Not Wicked Enough by Carolyn Jewel Page B

astonishingly lovely he was.
     
    Her body betrayed her memory of Greer, because she clung to Mountjoy as if no one else had ever mattered to her. In her wicked, wicked dream she kissed him back, and it was wonderful to feel a shiver of arousal when his arms slid around her, the soft touch of his mouth. He pulled back to look at her, his eyes a deep and unfathomable green, and the world dropped away.
     
    She held his face between her hands, sweeping her thumbs underneath his eyes. His skin was warm and alive. She’d felt like this the first time Greer touched her. Shaky, full of anticipation, nervous, aroused, and completely without doubt that they were right to do this. To hold each other, to kiss, to enjoy the physical. Mountjoy’s arms tightened around her as the chasm that was her grief opened up and threatened to swallow her whole.
     
    “You work for me now,” he told her in a gruff voice. “No one but me.”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “I shan’t ask you to forget him. Never that.” His hands moved over her, caressing, sliding along her shoulders, over the curve of her breasts, her bottom, and everywhere else he could reach and in between he pressed kisses on her, and she melted a little at each one. “Eugenia is right. You can find happiness with another man.”
     
    In her dream, she wondered for the first time if that might actually be possible for her.
     

Chapter Six
     

     
    M OUNTJOY CAME HOME TO A QUIET HOUSE EVEN though it was early afternoon. He thought nothing of it, supposing, erroneously as it turned out, that Nigel was visiting the Kirks again, and his sister and her friend were shopping or making calls. He admitted to a certain disappointment at the empty house because Lily Wellstone was a sensual pleasure to watch. She was his secret and guilty pleasure. Addicting, actually. She was in his thoughts too often and, lately, in his dreams, too.
    They had succeeded, however, in putting aside that mad incident in the garden. He stayed away from home more than he might have otherwise, and if they happened to meet, they were cordial to each other and nothing more, whatever his private thoughts might be.
     
    He nudged aside the guilty thought that he ought to take the opportunity to call on the Kirks himself. One day, Miss Jane Kirk would make him as suitable a wife as any woman of his acquaintance. Her father had made it clear an offer from him would be welcome, and most of High Tearingbehaved as if their marriage was inevitable. He should get the thing done and propose to her. As soon as the time was right. When he had a moment to breathe amid his duties. When more of his affairs were settled. When he did marry, he wanted the thing to be done right, with all the sincerity and sobriety the marriage deserved.
     
    In his room, he put on fresh clothes, breaking his valet’s heart yet again by ignoring his suggestions as to alternate attire. The man took every opportunity to suggest, by deed or look or allusion—Mountjoy had forbidden overt remarks on the subject of his clothes—that his wardrobe was deficient. Why should he mind his clothes when he was in his own home and no one was here? He wasn’t one of those noblemen born into money and position, and he saw no reason to behave as if he had been.
     
    Dressed in his most comfortable clothes, he left Elliot to his incipient despair and went downstairs in search of a bite to eat. He passed one of the salons on his way and heard voices and laughter, the deeper tones of a man and then a woman’s laugh. Two women, he thought.
     
    The salon door was ajar, though not enough for him to see what was going on. His ability to keep the names and functions of the various rooms in the house straight wasn’t improving, in part because he didn’t care and in part because he’d grown to manhood in his aunt and uncle’s home, a house with two floors and seven rooms, including the kitchen and servants’ rooms.
     
    Why did anyone need four salons? Or was it