A Lady Never Surrenders Part 16

Celia explained her plan to garner an impressive offer of marriage so she could throw it back in Gran's face. Then she told Minerva of her qualms about exposing Lyons to public humiliation.

"I see your dilemma," Minerva said. "Why don't you go to Gran and tell her of the duke's offer, then say you don't love him? Perhaps she'll give in then."

"Or perhaps she'll call the duke in, welcome him as her future grandson-in-law, and start planning the wedding. Remember how she announced Oliver's engagement at that party before he even had a chance to stop it? If she does that to me, I won't be able to cry off without embarra.s.sing myself and the duke. I don't want to risk that. He's a nice man, no matter how he kisses."

Minerva sighed. "You've got a point. Gran is so unpredictable. And she would probably love to see you married to a duke."

"I know."

"Perhaps you should take the bull by the horns. Ask Jackson to marry you."

Celia glared at her sister. "And what if he agrees for the wrong reason?"

"What do you mean?"

"Gran says he's up for some important appointment. What if he just wants a rich wife because it would help him become Chief Magistrate? What if that's the only reason he's been kissing me?" And complaining about her suitors. And trying to blacken their reputations to her.

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "If that were the case, you would think he'd have offered marriage the minute you started talking about suitors."

"If he had deeper feelings for me," Celia countered, "you would think he'd have offered marriage then, too. He hasn't."

Like this afternoon-if he'd wanted to marry her, he could have just stayed to let Gran catch them together. He must have known Gran would make them marry, yet he'd left when Celia had asked him to.

Then again, he might have feared that Gran would simply have him dismissed. For a man of Jackson's ambitions, that would have been enough to send him fleeing.

"Oh, blast, this is all so confusing!" she complained. "How is a woman supposed to figure out what a man really wants?"

"If you learn the answer to that question, do be a dear and tell the rest of us," Minerva quipped. "Though as far as I can tell, men are simple creatures, for all their posturing. They want food, drink, and a wench to bed, not necessarily in that order."

"And love?" Celia asked.

Minerva smiled. "That, too. Some men do, anyway. You'll just have to spend some time with Mr. Pinter and find out if that's what he wants from you."

"And how on earth am I supposed to spend time with him when he's been avoiding me ever since the last time we kissed?"

"Perhaps he's worried about the difference in your stations."

"That didn't keep him from kissing me." She scowled. "Besides, you've heard what he says about our sort. If anything, he thinks himself above us, not below us. He didn't even ask me to dance tonight! He could have. No one would have thought anything of that. Instead, he spent the entire ball standing about, looking disapproving, and talking to servants."

"Perhaps because you spent the entire ball in the company of your suitors."

Celia released an exasperated breath. "What else was I supposed to do? I'm not allowed to ask a man to dance. And at least I know what my suitors want. Lord Devonmont wants to seduce me, the viscount wants peace in his old age, and the duke wants to marry me. I don't have any idea what Jackson wants, other than to drive me mad."

And to make her want him. She'd spent half the evening remembering his sweet kisses that afternoon and his fierce words about desiring her.

Had any of it been feigned? It was hard to know. Still, even tonight she'd caught him gazing at her with such hunger...

A rush of heat through her body made her bite back an oath.

"There's still a couple of days left until the house party is over," Minerva pointed out. "Why don't you just see how matters progress? Tell the duke you need time to consider his offer, and use that time to try to figure out what's going on with Mr. Pinter."

"In other words, 'let his behavior be the guide of your sensations.'"

Minerva scowled. "Have you been reading Jane Austen?"

Oops. She'd forgotten that she'd read the line in Emma.

"Don't get me wrong-she's a good choice," Minerva said tartly. "And I suppose that is good advice. Though I'd also advise you to decide what it is you want from him. Marriage?"

"I don't know. That's the trouble."

But an hour later, after Minerva had left and Celia was lying alone in her bed, she realized that she did know one thing she wanted from him. More time alone together. More chances to see how she felt, and if it was real or just borne of some madness of the moment.

Only now did she realize how much she'd been protecting herself from feeling anything for a man. But whenever she was with him, she didn't want to protect herself. He made her want to feel.

She fell asleep, dreaming of Jackson's mouth on hers, his hands on her body. And she awoke only a few hours later, touching herself.

Even as she came fully awake, she continued the shameful behavior. She laid her hand on her breast, remembering how he'd sucked and fondled it. Her fingers seemed to move of their own accord, stroking the nipple through her nightdress. It made her blood run hot ... but it still wasn't as good as when he'd done it.

Just thinking of how he'd pressed between her legs and dragged his thumbs up her naked thighs ...

Oh, heavens, what would it be like to have him touch her down there, between her legs? Ned had been trying to do that very thing when she'd hit him with the brick. At the time, she'd been appalled that he would even attempt it.

But now, after coming so close to having Jackson caress her there, it didn't seem quite so appalling. In fact ...

With her cheeks flaming, she pressed her hand against the part of her that seemed to ache for his touch. Trying not to think of how wicked she was being, she rubbed herself there. Heavens, but it felt so good! Closing her eyes, she imagined it was Jackson's hand rubbing her, and making her grow more and more damp, more and more achy....

A creak inside the wall was all the warning she got before the servants' door opened and Gillie, her maid, crept in.

She froze, grateful that the covers were over her. As Gillie built the fire, Celia lay there, pretending to be asleep, utterly mortified. Look what that curst man had done to her! He had her touching herself like some wanton.

After Gillie left, Celia tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. Her mind and body both were too agitated. When an hour had pa.s.sed with sleep eluding her, she leapt from the bed and began to pace. This was madness. She couldn't believe she was letting the man do this to her! She had to get out of the house. Sitting around and brooding over Jackson would only make her insane.

She rang for Gillie. It was near dawn-the other guests would all be in bed. So she could do the one thing that always helped calm her agitation.

Go target shooting.

Chapter Thirteen.

Shortly after dawn, around half past seven, Jackson headed out on horseback to interview Mrs. Duffett, with Mrs. Plumtree's words still ringing in his ears. He wished the ride to High Wycombe wasn't so long. He was in no mood to be alone with his thoughts.

To gain time, he cut across the estate instead of riding up the drive to the road. Thank G.o.d, it was too early for snow-bad enough that the wind was sharper than usual today.

He hadn't ridden far when he heard a pistol shot nearby. He'd seen Halstead Hall's gamekeeper having breakfast in the kitchen when he left, so it couldn't be him. The house party guests had stayed up late dancing and playing cards, so he doubted they'd be hunting this early. Besides, he didn't hear dogs.

That left only one possibility-poachers.

He could just mention it to the gamekeeper when he got back ... but the idea of someone shooting anything w.i.l.l.y-nilly on the estate unsettled him. A second shot decided him. Spurring his horse into a gallop, he rode toward the sound.

But when he crested the hill, the sight that greeted him made him pause. At the bottom of the hill stood Celia in a riding habit, her gun pointed in his direction. He halted just as she spotted him.

After emptying the gun by firing it in the opposite direction, she set it on the ground facing away from them, picked up her skirts, and came up the hill with fire in her eyes. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" she cried.

Only then did he notice the target that was set into the hill below him. So this was where she did her shooting practice. He should have known she'd have a secret spot for it.

"Pardon me for interrupting," he said dryly as she approached. "When I heard shots, I thought it was poachers."

"And you were going to confront them alone?" She planted her hands on her hips. "What if there were several, armed and ready to shoot?"

The very idea made him roll his eyes. "In my experience, poachers run when they see someone coming. They don't brandish guns." He couldn't resist taunting her. "You're the only person who does that, my lady."

At his use of her t.i.tle, she stiffened. "Well, you could have been hurt all the same. You really mustn't sneak up on people like that. And what are you doing up so early, anyway?" Her eyes narrowed. "You can't be going to London-you're heading in the wrong direction."

"I'm off to High Wycombe. Apparently your old nurse lives there, so I'm going to question her about the events on the morning of your parents' deaths. That way I can confirm if your dream is just a dream or something more."

Her face lit up. "Let me go with you."

h.e.l.l and blazes. This is what he got for sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

"No," he said harshly. "That would decidedly not be a good idea."

Turning his horse around swiftly, he spurred it into a gallop and rode back the way he'd come. The last thing he needed was her trying to join him.

Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to dissuade her. In no time, she had run down the hill, fetched her gun and her horse, and galloped after him. Within minutes she was riding up beside him. With a curse, he slowed his horse to a trot.

"Why wouldn't it be a good idea?" she asked.

Because the sight of you so delicately perched on your sidesaddle makes my blood heat and my hands itch to touch you.

"If you go missing, everyone will worry."

She snorted. "First of all, it's barely an hour after dawn. 'Everyone' will be asleep for another several hours. Secondly, my maid Gillie knows to say that I'm sleeping off a headache, as she always does when I'm target shooting." She flashed him a sheepish smile. "Gran doesn't approve of the shooting, you know. So I get a lot of headaches."

He gritted his teeth. Of course Celia did what she must to get her own way.

"No one ever questions it," she went on. "So we can be to High Wycombe and back before anyone realizes I'm gone."

"There are other reasons for you not to join me. For one thing, the minute I introduce you, Mrs. Duffett will temper her answers. I'll be asking about your father's philandering, among other things, and she'll balk at telling the truth if you're there."

"So introduce me as your sister, who has come along to take notes. I doubt she'll recognize me. She hasn't seen me since I was nine, when I was short and scrawny and my hair was much lighter."

"That isn't the point," he bit out. "Why the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l do you want to be there, anyway?"

She blinked at his sharp tone, then stared off at the fields ahead. "I have to know, don't you see? I have to hear for myself whether it was a dream or something that really happened." She cast him a pleading glance. "You never know what might come up in your interrogation. Nurse might say something that triggers another memory in me."

d.a.m.n it, she was right. If it were any of the other Sharpes, he wouldn't balk. But the idea of spending several hours in her company was both intoxicating and terrifying.

"If you don't let me go along," she continued, "I'll just follow you."

He scowled at her. She probably would; the woman was as stubborn as she was beautiful.

"And don't think you can outride me, either," she added. "Halstead Hall has a very good stable, and Lady Bell is one of our swiftest mounts."

"Lady Bell?" he said sarcastically. "Not Crack Shot or Pistol?"

She glared over at him. "Lady Bell was my favorite doll when I was a girl, the last one Mama gave me before she died. I used to play with it whenever I wanted to remember her. The doll got so ragged that I threw her away when I outgrew her." Her voice lowered. "I regretted that later, but by then it was too late."

The idea of her playing with a doll to remember her late mother made his throat tighten and his heart falter. "Fine," he bit out. "You can go with me to High Wycombe."

Surprise turned her cheeks rosy. "Oh, thank you, Jackson! You won't regret it, I promise you!"

"I already regret it," he grumbled. "And you must do as I say. None of your going off half-c.o.c.ked, do you hear?"

"I never go off half-c.o.c.ked!"

"No, you just walk around with a pistol packed full of powder, thinking you can hold men at bay with it."

She tossed her head. "You'll never let me forget that, will you?"

"Not as long as we both shall live."

The minute the words left his lips, he could have kicked himself. They sounded too much like a vow, one he'd give anything for the right to make.

Fortunately, she didn't seem to have noticed. Instead, she was squirming and s.h.i.+mmying about on her saddle.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I've got a burr caught in my stocking that keeps rubbing against my leg. I'm just trying to work it out. Don't mind me."

His mouth went dry at her mention of stockings. It brought yesterday's encounter vividly into his mind, how he'd lifted her skirts to reach the smooth expanse of calf encased in silk. How he'd run his hands up her thighs as his mouth had tasted- G.o.d save him. He couldn't be thinking about such things while riding. He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in the saddle as they reached the road and settled into a comfortable pace.

The road was busy at this early hour. The local farmers were driving their carts to market or town, and laborers were headed for the fields. To Jackson's relief, that made it easy not to talk. Conversing with her was bound to be difficult, especially if she started consulting him about her suitors.

After they'd traveled a few miles, she asked in a conversational tone, "Does your aunt mind that you're away this week?"

At least she'd picked a safe topic. "No. She understands I'm working."

"I suppose she's very proud of you."

"Do you find that surprising?" he drawled.