked across to shake hands with Michael. “I swear I’ll protect them with my life.” He looked at Laura. “And discover who tried to kill your sister this morning.”
Unsurprisingly, she jumped to her feet, her face tight with anger. “Untrue. You’ve no proof I was the target.” She strode across to him and, unheeding of her enthralled family, stabbed her finger on his vest button. “You, my lord, have far more enemies than I.”
He caught her finger and held it still. “Perhaps you should take a seat while we discuss the shooting.”
“Why?” She gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Do you believe I’m the type to swoon?” He might have believed her bravado if he’d not glimpsed that same fear in her eyes. “Besides, this morning’s events may still prove incidental to the wedding.”
Richard shook his head. “Stop pretending. Every person in this room believes Lady Hetherington paid someone to shoot at us. Mainly at you.” He walked to Laura’s empty chair and picked up her shawl, waving it aloft. “Exhibit A.” He scowled at her. “That bullet almost went straight through your obstinate noggin.”
With a swirl of muslin, Laura turned and went to stand beside her aunt’s chair. “Aunt Aggie refuses to cower in her bed, and so do I.”
Ignoring Laura, he turned to Michael. “I believe all the ladies, but most especially Laura, must retire to the country. If not your estate, then one of mine. Whichever provides the best protection.”
Laura stalked across to stand before him, hands on her hips, and her glare alive with defiance. “Leaving is out of the question. Now, more than ever, I need to visit the banking district. Unhampered by glowering men. Becca regularly meets her informants at the coffee-houses on Threadneedle Street, and I’m going to continue her routine.
“Now that, my reckless friend, is out of the question.” Winchester bent closer to her. “All sort of reprobates loiter about those areas, waiting for plump pigeons to pluck.”
“Don’t be daft. As if I cannot avoid pickpockets and thieves.” She waved a hand towards Lottie and her aunt, who followed their conversation in mesmerized silence. “How do you think we’ve survived all these years?”
“I shudder to think.”
“Despite your worries, my lord, I shall speak to our jobbers at the Stock Exchange. They will know which men are spending the most money at the auctions.”
Even Richard couldn’t do his own bidding on the Exchange and had to employ jobbers, because many of his peers still considered it low trade for an earl. Ridiculous, when everyone knew estates needed more than a wad of capital sitting in a bank to support families and titles these days.
“I must also assist at the Women’s Society,” Laura said. “It’s not that long since Peggy was murdered and the women feel vulnerable. When they hear that Lady Hetherington may have returned, they’ll be terrified. They can’t afford any more threats to their financial security.”
“Face the facts. It’s more than likely that madwoman has already organized another consortium to bleed those women dry.” He pushed the shawl closer to her face. “Isn’t this enough proof that these people will do anything for money.”
Laura scowled. “It would’ve been better if that bullet had hit your head instead of my beautiful shawl.” Ignoring her aunt’s shocked gasp and her brother’s loud objections, she added, “Because your skull is too thick for a bullet to penetrate.”
“Oh, my goodness, Laura,” Aggie said, waving her fan before her flushed face. “You’re embarrassing us all. Winchester, please accept my apologies. My niece is overwrought after such a harrowing morning. We shall retire for luncheon and leave you two alone for a few minutes. During which time, Laura, I expect you to reach a compromise with the earl.” She pointed a finger at her niece, who had the grace to at least look slightly uncomfortable. “There will be peace in this household while Baca and Sherwin are away. Do I make myself clear?”
Laura nodded. “Yes, Auntie, I shall speak to Winchester.”
“No, young lady, you will apologize for disbelieving him. The next few months will run much smoother if you accept that in these matters—our personal safety and railway investments—the earl’s experience and knowledge is far superior to ours.”
Aunt Aggie spun turned towards the door, her ample form rushing in the direction of more sustenance.
Winchester halted their departure long enough to say, “If Laura insists on venturing out, I shall accompany her wherever she wishes to go. So, Michael, feel free to leave as soon as you need to.”
“As soon as we’ve eaten,” Lottie said, “Auntie and I shall go to Bond Street.” She smiled at her brother. “Don’t fret. We shall have two footmen accompanying us. If Lady Hetherington is in the City and gathering her old servants and cohorts, we’ll know as soon as we speak to the owners of the shops she used to frequent.”
“Quite right,” Aggie said. “No matter how much a Lady wishes to remain hidden, one thing remains certain. She will always revisit her favorite dressmakers. And buy her gloves from the shop that stocks her preferred colors and sizes. We shall find her.”
“Good Lord.” Michael raised a brow and looked at Winchester. “Did you realize women were such creatures of habit with their shopping?”
“I can see the truth in that, having been dragged from shop to shop by ladies —”
“Ladies?” Laura flashed him a wide-eyed look. “We’ve all seen you prowling Bond Street. Apart from your sisters, the females who cling to your arm are not ladies. They’re pro—”
“Laura!” Michael held up a hand, palm outwards. “Do not utter that word in front of our aunt. Or your sister.”
“But you’ve no idea what I was going to label Winchester’s…” she smiled with exaggerated sweetness, “friends.”
“No,” Michael muttered, “but I can well imagine.”
She smiled again. “Pretty women?”
Michael groaned aloud. “Winchester, good luck. You’ll need it with Laura.” He was still shaking his head when he escorted his aunt and sister from the room.
***
Winchester had plenty of time to reflect on Michael’s parting comments later that same afternoon while he sat in his carriage outside the Women’s Society. He was waiting, with growing impatience, for Laura to reappear. As he twiddled his thumbs, he recalled, word for word, how his cousin, Sherwyn, had described Becca’s early treatment of him. As if Sherwyn, the Duke, was her lackey; a boot scrubber in Becca’s own personal army.
Richard’s fists clenched. His teeth ached from grinding them. Damn all the irritating Jamison woman to hell and back. He was the Earl of Winchester. His afternoon hours entailed more than trailing behind the skirts of a commanding chit who had, as per usual, had refused to apologize to him that morning. Instead, she’d given him a sketchy itinerary for her afternoon’s outings and lectured him about being ready to leave when she was, and had completely ignored his persistent questioning over the contents of the note she’d received at the church.
He’d made a new resolution. Now, if only he could follow through on this one and not let Laura either argue or coerce him out of it. He roused his footman from the game of cards he was playing with the coachman, and waved the man towards the pathway leading to the front door of the old house. Richard refused to lower himself to the indignity of knocking this second time, so he prod the footman ahead of him up the path. He’d only taken a few steps between the neat rows of colorful flowers lining the walkway when the door swung open.
The Lady he’d been waiting for emerged in a rush and that same startling flurry of purple skirts. She waved a gloved hand in a goodbye gesture to the group of women watching from the doorway as she sped past him on the path. He instinctively stepped backwards and almost toppled into one of the low gardens, only recovering his balance when the footman grabbed his elbow in support.
“Hurry along, Winchester,” Laura called over her shoulder. “We’ve much to accomplish. And I’ve news you will wish to hear.”
Only that carrot, cunningly dangled before his nose, forced him to cut short his non-complimentary retort. He merely muttered a couple of words, before hauling in a calming breath and following her to the carriage. His carriage. He watched her instruct the driver and ascend with the assistance of the footman. His driver and his footman. Once they were both seated and the coachman — his coachman — rocked them into motion, she tugged off her bonnet and tossed it onto the seat.
He followed the flight of the hat, a winsome straw arrangement with sprigs of violets and numerous dangling lavender ribbons well-suited to her capriciousness, and watched it slide, unheeded, into the corner. Though he winced, he suppressed his urge to rescue the neglected item. Best to avoid irritating Laura by mentioning such a trifling matter, for they argued enough over his nit-picking on her household accounting. Not to mention their all-out wars over taking more care with her personal safety.
Although Laura placed fashion-following lower on her list of interests than the distillation of herbs, he took a far greater interest in her accoutrements, especially adoring the sight of her ballroom-gowned as Lady Laura Jamison in her preferred colors of amethyst, ruby, and burgundy. Darker colors highlighted the glimmer of banked fire in her eyes and complemented the loose curls dropping over her slim neck and down to her—
Heaven help him!
No, his mind mustn’t be allowed to wander there. For them, unmarried and unchaperoned, to even be out and about in a carriage was unseemly. Though with her sister and aunt fully occupied, and Laura’s missions of an urgent nature, they’d been compelled to take the risk.
Dammit, he regretted this outing already. Regretted his compulsion to guard her whenever she mingled publicly. Under his breath, he counted backwards from fifty, a practice he’d adopted when dealing with four impetuous younger sisters. The same rigid self-control he called on often when trying to deal with Laura, a female who considered herself well outside his reach and yet was within his extended family.
“We agreed,” he said, trying to appear amicable despite his clenched jaw, “you would not walk out the door of the Society alone. You would wait until I’d first secured the area. Yet… yet you hurtled out--” His control slipped, and he stopped. “You tore down that path as though hell’s fires burned your tail. And if you recall, only this very morning you cheated death by a hair’s breadth. And not once, but twice.” He nodded several times. “My constitution cannot withstand any more shocks today.”
“Fiddlesticks.” She flicked a gloved hand through the air between them. “Your constitution’s sound as an ox. Nothing disturbs your complacency.”
He glared at her. “You’d be surprised how shattered my nerves have become in recent weeks.”
She waved another imperious hand, again dismissing his troubled nerves as a matter of insignificance. Ha! If only she knew. His latest stresses, all to do with the Jamison family, had stopped him from following his normal regime and prevented him from doing anything but worry about her. Including seeking out or seducing any new conquests. His cousins would tease him, as they had Sherwyn, over his forced state of celibacy. Though for him, to be truthful, it wasn’t forced, as much as self-inflicted.
If taken in small doses, he enjoyed the high-class social whirl. He escorted his sisters to balls and soirees, checked the credentials of every man they danced with, and took advantage of those stuffier occasions to keep his hand in by flirting with a refined lady or two. He didn’t even mind, not too much anyway, dancing with a succession of pink-cheeked debutants or grateful wallflowers. Though for reasons he’d yet to fathom, none of the women had tempted him in the least, and that included the handful of brazen widows who’d flung themselves in his path.
Lately, he’d found all females as boringly similar as the leaves on an oak tree. Their conversations were distressingly repetitious, and the ladies so vain they copied each other’s turnouts to the last ribbon. They’d over-practiced their ballroom demeanor before mirrors until, in the midst of a conversation about weather, he’d cough to smother his yawns and silently beg his partner of the moment to stop pontificating before he slid down the wall and snored. They should have berated him for his lack of interest, rather than smile so hopefully up at him. At least speaking to Laura always kept him awake and on his mettle. Though he had just missed what she’d said.
“—and we’re being talked about again for mixing with women who are idealists. Many of our friends are speaking publicly against the Queen and the strict rules she encourages for governing women in their own homes.”
“Oh, please,” he muttered, although he couldn’t help his grin. Laura’s conversations never bored him. “Spare my ringing ears. Not another of your lectures on why women should have the same rights as men. None of that is possible until all men have equal rights. You know that.”
She sighed, her wonderful breasts rising and falling like the daily arc of the sun across the sky. To his mind, the movement of her breasts was far more fascinating than any of nature’s other wonders.
“Yes. I do know that. Laugh at me if you wish, but one day, there’ll be radical changes. And I, for one, want to be a part of it.”
He reached across and took her gloved hand in his. So small, her bones so fragile. Yet, underneath the strength of steel.
“I don’t laugh, pet. I wouldn’t dare to, not when my sisters preach the same ideas to me. Day and night. And if it’s any consolation, I hope that I’m standing up with you the day women earn the right to represent themselves in the ′Change. The idea that you must hide behind initials, scribble illegible names on your stock certificates--it’s a blight on the name of progress. If Prince Albert wants to see England become the greatest financial power in the next ten years, he must see that low-class men, and women, are included in his plans.”
Looking across, he noticed Laura laughing.
“Now who sprouts radical teachings?”
He grinned, shrugged. “What does that make us? Two of a kind.”
For a long moment, the air charged again with those same turbulent currents, and once again, he felt the arc, the sparks, leap and dance between them. If he touched it, he’d burn as it glowed with fierce heat.
She looked down at her lap, twisting the tips of her gloves into knots as she did when nervous. “Heaven forbid we admit to being alike in any way.”
He swallowed, hard. “And heaven also forbid we admit to liking how the other thinks. Or the sort of person the other is.”
“Yes.” She drew a long breath, another nervous habit. He knew her well. “Far too late to change our opinions of each other now. So, let’s concentrate on finding Lady Hetherington and her motives for returning to London. Find out if she’s forming another syndicate. And, if I’m to keep to Becca’s investment schedule, we need to mix with our peers. Hear if anyone has given permission to lay railway tracks across their estates.”
“I’ll speak to my man of affairs and send him to the stock auctions.” When she went to speak, he held up a hand, palm out. “No, hear me out. “He’s used to acquiring that sort information for me, and I swear I’ll pass on everything he learns. There’s no need to put yourself out in view. Far too risky.” He raised his brows. “And, if you promise to not leave my sight, you may accompany my sisters to Bentwood’s ball this evening.”
Her eyes widened. “You intend playing out the role of protector in front of a room full of people? Pretend you’re Michael?”
“I’ll be glued to you as closely as the soles on your pretty little dancing slippers throughout the entire evening. As I was at the church this morning.”
She huffed, the sound dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, yes, look how that turned out. I was shot at. Twice. Though now that I think about it, it’s a wonder you even noticed.”
“What do you mean? Of course I noticed. I was with you.”
“Not all morning. You appeared from the back row only after you’d managed to escape the clutches of your countess.”
He groaned and threw back his head. “Not that again. When are you going to forget that man-eater, as I have?”
“Perhaps when she stops gobbling you up with her eyes. Not that I care what happens between you in private. It’s only in public, I feel embarrassed. On your behalf, of course.”
“Of course. You’re thinking of my welfare. Always.” He sneered. “Will this evening be easier to bear if I promise to not look at the countess? Not even once.”
“Possibly, but can I believe you?” The little demon—or did one call her
a demoness?—tapped a finger to her mouth and fluttered her eyelashes in a falsely provocative manner. “Should I believe things spoken between lips touted in gossip columns as the most kissed in all three hundred upper echelon British families?”
“Bloody hell! Enough. There’s only one way to stop your irritating taunts.”
She raised an imperious eyebrow. “Oh, and what’s that?”
He reached across the seats and grasped her waist. He lifted, spun her about and laid her across his lap. His mouth came down to cover hers, to silence, dominate, but above all pleasure her. When he drew back to suck in a shaky breath, her eyes were wide, her mouth open, and her heart raced under his palm spread across her back. He’d discovered a way to silence Lady Laura Jamison, at last. Excellent.
So he grasped the opportunity she presented with her widely inviting mouth to descend, again and again, and cover her soft, enticing lips. After several long minutes of pleasure, he pulled back. Chest heaving, lids drooping, he was unable to form a coherent thought.
He was unable to speak. But she wasn’t.
“Delicious!”
After a stunned second, he threw back his head and laughed. Laughed aloud. Laughed with true joy, for the first time in many months. Trust Laura to have the last word.
Never mind. He only needed to see her dazed expression to know he’d won the last round of this battle. If only he could win every battle with luscious Laura so easily.
“I do regret eliminating you from my list of suitable candidates to be my husband.” She sighed. “Because I certainly enjoyed our kiss.”
Winchester’s moment of euphoria dissipated as quickly as soap bubbles in a tub of dirty laundry, when he realized he’d also enjoyed their kiss. Far too much for a man who’d sworn to never dally with any woman he liked and to avoid any relationship that might cause him future pain.