Chapter Eighteen
Last night, Nicolas played with fire, lost control of the situation, and had been incinerated by lust. The damn scorching sensation continued to plague him into the early morning.
Even now, sitting in the dining parlor eating breakfast, he burned.
What had made him think he could shamelessly flirt, engage in a few harmless kisses, and stop?
One did not taste ambrosia without whetting their appetite.
He’d felt like a dashed fool when Josie had called him “Meddlesome” and stormed off.
Obviously, she didn’t know what it was like for a man to want a woman so much that she was all he thought about, or the discipline it took to shove that lust deep.
Hell’s Bells, he couldn’t just throw her down and pound into her until neither of them saw straight.
The bottom line was that as much as he craved to touch and be touched by her, he would not behave like a boorish scoundrel.
Her presence almost too painful to bear, Josie sat across from him, sipping coffee and daintily picking at her eggs. Meanwhile, Lady Davenport chatted away about her upcoming party, and Davenport buried his face in the newspaper pretending to read.
While Josie acted the part of a lady, Nicolas pretended to be a gentleman who was not having lascivious thoughts. It seemed everyone at the table under the age of twenty-five was feigning something at this awkward meal.
“Is there anything about the Duke’s and Dame’s Mill in the paper?” Josie asked.
From behind his paper, Jonathon mumbled something indecipherable.
“I doubt it,” Nicolas said, quickly covering for Jonathon. By God, he’d take his best chum’s secret to the grave. “Journalists rarely cover women’s sports.”
“That’s utter shite,” Josie said and then cringed. “Sorry.”
Nicolas wholeheartedly agreed with Josie, finding the view on female athletes to be utter hog shite.
Men could wager on female athletes, and bed them, but they could not marry them, address their needs in parliament, or write legitimate newspaper articles about them.
However, men like Paulsgrove, Astleyshire, and even Griffendale in his own rakish way might be changing this.
“’Tis deplorable,” Agatha said and then demanded in her school mistress tone, “Jonathon, put down The Chronicle and converse with our guests.”
Davenport peered over his paper and raised a brow. “Mother, I can dictate your guest list and menu from memory.”
The look the dowager sent the viscount would quiet the most obstinate jackanape. Sighing, Davenport folded the paper in half and pushed it to the side.
Looking quite satisfied, Agatha prattled on. “Josephine, I made an appointment with Madame Auberte tomorrow so that you can choose a dress for the ball. If she believes there is enough time, mayhap we can even have one made.”
Frowning, Josie put down her fork. “Again with this talk about a new gown? I explained before, I can’t afford one.
” He could understand how she felt. Today’s borrowed gown was a bright shade of pink that suited her and the neckline was indecently low, displaying the creamy line of skin above her prodigious bosom.
She looked lovely. But, he supposed, it was a gown made for day wear, not evening.
The cut, the color—it would not do in a well-heeled ballroom.
Nicolas internally sighed. If only he could purchase one for her.
“My dear,” Agatha said, “You can’t wear one of the handed-down dresses in the wardrobe. Your gown must be utterly spectacular and compliment both your coloring and figure.”
“I will cover the expense,” Davenport said.
Nicolas’s internal temperature rose, and his jaw clenched as he glared at Davenport.
“Do you have a problem with my purchasing the garment, old chap?” Davenport asked.
Of course, Nicolas had a bloody problem with it, but if he admitted he was a jealous fool, he’d look like an absolute arse.
“Thank you, Cousin Jonathon.” Josie smiled at her benefactor. “I will pay you back when I win the fight.”
Davenport dismissed his good deed with the flick of his wrist. “No trouble at all. Consider it a gift from your favorite cousin.” The blasted fool had the audacity to wink at Josie.
“I insist on paying you back,” Josie said. “But I have to pay for my share of the building before we lose it to another buyer. If the wagers at the upcoming mill are as high as last year, there should be plenty to do both.”
“I will purchase your gown,” Nicolas declared before he could think better of his offer. “My actions dragged you into this.”
“No.” Josie shook her head so vehemently that tendrils flew loose from her coiffure. “Absolutely not, Nicolas.”
Was her response because she hated him again after last night? Or did she know there was no blunt behind his offer? One thing was for certain; Nicolas was irritated. How dare she allow Davenport to pay while disregarding his offer?
Davenport leaned back in his chair. He did not utter a word, but his brow furrowed, and his lips twisted. Nicolas held his breath, waiting for the bloke to point out his lack of blunt.
Eventually, Davenport shrugged. “Suit yourself, Wentworth. Josephine, you can pay Nicolas back.”
Josephine’s face turned scarlet.
“Lovely.” Agatha clasped her hands together.
“However, it is most indecent for a man to purchase a dress for a lady so we will need to keep another secret. In fact, Nicolas, you can give me the money and I will pay for it. And keep in mind, Josephine will also need slippers, gloves, and a reticule.”
“Purchase it all,” Nicolas declared like the daft imbecile he’d become in the pretty pugilist’s presence. Coming up with the blunt to outfit a ball-attending female would be bloody impossible when he’d barely had enough coin to purchase Bridget’s book.
Nicolas’s mind wandered as he strolled to the drawing room. Why in God’s name had the Davenport’s left him alone with Josie? Did they think her reputation was not worth protecting? If they thought Nicolas was a trustworthy gentleman, they were dead wrong. Today he was lustumpy.
Fabulous, now he was making up words. But there didn’t seem to be one in existence that captured precisely how lustful and grumpy he felt.
“But I need more lessons on kissing,” Josie had said with those kiss-swollen lips.
He’d thought his heart would explode through his chest right then and there.
There was no way he could concentrate on titles and peerage lessons after Josie had mentioned kissing lessons last night. Who bloody cared about Lady Siddons’s ball or blasted Griffendale’s mill? All Nicolas cared about was her. Which he supposed meant he had to care about everything by default.
He pushed his way into the drawing room and stopped short. She wasn’t there.
He waited for what felt like forever, shifting about in his seat like a child who’d eaten too many sweetmeats. He was just about to give up and return to his chamber when Josie sashayed into the room, the hem of her pink dress swirling around her ankles.
He stood and then gaped like an utter imbecile.
She had taken her hair down and tied it away from her face with a ribbon.
Thick and lush, tendrils of it swirled over her collarbones to kiss the tops of those bountiful breasts and the way it cascaded over her shoulder like a silken cloak made him think of…
oh, bloody hell. He would not, could not, think of Josie, in a bed, wearing nothing but that glorious hair.
She fluttered her lashes. “Am I late?” she asked flippantly.
Why was she acting like a simpering miss when she was anything but? Josephine Martin would be the death of him.
He refused to play whatever game this was. “Not at all,” he said, pretending not to care.
She flitted to him as if she were trying not to step on petals in a field of blooming flowers. With an exaggerated sigh, she lowered herself onto the settee next to him.
“Sit.” She tugged on his arm.
He plopped beside her.
“Shall we begin my lesson?” She boldly grasped his forearm and leaned close.
Heavens above, Jabbing Josie was flirting. His anger and frustration exited him with a woosh, leaving him drowning in overwhelming desire.
He faced her and met her gaze. His lust was mirrored in her pupils.
He should stop tormenting them both with his fretting and give in to his desire.
Shame washed over him for having instigated their physical connection, then running away like a coward.
He’d told himself it was for her protection, and it was.
But still, she was correct. Not only was he a massive mound of meddlesome, but he was also a milksop who needed to exhibit more self-control.
As unfortunate as his circumstances had been of late, he hadn’t allowed himself to feel forlorn or depressed.
It was more that he hadn’t quite felt alive.
Until her. She’d owned that raised ring above the crowd, her palpable vitality oozing so forcefully it had slammed him in the gut.
He’d instantly known he had to save her, and despite their class differences, he had to know her.
He felt alive in her presence. Colors were brighter, and his blood danced through his veins. He wanted. He needed.
He snapped.
He lunged for her. She did not back away. Entwining his fingers in her silky hair, he pressed his lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and parted those sumptuous lips. He enthusiastically accepted the invitation.
After just one night of kissing practice, Josie skillfully met every nip and swirl of his tongue. Thought abandoned him, leaving his yearning in control. Even knowing someone might walk in on them did not curb his actions.
He crushed her against the back of the couch and trailed kisses along the neckline of her dress. He’d been obsessed with her breasts since he’d first seen her because, as tightly as they’d been bound, they still appeared bountiful and feminine.
Good God, he wanted to see them. Taste them. Inhale them. Bury himself in them.