Chapter 17: Co-conspirators at the Opera
"You vex me."
Nicola leaned back in her cushioned seat from where she had been eyeing the crowd below from her advantageous position in the Blackwoods' private box seats. She met his storm-cloud gaze with a bemused smile, clutching the opera glasses in her lap as she tilted her head to regard Jason who was seated to her right, close beside her. On her other side, Lady Blackwood, and next to her, Blanche. Designated accordingly to keep Blanche and Nicola separate just in case, and Kathleen had said as much, the two of them got it into their heads to act mischievously amidst the attendance of what appeared to be most of the ton.
"Indeed?"
"I have left you countless letters and you have not responded," Jason said, playfully wounded.
Nicola glanced to the other occupants of the box, but they were engrossed in surveying the crowd, excitedly endeavouring to determine whether any notables were in attendance. Kathleen and Blanche would not be able to hear the interchange, especially over the din of the other guests. "Have you?" Nicola blinked at him innocently. "I must have been busy." It was partly the truth. She had kept herself as occupied with various tasks as possible throughout the day leading up to the opera that night in an attempt to stop thinking about his correspondence, about him.
"And what exactly has kept you so preoccupied at my estate?" There was a roguish smile curling his lips and he did look very handsome in his black evening attire, even if a wayward strand of dark hair was curling loose over his brow.
"I was gardening." Nicola shrugged and tore her eyes from him, focusing instead on the crowd below once more.
"Gardening?" His voice was a teasing scoff, mildly curious and intrigued at the notion.
"Yes, gardening," she repeated, as if he were daft or hard of hearing, or both.
"You're joking."
"I am not."
"You mean to tell me," Jason said slowly, leaning forward slightly until his proximity drew an invisible shiver across the back of her neck, "you were playing around in the mud, in the Northwick gardens?"
"I mean to tell you, my lord, that I was gardening. Your groundskeeper has kindly kept aside a patch of earth for my private use." She looked at him out the corner of her eye. "You are not the only one with secret talents."
"It would seem so." He leaned back and she wondered if it was amusement or surprise she heard in his tone. "How have I not been informed of this? Ah, this explains the suggestive little gift I was left last night."
"Same way I imagine I had no inkling of your penchant for oil painting, my lord." Nicola narrowed her eyes at the last statement. "Suggestive?"
"Yes, but I am the Marquess of Northwick, the groundskeeper is obligated to inform me of all alterations occurring on my properties. And, for Christ's sake, call me Jason already."
At that, she turned to him. Jason was lounging back casually now, one ankle crossed over his opposite knee, but his eyes were curiously alight as they had been studying the back of her head. "You sound put out," she teased. "Or perhaps your inflated opinion of yourself may encroach on our confined space too much and push us all off the balcony. You could also explain what is so suggestive about a pretty orchid."
His smile flashed across his face. "Such devious little words from those lovely lips," he murmured, eyes hooded, "I ought to drag you across my lap at your audacity for addressing me as such. Pretty, indeed."
"Jason!" Wildly, Nicola checked if her other companions had heard him, but they were still engrossed with their previous activity. Her face was aflame when she whipped around to give him a glare, but there was a pulse between her legs from his words and she pressed her thighs together as if to quell it. "You can't... I mean, you shouldn't..."
He cocked his head to the side, all innocence. A devil in an angelic disguise; a halo over each horn. "I should like to do whatever I like," Jason mused, sweeping his gaze down her body languorously. "As should you."
"You should be focusing on the task at hand," Nicola insisted, swallowing hard against the caress of that gaze. She waved at hand at the expanse before them, emphasising the other guests present below and opposite. The theatre was a grand, levelled arena. Majestic Corinthian columns rose to the ceilings, embellished with gold, while the dark ruby stage curtains draped gracefully from one end to the other at the front. Across from them, and around the perimeter of the theatre, were other private boxes, its occupants of variable titles and wealth.
"I am."
Nicola snapped her opera glasses up and held them to her face, squinting at him. "You are not. There are plenty of young ladies present, we should start before they dim the lights."
"You look ridiculous," Jason pointed out, and she laughed at having his face so vividly magnified through the lenses.
She spun towards the crowd and scanned a few faces. "Do you have any physical requirements I should be looking for specifically before you start dismissing the names I give you?"
"She should have been present at the Crosthwaite ball and the picnic. There is something else for you to consider."
"Oh?" She lowered the glasses and turned to him. From within the inner pocket of his coat, he procured a folded piece of parchment.
She froze.
"Perhaps you ought to read this and tell me." His eyes were steady on hers as he handed her the letter, one of her letters from her box, and Nicola's breath froze in her chest. There was nothing readable on his face, his eyes so still and grey. The panic she felt almost made her wither, but she coordinated her movements fluidly and accepted the letter, unfolding the parchment and scanning the contents.
Oh, she knew it well, something that had happened a month ago to set her fingers scrawling across the page. She had written in detail about a promenade they had taken through Regent's Park, and Jason had been there... accompanying a rather stunning brunette, Miss Selena Duncan. She had known the girl he had been escorting, his smile warm and flirtatious as they perambulated along the paths, amiably close to each other. Nicola had watched and pined in silence beside Blanche and her mother.
How utterly pathetic.
"Anybody could have been at Regent's Park," Nicola told him flatly, closing the letter. She wanted to rip it to shreds or throw it inside the closest furnace.
"True," Jason agreed, "but the author is familiar with my companion that day, she went as far as to name her, so it can be assumed that she must at least have made her acquaintance."
"That hardly narrows it down." She resumed her scan of the crowd, lingering on the box seats opposite them. "Miss Duncan is vastly popular. She knows everyone. She would also be a suitable candidate and match for you, come to think of it." The words did not sound as bitter as they tasted against her tongue.
"No," he clipped. "Try again."
"Miss Lilley-"
"No, next."
"You do not even know who I was going to say," Nicola snapped.
"I should not like to court someone named after a flower."
"Well, that's just rude."
"Are you out of names, then?" he drawled, the sound reaching out like a wicked claw and stroking the hairs on the back of her neck. She knew he was watching her, even though she couldn't see him and had turned away, but she felt his eyes as if they were against her skin, as if his hand were touching the column of her neck. They were close together, after all. He could reach out and be able to touch her, his leg lay so close to her skirts that if he shifted they would brush together, and the thought that they might sent her body reeling at how much she wanted to feel him.
"I may be if you continue saying no," Nicola groused, moving to the next box. She wondered if he would notice if she shifted just a little bit to the right, if she somehow made it look unintentional... ah, such wicked thoughts she was mulling over tonight. "How about Miss Veronica Bowring? Miss Augusta Hunt? Miss Magdalena Banks?"
"No, nay, God no."
"What are you saying no to?" Blanche asked, leaning past her mother to look at them.
"His future courtships," Nicola provided, a tad grumpily, but honestly the process was torturous. Blanche outright guffawed at that, in all likelihood the concept of her brother courting anybody seemed ludicrous to her mind. Thankfully there was only one more evening left where she would have to endure this wounding subterfuge of finding him a suitable candidate.
And at Jason's rate of dismissal, it very much seemed like he had little to no interest of finding one. Perhaps this was merely some passing amusement to him, to idle through the tedious hours of time he was obliged to spend in ballrooms and luncheons. Now that, Nicola thought, was interesting.
"Truly?" Lady Blackwood turned and pinned her son with a quizzical look but the movement was cut short when the lights suddenly dimmed and they were swallowed in darkness, an excited murmur running through the theatre.
Nicola settled against the back of her chair and threw Jason a disgruntled whisper, "Perhaps you do not need my assistance in this quest, since I appear to be coming up short of names."
The curtains against the front of the stage were raised and a beautiful woman took the centre, beginning an achingly melodic soprano. About what, Nicola hadn't a clue. She hadn't read the leaflet, so engrossed had she been conversing with Jason and scanning the people in attendance.
"You have not given me a name I wish to hear," he murmured in return.
Nicola ignored him and focused her attention on the performance unfolding before them. She was turned slightly away, angled towards the stage, with Blanche and Lady Blackwood in similar poses, slightly in front of her and turned away.
A shock ran through her when she felt him.
It was so bold, so unexpected, she couldn't believe that he would dare... but it was there, against her back, and it took her several moments to realise what he was doing, her spine stiffening and bowing.
Jason traced the edge of her dress as it dipped across the back of her shoulders, his gloved fingers brushing against the exposed skin. Leisurely, lazily, he stroked her back and forth, and there was something possessively intimate about the gesture that her body began to thrum and come alive. She turned her head slightly in silent question or appeal, in shock, but his eyes were hooded, brewing like lightning illuminated storm clouds. She wanted to ask him what he was doing, if he was out of his mind, but he merely shook his head, tilted his chin to the stage. A silent command she was helpless to disobey.
He shifted subtly beside her, his leg adjusted and then pressed against the length of her thigh. She could feel every exquisite inch of him and her hands curled into her skirts, around the opera glasses, to keep from fidgeting, to keep from drawing attention. His fingers stirred at the back of her neck, trailing down her spine, then back up. It was dark, the caress would be lost if anyone chose to linger a gaze on their box, but the fact that Jason was willing to take the risk... She shuddered visibly, her skin pricking with each stroke of his fingers. It was an ache to be touched like this, a wild yearning stirring within her. It made her feel alive, yet empty, desperate to be filled by him, with him.
All the while the opera continued on with poignant intensity around them. And Nicola had no idea what was happening, not when the hand on her neck dropped, the fingers now stroking her shoulders, brushing down her arm, and possessed the top of the thigh closest to him.
She sucked in a breath.
She wondered, her cheeks aflame, if he could sense the heat that was convalescing at the apex of her thighs, where his fingers were lingering so close to as they slid, dipping her skirts slightly. She made the mistake of glancing down and the sight of his hand, set against the top of her leg which was pressed against his own, was so intimate a fresh wave of need erupted through her. Those fingers moved deftly, stroking small possessive circles along her inner thigh, his thumb idly kneading the outer in a repetitive motion.
She bit her tongue to keep from making a sound.
He allowed his hand to linger over her throughout the performance. It drove her insane. He knew it, while his touch devoured every inch of her thigh, straying far too close to a secret part of her that was flaming at his proximity. She relived his kiss, his ardency that evening in the forest, and his fingers now torturing her very soul, and she almost thrust her hips against him, begging for more, for a more fulfilling caress that surpassed this mindless torture.
And when the opera finished, and the curtains dropped, his touch was suddenly withdrawn, leaving her bereft and confused and so very hot she could have screamed. But Jason merely smiled at her wolfishly, infuriatingly composed and unaffected, before standing and politely offering her his arm, escorting her out the theatre.
She struggled to mingle with other guests after that, on his arm, and talk with her companions who were also in attendance. If asked to recall what she said and did the hour after the show ended, Nicola would not be able to recount the events. She may have smiled, laughed even, swopped anecdotes and pleasantries, but the only thought she had in her mind was of his hand, a gentle caress, a possessive torment, and the reasons for it were not comforting. He was there throughout, guiding her, smiling down at her, the normalcy and pleasantness of his interactions spoke volumes for how affected he seemed by her. Perhaps she didn't affect him as he did her, perhaps she was his amusement- a dalliance to pass away the time. Why else now, after all her years at Northwick, was he showing her an ounce of attention?
She couldn't look at him, couldn't meet his eyes as they endured the carriage ride home together. Her body was in turmoil, juxtaposed against the simmering anguish and confusion of her heart. She didn't greet him as she fled up the stairs to her chambers, she hardly spoke at all while the imprint of his fingers branded her body in the places he had touched.
***
Much later, there was a knock at her door. Nicola crawled out of her bed, believing it to be Blanche who would no doubt want to check on her due to her odd behaviour after the opera. She had also barred her door this time, unwilling to be roused from her sleep by her friend for the second night in a row.
Nicola padded barefoot across the floor and unlocked the door, swinging it wide.
She almost slammed it closed again.
It was only the way he looked that caused her to pause. Jason swallowed her threshold, his shoulders slanted in a predatory stance, his head tilted as he studied her. There were shadows on his face and his eyes were burning, something desperate and primal flaring in them as he raked her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
His voice was a growl when he spoke. "Are you-"
"No, I'm not-"
"Is that-"
"No, it isn't-"
He stepped across the threshold purposefully and she retreated, matching him step for step as he circled. A lion stalking its prey. "You are wearing my shirt."
Nicola swallowed, grasping the material that hung low over her thighs and wondering how she would be able to explain herself out of this mess. Then again, he was in her room. Jason was moving towards her with an intent she began to read as familiar considering she had seen it before, knew what it meant from the night he had kissed her, the way he had looked at her but a few hours earlier at the opera, and damn if her body didn't ignite with the anticipation of his attack. "You are in my room," she said weakly, her chest heaving.
"I wanted to show you-" He cut his words short, his eyes dropping to a canvas he had in his hands, the back facing her. She hadn't noticed. She hadn't noticed the paint covering his hands and forearms, splattering his shirt that he wore loosely over his trousers, a smear against the bronzed skin of his neck.
Oh, God.
His gaze fastened on where her hands were writhing in the tails of his shirt, with nerves, with the ludicrous effort of covering her legs. Jason threw back his head, dropped the painting. "Lord help me," he rasped, "I can't-"
Then he was on her.
It was one step really that separated them, but it felt as if he had launched himself across a mighty cavern, his body jarring against hers, banding an arm around her waist, one around the back of thighs. She was hitched off her feet, pushed against the door he slammed closed behind her.
When his mouth took hers, a guttural sound left him, reverberating from deep within his chest. She felt him tremble with restraint as his tongue slid between the seam of her lips, coaxingly, and when she opened for him, and he slickly glided inside her, she bowed against him, wrapped her arms around his neck. The cold of the wood beneath her shoulders was biting, exquisitely different to the fire pulsating through her blood. His body pushed into hers, moving endlessly, and the hand around her thighs drifted, squeezing a command, then urging her legs up his hips, supported completely by his weight.
His growl of pleasure consumed her, his breath rushing with hers, as his mouth moved ceaselessly, hungrily against her, his tongue delving deeper and deeper. He rolled his hips into her, shock seizing her body at the sensation of that hard, urgent part of him coming into contact with the part of her between her thighs where every nerve-ending in her body was pooling. Suddenly his mouth tore from her and she protested at the separation, a ragged sound of desperation, but his head was dropping, a hand spanning her waist and sliding up, parting the stays of her shirt- his shirt- "Jason," she found her voice, at last, when his mouth was inches from her breast, her chest heaving as she looked down at him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were experiencing physical pain. "Don't tell me to stop," he almost begged, and that part of him between her legs, braced against the very centre of her, seemed to throb against her.
She didn't. Instead she whispered, "This is a bad idea."
Those eyes, as grey and tumultuous as the Atlantic, raised, skewered her, before he purposefully opened his mouth, biting the top of her breast. She gasped and squirmed, serving to push him more against her and he groaned, the sound muffled against her skin and the fabric of the shirt. "Is that what you think?" he murmured, dragging his mouth upwards.
"I... I don't know," she breathed, his mouth closing on a point just above her collar bone. She raked her fingers through his hair, dragging him closer, or wanting to urge him away.
"Think about it." His teeth and mouth stroked further up the column of her neck, his tongue flicking at the sensitive flesh behind her ear. The invasive caress of his breath against that area made her shiver. "And let me know."
He released her, catching her just before she buckled in two, and slid her gradually to her feet, dragging her body down every straining inch of him, waiting a moment until he was sure she was steady. Then he stepped away, retrieved the painting he had dropped, grinned wryly to himself. "The funny thing is, Nicki," he began, his voice still coarse but more composed than before, "I fully intended to come here to show you my painting." He brushed something off the canvas, studying it for a moment, then his eyes strayed to her where she was frozen against the door. Hungry, she thought, his expression was hungry when he looked at her. "You may keep my shirt," Jason purred, and that smile turned her knees to liquid all over again, "because the next time I see you in it, with your hair unbound like that, you nor I will be able to wear it again."
He handed her the painting, leaning in close to her again, his fingers brushing her against the open vee of the shirt she wore with the lightest of touches, before he opened her door and slid out. The air left her lungs and she crumpled to her knees, then she looked at the painting.
The paint had not yet dried but even in the shadows of the room she could see what it was.
Jason Blackwood was either a hopeless romantic... or set on destroying her, leaving only her likeness in remembrance that she had indeed once existed.