Bombshell Read online

  “How did you know this was here?” she asked, the words barely-there.

  He heard her. Of course. “Every house with money has a servants’ cupboard.”

  A pause as she considered the words. As he willed her not to ask more. “And you make it your business to know where they are?”

  “Aren’t you glad I knew where this one was?”

  “If you weren’t here, I could have pretended to have been lost on my return from the retiring room.”

  “Lost on a different floor?”

  “Do you doubt men’s willingness to believe women are cabbageheaded?”

  He didn’t. But she wasn’t cabbageheaded. “Sesily . . .” He chose his words carefully. “Coleford. He’s not a decent man.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You don’t know—not all of it.”

  A pause. And then, soft, knowing, slightly pleading, “How do you know?”

  He swallowed around the knot in his throat. “Whatever you’re up to . . . you need to stop. If he catches you, if he counts you an enemy . . . he won’t hesitate.”

  “You marched in here, uninvited, willing to be counted among his enemies. Why?”

  Because I’m already counted among his enemies.

  He would never say it; Sesily could never know it. She should never have even come close to it.

  She wouldn’t have, if he’d been able to stay away.

  But he couldn’t stay away from her. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Had been, since the beginning.

  Silence stretched between them, and in it, he began to think that perhaps he should release her. There was no perhaps about it. He absolutely should release her.

  But he didn’t want to.

  So he didn’t, leaving his arm around her waist, telling himself he was keeping her safe. She might trip over all manner of cleaning agents. Mops, buckets, piles of rags. Lye.

  Lye was dangerous.

  Best to hang on to her.

  It had nothing to do with how she felt in his arms, soft and warm, her breasts rising and falling against him with every breath, her hands resting on his chest.

  “So,” she whispered, finally. “You followed me here. Into the fray.”

  He didn’t reply.

  The woman, however, was not to be ignored. “Caleb, if you’re not careful, people will notice that you’re following me and begin to get ideas.”

  His heart was pounding and he hated everything about London and this house and still, he couldn’t stop himself from holding her tight to him. “What kind of ideas?”

  Where in hell had that question come from?

  “The kind of ideas people have about any man who follows me.”

  “And what are those?”

  The scent of her curled around him, like a lush treat in a shop window. Just out of reach. A heady tease. Her maddening fingers toyed at the edge of his waistcoat and he imagined her smiling one of her perfect smiles. “They don’t call me Sexily for nothing.”

  He had no difficulty understanding why they called her Sexily. But now was not the time to discuss it. Did she not understand the seriousness of their predicament? “Not now, Sesily.”

  The teasing flirt in her tone increased. “I’m only saying that if you are so keen to be near me, you might consider escorting me somewhere proper.”

  “Oh? Is the servants’ cupboard in the home of some viscount improper?” he asked.

  “Some viscount,” she said, and he could hear the smile in the words, as though they were anywhere but here, and they were doing anything but avoiding discovery. “You really should use titles with more reverence.”

  “I’m an American,” he replied. “They confuse me.”

  A little, hoarse laugh sounded in the darkness and somehow, here, in this place, it loosened him. “They’re very complex.”

  “For example?” He whispered the question, grateful for the distraction. For her.

  “Everyone knows about dukes, of course,” she whispered, those fingers still playing at the edge of his waistcoat, tracing longer and longer paths, slowly torturing him. “But I find Americans are easily confused just one step lower . . . with marquesses. Most of you pronounce it with that long e sound, and it’s just atrocious.”

  “It’s because of our debt of honor to the French,” he quipped, and she laughed again, this time a bit louder—loud enough that it came out as a little bark. Not liking the sound and the pain she must be feeling after the events of the previous evening, Caleb tightened his arm, unable to stop himself from pulling her closer, as though he might be able to protect her. “I didn’t mean examples of titles, Sesily.”

  She stilled, and he imagined her turning her face up to his, searching for his eyes in the darkness. As he searched for hers. “What then?”

  “Where is a proper location for me to escort you?”

  There wasn’t one, of course. There was no scenario where he courted Sesily Talbot. No ices at Gunter’s, no posies from a Covent Garden flower seller, no visits to her sister Sophie’s bookshop. Courting meant a future. And a future with Sesily was impossible.

  Even if she was the only woman who had ever tempted him with one.

  But, here in the darkness, he wanted to hear what she imagined possible.

  Before she could answer, noises came from the hallway beyond. Coleford, the bastard, closing the door to his office firmly, his footsteps retreating, slow and even, as he returned to the party abovestairs.

  It was not the pace of a man who knew someone had just rifled through his belongings.

  What had she been looking for?

  What had she found?

  As they were now safe from discovery, he could ask her. He could keep her here, in the darkness, until she told him the truth.

  But before he did, she answered his earlier question. “You could escort me to Boston.”

  The words were a weapon, shattering through him, along with a vision of her in his tavern in Boston. In the bright sunny gardens of his Beacon Hill row house. On the shores of the Atlantic.

  On the Atlantic . . . six weeks at sea with nothing but a private cabin to entertain them.

  The things he would do to her in a private cabin.

  “That’s not a proper location at all,” he said, softly.

  “No, I suppose not,” she said, “but maybe then . . .”

  She trailed off, a thousand unsaid things in that pause. And Caleb was lost, because he wanted to know every one of them.

  “Maybe then, what?”

  “Maybe then, you’d tell me your secrets,” she said, softly.

  Never. He’d never burden her with them. And absolutely not here. In this house. Owned by this man.

  As though he’d spoken the words aloud, she gave a little laugh and said, “You realize I shall learn them eventually. So that we’re even.”

  A thread of unease whispered through him. “Who says we must be even?”

  “I don’t like an imbalance of power.”

  The woman was daughter to an earl, sister to a duchess, a future duchess, and a countess, stood to inherit a fortune, and had most of London in the palm of her hand. She could wave him away with one, pretty hand.

  “I don’t have any secrets,” he lied.

  “Why do you dislike the dark?” she asked, the question soft and pointed.

  “I don’t mind it now,” he said, loving the darkness that had her pressing against him. When she didn’t reply, he added, “When I was young, I was in a ship’s hold for two months.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Two months.”

  “It was a long journey. Stormy. And . . .” Awful. There hadn’t been money for rooms with windows. Or time above deck. “Dark.”

  “Caleb . . .” she whispered, her fingertips coming to his lips, soft like silk.

  He cleared his throat and captured her hand in his. “As I said, I don’t mind it now.”

  With you.

  He pressed a kiss to one of those fingers, nipped it barely, enjoyed her
intake of breath. “And you? What of your secrets?”

  “You already know too many of them,” she whispered, her free hand dancing up over his shoulder, up his neck, into his hair, as though it were perfectly ordinary for her to touch him. As though she owned him.

  And what if she did? What if he let her, there, in the darkness, in the wake of the near miss with Coleford, relief rioting through Caleb for having found her. For having her in his arms. For keeping her safe.

  Caleb felt the thread of his control slipping, unraveling beneath the play of her fingers. She was destroying him.

  What if, just this once, he allowed it?

  She wanted him.

  “Can I trust you, Caleb? To keep my secrets?” Her fingers tightened, pulling his head down, until he could feel her lips right there, just waiting to be claimed. “Can I trust you, Caleb?”

  No qualifiers.

  Not that she needed them.

  “Yes.”

  She kissed him.

  Chapter Eleven

  She should be more concerned about what was happening outside the cupboard—how she was going to find her way back to Duchess, how she was going to avoid discovery by the viscount, how she was going to get herself home if she were stuck inside that closet all night—but Sesily could find neither the interest nor the reason required to be concerned with much of anything beyond Caleb.

  Something had changed there in the darkness, as he held her tight against him and let her explore him as she wished—as though he belonged to her, as though they belonged to each other. Somehow, everything had become more free and more dangerous, because as much as she wanted this man, the idea of having him . . . of touching him . . . of kissing him with abandon . . . threatened her future.

  After all, once she knew what it was like to be in Caleb’s arms, she might never wish to be out of them. And she didn’t think she could bear it if he didn’t feel the same way.

  But now, in their dark, quiet spot, risk took on a new meaning. Here, as her fingers traced over his warm skin, as the scent of him surrounded her, amber and leather, as the rumble in his chest threatened to lay her low, Sesily realized that she was very likely lost.

  Indeed, she’d been lost the moment his arm came tight around her, pulling her closer than she’d been, as that rumble became a growl, setting her aflame as he took over the kiss that she’d begun.

  She gave herself up to it, sighing into his mouth as his lips opened over hers and his tongue dipped inside for a heartbeat, as though he couldn’t resist the taste. She couldn’t resist, either, and when he retreated, she followed, not ready to give him up.

  That growl again, deep and delicious. His hand found its way into her hair, threatening to scatter hairpins across the floor.

  And Sesily didn’t care.

  How many times had she dreamed of this kiss? How many times had she doubted it would happen because he’d made such a good show of telling her he didn’t want it? That he didn’t think of it?

  He’d lied to her.

  She knew it as surely as she knew his breath was ragged in his chest, just as hers was. She knew he’d been drawn tight as a string, just as she had. And she knew he wanted her, just as she wanted him.

  She could taste it.

  Triumph shot through her as he pulled her closer, his thumb tracing the arc of her cheek as he deepened the kiss, and Sesily was lost to the caress, to the feel of him, hard against her softness. A perfect fit, just as she’d always known he would be.

  “Caleb,” she whispered, unable to keep his name from her tongue—she’d been waiting for this forever.

  He let her up for air even as he continued to pleasure her, pressing hot kisses to her cheek, to the underside of her jaw, to the soft skin of her neck above her cravat. “This,” he whispered there, at the skin. “I hate this. God knows I loathe what it hides.” He paused. “Does it hurt?”

  The question stung. So caring. So sweet. So personal. “No.”

  “I’m sure that’s a lie.”

  “Don’t you dare use what happened the other night as an excuse to stop now,” she whispered, tightening her fingers in his hair—how was his hair so impossibly soft?—holding his kiss to her skin.

  He pulled away, just enough to speak, just enough for her to feel his breath against her. “You think I do not have enough excuses without it?”

  They were hiding in a servants’ cupboard after she’d rifled through the desk of a viscount—and there was a more than reasonable chance that they would be found, so she supposed there was plenty of excuse to stop.

  And then, his words like sin in the darkness, he said, “Sesily . . . The reasons I should stop have nothing to do with our location.”

  Before she could ask him to elaborate, he licked over her skin to the lobe of her ear, sucking at it until she shivered her pleasure. “I should stop because you feel fucking glorious. Like a treasure to be thieved.”

  Oh. Oh. She liked that.

  “I should stop, because you make me feel like a thief. Stealing your touch, your scent, your kiss—” He did just that, taking her mouth like a marauder, deep and thorough.

  Except he wasn’t stealing.

  She gave it freely.

  When he released her from his caress, he said, soft and hot at her ear, “I should stop because if I don’t . . . I’m never going to want to.”

  She closed her eyes at the words, lost in them. In him. In the promise of him that she’d always wanted and that he finally, finally offered. “And if I didn’t want you to stop?”

  Another groan, this one tortured, sending pleasure pooling in her. “Don’t tell me that.”

  She tightened her fingers in his hair as his lips lingered at the skin below her cravat, where she seemed to have more feeling than any one place on a person’s body should. “What if I did tell you, though?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, making room for more of his delicious touch. “What if I told you everything I wished for you to do instead of stopping?” She sighed to the darkness. “What would happen? Would I be turned in for punishment?”

  He flipped the lapel of her topcoat to the side, baring the skin beneath, above the line of her tightly fitted bodice, and scraped his teeth along the skin there, nipping gently. “I believe I can handle the punishment myself.”

  She arched against him. “Do you promise?”

  A low growl was his reply, and he stripped her coat off her shoulders. She released him as he dispensed the garment, until he pulled her back in his arms, one hand tracing over her shoulder and down the broad, smooth expanse of skin he’d revealed.

  Not that he could see it. He cursed his frustration. “Talk of punishment,” he whispered. “If I’m only ever going to have this—a handful of stolen minutes . . . a smattering of kisses . . . a cupboard-full of pleasure—” She shivered as his fingers slipped beneath the silk of her bodice. “It seems special torture that I cannot see it.”

  She smiled in the darkness, a thrill coursing through her. “But you can feel it.”

  “That I can,” he said, those wicked fingers teasing her despite the rigid binds of her dress. “You ache for me here.” He pinched the tight tip of one breast, her gasp mingling with his delicious, low laugh.

  “I do,” she said, her lips at his ear.

  In the wake of her words, he tightened his fist around the fabric where he toyed with her. He pulled the fabric down, lifting her breasts from their moorings. She sucked in a breath at the freedom from the tight bodice, and then released it in a long sigh at the stroke of his fingers, around and around the nipples that strained for his touch, hard and aching for him.

  “Caleb.” She sighed his name.

  He did not reply, instead moving in the darkness, turning her, lifting her until she was balanced on a stack of crates in the rear corner of the closet. “Comfortable?”

  She grew impossibly warmer at the question. At the care in it. “Very,” she said, letting humor edge into her tone as she fisted the wool of his waistcoat, pulli
ng him close again. “Remarkably accommodating for a cupboard. Do you think we are thieving someone’s secret spot?”

  His tongue traced the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. “More than one someone, probably.”

  “When I was a girl, I once stumbled upon an upstairs maid and a stablehand.”

  His lips traced over her skin, from her shoulder to her breast, “And were you a good girl? Did you immediately take your leave?”

  “I have never in my life been a good girl.”

  He rewarded the admission, dipping his head and taking her nipple into his mouth, slow and lush, scrambling her thoughts with the delicious caress. He lifted his head and blew a long stream of air over the tightening flesh. “Where were you?”

  “At home. My parents had recently had a house party, and all the guests had left, and the maids were returning all the rooms to rights.”

  “Keep talking,” he commanded, moving his attention to the other breast, licking over the tip before settling his warm lips to her, suckling in long, lovely tugs.

  “I was . . .” She paused as his fingers touched her ankle, beneath her skirts, settled, still. She willed them to move. Wanted them higher.

  He stopped the wonderful touch at her breast. “Sesily?” Her name like sin in his deep voice, spurring her to action.

  “No,” she whispered. “More.”

  His lips curved on her skin, smiling. “If you don’t stop, I don’t stop, sweet.”

  What was she saying? Oh. “I don’t know why I was there,” she said, “but it was the furthest room on the west wing of the house—as far from mine as possible. They hadn’t closed the door all the way.”

  His fingers rose higher on her leg, pulling her skirts with them, tracing along her stockings in a slow, tempting slide. “Careless.”

  “Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe they hadn’t thought about it, because they couldn’t think of anything but—” The words turned into a little gasp as his fingers met the soft skin of her thigh.

  “Maybe they wanted to be caught,” he said, and the pure masculine arrogance in his voice sent want pooling through her. “Maybe you like the idea of that.”

  She opened her legs a little wider. “I do.”