A Lady Never Surrenders Part 8

Chapter Six.

Celia froze. She couldn't believe it-Proper Pinter was kissing her. Hard, boldly, with more feeling than the duke.

Good heavens.

Stung by the challenge he'd laid down, she fumbled for the pistol in her reticule, but she'd just got it in her hand when he whispered hoa.r.s.ely against her lips, "Sweet G.o.d, Celia..."

He'd never called her by only her Christian name. He'd certainly never said it so ... desperately. It made her hesitate with the pistol in her hand.

He took her mouth once more, and her world s.h.i.+fted on its axis as his kiss became wilder, more consuming. This wasn't about a challenge anymore-not when he kissed her as if her mouth held the secret to eternity. Such lovely, drugging kisses made her blood dance through her veins.

His mouth slanted over hers, and his tongue swept the seam of her lips with an urgency that made her throat ache. Remembering how Ned had kissed her, she parted her lips for him.

He went still for the briefest instant. Then with a groan, he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Ohhh, that was amazing. When Ned had done it she'd found it messy and disgusting, but Mr. Pinter's kiss was as opposite to Ned's as sun was to rain.

Slow and sensual, he dove inside with hot strokes that had her eager for more. How could this be happening to her? With him? Who could ever have guessed that the pa.s.sionless Mr. Pinter could kiss so very pa.s.sionately?

Scarcely aware of what she did, she slipped her free hand up to clutch his neck. He pressed into her, flattening her against the wall as he ravished her mouth with no remorse. His whiskers abraded her chin, his mouth tasted of champagne, and the smell of orange trees sweetened the air around them.

It was delicious ... intoxicating. Paradise.

She forgot the pistol in her other hand, forgot that they were in full view of anyone who might be outside the orangery windows, forgot that he'd just been lecturing her as if she were some ninnyhammer. Because he was kissing her now as if she were an angel. His angel. And Lord help her, but she wanted him to keep kissing her like that forever.

But a noise from the nearby stove-the crackle of a log as it settled-seemed to jerk him to his senses. He tore his lips from hers and stared down at her a moment, his eyes wild, his breathing heavy.

A change came over his face, turning his expression to cold stone. "You see, Lady Celia?" he said in his harsh rasp. "A man can do anything he wants if he has a woman alone."

Her pleasure died instantly. Had this just been about teaching her a lesson?

Anger roared up in her. How dare he? Remembering the pistol, she shoved it up under his chin and c.o.c.ked the hammer. "And if he does, the woman has a right to defend herself. Don't you agree?"

The surprise on his face was immensely gratifying, but it didn't last long. Eyes narrowing, he leaned closer to hiss, "Go ahead then. Fire."

She swallowed. Though there was no ball, the powder alone would do serious damage. She could never...

While she hesitated, he removed the pistol from her numb fingers. His glittering gaze bore into her. "Never brandish a gun unless you're prepared to use it."

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling suddenly exposed. "Most men would be cowed by the very sight of a pistol," she muttered.

"I wasn't."

"You're not most men," she said tightly.

He acknowledged that with a curt nod. Then he walked over to one of the pots, aimed down at the dirt, and fired. When the smoke cleared from the muzzle flash, he noted the lack of a hole in the dirt and faced her.

"Powder." He glared at her. "Did it occur to you that unless you fired at point-blank range, you might merely anger the man you're aiming for?"

"I only need it for men who get close to me," she bit out.

"All the same, the next time you need to protect yourself, forget the pistol and bring your knee up between the man's legs as hard as you can. It'll make your point just as effectively and give you plenty of time to escape."

Color flooded her cheeks. Since she had brothers, she knew what he meant, but it wasn't something she would ever have thought to do. A pity, for it would have served her well with Ned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to know how to defend yourself if someone's taking liberties."

"Even if the someone is you?"

A strange light glinted in his eyes as he pocketed her pistol. "Especially if it's me."

What did he mean by that? "Mr. Pinter, about our kiss..."

"I was making a point," he said tersely. "Nothing more. Complain to your brothers about it and get me dismissed if you must, but don't worry-regardless of what you do, it won't happen again."

She caught her breath. How could he be so nonchalant? He'd kissed her so convincingly, so sweetly ...

It started that way with Ned, too, and it meant nothing to him either. He did it only to impress his friends.

Mr. Pinter headed for the door.

Choking down her hurt, she called out, "Where are you going?"

He paused to cast her an icy glance. "I have suitors' rooms to search and servants to interrogate, remember?"

"I want my pistol back," she snapped.

"You'll get it tomorrow. Given your foolish belief that carrying it will protect you in any circ.u.mstance, it's better that you don't have it to hide behind. Perhaps then you won't be tempted into private encounters with randy gentlemen."

A hot blush seared her cheeks. "The only randy gentleman I need protection from is you. Next time I have you in my sights, I will shoot you."

"Then you'd better not miss," he drawled. "Because if you ever aim a gun at me again, I'll have you arrested for a.s.saulting an officer of the law."

While she was still gasping, he strode from the orangery. She picked up her reticule and flung it at the door just as it closed. He was a beast! A monster! And he'd even made her forget to ask him if he'd learned anything about her suitors!

Tears started in her eyes. It was so ... so typical of him to rattle her by saying such an awful thing. She would swear he did it on purpose. He was always riding roughshod over her. Kissing her pa.s.sionately one minute and threatening to have her arrested the next-the unnatural devil!

She collapsed onto a bench, struggling to hold back her tears. She would not cry over him. She would not! Men were dreadful creatures. And Gran wanted her to marry one of them?

Oh, heavens, what was she to do? Lord Devonmont was obviously not interested in marriage. The viscount would arrive in the morning, and if he offered for her, Gran might abandon her ultimatum just to keep a foreigner out of the family.

Then there was the duke. His kiss might not have thrilled her, but at least he sought a respectable connection, and Gran would be mightily impressed by an offer from him. Celia just wasn't sure if she could take advantage of that.

But she would see her way through this somehow. Then Mr. Pinter would regret being so awful to her.

JACKSON STRODE THROUGH a door and into a hallway to avoid the servants running across the courtyard toward the orangery, no doubt drawn by the pistol shot. Let Celia deal with them. He couldn't stand to speak to anyone right now.

What an idiot he was! Had he really thought he could get away with kissing a marquess's daughter?

And not just any marquess's daughter, either. Celia, looking oh so tempting in her sumptuous purple gown. Lovely, angry Celia.

Lady Celia, he reminded himself. But he'd never be able to think of her like that again, not when the taste and smell of her still filled his senses.

Hearing voices behind him, he slipped into an empty room to wrangle his emotions into some semblance of control. But it was no use. He could still feel her body yielding to his, still hear her rapid breathing as he'd taken every advantage.

d.a.m.n her and her soft mouth and her delicate sighs and her fingers curling into the nape of his neck so that all he wanted to do was press her down onto a bench...

"h.e.l.l and blazes!" He thrust his hands through his hair. What in thunder was he supposed to do about her?

And why had she let him kiss her, anyway? Why had she waited until he'd made a complete fool of himself before she'd drawn that d.a.m.ned pistol?

Oh. Right. That was why. To make a fool of him herself. To lull him into a false sense of security so she could prove she could control any situation.

Well, he'd stymied that, but it was little consolation. He'd behaved like a d.a.m.ned mooncalf, devouring her mouth as if he were a wolf and she were supper. If he'd allowed her to speak of their kiss, she probably would have pointed out exactly how insolent he'd been. Would have warned him never to do anything so impudent again.

She didn't need to tell him. He'd learned his lesson.

Yes. He had.

The memory of her mouth opening beneath his surged up inside him, and he balled his hands into fists.

No. He hadn't. All he'd learned was that he wanted her more intensely now than ever. He wanted to kiss her again, and not just her mouth but her elegant throat and her delicate shoulder and the soft, tender mounds of

her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. . . .

A curse exploded out of him. This was insanity! He had to stop making himself mad by thinking about her as if- "There you are, sir," said a voice behind him. "I thought that might have been you who came in here."

"What the h.e.l.l is it?" he growled as he rounded on whoever had been fool enough to run him to ground.

It was John, Stoneville's longest-serving footman and the one the marquess trusted most. The man paled. "I-I beg your pardon, but I thought you'd like to know what I found out about Nurse and Mr. Virgil. You did ask me to look into it."

"Yes, I remember. Thank you." Jackson had turned to John because although the footman hadn't been with the family at the time of the deaths, he knew nearly everyone who had. Jackson forced himself to smile, to relax, to behave as if he were not standing here thinking of how much he wanted to ravish the youngest lady of the house. "Forgive me, I have quite a few things on my mind right now, and that's made me irritable."

Unbidden, Celia's-Lady Celia's-words leapt into his mind: It will be easier to work together if you're not always so p.r.i.c.kly.

He suppressed a snort. It would never be easy to work with her.

Warily, John approached to hand him a piece of paper. "I'm afraid I haven't located all the servants you've asked about yet. But here's a list of the ones I have. I'm nearly certain that Nurse-Mrs. Duffett, that is-lives in High Wycombe. I've written down the last address anyone had for her, but if you'll give me a day to talk with a pensioned servant in Ealing, I'll confirm it and any others on the list."

Jackson took the paper. "I would appreciate that, thank you."

Normally he'd go over to High Wycombe and check out the address himself, but it was nearly two hours' ride away and he'd need at least half a day. He dared not be away from Halstead Hall that long with Lady Celia's d.a.m.ned suitors trying to get her off alone. So it could wait until the end of the house party.

As John turned to go, something occurred to Jackson. "By the way, did you happen to find out if the nurse ever used paregoric elixir with the children?"

"Oh! Yes, I forgot. The steward said he seems to remember that it appeared in the estate bills from time to time. But he would have to check to be sure. He wanted to know if you wished him to do that." John frowned. "And he was a bit curious as to why you wanted to know."

Curious wasn't good-not if Jackson was to keep this particular line of inquiry secret for Lady Celia's sake. "Something one of the Sharpes said made me wonder about it. But tell him not to bother."

He'd just ask the nurse when he met her, though he wasn't sure it was even worth mentioning.

I feel in my bones that it was real.

He sighed, remembering how fervently Lady Celia had spoken those words. No matter how much trouble she gave him, and how much he wanted to steer clear of her, he couldn't just dismiss her dream without following it up. She might be the most aggravating female ever to come into his sphere, but she deserved better than that.

Chapter Seven.

Celia wasn't surprised to find herself alone at the breakfast table. It was still early for people to be up, considering that the dancing and card playing had gone on until well past one in the morning. Normally she would still be abed, too, but she hadn't been able to sleep.

It wasn't because of her suitors, either. Lord Devonmont's flirting later in the evening had demonstrated that her mention of marriage hadn't sent him fleeing. And the duke had danced with her twice. The second time he'd made himself quite amiable, forcing her to seriously consider the possibility of accepting his offer.

Only one thing had her balking: his cool kiss. Especially when compared to Mr. Pinter's hot ones.

Curse that man. No matter how much she told herself his kisses hadn't meant anything, her wounded pride wanted to believe otherwise. Her wounded pride insisted they'd been too pa.s.sionate to be meant only as a lesson.

Her wounded pride was a blasted nuisance.

"The Visconde de Basto, my lady," said a voice from the door.

With a start, she turned to find a footman ushering the viscount into the breakfast room. "Good morning, sir," she rose to say cheerily, glad to be distracted from her thoughts. "You've arrived early, I see."

Smiling broadly, he strode over to take her hand and lift it to his lips, brus.h.i.+ng a kiss against it in the Continental fas.h.i.+on. "I did not want to miss one moment of my time with such a lovely lady."

Sometimes she had to strain to make out his words through his thick accent, but she'd caught that perfectly well. "I'm glad you did." She gestured to the sideboard. "Do have some breakfast."

"Thank you, I believe I shall. I left town without eating." He winked at her. "I was in a great hurry to see you."