Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

WHERE A MAN CONSIDERS OPENING HIS MIND AND HIS HEART

N igel wasn’t especially surprised when Arabella Macauley showed up on his Belgravia doorstep two days later. Bracing his arm on the doorjamb, he refused to step aside to admit her. They stared as the silence took on its own melody, although he’d give it to her, she didn’t back down for a second.

She tilted her head, the velvet ribbons on her bonnet dancing. It was an absurd shade of crimson that looked stunning against her skin. And those startling, smokey eyes.

He wished like hell he could forget about her eyes.

She gestured to the snow falling delicately around her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s quite chilly.” Her breath sent up little vaporous puffs he imagined would taste like a confection.

Sighing, he stepped back to allow trouble to enter his new abode. “I don’t suppose you have a chaperone crammed under that bonnet. One who won’t run off to Scotland with an inebriated baron this time.”

She laughed and glanced over her shoulder as she crossed his foyer, her rose-pink lips curving delightfully. And he realized with a dull pang that he was attracted. That he wanted to drag her upstairs to his partially furnished bedchamber and see if her skin was pink all over .

“I’m not properly staffed for guests,” he growled, angry at himself, not her. Though it came out sounding a bit like both. In ragged shirtsleeves and trousers, he was also not dressed for guests. “I can offer tea or brandy but little else.”

She held up a scuffed leather satchel. “I heard about your accident.”

He flexed his hand, the slice on his forearm paining him like the devil, truth be told. “It’s fine. Jerkins wrapped it up. A tussle with a titled gent who didn’t wish to leave his money behind when he’d spent all night losing it.”

She scrunched her nose, disapproving. “Your assistant? What does he know about medical concerns?”

Nigel closed the door with a snap and followed her down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed in the absence of furnishings. “What do you know about them? And Jerkins is the Lair’s factotum. Much more than an assistant, imp. He manages the tables and the security, two key pieces of any gaming enterprise.”

Arabella turned into the first parlor. Luckily, the one containing furniture. And a blazing fire in the hearth. “My apologies.”

Nigel grunted, although he recalled his father’s advice. Let her in.

And not simply to your home. This advice he heard in his mother’s loving but firm voice.

No , he replied to both of them.

Before Arabella could do it herself, Nigel was by her side, lifting her damp cloak from her shoulders. “Bloody hell, you must be freezing.”

She placed her satchel on the table and stretched her shoulders. “Actually, I’m not. I love winter. It’s my favorite season. Well, actually I appreciate things about each.” She began to remove her gloves one adorable finger at a time. “Quit frowning, will you? My father’s carriage is waiting just around the corner, so you needn’t worry like a crotchety old woman. Although it’s true, I am unaccompanied, as I have yet to secure a new companion. But the coachman is Billy Dawkins, you know, he’s been with us forever. He can serve as some sort of chaperone, right?”

A sad sort, Nigel thought. Folding her cloak over the armchair near the fire, he tried, really tried, not to stare at her breasts straining against her woolen bodice. She had marvelous breasts, and he hated to say he’d known this since she sprouted them five or so years ago.

Family friend or not, no man on earth could miss them.

As Arabella settled on the settee and began to fuss with the items in her bag, he poured tea in mismatched mugs meant for something stronger. It wasn’t the best she’d sample today, but he could make his own. He pressed his lips together when he thought to remind her that he wasn’t prepared for entertaining. Yet . Soon, he’d have every widow in Town visiting if he felt like it. Every actress. Every chit who cozied up to him in a ballroom or a dank parlor. They could waltz right up to his front door without a hint of recrimination.

He didn’t need Xander Macauley’s wayward daughter tossing wet wood on his fire. Ruining what he considered a fairly good setup.

Because—and he didn’t quite understand it himself as he made scant effort, and he was as lowborn as they came—women liked him. He had offers on an extremely regular basis. Many he didn’t accept, but when he did, he’d admit to feeling lonelier after than before.

A problem he’d not found a solution for.

However, men had needs. He’d learned, to his benefit, that women did as well.

Patiently waiting until his attention circled back to her, his latest conundrum patted the vacant spot on the settee—which Nigel eyed like he would a den of snakes.

Nevertheless, he went, cradling the mugs in his scarred hands and wondering what the hell he was doing hosting Arabella Macauley in a terrace he’d yet to spend a night in. When what he was really doing was thinking about the color of her lips. Her slender fingers gliding over his chest. Wondering how she would taste if he spread her legs and showed her another world. His world.

Because Nigel Streeter knew next to nothing about love… but he knew lots about how to make a woman scream.

And he didn’t believe in half measures.

Although lovemaking was a gift he wasn’t going to share with this chit .

Perching on the edge of the brocade cushion, close to sliding off altogether, he handed her the mug and drank liberally from his own. She’d removed her bonnet, revealing hair the color of straw lit by sunlight. Wispy strands were curling about her jaw in glorious abundance.

Her gaze skipping about the parlor, Arabella sipped with absolutely no censure in her expression. About the chipped cup, the cold tea, his half-furnished calamity of a home. Now that he thought about it, he realized she never made him feel less, browbeaten, crowded (other than physically). As if he were forced to put on a show, a performance he was always staging in society. His long-gone, tattered rookery accent even came out now and again when he talked to her, unlocking a chest he’d wrapped chains around to keep it closed.

When he’d cherished pieces of that life, that boy.

In fact, there was a bookcase on the near wall, holding items from that time which he’d rather not rationalize keeping.

Feeling bared, overexposing the private bits of him scattered about, he started talking to cover it. “You may notice the even finish on the windowpanes, almost no ripples. They were created using the new Fourcault process, which allows for continuous production of sheets of glass. My father’s an architect, as you know, and he’s suggesting use of them in the terraces he’s designing. We’re looking into investing in the enterprise, actually.”

Her gaze circled back to him. Aside from acceptance, there was fondness shimmering in the dark pewter. She was an annoyance, indeed, but she was also a genuinely kind person—and a beautiful one. “This is your first home, isn’t it? Aside from your rooms at the Albany?”

Surprised she knew about his stay at the men’s residence in Piccadilly, he eyed her over the rim of his mug, the scent of chamomile and jasmine drifting to him. She smelled feminine and light, like her smiles. It was bloody unnerving when he could still see the wild child there as well. “It is.”

“You know Queen Victoria is putting up a tree inside Buckingham Palace. And decorating it. One would look lovely, just there.” She pointed to a lonesome corner, currently empty as the rest of the manse.

He glanced at the corner, imagining it.

Placing her mug on the crate serving as a side table, she dug into her satchel. “Give me your arm and let me see how your factotum did in his temporary role as nurse.”

He hesitated, his trusty gut telling him this was going to change things between them. Forget about sex. This muted, gaslit chamber, the plink of rain that had turned to snow bouncing off those new windowpanes, felt more intimate. Disconcertingly so.

She held out her hand, flicking her fingers. Come, now.

Nigel sighed and set his mug aside, rolled his sleeve to the elbow, and extended his arm. It was a nasty gash from a jagged shard of a champagne flute that had hit the wall, then sliced right into him. Jerkins had indeed done a poor job bandaging it. The strip of cotton, not terribly clean in the first place, was caked with dried blood and clinging lazily to his forearm. Another scar, he realized, to add to the ones covering his hands and feet.

She gasped, temper sparking her gaze when it met his. “This is dreadful, Nigel. It could get infected, and then where would we be? Your father worries over his brood about as much as my father does over his.”

He frowned, unable to argue this point. He grimaced, sucking air through his teeth when she began to remove the binding. When this was done, she uncapped a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and dipped a cotton pad into it.

Her touch was gentle but determined as she cleaned the wound. Pleasure, much stronger than any discomfort, flooded him. His heart turned over, slowly but with definite faithfulness.

Only his mother had touched him like this.

“Was this an excuse to see me?” he asked with a pained exhalation, hoping to change the tone of this encounter. Or make her cagey, at the very least.

She smiled, intent on her task. The ointment she was layering over the wound smelled horrific. “Of course, it was.”

Well, hell, he thought. This could be deadly for both of us.

“Nonetheless, look at this disaster in the making. Men,” she whispered as she wrapped a strip of luminous white cotton around his forearm. “I’ve been doctoring the Leighton Cluster’s wounds since I was a child. My mother said I’d make a capable physician, were it an acceptable profession for women. Although my father said if it was my dream, he’d move heaven and earth to make it happen. Why, I’ve never once fainted at the sight of blood, and with our family’s skirmishes, I’ve seen buckets spilled. One word and there you go, scuffling in the dirt.”

Nigel wasn’t the hottest head in the group—that title fully belonged to the Duke of Leighton, with Arabella’s beloved father coming in second—but he’d had his fair share of familial brawls. “Why, then?” He flexed his fingers, relieved the wound was slightly less tender. The tight bandage combined with a proper cleaning seemed to be doing the trick.

Her gaze roved up his arm, lingering around his collarbone, leaving a hot trail behind it. When it finally stuck on his face, he sucked in a shallow breath. There it was—the desire he imagined filling his own eyes. “I would like a kiss as payment for my kind attention. I’ve wondered for years, but now I want to know .”

He removed his arm from her grasp, his skin tingling from brow to belly. A certain part of his body was awakening, ready to dive into amorous fun with a completely unsuitable playmate. “Showing you what’s what in this department isn’t my responsibility, imp.”

She snorted softly, repacking her satchel. “I grasp what’s what, Nigel Streeter. I’ll have you know I’ve been kissed five, count it, five times!” She scowled, securing the fastenings with a snap. “And at least two were adequate.”

“Adequate,” he murmured, impressed at the figurative wall she’d pressed his back against. What man could turn down the opportunity to be the best? At anything? Or, to douse the spark of jealousy by winning the race?

An emotion he shouldn’t be feeling, by the by. Not with her.

“Perfectly adequate,” she repeated and dropped her bag on the table by her chipped mug. Damned if his father wasn’t right. She had one of her mother’s dogged expressions stamped on her face. Frightening. “ Forget it’s me. Try that. I could be the next in a long line of forgettables. I’m only experimenting with someone safe. It’s not a marital agreement. Goodness, Nigel, this is 1846, after all.”

Safe . He blew out a hushed breath. Shook his head. Balled his fist on the settee cushion to keep from reaching for her. “Your eyes, I can’t forget those.” Or your lips. Your breasts. Your trim waist. Long legs. Round bottom. The quite gorgeous feet I saw last summer peeking from beneath your skirts. Your dazzling laugh.

What if she kissed him and released that delicious sound after?

Too, he had no clue what defined adequate .

“I can’t change my eye color, so…” She chewed on her bottom lip, leaving him dazed where he sat. “I’ll close them.”

And she did, leaning in, in the event he didn’t choose to gather her close.

Fuck . This was more than he could fight, wasn’t it? A gift like her presented to a man like him ?

One touch, one taste. What could that hurt?

Uncurling his fist, Nigel slid his palm along the brocade, the thready ripples tickling his skin. Her hand was there, delicate fingers spread for purchase, the nails round and healthy with color. It was nothing to cover it, link their fingers, and bring her swaying against his chest.

He realized at first touch that he’d made a mistake discounting this.

Discounting what she would do to him. Hadn’t he learned from the lovesick men in his family? One kiss… and boom .

The sound of wood in the hearth splintering was the last thing he heard as he tipped her chin and pressed his mouth to hers.

The nape of her neck was warm. Soft. Her body slender, yet strong. His fingers cupped the back of her head, loosening her chignon as he cradled her. She opened her lips without hesitation and from there… things got hazy. Her tongue stroked his or his stroked hers. He wasn’t sure who moved first. It was quick, the escalation. Too fast to record. Perhaps because they knew each other so well in other arenas, in this one, they knocked down walls in seconds.

It was unlike any first kiss he’d ever had .

Her hand fisting in his shirt. Sliding to his shoulder, fingers knotting in his hair. Guiding each other into the encounter. For better access, deeper penetration. Her waist was shaped perfectly for his grip, where he scooted her until their hips bumped. Lights flashed behind his lids as they clashed, control his, then hers, then his again.

When Arabella shakily rose to her knees and took his jaw in her hands to better align their mouths and their bodies, Nigel let her. Twisted to face her, in fact, to give her everything she asked for. The drumbeat in his ears canceled out the voice telling him this was taking a simple kiss too far.

Frankly, he’d experienced less intimacy with a woman’s legs looped over his shoulders.

Considering the acceleration, it seemed a solid next step to grasp her skirt and raise it until she could settle halfway on his lap, where they flowed like two cups of water poured into one vessel. Lips and tongues and teeth. Hands seeking out hidden spots, ones that made her sigh and him moan. Breaths catching, merging, flowing. His hand made its natural way to her pert bottom, tucking her in tight against him.

Heat. Sensation. Chests heaving. Murmurs of indistinguishable nature, meaningless in the assault. His cock was hard as timber, no way to hide it, and when they began an awkward grinding dance, the kiss keeping fairly accurate rhythmic time—when he found himself reaching for the hooks at the back of her gown and thinking to himself the best way to climb atop her on the settee—he wrenched back, out of reach.

A man didn’t want a woman he feared, in no short measure, would make him breathless. Desire was one thing, love another.

He wasn’t getting near the latter.

The scent of jasmine and smoke and passion wrapped around his neck and squeezed until he felt light-headed. His shaft twitched in his trousers, begging for release.

She blinked woozily and grabbed the scrolled backrest of the settee, as if she’d gone through an entire bottle of her father’s whisky. Her eyes were the dark hue of gunmetal, and the ringing in his ears sounded as if she’d discharged the pistol by his head .

He moved her somewhat forcefully to her own cushion, then palmed his quivering belly.

This felt different . A kiss that slayed. He’d heard about those, the stuff of legend.

He’d simply never planned to chance upon one.