20150618 A Midsummer Night's Kiss epub final

by And Then the Moon) (epub)

  “Of course not, but I was going to meet you—”

  “A change of plans,” he said. “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “My wife,” he answered grimly, before sweeping her up in his arms, dog and all, and depositing them, roughly, into the carriage.

  She stared at him, bewildered, as the carriage door slammed shut behind him and they rumbled toward Goodview House. Plutarch jumped from the floor to the seats and back again, agitated by all the excitement. “What is the matter with you?” she said, her voice rising. “How dare you treat me in such a manner in front of my friend?”

  “Your friend?” he exploded, so vehemently she started. This was a man who’d never even raised his voice in anger since they’d been married. “He was holding you.”

  “It was nothing! And you could have showed him some gratitude,” she said. “I stumbled. He saved me from a fall.”

  “Is that your excuse?” Stephen asked. “Because I saw the two of you enjoying each other’s company from a mile away.”

  “This is beyond the pale.”

  “No,” he replied. “What you’re doing is beyond the pale. You’ve gotten it all backwards. You can take a lover after you’ve provided me with an heir, not before.”

  Her mouth opened. She closed it, swallowed, and then spoke. “Provide you with an heir?” she asked hoarsely. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Immaculate conception?”

  He nodded, his mien grim. “You’re right—I’ve been neglecting my duties.”

  Duties? As though bedding her was some distasteful chore. She wanted to scream at him.

  “You’ll accompany me to London. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Her heart lurched, and she stiffened. “I can’t,” she said.

  He glared at her. “Because of Lord Barton?”

  “Because of Plato,” she said, referring to her pet ferret. “He’s ill.”

  “Bring him along,” Stephen said simply.

  “You’re quite adamant about this, aren’t you?” she asked, bitterness welling like a spring. He was adamant about making sure his heir was actually his. He didn’t care about her.

  “Completely,” he said.

  “And if I don’t want you in my bed?”

  Something crossed his face before it was hidden. He leaned back against the carriage seat. “That is, obviously, your choice. But until you’ve given me an heir, we’ll be living together, and going to society functions together, and sleeping in the same bed. We don’t have to copulate—I’m willing to wait. But I won’t give you the opportunity to have another man’s child, either.”

  He didn’t know her at all. How could he think she would break her vows? He was the one who didn’t care about the promises they’d made. Him, not her. Hurt and anger caused her to lash out, to say what she did. “You’ll have to wait then, won’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I find myself in the family way too soon, you’ll never know if the child is yours.”

  He flinched as though she’d struck him, and whatever spiteful satisfaction she had found in being cruel faded as his face paled. He pushed aside the curtain to look out the window of the carriage. “Then I’ll wait,” he said quietly.

  Those quiet, obstinate words shot more fear through her than his anger had.

  Last Summer

  Stephen, as Jane called him in her mind, Lord Somerby in public, began to call on her. She still couldn’t quite believe he was the heir to an earldom. He was the complete opposite of sophisticated and debonair. In fact, he was very nearly shy around her, and it took him a full week before he started to open up.

  But when he did take her into his confidence, when he did gain more self-assurance in her company…oh, when he did…she knew there was no one else she wanted.

  Her mother had left the sitting room to see to some thing or other, and Stephen was telling her about his older brother.

  “George died two years ago,” he said. “Putrid fever. He was always so healthy, and then he became sick without warning. Within a fortnight he was dead. It was a heavy blow to all of us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Everyone loved him,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “I don’t think I compare.”

  She frowned. “Why should you compare? You are two different people.”

  “Very different people,” he said with a slight laugh. “George was at ease with everyone. He knew how to make people smile. He didn’t even have to try. Whereas I…well, I’m more comfortable around insects than most people. Sometimes I think…”

  “What do you think?” she asked, leaning forward, when he paused.

  “That my father would have preferred I died instead of George. He and my brother were close. He understood George. And the thing is—I do have to compare, because George was the heir, and now the role falls to me. I have to fill his shoes. My father expects me to.”

  “Or,” she said, “you could make your own shoes. The kind that only fit you.”

  He glanced up, and then he smiled. “You’re rather wonderful, Jane.”

  It was the first time he had said anything of the sort to her. The first time he’d called her by her first name. He seemed to realize it because he glanced down again. “I apologize…I—”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m not sorry.”

  The door had been left open a crack, and Socrates, a black cat whose left eye was missing, sauntered in as though she owned the entire townhouse. Jane was quite certain she also believed she owned the people in the townhouse. Socrates rubbed against Stephen’s knee.

  “Without even an introduction,” Jane remarked drily, making Stephen grin. “This is Socrates.”

  “He’s a handsome fellow.”

  “She.”

  He frowned.

  “Women are sadly underrepresented in Greek history. I already used Sappho.”

  “Ah,” he said. He stroked Socrates’ back and the cat purred.

  “You are entirely too affectionate with strangers,” Jane muttered to the cat.

  Stephen scratched behind the creature’s ears as he said, “You have a kind heart to take in other people’s unwanted pets.”

  “Thank you,” she said, a little uncomfortable at the praise. “Though I don’t believe it’s entirely about kindness.” When he looked at her questioningly, she continued, “I’m an only child. I’ve never had brothers and sisters to dote upon, and while I’m certain my parents love me, I do not think they need me. Sometimes, it’s nice to feel needed.”

  “There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel needed. And who else would care for these animals if you didn’t? You’ve saved them.”

  She smiled slightly, amazed by him, and by how he could make her look at herself differently with only a few well-placed words. He might not be a chatterbox, but he didn’t say meaningless, frivolous things either, and she much preferred his way of going about things to the flippant sort of charm she’d encountered in some of her other suitors.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she said.

  Their conversation turned to other things, and Stephen remained firmly on the armchair opposite the sofa. Eventually, Jane began to get annoyed. Obviously she was glad he respected her, but there were times when a little forwardness wasn’t unappreciated. “Stephen,” she remarked.

  “Hmm?”

  “My mother left the room for a reason. You can kiss me if you’d like.”

  “Oh.” The word was a breath of air. He moved to sit next to her on the sofa, though he still left a good foot of space between them. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m more than certain.”

  It was the encouragement he needed, because he cupped her face in his strong hands and kissed her. Their noses bumped and she giggled, but the initial awkwardness was soon forgotten
as Stephen tilted his head and pressed his mouth to hers in a way that made them fit together perfectly.

  His lips were warm, and his breath was sweet.

  She pressed her hands to his chest. Underneath her palms, his heart raced. At some point during their kiss, Stephen lost his self-consciousness, and the foot between them disappeared. He pulled her against him, crushing her to his body.

  She’d had a few kisses stolen from eager suitors, even kisses that surpassed this one as far as skill went, but what Stephen lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm. He touched her ardently, as though she was the last woman he would ever touch, the only woman, and her body responded, arched and trembled. A shivering note played by his hands.

  Footsteps outside the room broke through the tinny sound of her heart, and she pulled away with a gasp. She darted to the armchair, collapsing in it weakly. As the door was pushed open, she glanced toward Stephen to discover his glasses were halfway off his face.

  “Your spectacles,” she hissed.

  He pushed them up his nose just as her mother stepped in, followed by a maid with a tea tray.

  Her mother glanced at her, and then at Stephen. She lifted an eyebrow. “How odd.”

  “What?” Jane asked.

  “You seem to have changed places since I’ve left.”

  “That is odd,” Jane said, struggling to contain a burst of laughter.

  She glanced at Stephen, who studiously observed the tea cup he’d been handed. His lips were dark from their kisses, and Jane hid a sudden smile. The proper Lord Somerby had touched her rather improperly, and she had loved every second of it.

  This Summer

  Jane wasn’t entirely sure what her husband was trying to do—shatter the remaining pieces of her heart? A change had come over him since he’d literally swept her from another man’s arms. For months, the distance between them had grown until it felt like she didn’t have a husband at all, and now, suddenly, she did. Stephen seemed determined to be a real husband in all the ways that mattered.

  In an unusual display of what she could think of no other name for than gentle force, he would steer their conversations at the dining room table, no matter how much she tried to resist. He would draw her out, force her to speak, force her to take interest. Occasionally, he even made her laugh, a laugh that was rusty after weeks of disuse.

  Most evenings they stayed in. Jane almost preferred those evenings, because even though they were in close proximity, she could pretend to be absorbed in a book, or feign tiredness and retire to her bedchamber early. When they attended a ball or musicale, Stephen was at her side, ready to dance with her, ready to whisper in her ear, making her skin flush with awareness.

  It felt like he was courting her all over again.

  Every time her defenses weakened, she told herself it was only a matter of pride. No man wanted to be labeled a cuckold. He thought she was having an affair with Lord Barton and he’d taken action, and there was nothing noble or romantic in his actions. He was using her, just like he had before.

  And she had her own pride. She wouldn’t be fooled again.

  But the nights were…difficult.

  When she’d gone to bed alone the first night, he’d simply come in through the door connecting their bedchambers, disrobed, removed his spectacles, and slipped underneath the coverlet to stretch his long body out beside her.

  Why, oh why, did she have a husband who slept naked in the summer?

  His heat practically burned her, even though they didn’t touch. And she’d been wide awake for hours, fearful of any accidental contact. He—awful man—had slept soundly the entire night and woken up looking refreshed. She, on the other hand, had woken up from about two hours of sleep with her hair tousled and her eyes bloodshot, looking like a veritable banshee.

  It wasn’t fair.

  She could lock the door against him, but that would only make her feel as though she was being the unreasonable one. She was made of sterner stuff than that—she could sleep beside her husband until his strange mood passed.

  Though, as she was thinking these thoughts, she did acknowledge she was currently dressed in the thickest, most opaque night rail she’d been able to find. The sleeves stretched all the way to the wrist and the neck was high—it was more suited to the depths of winter than to a summer night.

  Before climbing into bed, she’d opened the sash window as far as it would go to let a cool breeze in.

  Her husband came into the room without knocking, a candle lighting his way. A dressing robe tied at the waist covered his tall frame—it was an unnecessary nod to modesty since he always whipped it off right beside her anyway.

  “I checked on Plato. He’s looking well,” Stephen said.

  Her heart lurched. She wished he wouldn’t pretend he cared—she knew what he truly thought of her motley assortment of pets. She glanced away as he rounded to the other side of the bed, and she heard the rustle of the robe hitting the floor. “He has his appetite back,” she acknowledged. “It was just a passing illness, I think.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Then he added thoughtfully, “Before I met you, I never fathomed I would grow attached to a ferret.”

  The bedchamber darkened as he snuffed the candle, and the mattress dipped next to her. She kept her eyes open, facing the wall.

  “I know I’m odd,” she muttered. Her chest tightened with some unbearable emotion.

  “Odd? What some call odd, I call interesting. Anyway, my own hobbies don’t exactly make me popular, either. When was the last time you heard a lively discussion about moths in the drawing room?”

  In spite of herself, she smiled. “Or seen a wager about moths in the betting books?”

  “Hmm,” Stephen uttered, sounding amused. “Fifty to one that Catocala Fraxini will be spotted by Friday.”

  “I’ll take that wager,” she said. “Ten pounds.”

  “Ten pounds on fifty to one odds?” he asked incredulously. “One of us is going to be poor come Friday.”

  “And I do believe it shall be you,” she said primly. Even with the window open, she realized her night rail was too hot. She surreptitiously lifted the cloth away from her clammy skin.

  “Do you think I should introduce wagering books to the Entomological Society?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” she responded. “Drag them into the modern age.”

  “You should come to a meeting,” he said, sounding serious again.

  Jane wanted to go to a meeting with him. She’d imagined she would before they married. Hoped they would be a husband and wife who shared their interests with each other. But now the idea of spending even more time with him was like a shroud over her heart. How would she survive it?

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  He was quiet. After a few minutes when he didn’t speak, she hoped he’d fallen asleep, but then: “Did you catch a fever from Plato?”

  “Why?”

  “This bed feels like an inferno.”

  “I’m fine,” she said sharply.

  She stilled when his palm settled on her back. He jerked it away with an oath in the next instant. “You’re sweating through your night rail!” he exclaimed. “Should I send for a physician?”

  “No,” she snapped, embarrassed. “It’s…it’s simply the cloth. It’s too heavy.”

  So much for that brilliant idea.

  Stephen sounded confused. “Why the devil are you wearing it then?”

  “I…why do you sleep nude?” she returned shrilly.

  In the next few seconds, all she heard was the erratic thumping of her heart. “Take it off, Jane,” he finally said.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “It can’t be healthy to be so overheated.”

  “I’ll show you overheated,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What?”
>
  “Nothing,” she grumbled. He was right. Damn him. She would never fall asleep when she was pouring sweat. But she didn’t have anything else to wear—she’d sent all her summer appropriate night rails downstairs to be laundered, thinking, like an idiot, that she wouldn’t need them. Anyway, it was a little too late for maidenly bashfulness. Stephen had already seen everything, and in brighter lighting than this.

  She sat up, yanked it over her head, and quickly sank back down beneath the coverlet.

  “You should let the air dry your skin,” Stephen said. He grasped the coverlet, wrenching it away from her own hands.

  She gasped as cool air touched her body, as her nipples beaded. It felt wonderful, but she wasn’t going to say that to him—she wasn’t exactly pleased with him at the moment. “This is rather overbearing of you.”

  “You’re acting foolish,” he said bluntly. “Does the thought of my touch disgust you so much you would make yourself ill?”

  Disgust her? She wished it did.

  “No,” she said, finding it too difficult to lie about the matter.

  But Stephen didn’t seem to believe her anyway. “How does Lord Barton touch you?”

  Anger pierced her. “Now who’s acting foolish?”

  Looking back, she realized she should have turned away from him, but she didn’t. She was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She’d left herself open to him. And when his hand touched her stomach, when it rested there and splayed, wide and strong and possessive, she was too startled to move.

  “Like this?” he said.

  “You are unbelievable,” she breathed.

  “This?” He moved his hand higher, and his palm grazed gently over the tip of her breast. Her breath hissed between her teeth, an automatic, unwanted response. It had been too long since he had touched her. Too long since he’d kindled these unfulfilled desires. Her body, even her heart, craved his touch.

  And the protests of her mind were too weak to be heard over the hammering of her pulse.

  He let his thumb circle her nipple, stroked the petal-soft skin.

  He leaned over her. “This?” he asked, his breath caressing her lips, just before he kissed her.