“J-Jane,” she rasped and tipped her head back to aid him in his quest.
At the satiny softness of her long, graceful neck, Gabriel’s heart thundered in his ears. Or was that her wildly beating pulse under his lips? “Jane,” he repeated back, exploring the taste of her name. Short and yet, strength melded with the faintest hint of softness to that one syllable. “Perfect,” he whispered, taking her lips once more. It suited her in every way. He folded his arms about her, drawing her close and taking her lips under his again. A startled cry escaped her. He stiffened and drew back just as Jane punched him. Her fist connected solidly with his nose.
As the lady stumbled away from him, Gabriel touched his nose. He winced. By God, too many counts in a ring against Gentleman Jackson himself and never broken, but then with one dangerously wicked right jab, the lady had broken his nose. Belatedly, he registered the sickly warm trickle of blood. Gabriel yanked his kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose glaring at Jane over the rapidly staining fabric. The lady continued retreating, her pallor white. “Bloody hell.” He winced at the pain of his own touch. What companion learned to handle herself in that impressive manner? If he’d not already sworn to have her gone, and then violated the unspoken vow to never dally with those in his employ, he’d have hired her on as a companion if for no other reason than the certainty that Chloe would be well-cared for in her capable, if violent, hands.
*
Jane pressed her hands to her lips. Her well-kissed lips. Oh, bloody hell, she’d hit him. The marquess withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and then snapped open the stark white linen. Horror filled her as a splash of crimson stained that immaculate fabric. “I—” That strangled word caught in her throat, as she recalled the last man she’d hit and the consequences of that violent, but deservedly violent, outburst. She’d been cast out of her employer’s home and scuttled off to Mrs. Belden’s. But this was altogether different. This circumstance, however, was vastly different. The marquess had not forced his attentions on her. Instead, she’d pressed herself against him like the shameful harlot her mother had been and eagerly returned that kiss.
From over the rim of his handkerchief, he studied her. The faintest amusement glinted in his emerald green eyes, which was impossible. A powerful, commanding nobleman would not take to being dealt a facer by a member of his staff. And certainly not a woman who was merely a member of his staff because she’d laid siege to his breakfast room and refused to leave until she met and made a plea to his sister.
“A simple no would have sufficed,” he said drolly and experimentally tested the soundness of the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, God, have I broken it?” It would be the very worst shame for that aquiline nose to be forever crooked because of her involuntary reaction.
“I’m merely afforded a ‘my lord’ from the title marquess. I assure you, I’m no god,” he drawled.
How could he affect that droll, dry humor? How, when she’d hit him as she had? She backed into a rose-inlaid side table and the fragile piece of furniture shifted sideways, upending a porcelain shepherdess. The white and pink piece tumbled to the floor and exploded in a spray of splintered glass. She stared blankly down at the mess she’d created and then swung her gaze back to the marquess. “M-my lord. Forgive me,” she said, detesting the hoarseness of her tone; that weak, spiritless quality which had convinced him of her unsuitability for the post as companion to his sister.
He waved his free hand. “It was inappropriate for me to kiss you.” Heat spiraled through her at those uttered words that made the memory of his embrace all the more real. The marquess lowered his handkerchief and she let out a small sigh of relief at the halted blood flow. He gave her a wry smile. “And considering that kiss, I’d venture it is entirely appropriate for you to refer to me by my Christian name.”
She blinked. It would never be appropriate for her to refer to him or any other nobleman by his Christian name. And yet, she angled her head, hopelessly wanting, nay needing, to know the name assigned to a broadly powerful figure such as the marquess.