Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“She’s too young. Too reckless. Too willful. Half the time, I don’t even like her.

But I want to kiss her anyway.”

~Angry whisper by a baron’s son to his father’s groom after a sound thrashing on the archery range, 1813

H e wasn’t even sure he liked her.

Debating this judgment, Jasper lingered in the doorway of the cramped garret Cece had reconfigured as her office, a slender slice of sunlight from the high window choosing that second to pierce the pane and float across her like a vision.

As if she needed anything else to make him notice her—when he’d been doing nothing but notice for the two days she’d been in residence.

The bubbling brew she’d created in his belly this morn with nothing but a look brought the memories rushing back.

He recalled the first time he’d seen her with crystal clarity.

A remembrance which came to him in odd moments. He’d been rendered senseless more than once in his former profession, consciousness leaving him as that first picture of Cece floated through his mind. The gray tint of a stormy sky at her back; her glorious hair falling over her shoulders much as it was now; the crook of her lips, a worldly smile for such a young woman. His vision had sharpened, he recalled, for no more than five seconds, a sharp pinch of knowing. Clear sight through the fog.

He’d only been sure, bloody certain, there was nothing ordinary about Constance Willoughby. And that she was to be a thorn in his side.

The love of his life, a realization coming later.

He glanced at the invitations in his hand, delivered by Tobias Streeter’s runner after breakfast. They’d arrived alongside a package of contracts for the new distillery Jasper was to sign and review. Due in part to Dash’s blaze and the most titillating country party of the century, Lady Edgerly was the latest temptation. Interested admirers had flooded the Duchess Society’s office with requests since it was rumored the countess had taken leave after the fright she’d suffered and was not currently staying at Edgerly House. Her whereabouts were a mystery, adding to the fascination.

At times like these, Jasper was thankful he no longer inhabited a rung on society’s ladder, though this lack placed him out of reach of anyone climbing it. Like a widowed countess, for instance.

Sitting behind the escritoire Jasper’s footman had moved into the room for her, quill caught between her teeth, Cece hadn’t looked up once in the time he’d been lingering in the doorway. Her attention was utterly fixed on replicating the signature for Xander Macauley. She didn’t feel his presence when he could damned feel hers at every moment. In fact, aside from her forgery assignment, she’d been a proper guest. Dining with him, discussing inane topics like the weather and plans for his home, trivial bits of nought. If he’d expected mention of orgasms and stables, their passionate past, her uncertain future, perhaps a late-night visit to his bedchamber, he’d been gravely disappointed .

She’d been everywhere around the place, actually, just not with him.

He’d caught sight of her from his bedchamber window, laughing with Josiah as they threw stones into the small fountain on his lawn. Strolled into the kitchen to find her happily hunched over the chopping block, taking tea with his motley staff, their smiles of delight sending a quiver of what felt like envy through him. She has an easy, boisterous nature, joy flowing like rainwater from her. People liked her. When he’d never been easy around anyone, never understood how to give of himself without pieces being ripped away. His father’s brutal lessons had imparted more than he wished.

Hide your emotions, boy, and no one will know what makes you tick.

Or what could destroy you.

When he’d already been destroyed by this woman once.

Crushing her invitations in his fist, Jasper stepped into the room. Who cared if Cece had admirers? Or if she was well on her way to a second wedded union? Hildy Streeter was so furious, he’d been told by a sniggering Xander Macauley, that she’d made it her mission to find the best man in England for the countess, a man who wasn’t him .

The Duchess Society tended to win the wars they waged, he well knew.

Which is what Jasper bloody wanted, wasn’t it? To be free of this bothersome chit? For the past to stay just that—in the past. Let someone else worry about her. Worry about the boy. Worry about the bloody medieval roof in Northumberland which had always given her trouble. He’d bet she was still chasing that leak.

Jasper kicked aside a wadded ball of foolscap as he crossed to her, his irritation mounting. She’d chosen a gown the exact hue of the roses blooming in wild recklessness beneath his bedchamber window. A dusky, pale sort of rose. Regrettably, the shade brought out the auburn streaks in her hair, color intensified by her continual lack of a bonnet.

Cece had never liked hats. She hadn’t seemed to care about the freckles that appeared every summer, ones now starting to dot her nose and checks. Hell, she’d worn trousers much of the time on the privacy of her estate. She’d never followed society’s rules, only giving in once. When her father forced her to marry Edgerly or face ruining her sister’s chances on the marriage mart. No matter Jasper’s anguish at the time, forsaking what they’d had was a sign of strength, not weakness. He knew it was his fault they’d been caught in a compromising situation.

The man understood. The boy had not.

Still, the man couldn’t quite get over it.

Gradually, Cece glanced up. Her blush was faint, her smile virtually nonexistent. Christ , to know what she was thinking. Or better yet, tup her right there on that desk. Legs parted to let him in, fingers clawing into his hair in fearless abandon, tender mews like she’d uttered during their impromptu rendezvous in the stable streaking the air.

Because she was fearless. He was the frightened one.

When her lips tilted, her eyes darkening to the glistening green of rain-dew leaves, he guessed she’d grasped his thoughts even if hers were still a mystery.

His foolishness did not improve his mood.

To remind her of the man she faced, Jasper slipped a bejeweled dagger from the sheath he had sewn into his coat and sliced open an envelope, nothing a baron would ever do. The top one was from the Marquess of Anglesey. The missive was swarming with fanciful language, an invitation to luncheon with his mother at his home in Regent Park. The sot. His bloody mother . With a growl, Jasper dropped it to the desk and ripped into the next, the shredded envelopes fluttering to the floor.

Cece grabbed the card and after reading it, braced her hand on her ledger, leaned in, and yanked her mail from his hand.

On impulse, he seized her wrist, and brought her in. Eye to eye, so close their noses nearly touched, her swift breath striking his cheek. She smelled of peppermint and blackcurrant, scents lingering from breakfast. Honeysuckle from the Marseille soap his company shipped from France, bars he brought home because his mother had loved the fragrance. Taking note of those freckles, ones he’d memorized long ago in the twilight glow after release, gave his belly a deadening twist. He kept himself from pressing a kiss to the tiny scar cutting through her eyebrow… but just barely.

The girl he’d loved was in there somewhere. He’d need to forget that .

“So, this is your mood this morn,” she murmured and tapped Anglesey’s invitation against his lapel. “My question is, will my punishment require a weapon?”

This said, her gaze fell to the knife he’d dropped when he reached for her.

Jasper’s mind clouded, his cock hardening beneath his drawers. The lock on this door works , a voice whispered in the wicked depths of his mind. The desk is of a height. It’s been months, you mad cur, months!

Take her.

Thank God Josiah chose that second to issue a happy shout from the lawn that fluttered past the open curtains. He and Mara were planting flowers Jasper had supplied along the graveled back footpath.

Cece uttered a very unladylike curse and shoved him away. Jasper was pleased to see she appeared as perplexed as he felt. It was then he realized no match was being played here. He wasn’t being made a fool. Maybe she’d had a plan at the house party. Maybe she’d even had a plan when she returned to London. Now, with his respectful kidnapping and that impromptu bit of lovemaking in the stable, she was as off her game as he was.

Obviously, neither of them knew what the hell they were doing. Exactly like when they were young.

A bit calmed by the insight, Jasper retrieved his dagger and slipped it home. If his hand trembled, she’d never know. If his shaft could pound nails, his trouser close was appropriately covering for him. “How goes the forgery, Countess?” From a quick inspection, he’d seen she was close to giving Macauley what he needed. The chit was a keen study.

Her eyes strayed his way as she shuffled through her papers.

He stood up straight, thrust his shoulders back. He was the tallest man of any she’d associate with. Five inches over the Marquess of Anglesey, he’d guess, maybe six. He’d grown after he left Northumberland if she cared to notice.

“Quit preening.” She grabbed her quill and scribbled five signatures across the page, then shoved the sheet across the desk for his review. “I see you.”

“You must be mad,” he said and slipped into the winged armchair across from her, looking about to keep his gaze somewhere else. If he blushed, that would be the absolute end.

Cece had reworked the space to her liking, dragging threadbare items from storage into the room. The desk, the armchair, the chaise he’d seen Josiah napping on yesterday, pieces he’d never laid eyes on. He’d purchased the residence lock and stock from a retiring barrister the year prior. Fully furnished but in need of care Jasper had yet to give. A wife would take the manse firmly in hand, Nelson often reminded him.

Or a visiting countess.

Slipping his spectacles from a coat pocket, he fit the arms around his ears and leaned in to study the signatures. Pulling a contract over, he compared them to the original. “I couldn’t tell which is the real deal if you asked me. You are a talented criminal, minx.”

“The ‘s’ is off,” Cece murmured, her gaze fixing on his face. Then, she was trying again. A line of elegant scratches down the page of her folio, one after another.

Jasper had patience for picking locks, reconnaissance taking hours if not days, and devising the least brutal way to get information he needed—but not this. This chit would recreate a trifling signature a thousand times before telling herself she had it right. He’d have gone mad first.

He settled back in the chair, stretching his legs out as far as he could without bumping her desk. “Breakfast was an abundant affair.”

She didn’t glance up, having pushed him to the back of her mind when he’d been on the verge of kissing her again. “Hmm… yes, it was.”

He didn’t know how to ask, so he simply asked. “I’m guessing you had a hand in the first full fast being laid on my table since I moved into the place?”

Her quill halted on the page. Her lips curved in a sly smile. “Perhaps.”

The smell of hot cross buns had dragged him down the stairs minutes after dawn, followed by the teasing aroma of sausage and fried bread. He’d stumbled into the breakfast parlor to find the sideboard littered with a bounty of tempting sights. Rashers, potatoes, biscuits, beans, coffee, tea. A bowl of oranges—a delicacy he sourced from the Duchess of Leighton, who was a shipping magnet aside from a wife—and even a somewhat dejected bouquet of wildflowers he suspected had come from his equally dejected garden. Everything situated on a set of Minton china plates he’d never seen before.

Cece had gone rummaging for more than furniture in his attic.

Jasper hooked his ankle on his knee and watched her work. He didn’t want to be charmed. Or exasperated because his home felt more like a home than it had since he’d moved in because she was there, bringing the fragrance of food and female with her. Somehow, she’d whipped his ragged staff into modest shape in less than seventy-two hours. Added little touches of whimsy to a residence that had been staid last week. The sound of her footsteps in the corridor and a boy’s joyful laughter were keeping him up at night, making him dream dreams he’d crushed long ago.

She tapped her quill to the desk, her amusement leaving her in a thoroughly irritating burst of laughter. “Stop pouting.”

Jasper removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with the dangling tail of his cravat. “Who’s pouting?”

She hummed, saying a lot without a single word being spoken. Then, minutes later: “Would you like to read my mail to me in the event I need to reply to something today? Since I’ll return to Edgerly House on Monday.”

“Monday,” he murmured, seeking to ignore the leaden pang this comment sent through his gut.

She shrugged a slim shoulder beneath that tease of a gown. “According to our agreement, that’s the date.”

“Indeed.” He nodded to the stack of invitations. “You’re quite popular, it seems.”

“I’m an amusement, nothing more. A ducal fire, a countess’ disappearance, what fun! When I return to Northumberland, no one will give me another thought.”

I will . A bit crossly, Jasper fit his spectacles in place, then dragged the letters across the desk. To think, he’d once been feared by every felonious fugitive and foreign agent in England. “I can imagine nothing better than acting as your social secretary.” Using his finger this time as his blade was safely tucked away, he ripped into an envelope. “Lord Ambrose. Tea on the 17 th .” He tossed the embossed card over his shoulder, out of sight. “He’s known to lose significant sums at Dash’s hellion, so that’s a no.” He destroyed the next envelope and offered another judgment. “Baron Talmon. Ride along Rotten Row on the 19 th .” This card fell to the carpet by his boot. “Penchant for light-skirts. By penchant, I mean obsession involving multiple parties and the occasional animal.”

He swore he heard her snigger, but when he glanced up, her expression was completely void of emotion. “A baron might be too low-slung a designation for a countess to consider, don’t you think, Mr. Noble?”

Jasper settled back, seeing there was a match being played after all.

His nerve endings sizzled, anticipation flowing through him like a chill. Aside from generic spying, he’d also been the keenest arbitrator in the Crown’s service. Verbal battles were his specialty . “Undoubtedly,” he returned, running his finger along an envelope’s wax seal. “I’d not reach lower than a marquess if I were you. Not for the proper arrangements. Barons are known for being wretched gambles, as you know. They disappear, they disappoint.”

She mirrored his nonchalant pose. A trick of negotiating he wondered where she’d had the wherewithal to pick up. She traced her quill down the page of her folio, seeming to reflect upon his advice, calm as the day was long. “What piece of the Duchess Society’s search wouldn’t be considered proper? Not that I am, in truth, searching. This is a ruse, as I’ve said from the beginning.”

Gotcha , he thought, the flare of arousal raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Yawning behind his hand, he rolled his shoulders, hooked one boot atop the other, and shifted his body forward until his feet grazed her desk. When her gaze followed his movement and a fetching hint of color flowed across her cheeks, he made his decision. Five days left in this abduction. She wanted him; he wanted her.

However, Cece’s son and companion were in residence. A staff who’d taken a shine to the countess were gadding about, leaving them less than alone.

It was dicey. A challenge, assuredly, to keep an affair under wraps.

The bigger challenge? To let Cece leave without tucking his heart away in her grandmother’s scuffed portmanteau. The past wasn’t what Jasper wanted . Crispin Sinclair was lost to the world and good riddance. Despite his demise, Constance Willoughby still had her hooks in the man.

The trick was to become unhooked .

Five short or unbearably long days left. Why not have them fly by in a whirl of passion and desire, instead of unrequited longing?

Frankly, he was fucking sick of longing after this chit. It was time to do .

Determined, Jasper lifted the remaining envelope to his mouth and ripped into it with his teeth. “Proper is what happens in parlors,” he said, letting the slip of paper tumble from his lips. If Cece leaned forward and glanced down, she’d see he was aroused. He couldn’t hide the erection straining his trouser buttons, and finally, he didn’t care to try. “In ballrooms. On those god-awful rides through Hyde Park. Walks along Bond Street, ice cream at Gunters, tea at Twinings. The other side of the coin is the improper .” He wiggled the final invitation loose without looking to see who’d sent it. “You don’t need a titled bloke for those. Considering the stories about higher rank equating to inferior sensual skill, I’d say it’s a sound decision not to go in that direction. My advice? Go for a rogue this time.”

Letting the card flutter to the floor, he fixed his gaze on hers. Her eyes darkened as he stared, going an alluring, bottomless green. This was the color he wanted to see as he thrust his cock inside her. “If a countess was contemplating the improper, that is.”

She didn’t do what he estimated nine out of ten women who’d been overtly propositioned would. She didn’t fidget with her teacup; she didn’t cast her gaze to her feet; she didn’t argue, blush, fan her face, or say he had it all wrong while knowing he had it right . Instead, she glanced out the window to check that Josiah was still playing. Seeing he was, she rose and crossed to close the drape while his heart thudded out ten hard beats. He could only stare in mute exhilaration as he heard her move to the door, close it with a click , then engage the lock.

If this was an indecorous offer, he was prepared to accept.

But Cece didn’t come to him.

After a lengthy, aching minute, he glanced over his shoulder to find her leaning against the door. A devious expression sat on her face. He had no other description for it. Worldly, knowing, wise. Without a breath, she began to raise her skirt in sluggish advances. Exposing delicately boned ankles, slim calves, slender, creamy thighs. She wasn’t wearing stockings, he noted with no little hunger. A chemise and a thin petticoat suitable for home were it. His arousal, already justifiably intense, spiraled like opium through his body. He hadn’t liked the senseless affect the drug had had on him in his youth, but this corruption, he desired with his very being.

Cece crooked her finger in a come-hither motion. “We have thirty minutes until luncheon. Mara is taking Josiah to the stable to feed the horses. He particularly liked the dappled gray mare, the gentle one.”

“Zelda,” Jasper whispered, his shaft throbbing in time to his heartbeat. If she didn’t get to the matter at hand soon, he was going to spill in his trousers like a lad. “The oldest mount I own. She was being abused in the market by a fruit vendor, and I bought her on the spot. She’s not much for riding aside from a lad, I’ll grant you.”

Cece froze, her fingers clenching around the rose silk twisted in her fists. Her lips lifted in what equated to a grimace. “I don’t want to hear about Jasper Noble’s thoughtfulness. I don’t wish to yearn for an untouchable man. My beloved friend is gone. That’s what you’ve been telling me over and over again until I can’t hear anything else. This Noble fellow is all that’s left. Fine, I’ll take what he’s offering. But you’re asking me not to care about him, so keep his kindhearted deeds to yourself. Compassion isn’t required for what we’re discussing, or am I mistaken?”

Jasper held himself from pressing Cece against his oak door and tupping the breath from her. What she’d said meant something, and he couldn’t ignore her candor if he tried. His curiosity, astoundingly, was greater than his hunger—because Constance Willoughby was the only person in his universe who’d ever really known him. “How am I unchanged?”

Silent, she continued raising her skirt until her quim and the wealth of ginger curls surrounding it were revealed to him. Her gaze never left his, daring him to look away, to stay away. She licked her lips, leaving them glistening—and he lost reason. His fingers clenched around the chair’s arms as he started to rise. He’d been with many women, more than he’d wished to bed at the start of his London adventures. He’d gotten caught up in an identity that demanded a reprobate’s reputation, and he’d been so successful that the affairs had begun to come to him.

For Crispin, the experiences had been an effort to repair a broken heart.

He knew without doubt as he hungrily observed her: he’d never witnessed a more sensual sight than Cece sprawled against a door, her half-naked body calling to him.

“How am I unchanged, Ce?” he rasped as he numbly levered to his feet. She needed to tell him before they were incapable of talking.

She tipped her head against the door and pegged him with a gaze as fiery as his. “If you hurt me, you’ll hurt Crispin just as much. That , I can live with. Oddly, I trust you both.”

She was right. A realization he hadn’t faced in full. When it came down to the brass tacks of life, they were the same man. The knowledge snapped at him like a stray dog, teeth bared, ripping into his thirst.

“I confess to being a greedy woman. I want what you gave me in the stable,” she whispered, her words a teasing echo in the sultry silence of the room. “This time with your fingers providing my pleasure. You know I liked that almost more than the other. It worked with the time we had, those stolen, risky moments in linen closets and dark corners. I didn’t ask before. I didn’t have the courage to tell you what I wanted, but now, I do.”

The call of a bird through the open window sounded, and in the thankfully far distance, the happy shouts of a boy. The tick of a mantel clock reverberated through Jasper’s skull, counting down his time with her. He gave the timepiece a rambling glance as he traversed the room, bent on destruction for them both. The young woman had loved when he’d fucked her with his fingers, a skill he’d, gratefully, been naturally gifted at.

A boon because he’d barely known what he was doing with the rest.

Jasper halted before Cece, air backing up in his lungs, hardly conscious of where to start when he wanted everything at once. His mind roared with need, his fingertips itched to touch. His cock pressed so painfully against his straining trouser buttons he feared them popping off. “I’m better now,” he said, cradling her cheek and drawing her gaze to his. Murky, fathomless hunger spilled from her eyes. As he stepped in, hips brushing, heat from her core burned through the superfine of his trousers and drilled straight into his shaft, exactly where he needed it. “I have other ways to help you find pleasure, minx. Swift, explosive, certain .”

The flash across her face was like lightning, gone before he could capture it. Jealousy, fury, and then shrewd, calculating desire. “I bet you’re better now,” she ground out before rising to her tiptoes and crushing her mouth to his.

Don’t be angry , he thought as she drew his tongue into play. You were the one I loved .

The admission would only get him into trouble, possibly remove the orange blossom-scented bundle from his arms. Shut it, Noble , he told himself and yanked her skirt from her hand, wadding the silk in a tight ball at her hip and using it to anchor her body to the door. Standing would do nicely. Quite. He’d make her come so hard he’d wipe the anguish from her face and replace it with stupefaction. Orgasms generally left him unable to form anything resembling a rational argument for an hour at least.

Tilting her head up and out of the kiss, she murmured, “Before we go further, I have rules.”

He trailed his hand down her body, halting to cup her breast, his thumb teasing the sharp point of her nipple beneath layers he wished he had time to remove. With her ragged gasp ringing in his ears, he nibbled her cheek, her jaw, the tender spot beneath her ear. “Of course,” he whispered against her dewy skin, having lost the gist of the conversation ages ago.

Her plump breast fit his palm like her body had been crafted for him. He imagined he could feel her quim enveloping his shaft, the moist folds marking his pant leg. Desire was fogging the lenses of his spectacles, for God’s sake.

Who the fuck cared about rules ?

She bit his neck to get his attention. “The first being, I want control.”

Cece knew all about Jasper Noble.

Supposed spy, astute capitalist, rookery thug. The hat box under her bed was bursting with articles ripped from gossip rags, mentions of him increasing in number after he joined the Leighton Cluster. Unsuitable women, reckless behavior, and mounting wealth making his power in a town built on titles and elite birthrights a shaky but ensuing premise. The mystery surrounding his ancestry only heightened the enticement.

Women loved him; men feared him. And the rest wondered just who the hell he was.

As her words registered, his face blanked, and his cheeks sharpened with color. “Control.”

Cece was pleased to shock him. To shake him up. Although, the only sign of it was his fingers clenching around the gown he’d gathered at her waist.

He hadn’t made it a question but rather a statement.

His head was downcast, his eyes drowsy with desire. Being this close, she noted things she’d forgotten. Behind the shimmering lenses of his spectacles, his irises revealed a hint of auburn stippled throughout the fierce blue, giving them a depth and beauty unlike any she’d ever seen. She traced her finger down the scar trailing into his collar, painfully aware of his shaft pressed hard and ready against her hip. “Since we’re not looking for more, let’s make it a game, this affair. Five days of enjoyment without examination. The past finished, the future out of reach. Pleasure and pleasure only, no regret involved. As you’ve asked, we’ll let our memories go.”

His lids lifted. Emotions flew across his face like pages flipped in a book. She grasped only one: need . “You have my undivided attention, minx.”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, knees shaking. He’d said he was better now—but she’d found him wonderful then . Their summer of love had been magical. Intimate. Remarkable.

“The way you’re looking at me is burning me up, Ce,” he whispered as his hand tilted her hip higher, shifting his cock tightly between her aching folds.

She’d never propositioned anyone. Her seduction of the young man from Northumberland had been love and desire mixed with graceless experimentation.

This was different.

She knew herself—and Crispin had admitted, damn him—he knew women . Tucking back her fear, she trailed her finger down his cheek and over his jaw. “I’ll find you when I want you. When I can get away, when we’ll have the promise of privacy. I dictate our interludes. Anywhere I say, any way I say. I’m not asking for the baron, by the way. I desire the ruffian. Why not use his boundless experience for a good purpose? My purpose.”

Exhaling, Crispin braced his hand on the door, fingers spread for purchase. When he pleasured her, if he pleasured her, she suspected this would be the only thing to keep them standing. “Dangling fantasies before ruffians is a dangerous ploy, minx.”

When he made a move to take off his spectacles, she shook her head. “Leave them.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed as a small sigh left his lips. “Done.”

Cece studied him in those brief moments before they lost control. Towering over her, lean muscle and hard-bitten intent, the scent of leather and sweat from his morning ride tinting the air and threatening to devour her, he was mouthwatering, a vision beyond her dreams. “Is that an agreeable option, Noble?”

He glanced to the window, his broad shoulders rising and falling. “We begin now?”

With a hum, she drew lazy circles around the buttons of his waistcoat, over his lean tummy, before maneuvering her hand between their bodies, and continuing the caresses along the length of his rigid shaft. “What better time is there to start?”

His head fell back, his eyes sliding closed. “Take control, Countess, and I shall endeavor to allow it. ”

Cece smiled as her body ignited. To hell with his forgotten title and to hell with hers. The Countess of Edgerly could go to the devil for all she cared. Jasper Noble—brute, scoundrel, seducer—would suffice. Perhaps he was the sincerer man of the two.

Did it matter that he’d forgotten the girl?

Truthfully, the woman didn’t need him to remember.

Tunneling her fingers through his hair, Cece yanked his head down and seized his lips in a kiss intended to dominate. In seconds, intention spiraled away from her, leaving only awareness of their brief time and urgent need.

Cece’s fingers danced over his trouser buttons, awkward but effective in opening his close. The slit in his drawers was wide, his shaft popping free without inordinate effort. Oh , to be a man with such casual liberties. Her lips left his to edge along his jaw, biting and sucking.

He growled in response and crowded her into the door. “Fast. Quiet.”

She pressed her lips to the flushed skin at his open collar, wrapped her hand around his cock, and stroked. She hadn’t done this with anyone but him, her husband never caring to allow her free range to touch him. She and Crispin had made love three times… but had played for months before going that far. Stolen moments exactly like these in linen closets and locked parlors, explorations into body and, for her, soul. She didn’t mind stepping in where they’d left off.

She drew her thumb over the plump crown of his shaft, wetness dewing her skin.

“Again,” he whispered, undone. So she did.

Gasping, his fingers trailed between her thighs, searching through her damp curls as her skirt tumbled over his arm. He shifted to bring her closer, his arm curling around her shoulders to cushion his hold. He retook her lips as he slid his finger inside her, his thumb pressing over the nub of her sex. He wasn’t taking the time to finesse her in any way, a path to swift pleasure his goal. He stroked in a measured pump, working his long finger inside her. “How’s this? As wondrous as you remembered?”

She worked to match his rhythm, curling her fingers tightly about his cock. What she hadn’t remembered was the weight of him in her hand, the length and breadth of his member. She’d had no experience, no understanding of size or shape, no way to know he was built like a god. Added to this wonder was the feel of his crown brushing her thigh, bare skin to bare skin.

They kissed in haste, hips bumping, driving each other into a frenzy. The air charged and layered with sounds of pleasure. The door shook on its hinges as he moved her against it, time and time again. He shifted, adding another finger to the project. “I could lift you up, wrap your legs around my waist, and have you, Ce. Fuck you blind right here. Next time, and there’s going to be a next time. I won’t be denied. I won’t deny you .”

Imagining it, her head fell back, her moan reverberating about the room.

“ Shh , darling Ce,” he instructed, his voice cracking.

Fast. Quiet.

Later, she would have trouble recalling what had occurred in precise detail—although she spent hours rebuilding the scene. His hot breath striking her neck, her lower lip caught between his teeth, his arm pumping, her hand fondling. Moist heat, rushed breaths, and fevered skin, half kisses and a grinding rhythm creating less-than-nimble caresses.

He trembled, the shudders rolling through her and starting her downfall. She murmured senseless bits of encouragement to get him to topple with her, rocking against his carved parlor door. Nearing her release, she cupped his bottom, the flex of muscle as he thrust into her hand ruining her. It brought to mind the image of his body atop hers, her thighs spread, his hips wedged neatly between them.

This mental picture, one stolen from her memory whether he liked it or not, was all it took.

Hooking her leg about his waist, she shivered as sensation rippled up her body and out her fingertips. The dots scattered across her vision were the color of shooting stars and campfires, the summer day blue of his eyes. Wishes and dreams and promises for which there were no words.

Recognizing she’d fallen off a cliff, Crispin kissed her to contain her cries, his tongue replicating the act she’d imagined. They were locked in pleasure, relentless, panting souls mislaid by passion.

“I can’t hold off any longer. Your wet heat is killing me. I want to slide inside you so badly,” he whispered in her ear just before his seed spilled over her fist in a series of hip-jerking bursts. His groans were muted, pressed into her cheek, her neck. Chest heaving, his hand skated from between her legs to grip her waist as his head dropped to her shoulder.

Pleasure was a welcome spiral, an astonishing moment of having left life behind.

And then she remembered it all. Desire was violent, muddled, and magical.

Seconds ticked by as they clung to each other before recollection of their circumstances took hold. Crispin kissed her temple and her cheek before releasing her. Cece swayed, and he caught her to hold her steady. Brazenly, she brushed her lips over his, drawing him in for one last, hot, lingering kiss.

They didn’t speak during the repair of hair and clothing. Without comment, he cleaned her fingers with a handkerchief and returned it to his pocket as if wiping his spend from a woman’s hand was a thing he did every day. Perhaps it is , she reckoned with a sting to her heart.

After escorting her to the desk, he returned to unlock the door, leaving it open a hairsbreadth in some ridiculous display of propriety. Charmed and depleted, Cece slumped into her chair as he righted his crooked spectacles and whispered to himself.

Laughing, she caught his attention. “Your, um…” Her cheeks fired, the feel of his shaft riding her palm a lingering whisper against her skin. “That is, you’re not quite restored.”

She wagged her fingers, indicating a spot below his waist.

The top of his trouser close was undone.

Glancing down, Crispin sighed. Pewter buttons glimmered in the lamplight as he fumbled to right the omission. Taking a hard breath, he anchored his shoulder against the doorjamb in long, lean perfection. He was a vision —a faultless masculine vision. She blew a stray lock of hair from her face. While she felt like a wilted flower ready to drop.

“Strange, isn’t it, Ce? We’re as harried as we were back in the day, finding any nook available. I haven’t done anything of a sensual nature with this much clothing in place since, hell, since then. I’d not even consider it when it’s actually quite marvelous. I don’t wish to know how long it’s been for you. I don’t care to ever know, should you think to tell me.” He frowned and dabbed at the sweat beading his brow. Pausing in a deliciously erotic move, he lifted his hand before his nose and drew the scent of her into his lungs. “Your quim smells like a slice of heaven, minx. Abiding by those rules of yours, I humbly request a taste. A writhing, tearing-sheets-off-the-bed taste.”

Yearning in its rawest form flooded her as ribald images roamed her mind. Reacting, Cece fumbled with her quill, spilling ink across her folio. How could her actions possibly match her bold words about controlling this man? Her late husband hadn’t known what he was doing in the bedchamber, and worse, he hadn’t cared to learn. Teaching her had been an impossibility. The few times they’d muddled through the process had been humiliating and dreadful. Lonely, acute, and without relief.

Much to her envious dismay, she had no experience while Crispin had leagues .

His gaze met hers, his eyes having darkened to a fiery, hardened cobalt. A lock of ebony hair lay tumbled across his brow, those streaks of gray at his temple flashing in the muted light. His cheeks were flushed, his lips held in a hard line. The mulishness of his stance wasn’t lost on her, nor was his blatant magnetism. Against her will, she was drawn to both. “Don’t back down. Not when you have me resting neatly in the palm of your sweet little hand, ready to expire from lust.”

She glanced to the window as Mara and Josiah’s voices drifted through the open pane. Her thighs were damp, her nipples ached, her brain buzzed. The scoundrel across the room was clear about being unattainable, though he was willing to share a piece of himself—simply not the piece she’d expected to recover. To survive with her heart intact, she must cease thinking of him as that sweet young man.

Crispin Sinclair needed to be allowed the death Jasper Noble had begged for.

When she looked back, she found him putting himself into proper order, smoothing his hair and ironing his hand down his waistcoat. Shifting from one polished boot to the other in some internal dance of agitation.

She smothered a giggle. He seemed jumpy and a shade irritated. What man was cross after being brought to hasty orgasm? Would it make her an evil woman to tease him, just a little?

Disinterestedly, Cece wiped at an ink stain on her hand. “We don’t complement each other in any way but one.”

He glanced up with a snort. “When two people are this explosive together, Countess, there doesn’t have to be any other way. Would you prefer we take leisurely walks through my sadly neglected garden, spilling our secret hopes and wishes? Didn’t the boy bore you with enough of that prattle in his youth?”

She’d loved those talks, a fact she wasn’t about to tell this arrogant reprobate.

So, she tried another tack. “The gossip rags are full of your exploits. The women—” Slapping her quill to the desk, she held back from saying more. She was treading into territory a woman on a sensual hunt wouldn’t.

This is about sexual congress and nothing but, Cece! Stay the course.

He crossed to her, braced his hands on the desk, and leaned in. Apparently, towering over her was his specialty. Next, he’d think to slip that fancy dagger from his pocket and shred her gown with it. The thought lit her up . “They don’t mean anything. They never did. If this is a game you feel I’ll win from the outset, you’re wrong. You’re winning already because you don’t have to do anything to make me want you more than I have any woman in existence, Ce. It’s simply you . Take your five days and use me. I’ll teach you everything you want to know and more. Then leave me to punch holes in my walls while I imagine you utilizing your newfound knowledge on another man.”

She settled back in her chair, stunned by his honesty. She took a breath to calm herself and instead took two steps back. His scent had shifted with their adventure. He now smelled of leather, man, and her . Arousal wasn’t far away, not nearly far enough to protect her. Plotting, she drew a small circle on his knuckle with her quill, leaving black ink glistening on his skin. His hands tensed, but he didn’t move. Not one inch. She gathered he wouldn’t when presented with such a dare. “I’ll find you after Josiah and Mara are asleep. Leave your door unlocked, Noble. We’ll strive to make a writhing mess of your sheets.”

He exhaled softly, his shadow falling across her as he rose to his full, glorious height. “Deal.”

When he started to turn, she grasped his wrist, holding him in place. “I want my taste as well. Don’t think I won’t ask for it this time.”

His pupils expanded, his chest lifting. “I’ll count the seconds, Ce.”

Then he left her. A woman caught between desire and foreboding.