ignoble chore.
Lost as he was in these thoughts on this, his fourth trip down the stairs with Arabella's belongings, he didn't pay any heed to where he was going as he bounded off the last step and found himself colliding with someone.
And not just anyone, he soon discovered as his armload of luggage went flying into the air with what looked like a sewing basket—threads and yarns, knitting needles and poor bits of ribbon mixing with Arabella's ludicrously rich collection of belongings.
Even as the yarn tangled, the threads unraveled, and a feminine cry of "Gracious heavens!" rose in the air, Jack realized his adversary was about to fall as well, so he quickly wrapped his arms around the warm and curved lines of only one such creature.
A lady.
And not some young, soon-to-be debutante, but a woman grown.
Such curves he knew all too well. Had spent years seducing and exploring. Despite the fact that it had been some time since he'd been in such close proximity to any woman, like most inherent talents, his memory and his blood surged with bold clarity, and he pulled her close.
To keep her from falling.
"Oooh," she gasped as she slammed into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her fingers splayed across his shoulders. Fingers that quickly turned into balled fists and began to pound against him, undermining his already tenuous stance.
"Careful, miss," he told her. Certainly he wasn't to be blamed for keeping her from hurting herself? Why, he'd done her a favor.
Perhaps it didn't help matters that his hand had landed right on the curves of her sweetly rounded bottom and his arm had wound around her slender form until his palm had come to rest beneath a perfectly formed breast.
He looked down at her, feeling a bit bemused; surely, if there was to be some reward in this errand, it was a short lapse back into his rakish past.
A gratuity of sorts, found in the sight of pink lips, the rosy hue of fair skin. And considering her other endowments, could a former rake be held responsible for the temptation she had hidden beneath her ugly black bombazine gown?
Besides, it had been a long time since he'd done anything to retain his title of Mad Jack Tremont.
So could he really be faulted if he nearly forgot himself and lowered his lips to hers, to taste a bit of their pert promise, to see if the rest of her charms could be matched by her kiss…
That is, until he spied her hair.
The devil take her, the chit was a redhead! How he had missed it before, he knew not, but there was no denying the color now.
Even tied up and contained as it was in a spinster's knot, he knew without a doubt what was bound beneath that prison of pins and ribbons.
Red, tempting flames of passion.
He nearly tossed her into the heap of luggage as he released her, his rediscovered ardor fleeing like the hordes before the Huns.
She stumbled out of his grasp and, like any good woman, shot him a most aggrieved look.
Whether it was for the state of her tangled sewing basket or ruffled senses, he wasn't too sure. To be honest, he didn't care.
For while the Tremont family motto was
Justus esto et non metue
(Be just and fear not), he had added his own addendum to that brave credo.
And no redheads.
Demmed beguiling, mysterious creatures. Sent like the ruddy hounds of hell to be his undoing.
Thankfully, the lady didn't look all that pleased to make his acquaintance. Her fair brow furrowed, and she backed away from him like he was showing signs of plague.
"You!" she sputtered, her greeting coming out like an accusation or the warning cry of "Bar the door."
The flashing look of horror in her green eyes pricked at his sense of honor. Despite what his brother, or obviously Miss Emery and her cohorts thought of him, he was a gentleman these days… well, most of the time.
"Lord John Tremont, at your service," he said, mustering his out-of-practice manners and managing a decent bow.
"Harrumph," she stammered, still looking at him expectantly, fists
Lost as he was in these thoughts on this, his fourth trip down the stairs with Arabella's belongings, he didn't pay any heed to where he was going as he bounded off the last step and found himself colliding with someone.
And not just anyone, he soon discovered as his armload of luggage went flying into the air with what looked like a sewing basket—threads and yarns, knitting needles and poor bits of ribbon mixing with Arabella's ludicrously rich collection of belongings.
Even as the yarn tangled, the threads unraveled, and a feminine cry of "Gracious heavens!" rose in the air, Jack realized his adversary was about to fall as well, so he quickly wrapped his arms around the warm and curved lines of only one such creature.
A lady.
And not some young, soon-to-be debutante, but a woman grown.
Such curves he knew all too well. Had spent years seducing and exploring. Despite the fact that it had been some time since he'd been in such close proximity to any woman, like most inherent talents, his memory and his blood surged with bold clarity, and he pulled her close.
To keep her from falling.
"Oooh," she gasped as she slammed into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her fingers splayed across his shoulders. Fingers that quickly turned into balled fists and began to pound against him, undermining his already tenuous stance.
"Careful, miss," he told her. Certainly he wasn't to be blamed for keeping her from hurting herself? Why, he'd done her a favor.
Perhaps it didn't help matters that his hand had landed right on the curves of her sweetly rounded bottom and his arm had wound around her slender form until his palm had come to rest beneath a perfectly formed breast.
He looked down at her, feeling a bit bemused; surely, if there was to be some reward in this errand, it was a short lapse back into his rakish past.
A gratuity of sorts, found in the sight of pink lips, the rosy hue of fair skin. And considering her other endowments, could a former rake be held responsible for the temptation she had hidden beneath her ugly black bombazine gown?
Besides, it had been a long time since he'd done anything to retain his title of Mad Jack Tremont.
So could he really be faulted if he nearly forgot himself and lowered his lips to hers, to taste a bit of their pert promise, to see if the rest of her charms could be matched by her kiss…
That is, until he spied her hair.
The devil take her, the chit was a redhead! How he had missed it before, he knew not, but there was no denying the color now.
Even tied up and contained as it was in a spinster's knot, he knew without a doubt what was bound beneath that prison of pins and ribbons.
Red, tempting flames of passion.
He nearly tossed her into the heap of luggage as he released her, his rediscovered ardor fleeing like the hordes before the Huns.
She stumbled out of his grasp and, like any good woman, shot him a most aggrieved look.
Whether it was for the state of her tangled sewing basket or ruffled senses, he wasn't too sure. To be honest, he didn't care.
For while the Tremont family motto was
Justus esto et non metue
(Be just and fear not), he had added his own addendum to that brave credo.
And no redheads.
Demmed beguiling, mysterious creatures. Sent like the ruddy hounds of hell to be his undoing.
Thankfully, the lady didn't look all that pleased to make his acquaintance. Her fair brow furrowed, and she backed away from him like he was showing signs of plague.
"You!" she sputtered, her greeting coming out like an accusation or the warning cry of "Bar the door."
The flashing look of horror in her green eyes pricked at his sense of honor. Despite what his brother, or obviously Miss Emery and her cohorts thought of him, he was a gentleman these days… well, most of the time.
"Lord John Tremont, at your service," he said, mustering his out-of-practice manners and managing a decent bow.
"Harrumph," she stammered, still looking at him expectantly, fists
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