Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower #2) - Maggi Andersen Page 0,74
at the absence of a nightmare. The erotic smell of lovemaking lingered, and he smiled as he recalled their night together. The morning sun peeked through a break in the curtains, reaching golden fingers across the carpet toward the bed. Jo was made for love. She had been a curious and passionate lover. He watched her sleep, her glorious hair spread over the pillow, her body curled trustingly against him.
She had come to London to enjoy the Season and had been thrust into the sordid underbelly of London, her life at stake, and he wanted to make it up to her, to keep her safe and love her.
He considered the day ahead. They were to depart London after breakfast and journey north, stopping at coaching inns for the night. While he was keen for them to reach Seacliffe, there was no need to travel at break-neck speed. They would enjoy a leisurely trip through the countryside decked out in spring finery and put up at the best inns.
Jo stirred and smiled sleepily up at him. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” He gathered her warm, inviting body close and kissed her.
A knock came at the door.
“Sally, with my chocolate,” Jo murmured.
He groaned and threw back the covers. “We leave in a few hours. I’ll leave you to dress.”
Jo pouted prettily as she followed him from the bed to don her dressing gown.
She was a naked Venus. Alabaster skin and pale pink nipples, a dark red triangle of hair below the gentle curve of her stomach, and long slim legs. His body stirred, wanting her. “Go away, Sally,” he called. “Come back in an hour.”
With an inviting smile, Jo toyed with the curls on his chest.
Reade cupped Jo’s derriere in his hands and pulled her against his arousal as he kissed her. He drew away to search her eyes. “Shall we, my love?”
She murmured an assent.
Reade picked her up and laid her on the bed. He settled behind her, his hands on her hips and eased into her soft warmth, his fingers kneading her soft bottom. Jo squealed and panted and pushed back against his belly. Reade flipped her over and entered her again, his mouth on hers, their tongues tangling until he came with a roar.
He raised himself on his elbows to smile at her. “That should last me until we reach the coaching inn,” he said with a grin. “Although I’m not sure, how do you feel about making love in a carriage?”
Jo laughed. “I rather like the idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jo raised her head from Reade’s shoulder and groggily viewed the scene passing by the window. The coach traveled through the rugged Pennine hills, the moors stretching away in a swathe of brilliant green. “You promised to wake me,” she said accusingly.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “I hadn’t the heart, you look so appealing when you sleep, with just an occasional snore.”
She laughed and hit him on the arm. Sitting up, she tidied her hair. “Are we near Holfirth?”
“A few miles to go yet.”
“Let’s go straight to the church. If there’s any news of Anabel, the vicar will know.”
He drew her back against him. “Darling, don’t be too dismayed if there’s been no word.”
“I’ll try not to,” Jo said, but her heart felt bruised. She didn’t want to think Virden had sent Anabel to some heathen place and left her to her fate. He’d denied it, but Reade was right, she shouldn’t believe anything the evil man said.
A half-hour later, the coach trundled down the hill and entered the busy village. They continued along the road and pulled up outside the gray stone parish church.
When they entered, a young man in a curate’s clothing came up the aisle toward them. Warm hazel eyes smiled a welcome. Reade introduced them.
Jo met the smile. “We would like to see the vicar.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. The vicar is away. He’s not expected back until Tuesday.”
“Then perhaps you can help us,” Reade said.
“I hope so. I’m the curate here. Donaldson is my name.”
“Mr. Donaldson, we are seeking news about one of your parishioners,” Reade said. “She came to London for the Season last year but left shortly afterward. A friend is most concerned about her and wishes to know how she fares.”
“Who is the lady?”
“Miss Anabel Riley.”
Donaldson’s eyes widened. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.
Icy fingers ran down Jo’s spine.
“I am a little surprised,” he said. “There’s no longer an Anabel Riley.” He smiled. “But there is an Anabel Donaldson.”