A Kiss For Midwinter
Page 31
He looked around, but nobody else was about. And ultimately, his was the one door where a visitor in the night would not be remarked upon.
He could feel his weariness sliding from him. He opened the door wider and gestured her inside.
She hadn’t said he could speak, and so he didn’t. Not because he felt bound by the wager, but because… Because she needed to choose him at her own pace. To understand that he was willing to wait for her. And he wanted to know that she would choose him over her own dark fears.
He wasn’t going to talk, but he helped her take off her cloak, running his hands over her shoulders as he did. He could almost feel the aching tension in his head slip away as his fingers brushed her skin. He hung her cloak on a hook.
When he turned back to her, she faced him. She was holding a gift in one hand—a small sack of gold velvet tied with a green ribbon. It was a ridiculously elaborate presentation, and he couldn’t help but smile at it. Ribbons at ten at night? Only Lydia.
She held it out to him. “I brought you a Christmas present.” She looked down. “And yes, I know the decoration doesn’t change the contents, but it amused me to make it pretty.”
No, Lydia would never bring him a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He wouldn’t want her any other way.
He took the package.
“You should open it now.”
Bemused, he undid the ribbon. It took several minutes to figure out the complicated bow she’d made. He folded it carefully, and then opened the sack. Inside, he felt the crinkle of paper. He pulled it out. For a second he thought that she’d given him a note—a note to match the one he’d written for her earlier that day. But then he rubbed it between his fingers and realized that this wasn’t paper all the way through. It was…
He unfolded the paper and swallowed.
She’d given him a French letter. How in the hell had she found a French letter? He could not mistake the intent in that.
He let out a shaky breath and looked over at her. Her eyes were dark, dark. She reached up and pulled two pins from her hair, and her curls tumbled over her shoulders.
Ever so slowly, he held out his hand to her. Just as slowly, she set her fingers on his. “I would have had Mrs. Hall get me a Dutch cap instead,” she said. “But I believe I have to be fitted for one, and, ah…” Her fingers curled around his, and she moved closer to him. “I wanted you to do that.”
She stood so close to him now. His entire body yearned for hers.
“I am afraid,” she said quietly. “I am afraid because I like you. Because I think back on our conversations and smile. I am afraid because when I see you, my heart beats faster. The truth terrifies me, and the truth, Jonas, is that I want you carnally.”
Oh, God. He’d never thought to hear those words from her.
“And in other ways.”
He was riveted by her lips, that dusky rose that demanded his touch.
“I think,” she said, “that if you could talk right now, you’d offer to marry me first. You’d wait until you laid all my fears to rest before taking me to bed. But I don’t want to cosset my fears any longer, Jonas.”
As she spoke, he felt his pulse pick up. His body grew tense—not with the aching, painful tension that he’d felt in his shoulders before she’d arrived, but with a warm anticipation. He smiled at her, long and slow.
“I want to face what I fear,” she said, and then swallowed. “Tonight.”
For an answer, he picked her up in his arms. She let out a little gasp, but he pulled her close and she hooked her arms about his neck. For one moment, she leaned her forehead against his. For one moment, they traded air, their lungs seeming to work in tandem. And then he kissed her.
This time, there was no bitter to the kiss, just light sweetness, a sweetness that built with every caress they traded.
He wasn’t sure how he made it to his bedroom, kissing her, holding her, wanting her. As soon as he was inside, he undid the laces of her gown, pushing it down over her shoulders. She stepped out of it—and then smiled as he shook it and hung it on a hook in his wardrobe.
“Really, Jonas?” she asked.
He spread his hands, and crooked a finger. She came toward him and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. “You know,” she said, “I was always so intimated by your great height. There’s something about being tall that gives a man an unnatural advantage.” She took off his waistcoat, looked at him… and then winked at him before folding it carefully.
God, he loved her. He couldn’t quite believe she was here, that she was touching him, wanting him. She slid a finger in the waistband of his trousers and then pulled the tails of his shirt out. When she ran her hands up his bare abdomen, he let out a gasp. She gave him a scandalous smile, one that brought his blood to a slow simmer. He took off his shirt, carefully, and set it atop his vest. And then, before she could get those wicked fingers on the waistband of his trousers, he undid the laces of her front-facing corset. It peeled away, leaving her in chemise and drawers.
From here, lit by the flickering light of oil lamp, he could see the devastating silhouette of her body. The curves of her hips, the weight of her br**sts, no longer supported by her corset. He could see the shading of a dark triangle of hair through the thin fabric of her drawers, the darker points of her ni**les. His whole body pulsed with need, the desire to press against hers.
“You’re distinctly good at that,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “But I suppose you’d have to be. If you needed to treat someone in a rush…”
He shook his head.
“No? You didn’t learn to remove women’s clothing through your profession?”
He crossed the room to his desk, and took a letter opener off his desk.
“Jonas?”
He turned back to her, a smile on his face. What he wanted to say was that when he was in a rush—if minutes had made the difference between life and death—he wouldn’t have bothered with laces. But since she hadn’t given him leave to speak yet, he’d have to show her. He stalked up to her, hooked his finger in the neckline of her chemise. She just had a moment to look up at him in confusion, before he set the letter opener against the fabric and sliced it clean through.
That. That was what he would do in a rush, if he needed to get at something. Her skin pebbled in the night air, but not for long.
She gasped. And then he pushed her on the bed, the two halves of her chemise falling to either side of her. He dragged her drawers down, baring her body for him. Her eyes were wide, so wide, and dark. She hadn’t said a word of protest, and so he spread her legs.
He could feel his weariness sliding from him. He opened the door wider and gestured her inside.
She hadn’t said he could speak, and so he didn’t. Not because he felt bound by the wager, but because… Because she needed to choose him at her own pace. To understand that he was willing to wait for her. And he wanted to know that she would choose him over her own dark fears.
He wasn’t going to talk, but he helped her take off her cloak, running his hands over her shoulders as he did. He could almost feel the aching tension in his head slip away as his fingers brushed her skin. He hung her cloak on a hook.
When he turned back to her, she faced him. She was holding a gift in one hand—a small sack of gold velvet tied with a green ribbon. It was a ridiculously elaborate presentation, and he couldn’t help but smile at it. Ribbons at ten at night? Only Lydia.
She held it out to him. “I brought you a Christmas present.” She looked down. “And yes, I know the decoration doesn’t change the contents, but it amused me to make it pretty.”
No, Lydia would never bring him a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He wouldn’t want her any other way.
He took the package.
“You should open it now.”
Bemused, he undid the ribbon. It took several minutes to figure out the complicated bow she’d made. He folded it carefully, and then opened the sack. Inside, he felt the crinkle of paper. He pulled it out. For a second he thought that she’d given him a note—a note to match the one he’d written for her earlier that day. But then he rubbed it between his fingers and realized that this wasn’t paper all the way through. It was…
He unfolded the paper and swallowed.
She’d given him a French letter. How in the hell had she found a French letter? He could not mistake the intent in that.
He let out a shaky breath and looked over at her. Her eyes were dark, dark. She reached up and pulled two pins from her hair, and her curls tumbled over her shoulders.
Ever so slowly, he held out his hand to her. Just as slowly, she set her fingers on his. “I would have had Mrs. Hall get me a Dutch cap instead,” she said. “But I believe I have to be fitted for one, and, ah…” Her fingers curled around his, and she moved closer to him. “I wanted you to do that.”
She stood so close to him now. His entire body yearned for hers.
“I am afraid,” she said quietly. “I am afraid because I like you. Because I think back on our conversations and smile. I am afraid because when I see you, my heart beats faster. The truth terrifies me, and the truth, Jonas, is that I want you carnally.”
Oh, God. He’d never thought to hear those words from her.
“And in other ways.”
He was riveted by her lips, that dusky rose that demanded his touch.
“I think,” she said, “that if you could talk right now, you’d offer to marry me first. You’d wait until you laid all my fears to rest before taking me to bed. But I don’t want to cosset my fears any longer, Jonas.”
As she spoke, he felt his pulse pick up. His body grew tense—not with the aching, painful tension that he’d felt in his shoulders before she’d arrived, but with a warm anticipation. He smiled at her, long and slow.
“I want to face what I fear,” she said, and then swallowed. “Tonight.”
For an answer, he picked her up in his arms. She let out a little gasp, but he pulled her close and she hooked her arms about his neck. For one moment, she leaned her forehead against his. For one moment, they traded air, their lungs seeming to work in tandem. And then he kissed her.
This time, there was no bitter to the kiss, just light sweetness, a sweetness that built with every caress they traded.
He wasn’t sure how he made it to his bedroom, kissing her, holding her, wanting her. As soon as he was inside, he undid the laces of her gown, pushing it down over her shoulders. She stepped out of it—and then smiled as he shook it and hung it on a hook in his wardrobe.
“Really, Jonas?” she asked.
He spread his hands, and crooked a finger. She came toward him and undid the buttons of his waistcoat. “You know,” she said, “I was always so intimated by your great height. There’s something about being tall that gives a man an unnatural advantage.” She took off his waistcoat, looked at him… and then winked at him before folding it carefully.
God, he loved her. He couldn’t quite believe she was here, that she was touching him, wanting him. She slid a finger in the waistband of his trousers and then pulled the tails of his shirt out. When she ran her hands up his bare abdomen, he let out a gasp. She gave him a scandalous smile, one that brought his blood to a slow simmer. He took off his shirt, carefully, and set it atop his vest. And then, before she could get those wicked fingers on the waistband of his trousers, he undid the laces of her front-facing corset. It peeled away, leaving her in chemise and drawers.
From here, lit by the flickering light of oil lamp, he could see the devastating silhouette of her body. The curves of her hips, the weight of her br**sts, no longer supported by her corset. He could see the shading of a dark triangle of hair through the thin fabric of her drawers, the darker points of her ni**les. His whole body pulsed with need, the desire to press against hers.
“You’re distinctly good at that,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “But I suppose you’d have to be. If you needed to treat someone in a rush…”
He shook his head.
“No? You didn’t learn to remove women’s clothing through your profession?”
He crossed the room to his desk, and took a letter opener off his desk.
“Jonas?”
He turned back to her, a smile on his face. What he wanted to say was that when he was in a rush—if minutes had made the difference between life and death—he wouldn’t have bothered with laces. But since she hadn’t given him leave to speak yet, he’d have to show her. He stalked up to her, hooked his finger in the neckline of her chemise. She just had a moment to look up at him in confusion, before he set the letter opener against the fabric and sliced it clean through.
That. That was what he would do in a rush, if he needed to get at something. Her skin pebbled in the night air, but not for long.
She gasped. And then he pushed her on the bed, the two halves of her chemise falling to either side of her. He dragged her drawers down, baring her body for him. Her eyes were wide, so wide, and dark. She hadn’t said a word of protest, and so he spread her legs.
