Chapter 13

CHAPTER

a

13

T heo paced in her bedchamber at Peachtree Manor. It was small and located in an isolated hallway near the nursery. It had been her room when she was a little girl, and she could have moved to a bigger suite, but she'd always been content right where she was. With her father wed to Georgina, she'd liked having a quiet sanctuary that was far away from all of them.

A fierce storm was raging outside. Lightning flashes kept making her jump, then thunder would rumble so loudly that the windows rattled. Torrential rain was pouring down and people were locked inside by their warm, dry fires.

Jackson had come to supper as he'd promised he would and the weather had blown in as they were dining. They'd had a private meal, just the two of them, that had been very romantic. Afterward, with conditions rapidly deteriorating, they'd agreed that he would spend the night at Peachtree, then head to Owl's Nest in the morning.

He hadn't departed, so they'd had hours to sit and chat, and they seemed to be more attached than ever. Their liaison had her questioning every aspect of her life.

Marriage was supposed to provide security for a woman, and she'd told herself to bite the bullet and have Arthur furnish what she required, but it had been an absurd idea. She wouldn't ever marry. Not him or anyone. She'd never known a wife who was happy. For the most part, they were exhausted from pacifying their indifferent, selfish husbands, and their health was ruined from birthing children year after year.

Was this how her mother had felt as she'd staggered on while shackled to Theo's father? If so, Theo didn't forgive her, but she understood some of what might have been driving her.

Theo would like to be a writer—or maybe even a painter. She had a knack for drawing and art, and at school, she'd had several teachers encourage her to embrace her talent. Of course, by embrace they hadn't meant she ought to pursue a career at it. No, they'd meant she should paint a few watercolors when she wasn't busy with her wifely chores, then give them to relatives as gifts. They would never have assumed she could earn a living at it or that it could replace the advantages of matrimony.

Deep down, she recognized that she wasn't the same as other females. She didn't want what they wanted, and she figured it was her mother's wicked tendencies poking through. What if she allowed them to burst free? Would the world stop spinning? Probably, but she didn't care.

Since she'd met Jackson, she'd realized that she could never glom onto a boring dolt like Arthur. No, she needed a rogue who was smart, brave, and true. Unfortunately, Jackson was a very rare breed, and she was certain—after she cut ties with him in London—she'd never establish such a marvelous bond with another man.

In her opinion, the evening had ended much too abruptly. What if she never had a subsequent opportunity to be alone with him?

He was down on the floor below, tucked away in a comfortable guest bedchamber. In a matter of seconds, she could sneak down and be with him. The servants were asleep, so there was no one to notice if they continued to socialize. They might have been trapped in a bubble, where they could carry on however they pleased.

Why shouldn't they revel until dawn? And if something dangerously splendid transpired, how could she ever regret it?

Suddenly, she was considering mischief that she'd never previously contemplated. Dare she seize the moment? Dare she—for once—reach out and grab for what she craved?

She was still wearing her gown, but partially dressed for bed. She'd shucked off her slippers and corset and had taken down her hair. It hung down her back in a curly wave. The temperature was chilly, and she'd donned a robe over her gown and had woolen socks on her feet, and it occurred to her that the socks supplied a benefit. She could tiptoe down the hall without her shoes echoing.

She went over to the mirror and studied herself. With her hair down, she definitely looked like a wanton, and she was amused by her scandalous deportment. Perhaps she was a doxy—as her mother had been.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried out and rushed to the stairs. More lightning cracked, as if to spur her on her way, and she didn't pause to worry about what she'd do if he was gallant and wouldn't permit her into his room. She'd cross that bridge if she had to.

She dashed down to the next floor, and to her surprise, he'd just exited his suite and was walking toward her. Apparently, as she'd been stewing and missing him, he'd been doing the same. They froze, startled by their mutual need, then he smiled and motioned for her to join him.

She ran over and he caught her and dragged her inside. Then he shut and locked the door, and he began kissing her so fiercely that it would have been impossible to exhibit more appropriate behavior.

She kissed him back with all the affection she could muster. She truly didn't expect to dally with him ever again, and she would view the whole encounter as a kind of farewell gift. She intended to build a store of memories that she could cherish down through the years. If he ever thought about her later on, which she deemed to be very unlikely, she hoped he'd recall this occasion as being special and perfect.

She was so overwhelmed that she couldn't keep track of what was happening. Gradually, she noted that he'd picked her up and was conveying her to the bed. He tossed her onto it, and he followed her down, and they tangled together in a swirl of legs and clothes.

He rolled them so she was stretched out beneath him, and he didn't stop kissing her. The interval was wild and unrestrained, as if they were the last two people who would ever kiss. Ever.

Eventually, they slowed, and as their lips parted, they giggled like naughty schoolchildren.

"I was just coming up to you," he murmured.

"And I was just coming down."

"Once I was in my room, I wondered why we'd retired so early."

"I wondered the very same."

"I hate thunder," he said. "I always have."

"I hate thunder too," she admitted, "and the dark. I couldn't stand being alone."

"I don't know when I'll have a chance in the future to be with you like this."

"Are you a mind reader?" she asked. "I was thinking exactly that. It seemed ridiculous to stay away from you."

He slid onto his side and she shifted too, so they were nose to nose. He assessed her, cataloguing her features, as if to never forget her. There was nothing quite so spectacular as having Jackson Bennett's undivided attention, and she held very still and let him look his fill.

"If your stepmother ever finds out about this," he said, "I can't imagine the ruckus you'll stir."

"I can't fret about her. She's never had my best interests at heart. Why should she prevent me from enjoying this short interlude with you?"

"What about your fiancé?" he asked. "I suppose I ought to mention that you're betrothed. You're in my bed, but you can't have fully considered the ramifications of what it might mean."

"I'm not marrying Arthur. It's the main decision that's dawned on me. After I figured it out, I couldn't wait to race down and be with you."

Jackson blew out a heavy breath. "I can't be the reason you cry off."

"You're not the reason. You're simply the catalyst that forced me to face reality."

"How can I explain myself in a manner that won't sound terribly callous? I'm not about to wed you," he bluntly stated. "Do you understand that?"

"I understand and I'm an adult. I'm here because I want to be and I'll never regret it."

"If the servants burst in and caught us, if there were public demands for a quick wedding, I wouldn't oblige you. You'd be ruined and I wouldn't lift a finger to help you."

"I realize that," she said, but she wasn't serious.

He was very compassionate and he never left anyone behind. It was why he'd harbored such a stellar reputation in the army. If she ever experienced difficulties, he'd assist her in some fashion. She had no doubt at all.

"If you jilt Arthur though," he pressed, "what will become of you? I'm very concerned about this. You live with Mrs. Cronenworth and Arthur and they support you. You don't have any money of your own, do you?"

"No, not a farthing."

"If you cross them, how might they react?"

She sighed with exasperation. "I can't worry about them when I'm with you. When I'm back in London, I'll devise a new path for myself."

"I'm so afraid you haven't thought this through."

"I've thought plenty. Every minute I spend with you, I'm betraying Arthur. How could I proceed with the engagement when I've proved myself so faithless?"

"You've claimed it won't be my fault if you renege, but the more you talk, the more obvious it is that I've been front and center in your deliberations. I can't be your motive for tossing him over, particularly when I refuse to take his place."

"You don't comprehend this about me, but I've never wanted to be a wife."

"You haven't? Isn't that every female's dream?"

"Not mine. If I had my druthers, I'd rather be a writer. Or maybe a painter."

He snickered, as if she amused him. "Would you move to Paris and be a bohemian artist?"

"Why couldn't I? It would be much more fun than shackling myself to Arthur."

"Women can't make exotic choices," he gently said, as if cautioning her. "Is it wise to chase an unrealistic future? Won't that simply bring disappointment?"

"Are you being sensible and pragmatic? Please don't be. Just for tonight, let me pretend that I could have an unusual ending."

He shook himself and laughed. "What was I thinking? I'm never sensible or pragmatic, so I retract my comment. We'll insist you can arrange any eccentric conclusion that tickles your fancy."

"That's more like it. Thank you."

They were silent, staring, and his gaze was so tender and affectionate that her breath hitched in her chest. He had her craving things that were impossible to envision. They flirted as if they were pursuing a temporary amour, but she was certain he had genuine feelings for her. Why couldn't they act on them?

He constantly declared that he wasn't about to marry, that he wouldn't marry her, but why shouldn't he? She'd contended she wouldn't marry either, but what if she wasn't sincere? What if they wed and were blissfully happy?

It wasn't the moment to have that discussion. If she tried to initiate it, they might quarrel, which would be too depressing. They only had a few perfect hours to dally, and she wouldn't permit a single negative word to wreck any of it.

"If you tarry with me another second," he said, "I can't predict what might happen. Wouldn't you be safer in your own room?"

Her pulse pounded with dread. "Are you ordering me to leave?"

"No. I'm merely clarifying that there are dangers associated with this kind of furtive tryst. You're a maiden, so you can't grasp what they are, and I'm warning you that we're walking down a very perilous road."

"I'm not a complete ninny. I have some idea of what might occur."

He grinned his devil's grin. "Yet you came anyway."

"Yes, and despite what transpires, I will be glad about it forever."

"You assume that now, but I'm betting you won't be so complacent tomorrow morning." He scrutinized her, then said, "Seriously, Theo. I'm not sure you should be in here with me. I would hate to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me. I'm tough as nails and this is my decision. Aren't you a proud libertine? You have an eager, willing woman in your bed, and you didn't have to expend any effort to accomplish it. Stop complaining."

He laughed again. "I should stop, shouldn't I? I can't believe my luck and it's absurd for me to fret."

"My opinion exactly. I'm the daughter of a very immoral mother and I guess I'm ready to act like it."

v

"You're about to act like your immoral mother?" Jackson said. "That sounds hazardous."

"Doesn't it just?"

Theo smirked, looking like a vixen, like the most enticing coquette, and her sudden impulse to misbehave was rocking him to his core. He couldn't quite deduce how they'd wound up on his bed. It seemed like a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

They'd had a lovely evening of supper and conversation, and he'd intended to return to Owl's Nest, but the storm had blown in. She'd suggested he not venture out in the weather and he hadn't argued. The housekeeper had opened a bedchamber and he'd stayed.

Had he had a nefarious scheme toward Theo all along? He hoped he wasn't that debauched, but then, he was Cedric Bennett's son. When his father's wicked traits burst out, he couldn't control himself.

After the meal, they'd chatted and told stories, then they'd headed up to bed. The minute he'd shut his door, he'd realized that they shouldn't have parted.

Had she bewitched him? He'd acutely sensed her presence on the floor up above and he hadn't been able to ignore her proximity. Add in the pesky fact that he was very lonely and he'd been standing in the middle of a recipe for disaster. He'd gone to her, without pausing to ponder any ramifications, and he'd stepped into the hall, only to discover that she'd had the same idea.

As he'd left his room to seek her out, had he been planning for them to fornicate? Matters were quickly escalating, and if she didn't skedaddle, a carnal incident was about to be perpetrated.

She was carrying on as if she wouldn't mind a physical frolic, but she was an unwed maiden, so what did she know? He was the experienced roué. Shouldn't he save her from herself? Then again, as she'd pointed out, she was an adult and she'd chosen to participate. He hadn't forced her, so what was his obligation in the situation?

When lust jumped into the equation, it was easy to convince himself that he had no obligation.

They were about to engage in sexual conduct, and he'd persuaded himself not to worry about how she'd view it in the morning. She claimed she wasn't interested in marriage, but he didn't believe her. She was probably figuring they'd forge ahead, then he'd fall to his knees and propose, but he wouldn't. He'd been very blunt in voicing his determination to not wed. If she presumed he'd been lying, that was her problem. Not his. He would proceed to folly and damn the consequences.

He rolled onto her and started kissing her. She was petite and shapely and her female parts were pressed to his male ones all the way down. His anatomy could have wept with joy. She was a very passionate creature, and as she enthusiastically joined in the embrace, it occurred to him that he spent too much time with trollops. Often, he paid them for their services, so there wasn't ever much genuine pleasure generated. Even his antics with Lola were staid and boring.

With Theo, he was ecstatic, as if he'd been magically transported to the era when he'd been young and lewd behavior novel and thrilling. How had he let such a wonderful deed become so dull?

His hands roamed over her torso, caressing her shoulders and arms, her back and thighs. As the interval grew hotter, he occasionally touched her breasts and skimmed his palms over her nipples. He was so overwhelmed by desire for her that he couldn't slow down as they raced to the main event. He hadn't asked her if she was a virgin, but had simply assumed she was.

He needed to moderate the pace and coax her to the end, but he couldn't be patient. And he was definitely praying she wouldn't beg him to stop and explain the facts. He couldn't clarify any details. He'd never been so aroused, and it dawned on him that, despite his frequent philandering, he hadn't understood how riveting an encounter could be. Clearly, there were facets to a male-female dalliance that he hadn't recognized to exist.

Before coming to him, she'd removed her corset, which was a blessing. He could feel every inch of her without the garment as an impediment. Her beautiful hair was down and brushed out too, so he was finally able to riffle his fingers in it. The texture was soft, the color unusual, and it stirred his lust to new heights.

He broke off their ardent kiss to nibble a trail down her neck to her bosom. Through the fabric of her gown, he toyed with her breasts. He pinched the nipples and even dipped down to suck one of them into his mouth. He could have increased the excitement by undressing her, but he couldn't imagine delaying to strip her naked.

He would get the worst part of the business—her deflowering—out of the way as swiftly as he could, then he'd be calmer, and he'd make the second attempt perfect.

He abandoned her breasts and began kissing her again. Normally, he wasn't all that interested in kissing. Since he dabbled with slatterns, there was never much point to it. He participated for gratification and there was no affection involved with doxies. Theo kept surprising him though, and the smallest things were delightful.

"Do you know what happens between a man and a woman?" he paused to ask.

"I've heard some rumors."

"Are you sure you'd still like to continue?"

"Are you sure?" she countered. "You're uttering comments that sound as if you're not very willing. I'm the female in this scandalous escapade, so I am the one who's supposed to be having doubts."

"I'm not having doubts," he insisted. "We're simply skating past the place where I can turn around. If we go much farther, and you change your mind, I'm not certain I can oblige you."

She smiled a smile as old as Eve's. "It appears, my dear Lord Thornhill, that you're not the cad you pretend to be. Will you quit worrying about me? I am here of my own volition, and whatever transpires, I will always be glad."

"You better mean it. If you suffer regrets later on, I'll never forgive myself."

"You silly man. How could I ever regret being with you?"

Inside his chest, his heart seemed to swell until he thought it might break out from under his ribs. He was that fond of her; he was that besotted. He hoped, after they'd fornicated, that some of his fascination would wane. He didn't comprehend his attachment and he had no idea how to quell it.

What if they kept on and he grew even more enamored? What if his infatuation never faded?

The question was too scary to ponder, so he dove into the physical tryst once again. There was no reason to obsess over what might—or might not—occur in the future. They were marching to his favorite spot and that was more than enough.

He started in yet again, as he gradually tugged her skirt up her legs. He bared her shins, her knees, her thighs, raising the hem until he could slip a finger into her drawers and glide it into her tight sheath. He'd been too abrupt with her though, and she tensed, her body rigid at the unexpected invasion.

"It's all right," he murmured. "When we're together like this, I'm allowed to touch you in new and different ways. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid. It just feels peculiar and we're moving so fast."

"I can't slow down. I've desired you too badly for too long. I can't restrain myself."

She grinned impishly. "Have I asked you to restrain yourself?"

"No."

"Then don't. Get on with it—at any speed that makes you happy."

A hundred words bubbled up, and suddenly, he was keen to chat rather than copulate. He yearned to tell her how much he cherished their friendship, how much he enjoyed their furtive relationship. He even yearned to apologize for consenting to the dalliance when he shouldn't have.

What sort of scoundrel behaved as he was behaving? A very corrupt, very wicked one, that was for sure.

It was wiser to focus on his goal, so he didn't babble like an idiot, and he swallowed down the remarks that were swirling. He leapt into the fire, sliding his finger in and out of her sheath. Eventually, as her hips responded and flexed against his hand, he dropped to her bosom and sucked on a nipple. He flicked with his thumb at the sensitive nub between her thighs, and with scarcely any effort, she was pitched into a potent orgasm.

She spiraled up and up, reached the peak, then tumbled down. She landed safely in his arms, and she was sputtering with astonishment as he preened like a fool. He'd assumed that she had the soul of a tart and he'd been proved right.

"What was that?" she asked when she could speak again. "What's it called?"

"To the French, it's the little death, the petit mort, but in England, we've given it the boring name of orgasm."

"I like little death. It's much more descriptive." She sighed and relaxed into him, as if her bones had melted. "Is that all there is to it? Are we done?"

"No, there's a bit more."

"Show me then. Don't keep me in suspense."

Briefly, his conscience bothered him. It wasn't too late to halt and send her away. His poor phallus was so hard that it was about to explode, but he could have acted honorably for a change. He could have stopped, but before he could choose the saner path, his more raucous proclivities took control.

He never applied moral tests to his lewd conduct, and he couldn't persuade himself that he had a duty to rein in his worst impulses.

He began once more, but this time, there was more affection to it. He was anxious to make up for the fact that he was in such a hurry, that he hadn't shed any of their clothes. He especially hadn't yanked off his boots. He would proceed with them on, and if that didn't brand him a cad, he didn't know what would.

Down below, he was unbuttoning his trousers, opening the front, tugging them down to his haunches. Through it all, she remained eager and willing, exhibiting no signs of alarm or distress. Even when he centered his cock, even when he pressed in the tip, she didn't flinch or pull away.

She gazed up at him and said, "Are we at the end?"

"No, but it will be over shortly."

"I've waited for this moment my whole life and I'm so glad it will be you."

He probably didn't have the skill to make it perfect, and he supposed—when she reflected on the event in the future—she wouldn't remember it as being all that grand. But he would remember that it had been spectacular.

He was kissing her, distracting her, as he widened her thighs and pushed in a tad, then more, and more. She was wet and ready from her orgasm and it was surprisingly simple to burst inside her. In a trice, he was fully impaled, and as he filled her, she huffed out a stunned breath.

"What just happened?" she asked.

"I've joined my body to yours."

"Is this the marital act? Is that what it's called?"

"Yes, some people call it that."

She frowned. "What is it called by other people?"

"Fornication? Coupling? There are sordid terms for it too, but I'll leave them to your imagination."

"It feels very odd," she said. "Are you certain we're doing it correctly?"

He spat out a laugh. "Yes, I'm certain and it only feels odd because you haven't tried it before. With each repetition, it gets easier and more pleasurable."

"Does that mean we'll do it more than once?"

"We can do it over and over—until the sun rises in the eastern sky and you have to be back in your room."

"I like the sound of that. Is it over?"

"Not quite yet. Put your arms around me. Hold me tight."

"Like this?"

"Yes, exactly like that."

He peered down at her, thinking she was so pretty—and so brave. She hadn't quailed with fear or protested his rough handling. She'd snuck to his bedchamber, had allowed him to ruin her, and she hadn't uttered a word of complaint. Her decision was shocking and dissolute, but she'd forged ahead anyway. She was determined to seize what she craved.

As with every prior minute of the encounter, he'd intended to slow down and enjoy the ride, but he was too aroused. He delivered several hard thrusts, but that paltry effort was all he could manage. His seed swelled to his loins, and in a quick instant, he shoved in very far and spilled himself against her womb.

He balanced just there, as his torso trembled from the exertion. Then his muscles gave out, particularly his scarred leg that had been bracing too much of his weight. He collapsed onto her and he rested briefly until he realized he had to be crushing her.

He drew away, their bodies separating, and he rolled them so they were nose to nose again. She was studying him curiously, and he couldn't abide her powerful scrutiny, so he shifted onto his back. She was draped over his chest, and he could stare at the ceiling, rather than into her beautiful, probing blue eyes.

He shouldn't have finished inside her, but he wasn't concerned that he had. He'd reveled in plenty of carnal mischief in his life, and he'd never sired a child, so he wasn't very potent. But a man could never be sure of the conclusion. Usually, extensive attempts were required to plant a babe. What if this was one of the unlucky occasions? What then?

He wasn't in India where soldiers were away from home and moral rules relaxed and, in many cases, nonexistent. He was in England where sexual congress with a virtuous maiden was strictly forbidden, but he'd proceeded despite the dangers. He really could be a dunce and his lurid habits, and lack of restraint, were scary.

"What did you think?" he asked. "And tell me the truth. Don't lie to spare my feelings."

"It was different than I thought it would be."

"How was it different?"

"I guess I assumed it would be more romantic."

He winced. "It can be very romantic. I just didn't perform it very well, but in my own defense, you completely overwhelmed me."

She chuckled. "Are you claiming I'm irresistible?"

"Yes, you are and I'm not too proud to admit it."

"I had been apprised that it was very physical, but I didn't understand just how physical."

"A female can't understand—not until she experiences it for herself. Have I terrified you? Will you ever try it again with me?"

"Oh, yes, I definitely will. It seems to me that there are probably tricks and maneuvers that will make it better. I'd like to learn what some of them are."

His cheeks heated with embarrassment. "I hate that I bungled it. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course. I would forgive you for any transgression. Don't you know that?"

Her comment worried him. The worst must have happened and she believed the deed would mean things had been altered between them. Was she imagining they were bonded? That they'd established a permanent attachment? He hoped not.

They'd had a mutual agreement that no ties would be created. It's what he'd intended, but it was commonly recognized that libidinous conduct mattered to a female in a manner it never would to a male. Unless she was a dedicated tart, her emotions became engaged.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Now, we rest for a bit, then we jump into it again. Or are you too sore?"

She stretched out her legs, testing her womanly parts. "I'm not sore. Well, I'm a tad sore, but I won't let it interfere with this perfect evening."

"You are a trouper, Theo Cronenworth."

Sarcastically, she retorted, "I've always heard that about myself."

"Next time, I swear I will slow down, so it will be splendid for you."

To his dismay, he was very tired. His old injury sapped his energy, so his stamina was never one-hundred percent. Without planning to, he dozed off.

Gradually, he began to dream, and he was back in India and trotting down that rural road, guarding that contingent of important visitors. Suddenly, the bandits burst out of the jungle and attacked, and he was fighting for his life all over again. The dream recurred almost nightly, and he struggled to change the battle so he wasn't slashed nearly to death, but the past was the past and it was fixed in stone.

He reached the spot where the saber cut into his thigh and he cried out and leapt awake. His pulse was pounding, and he frantically peered around, aware that he'd shouted out and praying no one had noticed.

It took a moment for reality to settle in, for him to remember that Theo had shared his bed. Before he even glanced over, he perceived that she was gone, which was a relief. He looked out the window, and from how brightly the sun was shining, it had to be mid-morning. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear and blue.

He was lucky she'd departed. If it had been left up to him, he'd have slumbered until the servants caught them.

A knock sounded on the door and a footman peeked in and said, "Are you up, Lord Thornhill? The housekeeper sent me to check on you to see if you need any assistance."

"I'm fine. What time is it?"

"After ten already. I brought a pot of tea and some muffins. May I come in with them?"

"Yes, please."

"It's a chilly day. I can light the fire too, if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like."

He loafed on the pillows, watching as the young man completed his chores. He wondered where Theo was and what she thought of their illicit frolic. Normally, he wasn't a coward, but he was definitely wishing he'd never have to face her. That was a fool's route though and he couldn't avoid the inevitable.

He hoped she wasn't angry or mortified. As to himself, he was ecstatic and delighted, and he had to locate her so, if she was fuming or fretting, he could explain why she should be glad forever. He certainly was and he wouldn't allow her to have any regrets.