The voices grew nearer, reminding him of the necessity that this interlude between them—regardless of how delicious it had been and how much he did not wish for it to end—had to come to a halt.
“Which hurts the most?” his minx dared to ask.
Bloody hell, he had already debauched her.
And his cockstand was like a granite obelisk in his trousers at the moment. He could not step out of the chamber in such a state.
“Damn it, Jo.” He stalked back toward her, wishing he could finish what they had begun. Knowing they could not. “You are a vixen, do you know that? But as much as I would like to linger here with you, doing so is unwise. You want to be wicked, not to be thoroughly, ineffably ruined, and even if you are ruined, I am not the man for you. I have no intention of marrying. You should return to the ladies in the drawing room.”
“I should,” she agreed. But then, she surprised him by rising on her toes and giving him a quick, chaste kiss.
Likely, she had been aiming for his lips, but in the darkness, she only found his chin. He grinned anyway. “Go before we are discovered.”
The voices had faded back down the hall.
She spun about, a swirl of silk. “Decker?”
He gritted his teeth. If she remained in this damned room for any longer than the next minute, he would have her on her back on the carpets, her petticoats raised, his tongue on her cunny.
He inhaled slowly. “Yes, Jo?”
“Do you like Lady Helena?” her question was hesitant.
“Not in the way I like you,bijou,” he told her tenderly, in spite of himself. “Now go, and no more flirting with Huntingdon.”
Her hand was on the latch—he heard it turning.
Before she opened the door, she threw one last parting shot that left him reeling. “I like you, too, Decker. Quite a bit more than I ought.”
And then, she was gone, leaving him in the murk with nothing but a raging cockstand, a smarting arse, and her words, sinking their talons deep into the recesses of his forgotten heart.
Chapter Eight
“We have recentlybeen blessed with many crates of books for the children, my ladies,” said Mrs. Chisholm, the proprietress of the orphanage where Jo, her sister Alexandra, and her sister-in-law Clara were paying a visit. “They were donated quite generously by a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Books for the children?” Clara asked in her calm, sweet American drawl. “I was under the impression most of the children were incapable of reading.”
“Yet another blessed improvement we can thank the Lord for bestowing upon us,” Mrs. Chisholm said.
Apple-cheeked and perpetually flushed, she had a kindly smile and compassionate gray eyes she hid behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She made an odd swishing sound as she walked, and Jo could not be certain if it was the result of her shoes or her undergarments, but whatever the case, Mrs. Chisholm seemed to genuinely care for her charges in a way her predecessor decidedly had not.
“The same benefactor has been generous enough to provide the older children with teachers,” Mrs. Chisholm added. “He is of the firm belief that orphans should have the means of bettering themselves. He also provided us with a handsome new rosewood piano, the finest model, with the intention that the children should spend some time gaining instruction in music. A most worthy endeavor, indeed, and ever so much better than the workhouse, you understand.”
Jo agreed heartily with the benefactor in that orphans ought to have the same opportunity in their lives as other children. Her heart ached each time she visited the orphanage. But whilst they had been visiting the orphanage for a few months now, these sudden gifts were as much of a surprise as it had been when the orphanage had suddenly acquired a new patron who had placed the softhearted Mrs. Chisholm in charge of the entire affair.
And there was something about the proprietress’s revelations which brought to mind the last man she would have ever supposed might play secret benefactor to an orphanage. New books and a rosewood piano? Decker owned a publisher and a piano factory.
“This mysterious benefactor sounds like a man with a very good heart indeed,” observed Clara as Mrs. Chisholm led them to the large chamber where the older children often gathered.
“Oh yes, Lady Ravenscroft,” the proprietress agreed. “The purest heart. So many are willing to forget all about the plight of these poor, beloved children. We are most grateful for the generous hearts of your ladyships and Lord Ravenscroft and our other benefactors. I will go and fetch the children for your ladyships, if you do not mind waiting?”
With a curtsy, Mrs. Chisholm departed the room, leaving Jo, Alexandra, and Clara alone. Jo’s mind instantly began to wander.
Ordinarily, Jo took great delight in their weekly visits to this and a handful of other London orphanages. There had been a time, not long ago—before Julian had married Clara and received her massive dowry—when their familial munificence had been an impossibility. They had been dreadfully impoverished, the Ravenscroft estates in ruin. Being in such vastly different circumstances had left Jo feeling not just thankful but as if she ought to help others in some way, now that she could.
But today, she would be the first to admit that her heart was not entirely devoted to the task at hand. It had been two days since she had last seen Decker. Since he had left her stewing in misery whilst he flirted with Lady Helena. Since she had stolen kisses with him in the darkened room at the Sinclair townhome following dinner.
Since he had told her he had no intention of marrying.
