Chapter 12

To her everlasting shame and annoyance, Tessa blushed.

The slow crawl of heat through her body had begun the instant Julian had walked into his theater box and hadn't stopped since, even as she gave the appearance of ignoring his presence.

As if that were a possibility.

And now, here she was, exchanging greetings with the marquess, her cheeks hot and eartips flaming for all and sundry to witness, from the legion of suitors vying for the attention of Saskia and Viveca to the quietly observant eyes of Eloise to…

Julian.

He would've noticed.

"Lord Ormonde," she said, as was proper.

The flash of a wince crossed his features—a reflex. Julian. He'd demanded she call him Julian, and this was why—he harbored a deep loathing of being called by his title. A title, she'd learned only today, he'd inherited from a father who had dissolved into licentiousness and taken his own life.

She nearly corrected herself and said Julian.

In the nick of time, she stopped.

In the eyes of everyone around them, they'd only just met. They were nothing to one another.

She couldn't call him Julian.

However, she was saved from further having to call him anything at all when the theater lights dimmed and the audience muted their conversations.

Tessa affixed her unseeing gaze onto the stage and, from the corner of her eye, watched Julian settle into a chair.

Relief couldn't quite come. This was simply a brief respite. For inevitably the play would end, and she would be exactly where they'd left off—expected to behave civilly with a man with whom she'd behaved most uncivilly.

And wanted to again.

Not yet.

She could've claimed that night as their one night.

But she hadn't.

Not yet.

Foolishly…recklessly…she'd spoken those words to him.

Because she wanted another night.

Of their own accord, her eyes stole toward him and followed a broad shoulder down his arm to the hands resting on his thighs.

She'd straddled those thighs.

And those long, masculine fingers…

They'd been inside her.

Those long, masculine fingers had pleasured her so that even three days later, she was still a bundle of ache and need.

Uncivil.

Oh, she was hot—too hot—and of a sudden, the dark theater felt small—too small.

Instinct drove her to her feet and muttering hasty excuses to Eloise and fleeing from the box, out of the dark and into the infinitely reflected light of the mirrored vestibule, its chandeliers and sconces throwing luminosity, giving the appearance of openness. The pressure around her ribs released, and at last, she could draw breath again.

Blessedly alone, she stepped to one of the many mirrors and pressed cooling fingers to her flushed cheeks. A hunted quality still flickered in her eyes. What had she been thinking by coming here tonight? What had she expected?

Her gaze drifted downward in the mirror. At least, she'd done one thing in the interest of self-preservation.

She'd worn her usual attire.

As promised, Viveca had sent five silk gowns for her to choose from. In the privacy of her bedroom, she'd even slipped one on—an iridescent dove gray that pulled silvery violet from her eyes. She'd stared into the mirror and hardly knew herself.

Who was this woman with the creamy shoulders and bosom that threatened to spill over the delicate bodice that hardly seemed up to the task of containing her?

Though she didn't think this of other women who dressed thusly, she felt too exposed.

So, in the end, she'd opted for her usual attire. A youth spent building a life from scratch had taught her a female was safer the less she revealed of herself. She and her sisters had escaped having been treated violently by a man, but she didn't fool herself that fact was anything but a combination of strategy and luck.

Not, of course, that she would have to fear being treated criminally at the theater, but she wasn't ready to wear such a dress.

Perhaps for Saskia and Viveca's upcoming debut ball—perhaps.

Then her gaze had drifted over the dressing table—toward what lay nestled within the box atop its surface.

The pearls.

She hadn't worn those tonight, either.

Movement appeared behind her. Before her gaze shifted, she knew—Julian.

Their eyes locked in the mirror. He'd come for her, that was what the resolution in his eyes told her. Without a word, he drew near enough to slip an arm through hers. She drew a quick breath and caught his scent—cedarwood.

He tended to fill every sense when he was near.

They began walking through the vestibule, as if he played the gallant escort. If any society eyes happened on them, they might form a curious thought. Was that Lady Tessa Calthorp walking arm in arm with the Marquess of Ormonde?

But likely not.

They wouldn't suspect their golden lord, the Marquess of Ormonde, of hidden motives. Just look at the amiability of his smile and the open blue sky of his eyes. Surely nothing ulterior could hide behind them.

"Perhaps we should converse?" she asked.

"If you like."

He sounded like a man determined—but not one determined to talk.

Too bad.

"Will you be attending the come-out ball my brother is throwing for Saskia and Viveca?" She couldn't resist a snort. "And me, apparently." The very idea hadn't ceased being ridiculous in her eyes.

"Of course," was all he had to say on the matter.

"Do you not take pleasure from small talk?"

He flashed her a glance that once would've been unclear to her. But that was three days ago, and this was tonight—and tonight, she recognized the heat within, and it sent a responding flame of desire licking straight through her. "Lady Tessa," he said, "you know very well what brings me pleasure."

Rather than shock, it was a question that hit her…Was he trying to throw her off balance?

Well, that was a game for two…

"Do I?" she asked. "I seem to remember being denied the opportunity to gain such knowledge about you."

Three nights ago…It was here between them, the clench and release of his jaw said.

She decided to switch tack and not pursue the matter—for now. He would've gotten the message. She wasn't a woman easily rattled. "Perhaps you would like to know how my meeting with Blaze Jagger went?"

"I don't want to talk about Blaze Jagger," he said, definite. "I'll have him under control soon enough."

An alarm bell sounded through Tessa. "Blaze Jagger is none of your concern."

Julian snorted.

Pique flared inside her. "I am serious. He's not your problem to solve. He's mine."

"And you think a conversation over tea will solve him?"

Outrage provided Tessa a needed emotional outlet. "How do you know about my tea with Jagger?"

Had he been following her?

Cool eyes met hers. "You said that was your plan, and you're the sort of woman who follows through with her intentions."

That settled Tessa—a bit.

She hadn't at all liked the idea of being followed.

He led them down a short corridor, testing the first door handle they reached. Next thing, Tessa was being pulled into a room.

"If this isn't about Jagger, then what is?—"

"Tessa."

Her mouth went dry. In the gray dark of the tiny room, the only source of illumination was the rectangle of light framing the door, so she couldn't see his shadowed face.

But she didn't need to.

It was her name gone to a velvet rasp in his throat.

She knew that rasp.

A slow, sinuous shiver twisted through her, and she realized his arm was still twined through hers. With his other hand, he reached up, calloused fingertips brushing across her cheek. It was all she could do not to sway into his touch like a cat.

Because she must, she fought the feeling and spoke the first tangible thought that crossed her mind. "Is this about the pearl necklace? All you had to do was ask if you wanted it returned."

"It wasn't about the necklace three nights ago, and it isn't about the necklace tonight. This is about you."

"Me?"

When she made to continue the question, he pressed a silencing finger to her mouth.

"You'll see."

The promise embedded within that gravelly rumble was all it took to set her irretrievably ablaze.

He angled forward and pressed his mouth to the sensitive skin of her neck. A melting occurred within her, and she tipped her head to offer him more access…

And she swayed.

There was no help for it. The need to touch him—to feel his muscled body beneath her hands—drove her, as she pressed trembly palms to his chest and began to trail lower, reveling in the feel of him. She reached the waistband of his trousers—and lower her fingers explored…to the thick length of his manhood.

Oh, how she wanted to see it…touch it…feel it.

Of a sudden, his hand clamped around hers, stilling its progress. Her gaze flew up, and he shook his head. Then his hands were around her waist and he was lifting her. The next instant, her bottom was perched atop a table she hadn't even known was behind her.

Still, the wanting remained. "Julian, I want to feel you."

Paltry words for what that wanting was coming to mean for her.

"Tessa," he said, low and rumbly and she knew that whatever he next asked of her, she would agree to. "May I taste you?"

The question had another question forming on her lips, but since it was Julian asking, she said, "Yes."

He shifted forward, pushing her skirts up, over her knees, and parted her thighs with slow intention. Anticipation skittered through her as he stepped into that V, her sex throbbing with utter ache. But he didn't press against her…into her, as she so desperately needed. Instead, he fell to his knees, and she understood his meaning.

May I taste you?

It was the warm release of his breath that met the wet slick of her quim first. She gasped, and he chuckled. Then all thought was chased from her mind by the slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. Lightning licked through her—one hand clutched the edge of the table and the other reached for his hair—the pleasure of his tongue upon her tipping the balance of her world topsy-turvy.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for this—a man between her legs, pleasuring her with his tongue…effecting a magic upon her that surely originated beyond the heavy bounds of earth. This was air and light and ether. Only this mattered—where he touched her…his tongue flicking, stroking, pulling moans from her so his hand reached up and covered her mouth, which only intensified the forbidden pleasure, rendering it a slight transgression.

Her hips rolled back, her legs widened, as this pleasure overtook her. Then, of a sudden, it was upon her—release—and she was crying out into his palm as she broke against his tongue, climax fluttering through her, sending her spiraling into some sort of oblivion.

But only a moment's worth—oblivion was short-lived for the earthbound being.

Eyes yet closed, she felt him move between her legs and rise to a stand before pulling her skirts over her knees.

Her eyes were left with no choice but to open. She longed to reach out and confirm the reality of his shadowed presence before her. Instead, she said, "I could do the same for you."

It was what she wanted—to take his manhood in hand and feel him in her mouth. "I want to taste you."

"That won't be necessary." The words emerged tight, curt. Gone was the velvet rumble.

"Necessary? Don't you want?—?"

"Want you?" The question was a hard scrape across his throat.

Tessa nodded, though she didn't think he could see the movement.

"I've had you," he said, flat. He'd regained command of himself.

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

The air pulled taut with the answer he refused to speak. He'd been seen—and he didn't like it.

"We shouldn't be observed exiting together," he said, at last. "I'll go first."

"Oh, we're not going anywhere just yet. Not until…"

She hopped off the table and closed the handful of inches between them. Before he could intuit her intention, she hooked her hand around his neck and wove her fingers through his hair, lifting onto the tips of her toes…pulling his head down…

And pressed her mouth to his.

For an instant, his lips remained an unyielding line beneath hers, and she thought he might push her away. Then a growl sounded at the back of his throat, and he grabbed hold of her and really, truly, thoroughly kissed her, the full length of his body against her…the full length of his manhood, too—hard and thick and long.

Oh, how she wanted it inside her.

This man had delivered pleasure upon pleasure, but she wanted more.

And as she poured all of herself into this kiss, it felt like more—even more fulfilling than everything else they'd done and had been done to her.

For this kiss was mutual—a sharing…an equalizing of power and control.

Then, as suddenly as the kiss had begun, he shook his head and tore away. A cry of protest flew from her as he pivoted and exited the room without another word.

Tessa's mind spun circles as her feet remained rooted in place.

Through the whirl emerged a thought…The two selves of the Marquess of Ormonde…

The marquess the world knew—and the Julian only she'd been allowed to glimpse.

He wore the mien of a man people were disposed to like. A quality he used to his advantage—to hide his other self.

The self who winced at the sound of his title…The self who wouldn't allow her to see him…or touch him…The self who hid in plain sight.

And here was the part she couldn't solve without more information—why? Why did he hide himself away? It wasn't as if he were a monster. Yet…

He might think himself so.

Strange, that.

He was like a mathematical equation that lacked all the necessary numbers to solve.

And he was more than that.

He was a human being…a man. One whose denial of self had grown a taproot so deep and strong it might never be dislodged.

She could send him twenty thousand pounds and walk away. If she were going to, this would be the time.

But she wouldn't.

She understood that about herself.

When had she ever turned away from a complex equation in need of solving?

So, she retraced her steps to Mr. Lancaster's box and bore the heat of Eloise's inquiring stare on the side of her face without meeting it. Quickly, she ascertained that Julian hadn't returned to his box. The action of a scared man.

Good.

She wasn't entirely sure why she felt that way, but she did.

As one, Saskia and Viveca turned. "We can go."

"Before the end of the play?" whispered a puzzled Eloise.

"We've seen enough," said Saskia.

"It tries one's soul to sit and watch a masterpiece be butchered," said Viveca.

The most unforgivable crime in the eyes of her sisters.

Eloise hadn't yet experienced the petulant side of Saskia and Viveca that they'd mostly left behind with childhood—that trying moments could still conjure. So, Tessa extended their thank yous and goodbyes to Eloise and Mr. Lancaster and bid a relieved farewell to Haymarket Theater.

Not yet.

Those were the two words—and single concept—whirling around her brain throughout the ride home.

They were more than a promise.

They were a bond.

Her one night with Julian was still outstanding.

And she would have it.

As a gentleman, he was honor-bound to give it to her.

From this—or her—he couldn't run.