Secluded with the Rogue

4. Jack Doesn’t Know Delia

Jack Doesn’t Know Delia

M iss Delia Somerset looked nervous. She’d told him she had never actually been paid for her services before.

But that she had performed them.

He stared at her mouth, noticing that her teeth chattered silently. She had two lovely pink spots on her cheeks, and her coffee-colored eyes had stayed focused on the bed since the moment she’d stepped inside.

Unexpected pity thickened his throat, but only for a moment.

She was lucky to have him as her first client. He would make it easier for her—woo her, build up her confidence. And perhaps teach her a few things.

Jack moved toward the door. “Wash up and change.” He’d take an ale or two in the taproom with Cyril. “I’ll join you for dinner in one hour.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was weak. And just when he wondered if she might be rethinking her chosen profession, she added, “I look forward to that.”

Excellent.

An hour later, considerably warmer from a few pints of strong ale, but eager for a hot meal followed by a satisfying romp, Jack climbed the stairs with an unfamiliar sense of anticipation—which he quickly tamped down. Better all-around to keep his expectations low.

Arriving at the familiar suite, Jack went to enter and then, thinking better of it, rapped on the door instead.

“Who is it?” her voice called out. So clever of her to feign such innocence.

“Jack.”

“Oh.” He heard shuffling on the other side. When the door swung open, Jack froze.

His destitute little lamb splayed her hand over the delicious amount of bosom revealed by the borrowed gown. In doing so, she effectively drew his attention there.

Jack’s breath caught.

The mulberry velvet decolletage dipped low, barely covering her. It clung to her ribcage and waist where it flared out from generous hips. Retrieving her off the side of the road may have been one of his better decisions after all.

“Dinner arrived a few minutes ago.” She gestured to a small table set up across the room.

Seeing no need for formality, Jack tossed his coat over a chair and after removing his jacket, draped it over the chair as well. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he couldn’t help but notice the pink flush creeping across her chest and up her neck. Delightful.

If he weren’t so damn hungry, he’d forgo the food and have her first.

“Please sit down.” Clutching her hands at her waist, she stared everywhere but at him. “We should eat before it gets cold.”

Jack marveled that she invited him to join her as though she was a proper lady holding tea in her drawing room.

“Mrs. Long does all the cooking and her meat pie is unrivaled,” Jack commented. “Which is the second reason I enjoy staying here.” He sent her a meaningful grin.

“It smells delicious,” she agreed. “Had I waited a single minute more, I might have dug into the food on my own.”

She sat across from him and smoothed a napkin on her lap, her spine stiff and straight.

A growling rumbled from the vicinity of her belly but rather than acknowledge it, Jack asked, “You would have eaten without me?”

Flushing an even deeper pink, she met his gaze. “Not really. That wouldn’t have been very considerate of me, now would it? Especially—” she gestured at the room. “After the kindness you’ve shown me. Have I thanked you?”

“If you haven’t yet, you will.” Jack liked watching her blush.

She couldn’t have been any more different from Lizzie.

Where Lizzie had been slim and tall, with curling red hair and painted lips, Miss Somerset was curvy, petite, and… wholesome-looking.

But it was more than that.

His roadside angel held herself like a lady. She spoke like a lady. If she herself hadn’t confirmed his assumptions before they arrived, he might have wondered if he hadn’t misjudged her pending profession.

She lifted covers off a few dishes and began spooning generous portions onto the plate before him. “Is that enough?”

Jack nodded, swallowing an unfamiliar emotion. “It’s fine.” He dug in with his fork.

“Despite hating Christmas, aren’t you looking forward to seeing your family?” Her question came out tentatively as she poured wine into one of two separate goblets.

“I don’t hate Christmas. I’d simply prefer to ignore it altogether,” Jack grumbled.

“Oh.”

Typically, he didn’t discuss himself. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to discussing his feelings, and yet he’d determined to ease her entry into her new profession as pleasantly as possible.

Both of them would enjoy the evening more that way.

“I don’t mind seeing my grandparents.” Jack bit into a savory bite of meat. “But I’m happy to forgo the chaos of my sister and her offspring and their families.”

“Why chaos?”

“Lavinia,” he said and then swallowed some wine. “She… did not marry well.”

Miss Somerset’s eyes widened as she watched him from across the table. “Is he cruel to her?”

“Not intentionally, but… My sister was raised a lady. Unfortunately, she fell in love with the blacksmith’s son and is now the mother of ten.”

“Ten?”

“Admittedly, her husband has no complaints, seeing as eight of them are sons. The last two are a pair of girls.”

“And your sister is not happy?”

“I doubt anything will make her happy at this point.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve ensured they have a decent home. Lavinia wouldn’t have survived without servants. But. She lives with regrets. Regrets that have made her bitter.”

“She knew love, though.” Miss Somerset stared down at her food. “She must be grateful for that.”

“Delia.” Jack studied her. “Do you mind if I call you Delia?”

Whereas he expected easy permission, she paused as though deliberating the wisdom of allowing him to call her by her given name. “If you wish.”

For reasons he didn’t quite comprehend, the catch in her voice sent blood flowing to his cock. What other requests would she grant him that evening?

Anticipation enhanced the appetizer.

“Some females, my dear Delia, grow up thinking love will bring them happiness. They grow up pursuing romance rather than security.”

He had her attention.

“When a person heeds the demands of the heart, they cease listening to their brains. They make foolish decisions—ones that affect the entirety of their lives. Based on what? A temporary infatuation? My dear sister knew love—long ago. But that love has been smothered by crying babies, faded beauty, and the loss of her dignity.”

“But your evidence is anecdotal,” Delia said. “I know of several couples who are in love and quite happily married.”

Jack wouldn’t argue with her. “But not you. Or you wouldn’t be here now.”

Hurt flickered in her eyes. Jack had never been a man to mince his words, but a stab of guilt pinched nonetheless.

“Touché.” Those full rosebud lips of hers tilted up at the corners ironically. “Is it the children? Is that why you don’t enjoy Christmas with all of them? The noise?”

Was that it? Jack scooped a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

“Why must one be forced to pretend to enjoy the company of one’s family, anyway?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Simply because one shares the same blood?”

“Because they make up the foundation of one’s existence?” She countered with a question of her own. “And because they have no choice but to pretend to enjoy yours?”

“You have a mother and father? Both still alive?”

She nodded, looking wary.

“Brothers and sisters?”

“One of each.”

Jack leaned back. “Surely, you wouldn’t be here if either your brother or your father cared more about you than themselves?”

The color that had heightened her cheeks all but drained away. She didn’t argue, but blinked and then lowered her lashes to stare at her food.

“People make mistakes.” Her voice emerged barely a whisper.

And yet, she defended them. Knowing the futility of arguing with sentimentality, Jack returned his attention to the meat on his plate.

“You mention grandparents and your sister, but not your parents.” Delia, it seemed, was intent upon maintaining conversation.

“Dead.” Two random deaths—twelve years ago—Christmas night. Proof that the holidays were not, in fact, a time for miracles. “Fell asleep in their chamber and never woke up.”

Jack rubbed his chest. He wouldn’t explain how smoke trapped by a broken flue had filled their room, killing them before either realized the danger.

He stretched his shoulders and lifted his glass. These things happened.

It was always best to keep one’s expectations low.

D elia stared at the food remaining on her plate, refraining from asking for details. The conversation had gone smoothly until she’d pushed him for personal information.

How often had she asked inappropriate questions while making conversation at a garden party or a ball? No wonder her family had chosen her as the daughter to go into service.

“I’m sorry,” Delia mumbled.

“It was a long time ago.”

His response surprised her. The fact that he responded at all surprised her.

This man—this Jack person—was different from any other gentleman with whom she’d been acquainted. At times he seemed haughty and arrogant, and yet, he was friendly, helpful, and not knowing anything about her, had taken it upon himself to ensure that she had a safe place to sleep, clothing to wear, and food in her belly.

All of which she was extremely grateful for—even if it was partly his fault that she’d lost her valise and reticule.

But she owed him her life.

“Will you travel tomorrow?” The thought of being on her own again ought not to have left her feeling as troubled as it did.

The fact was, however, that she’d not done a very good job of looking out for herself.

Jack lay his silverware across his empty plate and leaned back. “The snow is already letting up, so likely. Yes.”

Earlier he’d been wearing his greatcoat, but sitting before her now, she got a better look at his clothing and physique. His shoulders were broad, even in only his shirt and waistcoat. But he was lean, and the gold timepiece dangling from his pocket drew her gaze to his tapered waist and flat abdomen. He appeared older than she’d initially believed him to be, with a few sharp wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth—late thirties.

Studying him evoked the oddest sensation—as though she wasn’t herself, but someone else, living in a different world.

Taking this meal alone in the room with him was the most intimacy she’d ever shared with a gentleman who was not a relation.

She would be alone again come morning. She didn’t want to think about that, though—that she had no money, no clothing, not even a bonnet.

And other matters needed addressing—more pressing matters.

Delia cleared her throat. She needed to know what sleeping arrangements he had in mind. Perhaps the maid who’d delivered the food would send up a blanket she could use to sleep on the floor.

“More wine?” He lifted the carafe.

The wine had warmed her insides. Or perhaps that warm feeling was due to the appreciative look in her companion's gaze. Either way, after having felt frozen for most of the day, she welcomed it. “Yes, please.”

He filled her glass and then his own. “You braided your hair.”

Delia wasn’t sure how to respond to his comment. She’d been horrified when she’d looked in the mirror after he’d returned to the taproom. Never in her life had she felt so naked. “I?—”

“It’s stunning. Glorious, really.” His voice heated her insides even more. He sounded intrigued—aroused.

Was that only her imagination?

She would thank him for the compliment, but it wasn’t an appropriate compliment. No one ever used the words stunning or glorious in reference to anything about her. His comment had her staring down at the long braid draping over her shoulder and almost to her lap.

She’d hidden it since she was twelve. She slid her fingertips up the strands of the rope, which was still slightly damp from washing.

“It’s just brown.” Her voice caught. Out of embarrassment?

“Brown, yes, but if you look closely, you will see dark strands that are almost black—and reds that are the color of a brilliant sunset.” He pushed their plates aside and took hold of the braid below where she clutched it. “And these lighter strands.”

Mesmerized, Delia stared at his fingers as he stroked the smooth weave.

“These are like strands of gold—spun honey.”

Delia had no idea how much time passed before her brain could function normally again. She inhaled. “I had thought you must be a man of business—a solicitor or perhaps even an investigator of sorts. But now I know I was wrong.”

He remained silent, still stroking her braid with the pad of his thumb.

“You most certainly must be a poet—a great writer of fiction.” Because she would not believe he was fascinated with her hair like that. “Or perhaps an actor.”

He shook his head. “Not fiction. And not acting.”

Holding his gaze, heat swirled around her insides. His pupils were large, and she could barely distinguish between them and his almost black irises.

“You don’t have to say that.”

He watched her over the wine goblet. “I know.”

Delia couldn’t help staring at his lips, glossy from the wine. Growing up, her sister Rachel had regaled her with endless descriptions of kisses she’d bestowed to various gentlemen. Delia had paid close attention, believing that she herself would never experience it.

Going into service as a companion to an elderly countess had all but sealed her chaste fate.

What would it feel like if Jack were to kiss her?

Would it heighten her regrets as she grew into her spinsterhood? Or would she be happy for such a memory?

Would she even like it?

She would like it. She was quite sure she would like it.

“What thoughts are dancing in that pretty little head of yours?” He tugged at the braid, reminding her that they were still connected in this oddly intimate way.

Darkness had fallen outside, leaving the two of them sitting in only the light from the fire and a few tapers.

Was the room growing smaller? It had certainly grown warmer.

Again, she felt that odd sensation that she was not the same person she’d been this morning—as though the snowstorm had transformed her into someone else.

Someone who was not a mousy spinster but a beautiful woman—someone who existed in a world where heroes were real and not some figment of her imagination.

“I’m thinking about kissing.” She answered honestly.

“What a coincidence.” Jack rose from the table and prowled around to stand beside her. “ So am I .” He wound the rope of hair around his fist and gently tugged, giving her no choice but to rise from her chair.

He stood so close that she absorbed the heat rolling off his body. And since he was at least a foot taller than her, without tilting her head back to meet his gaze, she had nowhere to look but his chest and the chiseled line of his jaw—where she could almost count the whiskers there. They were jet black against his pale olive skin. Helpless not to, she settled her gaze on his lips.

“You are?” Her words were little more than a whisper. “You are also thinking about Kissing?”

He moved his mouth closer to hers.

Six inches away, then three, then one.

Gasping, Delia panicked and turned her head. His mouth landed on her cheek.

“Mmm…” His voice vibrated near her ear as he dragged the kiss along her jaw—his mouth open so she felt his breath and his teeth...

And it felt hot, wet… “Umm…” Delia hummed. This. Felt. Amazing.

More amazing even than anything Rachel had described.

The rough texture of his chin and jaw scratched her more sensitive skin. Delia tilted her head to the side, wanting his kiss everywhere.

“You can touch me, Delia.” He chuckled as he took hold of her wrists, placing her hands on his shoulders.

Her reluctance crumbled. She didn’t care if she was awkward or overly eager. She grazed her fingertips over the skin on the back of his neck. And, although she ought to be, she wasn’t at all embarrassed when his arms wrapped tightly around her, flattening her breasts against his very solid chest.

When his mouth sought hers again, this time, she did not turn away.

The wine tasted even better on his lips. Amazing.

“Jack.” Her bones turned to pudding. She was liquid. She was heat. Something stiff pressed against her belly. Everything about him was solid and hard.

Except the tendrils of hair threading through her fingers.

And his lips.

“Gorgeous,” Jack whispered, stroking the roof of her mouth with his tongue. Gliding along her teeth, and then gently biting her bottom lip.

Was this a dream?

Had she, in actuality, died on the side of the road? Was she in heaven?

This man had told her she was gorgeous. He’d said her hair was glorious. Stunning. And now he was kissing her.

He liked her—even after she’d asked about his dead parents. Did this mean he was falling in love with her?

The tension on her scalp released as he unraveled her braid.

All her life she’d felt plain, but after spending no more than a few hours in this man’s company, he’d managed to make her feel beautiful.

And wanted. No one had ever simply wanted to be with Delia for herself.

They’d wanted her for what she could do for them or for what she could give them, but never just because she was herself…

Delia Somerset.

A person, but also a woman.

She would have cried, but tears might ruin such an incredible moment.

His fingers worked magic over her scalp, even as his mouth trailed down her neck and to her shoulder.

“Perfect.” He growled.

He loosened his hold for a moment and she shivered. But he wasn’t letting go. No, he wasn’t finished kissing her yet.

He dragged his teeth along the edge of her bodice—which was lower than anything she would ever have worn given a choice. Delia arched her back. This other woman she’d become was quickly losing control. Such pleasure as this was so utterly foreign that it was also a little terrifying.

Feelings— wicked sensations —surged from her toes to her heart to between her legs—aching, throbbing, starving feelings. She’d not realized the power of touch. People only touched her when necessary. To steer her—to greet her—and even then, it was usually fleeting and… meaningless.

She felt herself being lifted, carried to the bed. She must be dreaming. Surely she was dreaming.

“This color was made for you.”

Delia opened her eyes to see Jack hovering beside her, not quite over her. She was not dreaming. His gaze was…

Hungry. But more than that. Ravenous.

This was real. This was not a dream. And Delia was very much alive.

What was she doing? What was she allowing him to do?

“You like me?” She asked the question before thinking it through. But why else would he want to kiss her and touch her like this? He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even if he was dark rather than fair-haired and blue-eyed as she’d often dreamt a hero should be. He was charming and confident. He possessed charisma—something she’d always lacked.

In her old world, anyhow.

The flames from the hearth flickered over his high cheekbones and chiseled profile. He tilted his head.

“I like you very much.” And then he dipped his head to the nipple he’d exposed, taking it between his teeth. “Do you like this?” he managed to ask.

Oh, yes. But was that something a lady admitted?

“I do.” She would be candid with him. “I didn’t know it could feel so… like this…”

He drew back just enough to stare down at her, looking satisfied.

“Don’t think of it as a chore. I’m going to show you things, Delia.” He was inching the gown up, and in one easy motion, she lay before him in next to nothing. “Hopefully, you’ll show me a thing or two as well.”

Her head was spinning. What did he mean? He wanted her to show him things? What kind of things?

The warmth of his hand skated up her leg, and she clamped her knees together. “What are you doing?” Those wonderful feelings she’d had leading up to this were ebbing away.

Jack paused, staring into her eyes.

“I think you know. Is this part of your game?”

“Game?”

“I don’t want games tonight, Delia. I simply want pleasure.” He trailed his fingertips along her outer thigh.

Delia’s blood, which had been boiling moments before, turned icy. “Pleasure—?” And before she could stop herself, she uttered words she immediately wished back. “But are you in love with me?”

She wished them back because he didn’t need to answer with words. The confused and then horrified expression on his face spoke volumes.