of him, feeling the wet bead at the very apex of him. ‘I wonder if my thumb is as wicked as yours...’ she purred, skimming over the tender tip.
The answer was a croaked and validating, ‘Yes.’
She stroked him harder, faster, then slower, listening to the sharp inhalations of his breathing to guide her.
‘Please, Claire, faster.’ He arched against her hand. ‘Bring me off, now.’ His voice was no more than a groan of agony and ecstasy. His body was gathering itself, she could feel it in the tensing of his muscles. She stroked faster, once, twice and then the release took him in pulsing spasms while she held him, jerking and twitching with life. As intimate as the moment was, it left her much as it had last night. This was not enough, nor was it an answer to the questions that remained unsettled between them.
Perhaps Jonathon felt it, too. He was silent in the aftermath. The quiet of the carriage was broken only by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of garments. He handed her a handkerchief and she took her reluctant cue to take her own seat across from him. ‘I’ll see if I can scare up some dinner.’ Jonathon rapped on the roof and leaned out the window, the carriage coming to a halt not long afterwards. He jumped out. ‘I’ll be right back. When you’re ready, have my driver light the lanterns.’
Dinner was produced in rapid order: cold meat, cheese, bread and a bottle of wine from a nearby tavern. Jonathon winked as he pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘I bet you’ve never had a carriage picnic before.’ He poured her a small glass of the wine. ‘Careful, it sloshes easily.’ To prove his point, the carriage chose that moment to lurch into action. Claire was ready for it.
She wished she was as ready for the man who sat across from her, coatless, sleeves still rolled up from fisticuffs, slicing bread and cheese. He handed her the food, a tower of meat and cheese built on a piece of bread, and gave her a devilish smile that flipped her stomach. ‘You’re quite a revelation, Claire.’
‘As are you.’ She met his gaze steadily, knowing there were things that needed to be said and questions that need to be asked. ‘It seems we’ve come quite a way from French lessons in the garden, yet I know nothing about you.’ She took a sip of wine and waited for his response. How would he play this? Confession or denial?
‘You’ve known me for years, Claire,’ he replied with a certain nonchalance. But Claire was not fooled. The answer was too casual. The statement discomfited him. She pushed her advantage.
‘Au contraire. You, Jonathon Lashley, are not the man I thought you were.’
‘For better or for worse?’ His eyes glittered dangerously, calling to mind the consummate seducer instead of the ballroom prince.
‘For better, I think.’ Perhaps Beatrice was right after all. One never truly knew the measure of a man. And yet, she found this new side of Jonathon...exciting. It would be an adventure to discover this man who had fought for her, who had drawn blood for her, this man with flashing eyes and a sharp knife, who’d pleasured her thoroughly and intimately twice now and who’d allowed her to do the same for him.
He arched an eyebrow. ‘But you’re not sure?’
That was the understatement of the evening. Claire put down her bread and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Of course I’m not sure. How could I be? We’ve ventured far from the beaten path, you and I. Nothing between us is defined. There are no rules about what will happen next, what can happen next.’ In all her daydreams of being courted by Jonathon, none of them had taken this eventuality into account. Those daydreams looked naïve and shallow when compared to this consuming passion and the complexities surrounding it. Perhaps it was true, that one should be careful what one wished for.
‘What am I to make of this? The only thing I am sure of is that you’ve engaged my services as your French tutor. Beyond that? Nothing. You won’t tell me why we have to accelerate the lessons, yet you send me flowers I never asked for. You’ve danced with me more than necessary.’
You’ve kissed me, pleasured me, shown me what passions the body is capable of.
‘As far as mixed messages go, there are plenty to choose from.’
A flicker of laughter flared in his eyes. ‘You have secrets, too, Claire. You can hardly condemn me for mine when you hold yours so very close. Who is the suitor? Is it Sheriden come around again now that he’s realised what he gave up the first time?’ He continued when she said nothing. ‘See, it’s not that easy, is it?’
He took a final bite of his bread and wiped the crumbs away on his trousers. ‘It does make me wonder, Claire, what kind of suitor this man is if you’re pleasuring me in a carriage instead of him. I dare say after the last two nights you could capture his attentions if you wanted them.’
That stung. ‘You started it!’ She sounded like a four-year-old. She could think of nothing else to say that was a worthy response. L’esprit d’escalier indeed. ‘If anyone has made this complicated, it’s you. You have Cecilia Northam expecting a commitment and yet...’ She didn’t dare voice the rest.
And you were kissing me up against a wall in Soho, and climbing into my bedroom as if there was no tomorrow. You put your hand on me, you gave yourself to me and you made me believe every word you said.
Who was to blame? Him for uttering the words, or her for believing them? They’d both known better. Even if the words were true. He had obligations beyond her, dreams beyond her that she knew very little about.
‘You’re right. And yet. That pretty much sums it up.’ He let out a breath, the unfinished words hanging between them. The anger went out of him. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t think we really want to fight or blame. We’ve exposed ourselves tonight and now we’re just trying to protect ourselves from hurt.’
‘I don’t know that we can do that—protect ourselves. It’s too late.’ Perhaps he was right. Outside, the landscape gave way to Mayfair mansions. They were nearly home. The tumultuous evening was over although it was still early by ton standards. Balls would just be getting underway. If she wanted, she could join her parents at the Selfridge rout, but she was in no mood for dancing tonight. It was hard to believe so much had happened and it was only ten o’clock.
The carriage came to a stop outside Stanhope House. She reached for the door handle but Jonathon was faster. ‘Wait, Claire.’ His hand closed over hers on the handle. ‘What if there were no secrets, no Cecilia?’
She gave a sad laugh. ‘But there are, Jonathon.’ Who knew what his were, but did it matter? Secrets were secrets for a reason. They were pieces of potentially damaging information if put into the wrong hands. She thought about telling him there was no suitor and the reasons why she hadn’t told him, probably would never tell him. What would he think of her then? Would he think she’d manipulated him to get his attention? ‘If we shared them they would change everything.’
‘Everything has already changed, Claire,’ he admonished. ‘A French tutor and a pupil don’t need details. But friends do. I thought we’d established we were that at least.’ Jonathon laced his fingers through hers. ‘I think it’s fair to say we’ve moved beyond tutor and pupil.’ His voice pitched low, trying to reclaim the intimacy of earlier, wanting his wicked angel back on his lap.
But he understood, too, that he’d overstepped his boundaries tonight by claiming liberties he had no right to access. They were not affianced, there were no promises between them. He’d had her twice in an intimate manner when he should not have had her even once. He could not
