A Season of Seduction Page 4

  Jack returned to the sofa, set the glass aside, and took her hand again, pressing his palm against its silky warmth. “Forgive me for that. You needn’t answer.”

  “My husband.” She swallowed hard and stared at him, as if she were determined to answer no matter the cost. “He… it was an elopement. I hardly knew him. At first, I was madly in love with him.” She took a deep swallow from her glass, finishing the last drops of the sherry, and then she lowered the empty glass to her lap.

  He frowned at her. “But not later?”

  “No. Not later. William wasn’t…” She looked away, and tendrils of deep pink crawled across her cheeks. “He wasn’t a good man.”

  The effect of her words was instant. Red tinged his vision. His skin prickled hot as memories rushed through him like a flash flood, too quick for him to control. His fist clamped over her hand. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Yes.” His hand tightened over hers, and her brows drew together in a frown. “What’s wrong, Jack?”

  He loosened his fist and brushed the fingertips of his other hand over her twisted elbow. “He wasn’t responsible for this?”

  “No. Not directly. The accident occurred a few days after he died.” She shook her head, confused. “Are you angry with me, Jack?”

  He tried to smile at her, but he feared it emerged as more of a grimace. His reaction had nothing to do with her, really. Just with his memories. Why had his mind made that connection the instant she’d said William Fisk hadn’t been a good man? She was a different woman with a different husband in a different time.

  “No, I’m not angry with you.”

  “Why…?” Understanding dawned in her expression. “You’re angry with him.”

  He knew nothing of what had happened between her and her husband. Becky was different from Anne. Becky was safe. Whatever William Fisk had done to her, the man was dead. Trying to calm his racing blood, Jack spoke through his teeth. “I cannot abide a man who abuses innocents.”

  She gave a small, bitter laugh. “I’m no innocent.”

  “Perhaps you’re more innocent than you think you are.”

  “No. I am a widow. I have seen…” She paused, and her gaze grew distant. “Too much,” she finished quietly.

  He rubbed tender circles in the fleshy part of her palm. God, he was being an ass. None of this was her fault. Whatever had happened to her, it was over. It was over for him, too. By now, he should be better able to control his memories.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Whatever it was that hurt you. And I’m sorry for reminding you of it.”

  She gave him a faltering smile. “I am sorry you were hurt as well.”

  They sat in companionable silence for several long moments. With every minute that passed, his body grew in awareness of hers. In the past twelve years, he’d felt lust once in a while—especially when the Gloriana sailed into port after long months at sea. Yet the feeling Becky evoked in him was different. Lust was there, and it was more consuming than ever, but there was more to it than that. A tenderness. A longing to tuck her against his body, hold her close, and simply breathe her in, as if her sweetness and essence would filter through him and bring him peace.

  Those thoughts were nonsensical, he knew that. The fact that he actually liked her was certainly a bonus, but there was no sense in fooling himself into believing anything but his desperate need for money had instigated their association.

  He pressed gently on the soft pad of flesh below her thumb. “When I touch you…” He paused to search for the right word to describe the heady feeling touching her gave him. “It’s potent.”

  “Potent,” she whispered. She released his hand and then took it again, lacing her fingers with his. “Yes. It is.”

  She raised his hand, still tangled with hers, and pressed slow kisses to each of his fingers. “I love your hands. They’re so large, and your fingers are so long.” She stroked along the calluses on his fingers. “Hardened by work, yet graceful. So masculine.”

  He closed his eyes, thoroughly seduced by her simple touch.

  This was business, nothing more. A seduction, nothing more. He required something she possessed, and he knew how to go about obtaining it. Certainly there would be some side benefits to the arrangement, he thought, breathing in her blossoming essence. He liked Lady Rebecca Fisk, and he respected her. He’d take good care of her, and he’d never deliberately cause her pain.

  But if he hadn’t needed her fortune, he never would have made the effort to meet her.

  Chapter Three

  Cecelia had counseled her to be practical, so Becky would grit her teeth and be practical. She had not come to Sheffield’s Hotel tonight to hear proclamations of love—in fact, such a proclamation from this man would scare her to death and would likely have her fleeing to Yorkshire before dawn.

  The fact of the matter was, she wanted him. Desperately. She’d never have him, though, if they continued to discuss such dour, depressing topics. Since he seemed so hesitant to seduce her, it fell to her to do the seducing.

  Staring at his rugged face, she lowered his hand and brought it to her lap. “I like your taste.”

  He raised a brow. “My… taste.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do I taste like?”

  She sat back, considering. “You taste clean, like soap.”

  He grimaced.

  “Not like lye,” she reassured him, then took a moment to consider. “Like velvet.”

  “Does velvet have a taste?”

  “I think it must. Soft and smooth.”

  “I see. I think.” He frowned.

  “There’s a bit of male in there, too. Brandy. And something salty, that reminds me of the sea.”

  “Not such pleasant things?”

  “Things that remind me I’m kissing a man,” she corrected. “Which I’d much prefer to kissing a woman, after all.”

  She smiled a little, and so did he. Their gazes met, and they both sobered. The smile slipped from his face. “Becky, I…”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “I am glad you told me about your past. It means very much to me to know that you have been forthcoming and honest with me.”

  He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he raised his hand to trace the plunging neckline of her dress. She sucked in her breath as his skin rasped over the curve of her breast, the sensation rough, his touch gentle. She stared at his face, but he stared at the place where his finger dragged over her flesh, his eyes dark with intent.

  He paused at the bottom of the vee where the fabric gathered between her breasts. His lips curved, and he took on the sinful expression of a pirate about to plunder a treasure-filled ship.

  She’d kept herself locked up so tightly for so long. Now she was releasing one of the locks—just the one that had to do with her carnal longings. Several locks still remained, however, and she checked over them systematically. There was the one that kept the glass case enclosed around her heart—that one was shut tight. There was the one that protected her trust—her guard—and that, too, was safe. And there were the ones standing sentinel over her soul, her mind, and her brain. Those wobbled a little, and she took a moment to reinforce them.

  What happened between her and Jack would only be skin deep. What she wanted tonight was simple. She wanted him to touch her. All over. She wanted those rough fingers to rove over her body, to graze every square inch of her.

  Currently those fingertips traced the exposed skin of her upper breast. She closed her eyes, focusing on the heated trail of his touch. His hand rounded over her breast, his fingers pressing against the delicate flesh, his palm over the thin layer of muslin that separated her skin from his.

  Her nipple responded in an instant rush of sensation, tautening, seeking more. Becky grasped her sleeve and pulled the gown off her shoulder, sliding the fabric from between them.

  His palm was burning hot. He shifted his hand, his skin gently abrading the sensitive puck
ered tip of her breast, and she gasped.

  “You like being touched here,” he murmured.

  She couldn’t lie to him. She couldn’t pretend to be some demure maiden. She couldn’t pretend to be anything but what she was.

  “Yes.”

  He lowered his dark head, tugged her closer, cupped her breast in his hand, and closed his mouth over the tip.

  She grabbed his shoulder, pressing him more tightly against her. The movement of his lips on her was exhilarating. She was so sensitive here, and the strong movement of his lips bordered on painful, but, oh, it was such an exquisite pain. A pain that made gooseflesh break out on her forearms, sent tingles to her toes, and made her whole body shudder with delight.

  He pulled down her other sleeve, revealing her other breast. Closing a hand over the one he’d just taken into his mouth, he moved to the opposite side, suckling, licking, moving his mouth over her flesh in ways she hadn’t known were possible. Sliding up his shoulders, her hands wove into the softly curling hair at his nape. His thumb brushed over the nipple still damp from his kisses, sending bolts of light through her to coalesce at her center.

  A certain feeling welled deep within her—it was an elusive feeling, a sensation of rising toward some pinnacle, some height she couldn’t describe and had experienced only a handful of times.

  Jack closed his teeth over her flesh and tugged. The feeling within her tightened, burned hotter, a ball of light condensing, contracting, preparing to explode and flood her veins.

  He soothed with his lips, feathering kisses over the place he’d just nipped, and Becky sighed. The light simmered, its flame low and pleasurable deep within her.

  As if he knew she could not bear to be abandoned there, his lips left her breasts but his hands didn’t. He cupped them both, his fingertips plucking, stroking, as his mouth traveled upward, over her chest and collarbones, and finally her neck.

  Becky threw her head back to offer her flesh to him, and he took it, all of it, just as she’d wanted. Alternating between gentle brushes, licks, and sharp sucks and tiny bites that left her gasping, he left no inch of her neck unexplored by his lips.

  He traveled upward, explored her jawline, and finally returned to her lips, pressing a tender kiss at the corner of her mouth.

  “Becky. I do want you. Never forget it.”

  “Why—?”

  But the assault of his mouth cut off her words. No longer gentle, his lips took her on a careening journey of sensation. Hard, commanding, and thorough, he took her mouth under his control.

  In response, she squirmed, she pushed, she pulled. She kissed him back, then retreated as his touch overwhelmed her senses. His body covered hers, heavy and hard, so manly, so large, so dominant. The fabric of his shirt, his trousers, and her dress tangled between them, but the hard ridges of his body touched her everywhere. A firm thigh, a strong arm maneuvered her down onto the sofa. The solid bulge of his erection pressed against her leg.

  All of a sudden, Jack’s body heaved up, and Becky realized she lay on her back, her skirts twisted around her thighs, her hair sagging from the coiffure Josie had spent so long arranging.

  He gazed down at her, his dark eyes narrow with desire. Cool air whispered over her bare breasts, tightening her nipples even more.

  Becky felt no impulse to cover herself. She stared up at him through half-lidded eyes, heated arousal swirling within her. She wanted him to look at her like that. She wanted him to stare at her bare breasts with lust in his eyes. Lust he felt for her.

  His chest rose and fell. “God. What you do to me.”

  “What’s that?” She meant the question to emerge like silk, as if she were an experienced seductress, but instead it rasped out, sounded raw and full of longing.

  “You make me forget…” His words faded. Becky watched in fascination as his fingers worked to untie his cravat.

  “Forget?”

  The linen slid over his neck as he drew it away and tossed it over the back of the sofa. “You make me forget myself. Forget who I am, where I am, what I’m doing…”

  “Isn’t that how it should be?”

  “Is it?”

  “I…” Her chest went tight as his lips twisted into a wicked curve. That crooked smile would be her undoing. “I think it is.”

  She gazed at his fingers, rapt, as he slid free the buttons at his stiff, high collar. All at once, he pulled the shirt over his head, and all the air left Becky’s body in a whoosh.

  His torso was a thing of beauty. She’d never seen anything like it. Rippling with muscle, the skin deeply tanned, every inch taut and lean. The muscles in his abdomen expanded as he inhaled, and she dragged her gaze to his face.

  He watched her with a bemused expression, and realizing she was gaping, she snapped her lips shut.

  “You were married?” His voice was soft.

  “I was.” He raised a brow in question, but shedidn’twant to talk about William, about how different a specimen of man he was. She wanted to consider nothing but the man before her. “But I never saw you before.”

  “Do you like what you see?” His voice slid around her senses like a strip of satin.

  “I do.” She rose onto her elbows and tucked her legs beneath her. Rising onto her knees beside him, she slipped her arms around his waist.

  His skin was smooth but taut, hairless but for the dark trail leading from his navel to the waistband of his black trousers.

  Her breasts pressed against his side as she leaned into him, and the tight ball of heat within her flared at the contact. His arm snaked around her back, pressing her closer as she bent forward to explore him with her lips.

  “There it is.” She pressed her lips to the side of his chest. “That taste. Mm.”

  “Velvet?”

  “Mmm.”

  His chest resonated as he chuckled. His hand slid up her back and into her hair, fumbling as he plucked away her pins.

  She stroked his side, soaking up the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. She traced his navel and tickled the hairs trailing to his waistband, then traveled back up to the hard planes of his chest, circling the flat, small nipples.

  She moved higher, completely focused on her exploration. He had a small scar at his waistline, a freckle on his left pectoral and one on his shoulder above it, and his nipples were small and round and a dusky pink, not as dark as her own.

  He leaned against the back of the sofa, his hands combing through her hair as she explored him, his breaths deep and even. When he released the last pin, her hair tumbled to her waist.

  “You have beautiful hair.”

  “You have a beautiful abdomen,” she returned, bent over the narrow strip of hair trailing from his navel. She touched the scar. “What happened?”

  “Ah, that.” He sighed. “Accident with a fishhook. The wound itself was less serious than the infection that resulted from it.”

  She shuddered. “Thank God you recovered.”

  She traced his waistband, then brazenly moved her hand lower, over the bulge delineated by the snug woolen fabric.

  He seemed to hold still, suspended, as she explored the ridge of his erection, fascinated by its size, length, and girth. A glimmer of fear prickled along nerves that had been quiescent since she’d decided to pursue this course.

  How was it possible for such a massive organ to fit inside a woman? How was it possible to feel pleasure at such a thing?

  It had been a long time, indeed. She could hardly remember how William had done it. At first, he’d been very passionate with her, but whenever he’d joined with her the room had been dark. Furthermore, this particular part of his anatomy had come in contact with hers in only one specific location.

  Despite Becky’s bemusement, her body experienced no such hesitation. It heated, ached, craved, silently begged him to connect with her in this most intimate way.

  A part of her, the ever-analytical part, told her that these feelings were natural, the instinctual human response to physical attrac
tion. This instinct worked in a reciprocal fashion—by his evident state of arousal, she knew he wanted her, which in turn, made her own desire soar.

  He’d moved her hair aside and was unbuttoning her dress, spreading the seams apart as he worked, his fingertips moving down her spine. Cool air washed over her newly bared flesh, and she sighed.

  “I want this off you,” he said, tugging on the fabric covering her back. “I want to see you. All of you.”

  She cupped his solid length in her hand and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “In that case, it would only be fair for me to see you as well. All of you.”

  “You will, sweetheart.” Again, that wicked smile. “I promise.”

  Becky swiped her hand up over him. Her fingers skimmed over the ridged muscles of his stomach, then higher to his chest. She traced his collarbones, then moved down his arm, fascinated by the bulges and cords of muscles that flexed underneath her hand.

  She wished she were an artist. She would draw him. No—better to sculpt him, for it was his shape that took her breath away. His chiseled, sculpted body brought to mind a statue created by an Italian master and brought to life by the gods. Like Michelangelo’s David. She’d never been to Florence, but she’d seen the likenesses in books.

  Compared to Jack, though, David was a slender boy. Jack was taller, thicker, sturdier, stronger, and bigger from top to bottom, especially…

  Heat crept across her cheeks as she returned her fascinated gaze to that part of him that so intrigued her.

  “Stand,” he commanded in a low voice.

  Her gaze shot to him. If she stood, her dress would fall down, and she would be naked.

  He never took his eyes from her face. Gently, he took a stray wisp of hair that had fallen over her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “You do want this, don’t you?”

  “I…” Her voice dwindled, and she lapsed into honesty. “It has been a very long time. And… I was married. What if…?”

  What if she’d been right about matters of the flesh overlapping with matters of the heart? What if once she gave her body to him, she lost her heart as well?