Chapter Three
Haunted by memories of a starving bugger with big blue eyes, Jonathan stared out the carriage window.
Disappointment radiated from Celeste as she folded her gloved hands on her lap and looked out the opposite window.
Jonathan was well aware that if he didn’t satisfy the sensual woman’s needs, there were chaps itching for a chance to woo her.
So, why, oh why, were thoughts of a wretched bloke wreaking havoc on his desire for his lovely companion?
When had he started caring more about the indigent than cunny?
Maybe he wasn’t giving himself enough credit.
He definitely found it unconscionable for a person to starve to death on the street while being terrorized by bullies.
He might be a bit puckish, but he’d never taken pleasure in another’s seriously tragic misfortunes.
However, his uncharacteristic disquietude might be more than a social conscience.
His revelation was in fact, life changing.
How in the devil had he not known that he was attracted to muck-covered, smelly chaps?
Truthfully, he’d never, ever found a man attractive. Not while sharing living and bathing quarters at Bedford or Cambridge, and not when he’d been so drunk he couldn’t see straight. And there had been some men who had tried to persuade him then; it hadn’t interested him, much to their chagrin.
No, he wasn’t just lying to himself; to his knowledge, he’d never desired anything other than soft, sweet females.
So why in the hell had his loins reacted to this particular piteous bloke?
Was it his fortitude when he was outnumbered?
Was it his ability to use his fists? Maybe it was his filthy, albeit loyal, dog.
Jonathan favored breeds with floppy ears, and this particular mutt had an adorable pair that drooped over his cheeks.
Now, he was just being ridiculous and rationalizing. It wasn’t so much that he was horrified by his predilections—to each his own—it was simply puzzling that it had taken him five and twenty years to figure it out.
He leaned back against the squabs, turning the events over in his mind. He thought again about the bloke’s pretty, long-lashed eyes. As pretty as a girl’s…wait. No.
Could it be?
It was possible. After all, at a quick glance, one might think Roseanna, Griffendale’s new champion, was a man. On closer inspection, she had pretty eyes, smooth pink skin, and pleasantly plump breasts, whenever they weren’t bound.
Well, tie bacon to his bollocks and throw him to a pack of hounds. He’d experienced the lightning bolt of lust because there was a woman beneath that crusty garb. A chit with sapphire blue eyes. A gamine being terrorized by adolescent scalawags.
“Jonathan, what is troubling you?” Celeste asked, interrupting his introspection.
“What makes you think something is troubling me?”
“Normally, you’d have me naked by now.”
True! Celeste was utterly desirable. All thick dark hair and shapely curves.
“You are also sighing a lot,” she added. “And you’ve barely smiled since we got into the carriage. You always smile.”
He shrugged. He dared not tell her they’d left a woman in a dark alley where a gang of unruly adolescents might return and harm her.
Partially because she would worry. But mostly because he was appalled with himself.
He’d been such a flippant arse, almost ignoring the entire scenario because he was impatient to satiate his baser needs.
No matter who was in trouble—a beautiful lady, an old woman with warts on her nose, or a filthy street dweller—he should have stepped in to help.
Even though he was drowning in shame, he sent Celeste his most charming smile.
“Fake and not believable,” she said. “Your smile, that is. You are utterly charming and mostly believable.”
Although he happened to be ensconced in a moment of self-loathing, he didn’t appreciate the slight. Even a louse had some pride. “Mostly?”
As the carriage slowed to a stop, she took his hand in hers. “Jonathan, dear, I think you are much more sensitive and thoughtful than you want the world to know.”
He huffed. “Balderdash.”
She raised an eyebrow and regarded him with a determined expression. Let her think what she wanted. Sensitive, thoughtful men got more cunny.
He assisted her from the carriage and escorted her to the front door.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire. “Are you still coming in?”
He rubbed his brow. Was he seriously considering strolling into her house and tupping her until they both passed out when there was a woman in danger, and he might be the only person who knew?
Why, yes. Yes, he was. However, instead, he was going to do the unselfish thing.
“Please forgive me. I think I might be a bit tired tonight.”
Frowning, she rested her palm on his forehead. “Not feverish.” She dropped her hand and turned her back to him to open the door.
“I am sorry. Truly,” he said.
She stepped into her foyer, then faced him. “Rejected by Nicolas a couple of months ago. Then, more recently Edward. Now, you.”
But his best friend, Nicolas Wentworth, and Bow Street Runner Edward Robinson had fallen in love. Jonathan was simply having a moment of conscience.
She blew him a kiss. “Go home and rest, darling.”
He caught her kiss in his palm and pressed it to his heart. “Thank you.” He’d sleep after he found the street woman and deposited her somewhere safe.
Celeste opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, then clamped her lips together.
“What is it?”
She worked her jaw back and forth before finally asking, “Would you mind if I sent a missive to Tristan tonight?”
Blinking, he stepped back. How dare she spend the night in another man’s arms when he’d courted her these last few hours?
You took her to an illegal mill, argued with her when she asked you to help break up a brawl, then ignored her on the carriage ride home, you arrogant arse!
He should make it up to her by following her to her chamber. While there, he would make her forget about the dukely Tristan Keats, his ginger beard, and massive muscles.
However…
What did he care if Celeste slept with every bloke in the ton?
Jonathan wasn’t interested in commitments or relationships, and he’d slept with every female who showed him the least bit of interest. Since he favored the Dowager Countess as a friend and a tupping partner, but nothing more, he would set her free for now.
“Celeste, you can send missives to any man you want. Tonight, or any night.” He kissed her hand. Turning on his heel, he marched to his carriage before he said or did something pudding-headed such as turning, pouncing, and ripping her clothing off in the foyer.
“Ivan, back to The Purple Rabbit,” he told his driver. “And be quick about it.”