The Last Gamble

‘Oh.’ She gasped. With less than a heartbeat’s length to react, she missed the opportunity to capture her pet and Biscuit bulleted forward at her valiant defence. Rocketing past her skirts, the dog emitted a ferocious growl and latched onto Reese’s trousers.

The scene might have appeared comical if so much weren’t at stake. Miss Smith struggled to free Biscuit from his offensive attack, her skirts an encumbrance as she crouched to reclaim the dog, but too soon she lost footing, her boot heel caught on the uneven edge of a broken slate. Already in an awkward position, she pitched towards the daisies, losing hold of the dog in the process. Luke shot out a hand to steady her, latching on to her arm to prevent the fall, but it proved no use. Caught in the vertiginous melee, Miss Smith teetered wildly, grasping his extended arm with her ungloved hands to hold tight.

With lightning reactions, Luke shook off Biscuit and twisted his body to absorb the impact as they fell to the ground into the flowerbed like two newly planted bulbs, him on his back and Miss Smith, Georgina, warm, wonderful Georgina, sprawled atop his chest.

Her exclamation of surprise mingled with his groan upon impact. Biscuit merely continued his incessant barking.

Clubs, spades, diamonds and hearts.

Georgina’s luscious curves blanketed his increasing hardness in a landing so pleasurable he might have found heaven. Her enticing breasts, lush and wonderful, pressed against his chest in curvy warmth and delicious invitation. The sensual conclusion, that she eschewed a corset, lit a hot flame of lust he could not deny. He knew firsthand every intimate item in a woman’s wardrobe and never had heat permeated through his shirt like in this moment, the lovely Miss Smith intimately atop him. Perhaps the proper governess was not so proper after all.

Their legs tangled in fabric and daisies, urging him to pay attention to sensation. How long had he gone without a woman? Life had taken a different path but he never denied himself company. His blood stirred. He hadn’t experienced any emotion beyond loss in so long he almost didn’t recognize it, but there it was, desire. With that identification, the sudden suggestion of a kiss rose to the forefront, demanding attention no matter how inappropriate. He eased his head from the flowers, daring a better view.

She still hadn’t raised her eyes and, as he glanced at the top of her head, her lopsided bun escaped its pins and a kaleidoscope of tresses begged for his fingers. He again caught the fragrance of apricots despite flowers surrounded him. The startling realization, that he would happily stay there indefinitely, awakened all sorts of marvellous ambiences and naughty thoughts. She sighed then, her generous bosom cosseted closer as if to nudge his attention and say who cares about hair, don’t forget about me. His hands curled around her shoulders, anxious to skim down her back or, more so, take down her dishevelled bun, unravel the lengths and wrap the silky strands tight in his fists. Need and want tore him down the middle. Hell, what was he thinking?

The blasted dog continued his harangue and, with a little oomph, Miss Smith attempted to rise and correct the embarrassing situation. She lifted her head and matched his gaze directly. Her eyes, brilliant blue, searched his face as a soft breeze caught a wayward strand of hair and raised it in a dance to float between them like so many intimate suggestions. He inhaled sharply and cleared his throat, hoping to vanquish the fast and furious sinful images fighting for attention inside his brain.

Mortification. Mor-ti-fi-ca-tion. Georgina was horrified. Inhaling a deep breath, she angled her head to find Mr Reese, Luke, staring at her with a question in his eyes.

‘Oh dear.’ Her voice sounded breathy. Perhaps she’d knocked the wind from her lungs. She attempted to wriggle free of his hold, for his arm encircled her back, lashing them together in an embrace both protective and warm. She heard him groan with her movement. Was she too heavy? The hard, masculine body beneath her suggested he could support her cottage without effort. Perhaps he’d become injured in the fall. She doubted it. His rugged virility insisted his hurts were inside, unsusceptible to common injury.

She watched as his eyes moved over her face and settled on her mouth where his attention hovered for what seemed like forever. What to say? She poked her tongue out to wet her lips. ‘I should get up.’

He released a low, impatient growl that reminded her of Biscuit. The short-muzzled pug seemingly sensed the same as he continued a harsh diatribe in objection to their position. Botheration, how long had she laid atop Mr Reese? She would need a minute to reason that answer out. Sadly, Biscuit proved not nearly as patient and, before Georgina could gather her wits and regain her footing, the pug barked one last protestation and sank his sharp white teeth into Mr Reese’s forearm.

‘Bloody mongrel.’

‘Oh dear.’ Georgina scooted off Mr Reese as he raised his arm with alarming speed. She stood and, after a hard shake of her skirts to regain mobility, nabbed Biscuit, deposited him in the gated yard and returned to the front of the cottage to find Mr Reese with his palm pressed over his left forearm, his expression thunderous.

‘Come inside at once.’ She pushed the door open and moved to the side, anxious to get to the kitchen where she could collect water and bandages, everything needed to clean and dress his wound. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never seen Biscuit behave so aggressively. I don’t understand. He’s such a friendly little dog.’

‘His mouth’s not so little.’

After that mutter, Mr Reese followed quietly, though his face screamed a variety of responses. They entered the kitchen and it was he who examined her from top to bottom. She couldn’t make heads or tails of what he might consider at the moment. His wound could only hurt like the devil.

‘Please sit down.’ She indicated a chair at the kitchen table and stepped to the sink to gather clean cloths, a bowl of water and small jar of honey. ‘When Biscuit was a puppy he sank his teeth into me a few times and I quickly learned the best dressing.’ He still hadn’t spoken and she wondered if his silence was due to the pain of the bite or an increase in anger.

She breathed a bit easier when at last he pulled out a chair and rested his left arm on the tablecloth. He set to work rolling his shirtsleeve, the exposed skin below red and angry, though she couldn’t help admire the hard muscle flexed in wait of her attention nor the sheen of raven-black hair dusted over smooth, sun-bronzed skin. As she’d suspected earlier, he wore a silver ring on his thumb, though no other rings adorned his fingers. It was a strange accessory, though she could not deny it intrigued her. Suddenly aware of the silence, she rushed out a few words.

‘Biscuit is a healthy dog. I doubt there will be any adverse complications. I’m truly sorry this happened.’ At a loss to say more she advanced to the table and leaned forward to examine his arm more closely. ‘May I clean and bandage the wound, Mr Reese?’

‘At this point I must insist you call me Luke.’ He exhaled, from frustration or another reason she could not know.

‘Well then, Luke. Let’s begin.’ She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and washed over the swollen area. It no longer bled and, once cleaned, proved smaller and not as deep as she’d originally suspected. Perhaps because his arm was all carved muscle and virile strength. Biscuit might have chipped a tooth. Good heavens, was he this hard all over his body? The mental question shocked and her eyes flared at the meanderings of her thoughts. Colour heated her cheeks and she dropped her attention, her gaze lingering on his silver thumb ring before she forced herself to focus. ‘This shouldn’t hurt overmuch.’

‘Flesh wounds rarely do.’

Well, that was telling. The man carried a broken heart over the loss of his child. She swallowed emotion for his pain, but really, what could she ever say in reply? Realizing he perceived her reaction as concern, she attempted to ease his discomfort and set to cleaning out the puncture marks.

‘So, how long have you lived in Coventry?’

The innocuous question put her on immediate alert. ‘Not long.’ She wet another cloth and wiped away the faint smears of blood on his skin. She rather liked smoothing the cloth across his muscle. For some irrational reason, she experienced a captivating sensation inside instead of the other way around. Most likely she hadn’t calmed yet from the ridiculous series of events at the front door. Otherwise there was no way to explain how her composure seemed to quiver, for lack of a better word. ‘It’s a pleasant community.’ She glanced to where he watched her, his silver-eyed scrutiny breathtaking in the slanted light from the kitchen window. She leaned a little closer to examine her work. He leaned a little closer too. Did he not trust her to tend his wound?

The air prickled around them as if it asked for something, but she knew not what that could be.

‘You must find life here very different than London.’

The man was single-minded, but how could she blame him? He sought his stolen son. She dropped the cloth to the table and lifted the lid on the honey jar, only to pause in hesitation. How ironic that here, in Coventry, she, a single woman, sat with a bachelor man in her kitchen, a bastard as he’d proclaimed at the tearoom, with his shirtsleeve rolled as she prepared to coat his bare skin with honey, a forbidden thrillshimmying through her. While in London under the scrutiny of the ton, she would have been the biggest scandal of the season, ruined, and victim of the cut direct for merely speaking to a gentleman without a proper introduction. Never mind the honey.

‘I don’t miss London.’ She dipped her fingertip into the jar, inexplicably excited and at the same time distracted in her reply.

‘So, you’ve visited.’

She met his eyes and he looked intense, the dove-grey depth of his irises darker than before. ‘I prefer Coventry. That’s all I meant to imply.’ She needed to collect her thoughts before she lost control of her tongue. Thank heavens he’d never noticed she wore only a chemise and short stays. What kind of woman would he think her to be? A proper governess would keep her chastity secure.

‘London is only two days’ ride. You could accompany me there and be returned within a week. Of course, I would pay all expenses. I could rent a carriage for you and then, after you speak to Viscount Dursley on my behalf, you’d be free to visit with anyone you know in the city before returning to Coventry. All without cost to you. Just an investment of time. Why, I’ll even take you to The Underworld if you prefer an adventure.’ He paused before further presenting his plea. ‘I realize you have responsibilities here and earn your living in Coventry. I would generously reimburse you for any wages lost due to my imposition.’ He paused, his eyes narrowed as if unsure to continue or perhaps deliberating his next words with care. ‘I need your help.’

His admission tempted for all the right reasons and set her heartbeat into an anxious gallop for all the wrong ones. She’d like to assist him. She cared about Nate and his welfare, but she could not return to London. How could she help him understand without appearing selfish, or worse, hardhearted? Luke had known so much sorrow in his life. Her stomach twisted with the struggle of her decision. Why was it her life became increasingly more complicated at every turn? Any logical governess would not turn down the promise of wages. She had no need for the money, but the person she presented to the world would eagerly wish for the funds.

She dabbed a bit of honey across the wound, her cheeks hot with the intimate gesture, quick to cover the wound with clean bandages and secure the gauzy cotton bandage. She watched as he unfolded his shirtsleeve, covering all that hard, smooth flesh, much to her regret.

‘Thank you.’ He inhaled deeply as he fastened his cuff. ‘I smell apricots.’ His eyes scanned the baskets on the kitchen counter. ‘You smell like apricots.’

Her face warmed further as she confessed. ‘It’s my soap, French-milled. An indulgent luxury here in the country.’ Despite her best efforts, conversation with Luke prompted her to reveal more than she would ordinarily. Just like Biscuit’s insult, she had the unnerving feeling her words would come back to bite her.

‘An indulgence indeed.’ His tease fed on her hidden fear, that he’d fast realize a provincial governess would not have the funds or the means to special order French-milled soap. She needed to change the subject. ‘You might appeal to the law. Will a court not listen to your complaint against Viscount Dursley? Perhaps an investigator or hired man could assist in the search.’

Chapter Five (#ulink_5b307b90-ae76-5143-b69d-be6bbc735d4b)

Again, Luke was filled with the desire to grasp Georgina’s shoulders and shake her into compliance. He needed her to travel to London. He needed to touch her. Perhaps grabbing her shoulders would lead to no good, a kiss more than coercion. Or a kiss as a form of coercion.

Sitting at her kitchen table while she ministered to his wound, her nimble fingers gentle with each purposeful caress, caused an empty well to fill within his soul. There was no other way to explain it. And, too, he still hadn’t forgotten the press of her lush breasts against his body, the sweet fragrance of apricots. A modest governess who indulged in imported soap? Did she favour silk underthings too?

Her neckline revealed a tempting half circle of creamy flesh flushed to a rosy glow by the unlikely events leading to his place in her kitchen, but he had no trouble envisioning what lay beneath. Full, luscious breasts, their silky tips dusky and hard as he teased the tender peaks and nipped her delicious skin. The promise of one taste of her breasts would cause a man to sell his soul to the Devil. He adjusted his position on the chair just as she turned to put away the honey… oh, and the honey. Damn if he couldn’t think of a hundred uses for that. Damn if Georgina wasn’t the most beddable governess he’d ever imagined. If he needed to resort to seduction…

He banished his lustful fantasies, pushing them aside for what remained most important. He needed to find Nathaniel. Still, after decades on the street and involvement at the hell, caution never proved his strong suit. ‘Your suggestions are well meant but will prove of no use. I’ve exhausted every resource at my disposal. The most powerful weapon is a credible and impartial stranger to support my claim. That’s why you need to come to London.’

‘I don’t even know you.’ Her words were cautious at best.

‘But you know my problem.’ Nathaniel. I’m so sorry, Nate. ‘I must find my son and you’re the only person who can help.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

She came to sit at the table, a personal portrait of simple country living. Two adults discussing their plans for the immediate future. How different life proceeded away from the city. It reminded of a time long ago when he first learned he would be a father, the grave parallel of the two scenes uncanny.

‘I hope so. I need your help.’ He winced as he moved his arm on the table. He wasn’t above evoking a bit of guilt if it accomplished his goal, though the words didn’t come easily. ‘With your testimony, it would be difficult for a magistrate to ignore my claim.’ In truth, he wondered if that hypothesis held true, but faced with no other leads, it offered a promising path to pursue. Mayhap he could confront Dursley with Georgina at his side, although he would never wish to do anything to upset her or place the governess in harm’s way. She deserved better. Scandal wouldn’t reach her out here hidden in the countryside, but that didn’t mean he would exploit her generosity were she to decide to help. And he would convince her.

He would make true his invitation to show her The Underworld. Introduce her to Cole and Sinclair. A stroke of pride squared his shoulders as he viewed her now. She remained quiet so he turned the conversation in an attempt to learn more about her. ‘Do you enjoy working as a governess? I’ll confess I was never one for schooling.’ At least not the kind involving books.