Pride and Pleasure (Historical #3)

Pride and Pleasure (Historical #3) Page 14

“Thirst…yes.” It was clear the earl was mistaking Jasper’s lust for Eliza for a lust for vengeance. Jasper chose not to correct the assumption. “That’s apt.”

Unfolding from the chair, the earl polished off the last of his brandy. “I will continue to assist you in your quest for revenge, Bond. You are not alone in this endeavor, whether you appreciate that or not.”

How well the earl knew him to comprehend that he disliked being dependent upon anyone. “You’ve done more than enough. The marker for Montague’s property is my greatest wish realized.”

“I’m merely your mask.” Westfield’s smile was grim. “You are the one who has interceded in every investment that might have saved him. You are the one who funded the seasoned gamblers capable of winning against him. You are the one who has worked tirelessly for years to earn enough to squander a fortune to ruin him. Remind me never to anger you, Bond. You aren’t a very nice fellow to those you dislike.”

“You are too honorable a man to do anything that would completely alienate me.” With a smile, Jasper tossed the earl’s words back at him, “Whether you appreciate hearing that or not.”

“Good God, don’t make that statement within earshot of others, please.” The earl looked at the clock. “Should I return at ten o’clock to begin our shadowing of Miss Martin?”

Jasper considered the time. It was shortly after five. “Let’s make it eleven, shall we?”

“You will hear no complaints from me,” Westfield said as he made his egress. “I’ve spent more time with you over the last few days than I have with a woman. No offense, but you aren’t nearly as charming.”

“I should hope not,” Jasper muttered, following the earl out to the hall en route to his rooms upstairs.

“I beg you to follow my lead and consider indulging in some female companionship yourself. It would be a relief to find you less surly this evening.”

Jasper paused with his foot on the bottom step, absorbing the now familiar thrum of anticipation he felt whenever time with Eliza approached. “Don’t feel the need to be excessively timely,” he said over his shoulder, before ascending the staircase two steps at a time.

“This coming from a man who is a stickler for punctuality?” Westfield called after him. “I believe you have caught the Melville madness.”

Jasper thought that was apt, too.

Eliza wondered what the house looked like from the front. Alighting from the carriage in the mews afforded her only a backside glimpse of Jasper’s home.

The young man who couriered Jasper’s note to her urged her expeditiously through an iron gate and along a cobblestone pathway bisecting a garden that was immaculate, if uninspired. She was still absorbing the severity of the rear lawn when Jasper appeared. A shiver of delight moved through her.

He filled the doorway leading into the house, his broad shoulders and tall frame backlit by the interior candlelight. His stance was wide, allowing light to shine between his legs, detailing the length and power of his thighs. He was fully dressed, but the expert fit of his breeches left nothing to the imagination. For the first time, she found the sight of a man’s body inflaming. From the moment she first laid eyes on him, she’d felt a disturbing and significant physical response to his proximity. It intensified daily, encouraged by every heated look and every casual touch.

“Eliza.” There was something intimate about the way he said her name.

She gained the first stair leading up from the garden and he held his hand out to her. It was gloveless and looked so strong and capable. She decided she loved his hands.

She tugged off her glove before she accepted his assistance, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin. A frisson of heated awareness moved up her arm. His grip tightened for a moment, as if he felt it, too. Looking up at him from beneath the hood of her cloak, she noted the stark austerity of his handsome features. He seemed so somber. So grave.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, having been concerned from the moment his summons arrived.

“Come inside.”

Glancing behind her, she saw that the young man who’d accompanied her had departed. There had been others with him, but they hadn’t entered the gardens with her. Jasper’s note advised her to ask his man to accompany her back, if she chose to visit him as he requested. Once she relayed her acquiescence, everything was arranged with amazing swiftness. She’d been squired from Melville’s house through the delivery alley and seen into a hired hackney. The winding and repetitive route they’d taken ensured she wasn’t followed.

Jasper led her inside and took her to a study. Her senses were engaged by the feel of the room the moment she entered it. The mixture of blue hues and mahogany wood was surprising; although she couldn’t say what else she might have chosen for him. Large wingback chairs and overly stuffed settees spoke of comfort as well as functionality. She knew instantly that he spent a great deal of time in this room, which made her want to explore every corner of it.

He came up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened, not with fear or apprehension, but expectantly. She heard him inhale slowly and deeply, as if savoring her scent. The action suited him. He was a man firmly attuned to his baser nature, reliant on his senses and instincts as all predatory and dominant creatures were. She was attracted to that side of him, deriving a potent thrill from being capable of stirring it.

“May I?” he asked, referring to her cloak.

Eliza nodded.

Her hood was lifted and pulled back, exposing her face to light from all around. He paused, his frame emanating an unmistakable tension. The act of removing her cloak suddenly became far more revealing. She understood then that he hadn’t summoned her to discuss urgent business or anything else. The divestment of her exterior garments was the first step in the removal of all her clothing.

Her breath caught audibly and a fine tremor rippled through her.

Jasper’s chin came to rest atop the crown of her head. His hands gripped her upper arms in a gentle yet unshakeable hold. “Will you stay?” he asked gruffly.

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

Chapter 8

Eliza felt Jasper relax. She did not. How could she, having just agreed to give herself to a man she barely knew? For the first time in her life, she had ignored all reason and acted purely on feeling.

Just like her mother would have done…

She pushed the thought aside. She’d made her decision and she would not regret it. “What would you have done if I said no?”

“Changed your mind.” His fingers deftly released the frog at her throat. Her cloak began to slip and he caught it with a flourish.

Turning to face him, she watched as he draped the black velvet garment over the back of one of the pale blue settees. “I’m agreeing to something I have no knowledge of,” she pointed out. “Perhaps I will change my own mind.”

Jasper stepped closer and cupped her face in his hands. “If so, I will desist. But I fully intend for you to beg me not to stop.”

The physical response she had to his words was so violent it took her by surprise. He took advantage, his mouth sealing over hers and taking it, his tongue thrusting fast and deep. Eliza caught his wrists to keep her balance, her body otherwise frozen by the onslaught. A whimper escaped her and was swallowed by his answering groan.

He released her as quickly as he’d caught her, stepping back and leaving her to stumble from the loss of his support. His chest lifted and fell rapidly. His gaze was heavy-lidded and hot.

“This is my study,” he said in a hoarse voice. “When I’m home, this is the most likely place to find me.”

Stunned by the sudden change in conversation and the distance between them, Eliza took a moment to register what he’d said. “It suits you,” she managed.

“Come along.” Jasper held his hand out to her.

He pulled her gently from the room and back out to the visitor’s foyer. There was a longcase clock against the wall, a large console with a lone silver salver atop it, and a rack for Jasper’s cane. It was a purely functional space, lacking any adornments.

“The parlor is here,” he said, steering her across a round Aubusson rug covering the marble floor.

From the threshold, she saw a fire in the grate and playing cards scattered across two separate tables. It looked as if a gathering had recently been there and would be returning shortly. The room was decorated in shades of yellow and cream. There was a large quantity of furniture, all of which was oversized and sturdily built. Still, the space felt sterile and uncluttered.

“At any given hour,” he said, “many of my employees can be found in here. The downstairs is often noisy, filled with bawdy conversations and raucous laughter. This is the first time this room has been empty in many years.”

“Oh…” Eliza understood that he’d sent the men away because of her. “When will they be back?”

“Not for many hours.”

Her palms grew damp, a reaction he couldn’t fail to note with her hand in his. “Were you so certain of my capitulation?”

“Far from it, but I couldn’t proceed as if failure was inevitable.” He tugged her from the room. “There is also a dining room and ballroom on this floor, but I use neither, so they’re unfurnished.”

They moved toward the staircase and started to climb. With every step they took, her excitement mounted. Her breathing quickened and her face felt hot. There was an unmistakable finality to their upward progression, as if her fate had been set and she couldn’t turn back now. Far from feeling trapped, she felt liberated. All afternoon, she’d thought of Melville and Regina and Montague. She had weighed their admonishments and advice. And she’d felt the mounting pressure to conform, to cede to the expected behavior and cast aside any lingering hope for independence.

“The third floor,” he said, “has three bedrooms and a nursery, which has been converted into a room for guests. Sometimes my men stay here, for various reasons. No one is here now. If you would like to see the rooms, I’ll show them to you.”

If he was trying to give her time to change her mind, it wasn’t working. She was growing more agitated by the moment. Impatient. Restless. “Why?”

Jasper glanced at her. “Does anything about my home strike you in an unusual way?”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Beautifully furnished. However, it is also oddly barren. Nothing adorns the walls or table surfaces. You’ve hung no portraits of loved ones or pleasing landscapes. I had hoped to learn more about you by visiting, but I’ve seen very little that tells a story.”

“One has to want things in order to purchase them. There’s nothing I want. There has been nothing I’ve seen in a shop window or in someone else’s home that I have coveted.” He paused with one foot on the next step. “I think you might understand that lack of wanting. You attire yourself for purpose, not for vanity. You did not refurnish Melville’s study when you commandeered it. You replaced what needed to be replaced and made do with the rest.”

“Many people find that art and sentimental objects provide comfort and enjoyment. I, too, own a few items that are impractical but give me pleasure.”

“Am I such to you?” he asked, his dark eyes shadowed with some emotion she couldn’t name. “An impractical pleasure?”

“Yes.”

He started forward again. They reached the second floor landing and Eliza looked down the lone hallway, searching for and finding a lack of wall adornment. Aside from sconces to light the way, there was nothing to relieve the long expanse of soft green damask covering the walls.

His pace slowed from brisk to a near stroll. “I have only ever wanted intangible things—health and happiness for my mother, justice for wrongdoings, satisfaction in a job well done—things of that nature. I have never understood why others become focused on particular objects. I’ve never comprehended obsession or overwhelming need.”

He spoke without inflection. There was nothing in what he said that betrayed any emotion, yet she felt a deeper undercurrent to his words.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly, clutching his hand with both of her own.

“I’m the only one who uses this floor.” He started forward. “Aside from my own rooms, the rest are vacant.”

His repeated evasion of her questions was growing tiresome. She could not understand his mood. With her own emotions a confusing jumble, she didn’t have the wherewithal to translate his feelings, too.

They reached a set of open double doors. Jasper gestured her in ahead of him.

Taking a deep breath, Eliza crossed the threshold. Like her room in Melville’s house, Jasper’s sitting room was predominantly burgundy in tone with occasional splashes of cream to alleviate the dark hue. But unlike her space, his was thoroughly masculine. There were no tassels or patterns to any of the materials, and no carvings in the wooden arms and legs of the chairs and tables.

The air smelled of him. She breathed the scent into her nostrils, finding it calming to her jangled nerves. Then, she looked at the open doorway to her left, the portal to Jasper’s bedchamber, and her stomach knotted all over again.

“There are games women play,” he murmured, his gaze hot enough to heat her skin. “Tests they devise to gauge a man’s interest.”

“What sorts of tests?”

“They make certain a man learns of their favorite flower or color or important dates, then wait to see if he will remember and gift them accordingly.”

Her hands linked together nervously. Should she sit? Or remain standing as he did? She escaped into the conversation, not knowing what else to do. “The objects of feminine and masculine sentimentality are often widely different. To expect a man to assume what might be an unnatural form of sentiment to prove devotion is an unreasonable experiment with a high probability of failure. Why not accept his instinctual gestures of affection in whatever manner they are manifested? They likely mean more to him and reveal more about his character.”