Chapter 9

Julian ignored the fact that they were in a bedroom and pulled from a deep well of integrity and, somehow, made himself speak the truth…"No."

Lady Tessa opened her mouth and closed it, incredulous. She opened it again. "No? What was all that talk about looking back and laughing about it?"

"Tonight was—is—about forgiving your debt."

"Forgiving it?"

She lifted an ostrich feather from the drawer and gave its length a contemplative stroke. He nodded, his mouth gone too dry for speech.

Silver-blue eyes narrowed. "You came to beg off?"

The woman seemed…annoyed.

With him.

"Have I done something wrong?"

Her hand stopped, mid-stroke. "But what if I…" She swallowed. She seemed to be screwing up the nerve to say something.

"If you…?"

He very much wanted her to complete that sentence.

He might want it with every fiber of his being.

Her tongue swiped across her full bottom lip, and all Julian wanted was to replace it with his. "What if I want the night promised me?"

Had she truly spoken the words every fiber of his being wanted?

He didn't trust himself to answer.

"What if…," rasped across her throat. "What if I demand you give me my one night?"

Julian's brow gathered. Wasn't it to have been his one night?

Yet she was speaking as if it were hers.

And he was denying her.

Lady Tessa had lost the bet—but one wouldn't know it.

A powerful surge of desire pulsed to life inside him…arrowed into deep, interior places he kept hidden away, safe from feeling.

"Is this where you meet your mistress?" she asked.

Oh, the questions she kept asking.

He wasn't sure he would survive them.

"Aye."

"I want you to treat me how you treat her…here…tonight."

She couldn't be more clear.

Except she hadn't the faintest idea what she was demanding.

"You don't."

"Do you think me a woman who doesn't know her own mind?"

Julian should turn on his heel and exit this room…this townhouse…and Lady Tessa's life. For if he stayed, he would say, "Undress."

He did—so, he did.

She inhaled a sharp, little gasp of shock. Good. Perhaps she would flee.

Her head canted, eyes gone bright with curiosity and suspicion. "Do you think to scare me off?"

She was standing her ground, which left Julian with but one way to proceed—to stand his. "Don't you wish to receive the same treatment as my mistress?"

The air went electric. He detected her pulse throbbing hard against her throat.

It was the truth—and it was a dare.

Until now, she hadn't known this side of him existed.

There was yet so much she didn't know. So much he could teach her. Still, it was only gentlemanly to offer her one last chance.

"Or…"

"Or?" The question emerged more than a mite breathless.

He indicated the door. "Or you can leave."

Her gaze searched his. "This is how you treat your mistresses?"

"Yes." She needed to understand this truth.

"Have any ever left?"

"No."

"You're quite sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"In this way, yes."

"And what way is that?"

"My ability to bring you pleasure unlike any you've ever experienced."

Through her breathlessness lifted a mildly skeptical eyebrow. "With feathers?"

"If you like. It's but one method."

"You have methods?"

A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Yes."

A confounded laugh escaped her.

Julian crossed his arms over his chest and waited—and watched. He could be a very patient man.

His words—and their effect on her imagination—were having the most interesting influence on Lady Tessa. As she contemplated the ostrich feather held in her hands, a light blush crept up her throat, pinking her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Indecision shimmered about her, but something else, too.

Curiosity.

For all her knowledge of the workings of the world, this woman was an innocent.

An innocent who no longer wished to remain so.

She wanted knowledge—and she wanted him to be her teacher.

A want he was powerless against.

She returned the feather to its place in the velvet-lined drawer and lifted her gaze to meet his, decision in her over-bright silver-blue eyes.

What was her decision?

To leave?

Or…

To undress?

Unhurriedly, she reached up and nimble fingers slipped the single button of her cloak from its loop. The garment fell to the Aubusson carpet.

Anticipation coiled within Julian, muscles tensed, his cock gone half full.

She reached for the band of her skirt, flicked another few buttons, and it was joining the cloak on the floor. Her shirt fell to the middle of her thighs, just above the plain wool stockings gartered above her knees.

Before him stood the sister of a duke—and the most interesting woman he'd ever met. If he hadn't suspected it before, her clothing told him so now. No silk or lace or frills for this lady, but sensible wool.

"Perhaps my boots should go next?" she asked.

"As you like," he somehow spoke through the desire clogging his throat.

She reached down and made quick work of the laces of her practical black boots, before kicking them off.

This woman knew nothing about the art of seduction and it was…charming. So utterly without calculation. He couldn't help wondering if he'd ever encountered this in his dealings with the opposite sex. After all, though he didn't consort with any doxy on a street corner, he did associate with women with whom there would be no entanglements—women from the demimonde…women who benefitted from seducing him with everything in their arsenal.

All this woman wanted from him was the pleasure promised—one night.

Her garters and wool stockings quickly followed. When she tossed them aside, they didn't flutter to the floor like their silk counterparts, but landed with a light thud.

Now, it was her clad in naught but a linen shirt and whatever garments that lay beneath. She pulled the shirt over her head, then was standing in nothing but chemise and stays. She didn't attempt to cover herself with her hands. She wasn't a woman to get in the way of her own interests.

Julian's mouth went dry. He might have gotten carried away. Lady Tessa was the sort of woman who had demands—and would see them satisfied. Yes, he could make her scream with pleasure, but that was as far as he could take her.

For he sensed the physical would only be the beginning for this woman.

She would crave and demand more—and what this woman wanted, she took.

Even went to the ends of the earth for it.

But he was getting ahead of himself, wasn't he?

What he had now was one night.

He should've been prepared for this—he'd seen a woman's body clad in all varieties of ways—yet he wasn't.

This was Lady Tessa's scantily clad body.

Her mode of dress had accomplished its mission to obfuscate what lay beneath, for her masculine clothes had hidden a secret—and he was the only man in London who knew it.

Lady Tessa possessed the body of a goddess—all lush valleys and peaks and rounded curves, rosy nipples pushed up by the stays and straining against the gossamer muslin of chemise.

She reached for the laces of the stays, which were at the front between her breasts—practical and independent to the last, this woman—and her gaze met his. Within, he didn't detect the uncertainty of a virgin, but decision and daring and excitement.

The pleasure unlike she'd ever experienced—the pleasure promised—she wanted it.

She tugged the laces, and the garment fell loose and joined her other clothes on the floor. Beneath the chemise, curves abounded from her heavy breasts to the indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, the shadowed mound of her sex. She took the hem of the chemise, lifted it over her head, and flung it away.

His cock was no longer at half-mast.

There was no halfway with this woman.

"Now what?" she asked.

Within her eyes shone a dare.

It was his turn—to deliver the pleasure promised.

He pushed off the wall he'd been propped against and crossed the room. He took the ostrich feather from the drawer and stepped forward. Not so close that he touched her, but near enough that he could angle his head and whisper in her ear, "Now you find out what this is for."

His lips so close to the cup of her ear…he nearly pressed his mouth to it. But he resisted, knowing that if he started kissing her, he wouldn't be able to stop.

So, he pulled away, but not before inhaling and catching her subtle scent of citrus, jasmine, and Chinese tea. He wondered if her scent changed daily with her teas.

What would tomorrow's be?

Of course, he wouldn't know.

For them, there was no tomorrow.

He reached for a few more feathers before tugging open another drawer.

"Is that…?" she began, hesitant.

He glanced over his shoulder and met curiosity in her eyes. "Yes?"

"Is that where you keep the object that I saw you slip into your pocket at Blanton and Company?"

A smile tugged at his mouth. It couldn't help itself. So, she had been thinking—and wondering—about what she'd seen. "No."

"Will you use it tonight?"

"No."

Was that a flash of disappointment in her eyes?

"You aren't ready for that," he added.

Yet.

He'd almost said yet—and he shouldn't.

Yetimplied a next time.

And there wouldn't be a next time.

Instead, he pulled a long black silk scarf from the drawer and held it up. "Do you trust me?"

"Should I?"

"Yes."

A heavy beat of the heart later, she nodded her consent.

He closed the distance between them, her head tipped back, gaze holding his, until he reached up and covered her eyes, tying the scarf snugly at the back of her head.

Here was Lady Tessa, so vulnerable…so trusting.

A Lady Tessa only he knew.

Nothing that transpired between them tonight would betray her vulnerability and trust.

Her breath came in jagged catches as he stepped behind her. His fingers longed to touch her, to know the feel of her skin. Instead, he took the ostrich feather and brushed it up her spine. A breathless laugh escaped her as it lightly trailed down. Just as the feather reached the top of her bottom, her back gave a little arch, and she exhaled a shivery sigh.

"The denial of one sense," he said, "only heightens others—like sensation."

He ran the feather lower, over the lush curve of her bottom, down the back of a long leg…up the inside of calf…thigh…leisurely, allowing sensation and anticipation to build with each inch higher, stopping just shy of her sex. He heard her breath catch in her lungs, as she waited.

He moved around to the front of her. A light blush tinted her skin, rosy nipples puckered—a body aching to be touched…by him. The feather traced along her arms, across her delicate clavicle, between her breasts, around her nipples, down her belly, pulling a giggle here, a gasp there, then lower…a light tease at the mound of her sex.

Her sex…

Beneath red-gold curls, her sex would be swollen and wet…begging for a touch firmer than the caress of a feather.

A feather could only take one so far.

"Ormonde," she said, the name a plea.

He froze. "Julian," he growled. "You must call me Julian."

"Julian," she repeated, reaching up and removing the blindfold. Impatient lust shone in her eyes, flared pupils having pushed blue irises into thin silvery rings. "Julian, I need—" She gave him a quick up-and-down and frowned. "Aren't you going to?—"

"Undress?"

She nodded.

He shook his head.

Pleasure…denial.

He gave pleasure; he denied himself.

Those were the rules of this game.

But Lady Tessa was asking for more—as he'd thought she would.

She reached out and removed the feather from his hand, letting it flutter to the floor. Then she stepped so close her puckered nipples nearly pressed into his waistcoat. Her head tipped back, and she held his gaze. Alongside lust shone defiance.

Before him stood a woman utterly unafraid to be herself. A trait incredibly attractive—a trait that shook him to his core.

"Julian," she said.

A feeling, trembly and new, lit through him. His name on her tongue, spoken in her low, contralto voice…It set a fluttery feeling awing inside him.

"The feathers are nice, but…"

"But?"

"I want your touch on me."

She took his hand and pressed it to the indent of her waist, moved it across her ribs to her stomach. This feel of her beneath his hand—soft and hot and vibrant—wasn't how this was supposed to go.

Of course, he touched women. He brought them pleasure with capable fingers. But this…the feel of her…This brought him pleasure.

This wasn't denial but the opposite.

Indulgence.

The control that defined his life and his very personhood was slipping…

She guided his hand to her mons pubis. "I need your touch here," she said…begged.

She was so wet and slick and hot. He should pull away.

But he couldn't.

He held the fruit of temptation in his hand, and he couldn't not graze a thumb along that sweet, swollen slit. Her eyes drifted shut and a groan poured from parted lips. He stroked her again, and she reached up and hooked her hands onto the back of his neck, her body gone molten against him, mindless fingers weaving through his hair. His thumb went firmer, applying more pressure, and she gasped against his neck, then moaned, her breath warm against his skin. He pressed his other hand to the small of her back, to steady her, as driven by instinct and need, she stretched up his clothed body, mindless with abandon.

"This way," he uttered.

Without releasing her, he stepped them to the bed and sat on its edge, pulling her to a straddle atop him. Her face above his, a daring smile tipped about her mouth, curiosity in her eyes. She hadn't the faintest idea what was about to happen next—or the exquisite pleasure he was about to deliver to her.

Again, his thumb slid along her slit and grazed the sensitive nub at the top. "Oh," she cried, lifting onto her knees as she strained to offer him more access.

She needed more, and he knew what to give her.

Her knees to either side his thighs, he pressed into her with his forefinger—slowly…deliberately. Her breath caught in her throat as she took him in. "Oh, that feels so…good."

Guided by instinct, she pressed down onto him as his thumb continued stroking her nub, and she began to ride him, her head tossed back, her breath hard and sharp. One hand caught around his neck, the other trailed down, between their bodies—hers naked…his clothed—and grazed trembly fingers across his stone-hard length through the superfine of trousers that only just contained him.

How his body urged him to surrender…To allow her to unbutton the falls and free his cock. She was in position above him. All it would take was a single, swift stroke and he would be inside her.

Surrender, came the siren's call.

With a strength of will he hadn't been sure he possessed, he covered her hand with his and removed it from him.

Questioning eyes met his. "Aren't you going to…Aren't we going to…?"

"We aren't," the statement gravel in his throat. When her mouth opened to protest, he continued, "But you are."

He set his near-overwhelming desire aside and focused on hers, one hand steady on her back and the other simultaneously stroking and penetrating her as he established a rhythm—the one that would bring her to climax. A nipple brushed against his lips, and he flicked his tongue to taste its sweetness, sucking it into his mouth. A ragged cry poured from her. He wasn't sure he'd ever experienced a sight as erotic as a naked Lady Tessa straddling him and riding his fingers and being pleasured by him.

Her breath caught and held, and she went into herself like a spring coiled and waiting for the touch that would bring release. "Not long now, my sweet," he muttered. "Just…give…over…"

Another slick graze of his thumb across her nub…another intentional press of his finger inside her…another suckle on her sweet breasts…and she came undone on a cry, her quim pulsing against his hand as he stroked her to satiety, her breath hard against his neck.

His was coming just as hard, his cock demanding he give her what she'd begged for.

It almost had him convinced when she, at last, pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "Julian," was all she said. All she could say, he suspected.

"I did promise to bring you pleasure unlike any you've ever known," he said, the words a raw scrape across his throat.

A light sigh blew between parted lips. "I'd say you delivered."

Even as gratification arrowed through Julian, so did another feeling—unease.

He'd adhered to all his rules. He'd remained clothed…no kissing…He'd kept his cock well away from her.

And yet…

This after felt different—like he'd given her more than pleasure.

This felt like they'd shared an intimacy.

Too soon, she pushed off him and reached for her chemise.

Alarm sounded through him once he understood what she was doing. "Why are you dressing?"

"Because I'm leaving."

"You've only been here an hour. You're going nowhere."

Mutiny glittered in her eyes. He shouldn't have said that last bit.

"You're in danger," he added as a reminder.

She shook her head. "The stone through my front window was a warning. I'm in no danger."

Julian tested the logic in his mind, and annoyingly, it held.

"I need to send for a glazier to replace the glass," she said, ever pragmatic. "And I need to contact Jagger."

Now, that logic didn't hold. He couldn't have heard her correctly. "You're going to contact Blaze Jagger?"

She nodded, definite. "To arrange a meeting. It's obvious our last one wasn't to his satisfaction."

"That would be one way of putting it."

She fastened her stays, and Julian attempted not to leer at the pushed-up roses of her nipples.

It was a poor attempt.

"Perhaps what he needs is a nudge to zig instead of zag."

"Do you care to elucidate?"

"It's simple." She gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if it truly were. "I'm going to treat him to tea."

Julian understood nothing he could say would sway the stubborn woman, so he settled back onto his elbows and watched her clothe that lush, glorious body of hers.

A shame, that.

Once fully dressed, she turned and faced him. An uncharacteristic hesitancy shimmered about her, and Julian braced himself for the words perched on the tip of her tongue.

"Was this our one night?"

He knew what he should say—yes.

He sat forward and, carefully, asked a question. "Do you want it to have been?"

After a moment's hesitation, she crossed the few feet separating them, placed a hand on his shoulder, and angled her mouth so it met his ear, sending a warm shiver through him. "Not yet," she whispered.

Then she pulled back enough to meet his eyes, so he could see the intention within hers, and pivoted, swiftly exiting the room, her sure footsteps fading down the staircase. A few seconds later, he heard the front door bolt slide as she slipped from the townhouse.

But not from his life.

Not yet.

If her answer had been yes, that would've been the end.

But she'd given a very different answer.

An answer that lit parts of him into life that hadn't felt alive…ever.

Parts he'd supposed himself lacking.

Parts, it seemed, only Lady Tessa had the power to awaken.

And he understood something: It wouldn't be enough for her—he wouldn't be enough for her.

For within her not yet, he detected a beginning—and a demand.

That next time he give her more.

That he give her everything.

For she was the sort who would give all—and she would expect as much from him.

Even as it alarmed him to the interior cells of his being, it fired an unexpected thrill through him.

He stood at the precipice, a rolling boulder to his back, which left him with two options.

Stand his ground and be smashed to bits.

Or fling himself, powerless, into the unknown.