His hand glided over the sensitive mounds, warm palms brushing her nipples, back and forth, back and forth, sending the already hard tips into painfully tender peaks.
He lowered his head, watching her face as he did so, his sea-colored eyes gleaming with something akin to satisfaction—and something else she’d never seen before. Not directed at her at any rate. Desire.
Owen had never looked at her in such a way, which only seemed to confirm that he didn’t feel for her what a man ought to feel for a woman he intended to marry. Perhaps it was not just her experiencing these doubts. Perhaps he did, as well.
A great sense of freedom seized her then, and at that exact moment Jamie’s mouth closed over her. She cried out, arching into him as sucking, wet warmth enveloped her nipple. Her fingers dove into his damp hair, threading through the dark strands and clutching him close as his teeth grazed her. Her eyes widened, astonished at the splendid torment of his mouth.
“Oh,” she said with a sigh, her eyes drifting shut.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded.
She obeyed, glancing down at him gazing up at her. He looked positively seductive, his eyes hooded, inviting and knowing beneath dark lashes. Never removing his mouth from her, he played with the tip of her breast, his tongue stroking and tasting her.
She knew she should run. Should condemn him as wretched and amoral, but it was everything she had longed for without ever experiencing it previously. She’d longed for this. It was so much more, felt so much better than anything she had dreamed . . . Her imagination hadn’t even touched on this. But it was Jamie. His mouth. His hands. Her mind shied away from the shocked whisper winding through her mind. She didn’t want to think. She only wanted to feel.
She had wanted this. She had thrown the wish out there and he had answered it. At the moment, nothing else mattered. Not that this was Jamie, her childhood nemesis. Not that it was Owen’s brother.
He turned his attention to her other breast and she moaned anew, her head falling back against the tree as his mouth pulled and sucked at her.
His hand swept around her back, gliding down her cloak, inching inexorably lower and landing expertly on her bottom. Cupping her with one hand, he lifted her against him, bringing her closer to the prod of his manhood. Even through her skirts, she felt it, she knew what it was, felt the evidence of his desire for her.
She felt a deep tug low in her belly. She squirmed closer, instinctively knowing, aching for the press of him against her. She lifted one leg, attempting to wrap it around him to get closer, to satisfy the desperate ache at her core.
He growled in approval and lifted his head from her breast and kissed her again. This time she had no hesitation. She met his lips, his tongue, with her own, took as much as she gave.
His hand curved under her thigh, supporting her leg as he ground against her, rubbing himself at the juncture of her thighs where she burned and throbbed. She moaned into his mouth, the hard press of him against her exciting her more than she could stand.
“Jamie.” She whimpered his name, a tiny, desperate mewl at the back of her throat. “Please.” Her plea, her need for him, her need for more, was unmistakable even to her ears.
Gradually, he stilled against her. His mouth lifted. She chased after his lips with a small sound of distress, her hand skimming along his jaw as she tried to reclaim his mouth.
His body eased away and he released her thigh. Her leg slid back down to the ground slowly, shaking no matter how she tried to control it. He was withdrawing from her bit by bit.
“Paget,” he said hoarsely. “We have to stop.”
“Why?” She blinked up at him, focusing her hazy vision on his suddenly stern face. The locked jaw. The merciless eyes. No. She didn’t want to see that Jamie again. She wanted the Jamie with heavy-lidded eyes and scalding lips.
“You belong to Owen. You always have.”
The words struck her like a slap. “Why is everyone so certain of that?” She wanted to stomp her foot and throw back her head and shout.
“Why are you not? You love him. The two of you were inseparable. I well remember that. Neither of you had any interest in my existence.”
There was something in his voice. Jealousy? Hurt? She didn’t know if it had to do with her or his brother—perhaps both of them—but she heard it nonetheless. And she had a sudden image of him sitting astride his horse, watching as she and Owen scrambled up a tall rock wall that they were convinced he couldn’t jump, hoping to avoid him. They had been children. Silly and thoughtless in their determination to leave him out. The memory shamed her now.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
It was the wrong thing to say. She knew that at once. His eyes hardened. “Don’t. Keep your pity.”
“We weren’t . . . very kind to you. I see that now.” See that you were lonely. That maybe you still are . . .
“Stop,” he growled. “Don’t. This is not about me.”
But she wanted it to be about him. And her. Them.
She sighed and reached for him. “I don’t want to talk about Owen anymore.” She supposed she sounded wretched saying so, but staring at Jamie she only wanted more. More of him. More of the desire he’d just shown her. It was like waking up to a whole new world of colors.
As though he could read the desperate hunger in her face, he stepped back two paces, leaving her cold and alone against the tree. Reality slowly descended. His gaze slid down to her chest. She glanced down, remembering herself, mortified to see her breasts, the skin pink from his thorough attentions, exposed to the elements and his gaze. Those hard eyes sparked for a moment before sharply glancing away.
“Cover yourself,” he said tersely. As though he had not been the one to start this little lesson in passion and unclothe her in the first place.
Her trembling fingers fumbled with the loosened ribbons of her chemise. Even as she worked quickly, tugging her corset and gown back into place, her chin jerked high, pride stiffening her spine. She refused to let him shame her. She’d behaved no more scandalously than he.
Finished arranging her clothing, she pulled her cloak tighter around her, grateful for the additional barrier. Still, when he returned his searing stare to her, she found it wasn’t enough. After what had just transpired between them, she doubted if she would ever feel anything other than vulnerable around him again.
A long moment passed, and he said nothing. Her fingers clenched around the edges of her cloak until they ached bone-deep. At last he announced grimly, dispassionately, “And that’s how meaningless desire can be.”
Understanding dawned as his words sank in.
He had used her to prove a point.
He had manipulated her with the very thing she craved.
She’d never felt so . . . small. So foolish.
Her palm itched to slap him, but she refused to permit herself to do that again. She curled her fingers into a fist, resisting the impulse. He deserved it, but she would not show how much he had affected her. “You are worse than I remembered.”
She squeezed past him and put several paces between them, giving him a wide berth. He rotated, watching her impassively. There was nothing in his eyes, and it became clear to her that what they had just shared had meant nothing. Just as he claimed.
His earlier words now echoed through her: Perhaps I can prove to you just how meaningless passion can be. He had succeeded in that. In fact, he had made it abundantly clear how meaningless passion could be. For some people. For him. Disappointment cut her as keenly as a knife’s blade.
Tiny prickles of heat washed over her face and neck as she thought of all that had passed between them . . . all she had allowed him to do, all she had reveled in.
It had been nothing, an experiment for him. A lesson he had sought to teach her.
And teach me he had. He had her panting and begging for his touch, his mouth, him, against that tree. And it meant nothing. Less than nothing.
Presenting him with her back, she walked away,
clutching her cloak to her throat, clinging to the frayed edges of her dignity, refusing to let him crush that, too.
Jamie watched her go, the memory of her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and rage imprinted on his mind. It only made her more appealing, her eyes more luminous—and made him feel that much more a bastard.
He’d chosen his words carefully, determined to make his point . . . determined to guarantee that she despise him . . . that she forget about giving up on Owen and her foolish quest for a marriage of passion.
It didn’t matter that his words were a lie.
From the first touch, the first taste of her mouth, he’d wanted to lose himself inside her. Consume every inch of her until they were both thoroughly spent. He had not anticipated such a reaction. He had not thought matters would spiral so quickly out of his control. He dragged a shaking hand through his wet hair. That had been more than the kiss he planned. You practically had your way with her against a tree.
Nothing about what just occurred was meaningless to him. He was relieved she did not realize the lie of his words. As a girl, her bold gaze had always managed to see straight through him. She’d frightened him a bit then. And to be honest, she still did. There was nothing half measure about her.
He rubbed the back of his knuckles against his lips. He could still taste her. She was the type of female men lived and died for. His body still hummed, aching for her—her lips, her skin, her breasts . . .
Owen—he quickly supplanted. She was the type of woman Owen lived and died for. Not him.
He imagined Owen somewhere in barren terrain. He well remembered the heat, the bugs that gnawed on flesh. The death. The blood. He winced to think of how he had just very nearly ravished Paget. The only thing Owen had was the lure of home. Memories of this place and Paget. He’d not steal that from him. She would be waiting for him when he returned.
He watched as her cloaked figure grew smaller and smaller.
He would do the right thing. Perhaps for the first time in his life. He would be a good brother and not think about the loneliness of his own life and all that he didn’t have. It was not Owen’s fault that their father had favored him . . . that Brand had favored him . . . that Paget belonged to him.
He would cease begrudging his brother, cease coveting what was his. Jamie would resist Paget. He would do the right thing. No matter what Paget awoke inside him. No matter that he wanted her.
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
“Paget, are you paying attention? Honestly, you’ve been woolgathering all morning. How am I ever to finish these love knots in time?” Alice Mary stared at her expectantly. Accusingly.
Paget snapped her attention to the mounds of pink and yellow ribbon spread out in front of her. Her fingers feverishly resumed working.
“I’m sorry, Alice Mary.” Her cheeks burned at the direction of her wayward thoughts. She had been reliving yesterday. Again. It was bad enough she had stayed awake all night thinking of Jamie. His mouth on her. His hands. His mouth. She couldn’t shake the memories. Not even after the callous way he had treated her. It was as though the way he made her feel superseded anything he said.
She threaded the pink and yellow ribbons through her fingers into loops. Alice Mary wanted the love knots to hang suspended from the ceiling. An ambitious plan with the ball only four days away. “How many more do we need?” At least fifty sat piled high on a nearby table, the work of Paget and Alice Mary.
Alice Mary tsked her tongue and went back to counting. “We need at least a hundred more. Don’t you remember me telling you? Really, Paget, you’re about as distracted as I was when I first met my John.” Her hands froze. She dropped a half-formed love knot into her lap, heedless that she hadn’t even tied it off yet. “Paget Ellsworth, are you besotted?”
“Don’t be silly!” Even as she protested, heat crept over her face and she stared with renewed fascination at the ribbon in her hands.
“You’re blushing. It’s true,” Alice Mary declared with relish. “There is someone.” She moved to drop down beside Paget on the settee she occupied, heedless that she sat upon several yards of ribbons and Paget’s skirts.
Paget gave her skirts a helpless tug. She was well and truly trapped.
“There’s no one,” she insisted.
Alice Mary watched her with narrow eyes, contemplating. “Indeed,” she mused. “Everyone always assumed that you and Owen would marry. But he has been gone so dreadfully long, has he not?” A long pause followed this.
Paget slid her a wary glance. “Er, yes. He has.”
“You know what they say?” Alice Mary added.
Paget rose to the bait. She could not help herself. “What do they say?”
She waved a hand airily. “Oh, about absence making the heart forgetful.”
Paget frowned. “I think you have that in the reverse.”
“Do I?” Alice Mary angled her head. “Well, no mind. My point is this—” She leveled a serious look at Paget. “I for one never thought you and Owen were fated. Not as everyone else.”
Paget blinked and sat up straighter. “No? That certainly puts you in the minority. Why did you never tell me before?”
Alice Mary shrugged one shoulder. “I figured you would realize it for yourself, but then he went away to war, and you’ve formed no other attachments. I fear that obligation to Owen holds you in check.”
Immediately, Jamie’s face flashed before her. Evidently she was not in check. Not at all.
“You don’t think it wretched of me?” She moistened her lips. “I mean how will Owen feel if he returns to find me and someone else—”
Alice Mary covered her hand with her own. “You cannot prevent yourself from living for fear of hurting Owen’s feelings. I’m sure he only wants you happy. No one would blame you for seeking out your own happiness. Not even him.”
She winced. “I’m not so certain of that.” She could think of one person who would blame her if she sought her own happiness. He would heartily blame her.
“There was never that spark between the two of you.” Alice Mary nodded almost sadly. “I watched you both together and always thought you behaved more like friends than sweethearts.”
Paget nodded, understanding perfectly now that she’d sampled the spark firsthand. “I confess that I’ve come to think the same thing myself.”
“Ah-ha!” Alice Mary’s eyes danced with delight. “So there is someone. Hm.” She tapped her chin. “Who could it be? He’d have to be young . . .”
“No,” Paget quickly rejoined. “There is no one.” The last thing she wanted was for her friend to start wondering thoughts that led her to conclude that the Earl of Winningham had struck her fancy. “Only I’m open to the possibility of forming an attachment to an eligible gentleman. That is all.”
Alice Mary clapped her hands together gleefully, her blue eyes glinting conspiratorially. “Well! Then we shall endeavor to find you a worthy gentleman who can deliver a spark. My ball shall be the perfect place to start. Let me think. An old school friend of John’s will be attending. Mr. Bromley is quite the gentleman. He cuts a fine figure. I’ve witnessed many a lady bat her fan in his direction. And what better setting than a Valentine’s ball to set the stage for romance? If my efforts come to no avail, Cupid will surely have a hand in this.”
Paget smiled and hoped it looked sincere and not as brittle as it felt.
Somehow after yesterday’s kiss—kisses—very well, it was rather more than a simple kiss. Her face heated as she thought of all the wicked things his mouth did to her—it felt false to forge a romance with someone else so soon. To feel passion again in such a short amount of time. Surely passion wasn’t that easy? Surely it wasn’t something to be had with just anyone?
If that were the case, she would have had it with Owen. That would have been preferable. Instead her body had reacted and chosen Jamie.
She scowled at the turn of her thoughts. It almost sounded as though she felt loyal toward Jamie. Absurd
. He certainly felt no fondness for her.
But she refused to let him ruin her dream.
Her smile widened. Perhaps a Valentine’s ball would be the perfect place to begin the romance she so desperately craved.
She nodded and smiled at Alice Mary. “I should be delighted to meet your Mr. Bromley.”
Jamie strolled amid the partygoers, edging the dance floor where hundreds of delicate love knots dangled from ribbons attached to the ceiling. The baroness had obviously gone to great efforts for tonight’s ball.
He stopped to greet familiar faces as he scanned the crush, straining for a glimpse of Paget. He hadn’t seen her since their encounter in the rain. He imagined there would be some awkwardness. Especially on her part. No doubt she would not even be able to meet his gaze. Despite her bold manner, she was a country miss. A vicar’s daughter. Inexperienced. She was probably mortified, hiding behind a potted fern hoping to avoid him.
For the best, he supposed. Especially considering he’d thought of little else besides her. Her scent. Her taste. It was utter torment. Although worth it if he had succeeded in securing her for Owen. That’s all that mattered. Not her discomfort. Not his.
His smile grew pained. He wasn’t one to endure idle banter. Meaningless chatter was simply that to him. Meaningless. He would typically have avoided a fête like this. He always had before. As a boy. As a young man. He’d never felt at ease in these gatherings. He was not like Brand or Owen, so at ease and free with a quip.
But he was the earl now, and a voice inside him had prompted him to attend and be more sociable. More like his father and brothers. Beloved among the villagers and local gentry. The kind of lord who took his station seriously, who embraced the responsibility of his role and fraternized with the people under his care. The kind of earl even Owen would be if he was the heir. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he thought his father might be looking down on him now.