by The Bargain
Brett shuddered and shifted his weight, taking her fiercely, carrying her swiftly with him into a maelstrom of frenzied, thrashing ecstasy that finally burst and showered about them, making them one as they'd never been before.
It was a long time later, a very long time later, before the two of them could even move, or feel, or think.
Ashleigh was the first to break the spell. "Brett?" she whispered.
Brett blinked twice before opening his eyes to gaze lovingly down into hers—oh, so blue, and heavy-lidded now with sated passion. "Aye, love?"
"I...I never knew pleasure could be... almost too much," she sighed.
He chuckled, then raised Ashleigh's limp, delicate hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the fingertips. "That was part of my... lesson, yes," he said, "but I doubt if a woman could ever really have too much pleasure. But sweetheart—" He raised himself up on his elbows, but Ashleigh noted he made no move to disengage their lower bodies, which were still intimately joined. "Ashleigh, with a man, it could be too much."
"It could!" she whispered, her blue eyes as round as saucers.
Brett nodded, then smiled. "Do you remember how it felt when my tongue made you shudder with pleasure, love?"
A blush suffused her already glowing face. "I... I remember," she whispered shyly.
Brett smiled, then reached to claim her lips for a soft kiss. "Well, love," he explained, "what happened to you then is exactly what happens to me when... I spill my seed. Are you aware of that?"
"I... I never thought of it that way, but I suppose it's true because, in the past it's happened to me when we've made love, and I've felt you giving me your seed at about the same time."
Brett laughed softly, delighted by her innocence despite the fact that she'd already borne him a child, delighted further to be her teacher in the ways of how it is between a man and a woman.
"But Brett!" Ashleigh suddenly withdrew the fingertips he'd been playfully nibbling and touched them to her own lips in a gesture of wonder. "This time it wasn't—" She paused, blushing. "That is, this time, when it happened to me, you weren't inside me yet... and it—it didn't happen to you until later, when—when you were!" She finished with a lowering of her lashes, embarrassed to be speaking of such intimacy.
Brett tipped her small chin gently upward until she was forced to look at him.
"That's true," he smiled, "but you had your pleasure anyway, again and again."
Mutely she nodded, wondering what he was getting at.
"Such is the advantage of the female body over the male, love," he explained, a tender smile on his face. "I pleasured you again and again, and still you were ready to repeat your pleasure when at last we joined—all in a matter of minutes, I might add.
"But how would it have been if you had pleasured me in, ah, similar fashion?" Noting her wide-eyed questioning look, he couldn't help grinning and planting a soft kiss on the tip of her straight little nose. "It would have been over in an instant, my sweet. I'd have had my pleasure—not to be repeated for some passage of time—and you'd have been left to have yours alone."
Ashleigh's eyes widened with dawning comprehension. "Ohh," she breathed, "you mean that a man—"
"Exactly, my sweet innocent," he nodded.
There were several seconds of silence as Ashleigh digested this fact. Then a tenuous smile played across her lips. "But, Brett..." she ventured thoughtfully.
"Mmm?" he murmured, his gaze intent upon her ripe, love-bruised lips.
"It must be possible for a woman to learn, somehow, how to be... er... active in pleasuring her man without going too far, don't you think? I mean—"
A burst of delighted laughter met her ears. But then Brett quickly sobered at her look of chagrin. "Forgive me, love," he told her. "It wasn't you I was laughing at. It was the delight I found at your quick, ever-discerning mind!" He bent and kissed her with some passion, fully on the mouth.
"Yes, my love," he whispered happily when he'd released her eager lips, "there are ways to learn how to... pace yourself in your... attentions..."
"Ohh," she breathed, fully cognizant of the growing hunger in his gaze, feeling his manhood stir as it lay still buried within her. "Then will you teach me how?"
A slow, tantalizing nod was her answer as her husband's eyes locked with hers. And then all talking ceased.
CHAPTER FORTY
"Happy birthday, love," Brett whispered as he bent over the drowsy form of his wife in the bed. He watched her stir and murmur something unintelligible as she sought to burrow deeper into the bedclothes. He smiled. His wife was one of those rare women who looked just as beautiful in the morning as she did during the rest of the day—perhaps more so. She lay there with her magnificent ebony tresses charmingly tousled, her rosy lips barely parted with quiet breathing, her creamy skin lightly flushed, looking for all the world like an elfin princess sent to show mortals how short of beauty's mark they fell.
"I say, sweet slugabed, how does it feel to be quit of your teen years?" he persisted, then grinned as he put his lips to one perfect, shell-like ear. "Or were our ardors of last night too much for one of such a vast, advanced age!"
"Advanced age!" came the reply as Ashleigh's blue eyes snapped open and flashed her disbelief that he could have said such a thing.
Brett chuckled and bent to kiss her parted lips. "I love to tease you, I'm afraid." He grinned. "Your eyes turn the most incredible shade of blue when you're vexed."
Ashleigh affected a mock pout. "Nevertheless, Your Grace, 'twas an ungentlemanly thing to say, even if it was in jest." Her lips curved into a small smile. "Besides, you say the same thing about the color of my eyes when I'm... when we've..." She blushed, lowering her lashes against his amused gaze.
"When we've just finished making love and you're deliriously sated?"
The blush deepened and she nodded, making her husband laugh lightly as he sat on the bed and drew her into his arms. "Ah, but, little one, that is a different shade of blue entirely! Trust me, and you must, for it is one that only I have seen." His hands moved deliciously over her bare shoulders, for her thin night rail lay on the carpet where he'd discarded it last night.
Responding instantly to his knowing touch, Ashleigh felt a shiver course through her; she threw her arms about his neck, seeking his mouth.
A long minute later, when the kiss finally ended, Brett murmured huskily into her ear, "If you kiss me like that again, love, we're going to spend your entire birthday in bed."
Suddenly Ashleigh withdrew, turning her head to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Good Heavens, it's after ten!" she exclaimed. "I promised Lady Margaret I'd meet her at the cottage before noon! And I haven't even selected my dress for the luncheon!"
The invitation to the luncheon she spoke of had come as a startling surprise. A note delivered the day before yesterday by a footman from Cloverhill Manor, invited her and the duke to the Hastings estate for a luncheon in honor of her birthday, and it had been personally penned by Elizabeth Hastings! She'd been hard-pressed to fathom this about-face attitude in her old nemesis, for the note had been full of cordiality and language that strongly implied Lady Elizabeth wished to let bygones be bygones and was using Ashleigh's birthday as an occasion to begin healing their differences.
Always willing to make friendships where none had existed before, however, Ashleigh had decided to accept Elizabeth's offer at face value and attend. She had, of course, discussed the matter with Brett and Mary, both of whom conceded that she was probably right in her decision, but urged her to maintain caution regarding what ultimately transpired between her and their blond neighbor.
Margaret, however, had been enthusiastic and encouraging when she'd joined her for tea later that afternoon, saying, "My dear, of course you must accept Elizabeth's olive branch! After all, if you and I could mend our fences and become friends, why shouldn't you be able to do the same with my dear goddaughter? I thoroughly wish for the two of you to become fast friends, and I just know you will�
��I just know it!" Then she had gone on to invite Ashleigh to join her in traveling to Cloverhill Manor on the day of the luncheon, saying that if the weather was fair, she would be going there in the skiff and she'd ever so much appreciate Ashleigh's company when she rowed—also implying, subtly, that Ashleigh ought to regard this as an honor; she only invited those nearest and dearest to her for a demonstration of her rowing skills, "a sport I excelled in as a young woman and can still accomplish with pride, my dear, I assure you!"
A delicious nuzzling at her ear brought Ashleigh back to the present, and it was only then she noticed the coverlet had dropped to her lap and Brett's hands were cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing their suddenly hardened peaks.
"Ohh," she moaned, feeling the familiar tightening in the pit of her belly, "but Brett... the luncheon..."
"Damn the luncheon!" he growled, a hand moving to her bare, rounded, little buttocks and then testing the gathering moisture in the juncture below as he joined her on the bed....
The tall-case clock at the foot of the stairs was striking eleven when the two of them were finally able to remember what day it was, and that they had obligations that wouldn't wait.
For Brett's part, he knew the afternoon was destined to hold much more than a luncheon. He'd been sworn to secrecy by Elizabeth and Margaret, who were actually holding a surprise party for Ashleigh, involving all-day festivities, including a banquet and, later tonight, a ball. The two had come to him several days ago with their plan, saying they were genuinely contrite over their past behavior toward his bride and wished to stage this celebration as a means of making amends. Most of the ton was to be in attendance, they'd told him, and since the duchess was fast becoming a darling of that set, how could he refuse to help them?
Weighing their words carefully, Brett had at last agreed. He still wasn't sure he trusted this turnabout on Elizabeth's part; she was a patently rigid person, too molded by the narrowness of her upbringing to make major reversals. Moreover, he hadn't entirely dismissed her as a candidate for whoever it was that had made the vicious attacks on Ashleigh's life, although he knew that if his former fiancée was behind them, she had most certainly hired some blackguard to do the actual dirty work; Elizabeth was too daintily squeamish to soil her own hands.
Thoughts of the danger Ashleigh was in caused Brett to draw his wife more tightly into his arms, fitting her replete body closely against his, while his mouth formed a grim line and the turquoise eyes grew hard.
It had been several days since the harrowing accident on Irish Night, and during the interim he'd taken several steps toward ensuring Ashleigh's safety, and one significant step toward catching the culprit. Ashleigh didn't know it, but from the time she left their rooms in the morning until the minute he escorted her back upstairs each evening, a pair of Old Henry's most trusted grooms discreetly watched her every movement. Moreover, her ladies' maid, Annie, a young woman whose honesty Jameson and Mrs. Busby swore to— and whom he doubly trusted for the way she had always seemed to adore her mistress—had been set to guard their chambers when he and Ashleigh weren't there, to make sure no one tampered with anything that might result in harm to the duchess. And guards—footmen handpicked by the Busbys— were stationed in the kitchens, to watch carefully the preparation of Her Grace's food and drink, while yet others kept round-the-clock watch over the stables, paying particular attention to all the carriages Her Grace might use, as well as to Irish Night and her tack.
Then there was the matter of flushing the villain out. On their way to Ravensford Hall at this very moment were Lieutenant George Hodges and his sister-in-law, Mildred Hodges. The lieutenant was a specialist in naval intelligence, a highly trained spy. He was also one of Brett's closest associates in the Admiralty. His younger brother had been, too, but Mildred Hodges's husband had been killed five years ago in Belgium, on an assignment for the Crown. Three months later the diminutive brunette had arrived at the Admiralty on the arm of her brother-in-law, asking to be trained as a spy; there had been a vengeful look in her eyes, but the overall impression had been one of intelligence and cool control before her late husband's superiors, and her request was granted. A year later she commenced a four-year career that saw her become one of His Majesty's most valued agents.
Brett relaxed his grip on Ashleigh somewhat as he considered Mildred's expertise. Through a few carefully staged maneuvers in which the petite woman would dress in Ashleigh's clothes and masquerade as his wife, the three of them, he felt sure, would flush the bloody bastard out!
Feeling him relax against her, Ashleigh turned in his arms and smiled languidly. "You really oughtn't become too comfortable, darling. You promised to drive Mary to the luncheon in your phaeton, and I'm due at Lady Margaret's in less than an hour."
Brett was reaching for his jacket and, more specifically, for the small package in its pocket—a package that had been delivered yesterday through a special order he'd placed in London weeks ago. At the mention of Lady Margaret, he hesitated, examining his feelings about his grandfather's twin. He'd been greatly heartened by her overtures to Ashleigh in the past few weeks. God knew, no one wished, more than he, for the entire world to love and accept his wife, and it had been a relief to see that old harridan's heart warm to her.
But he was also skeptical of this sudden change in the woman. New baby or no, it just wasn't like Margaret to resign herself to something she'd been opposed to for so long, much less embrace it. He sighed. Margaret, too, was not entirely above suspicion.
Nothing, he reminded himself, could lull him into taking any chances when his precious wife's safety was at stake. That was why young Jonathan Busby and Tom Blecker, the master carpenter who'd repaired the broken railings at the dowager's cottage, were stationed there right now—in pretense of mending a garden fence; in actuality, they were to protect Ashleigh at all costs.
"What's wrong, darling?" Ashleigh questioned as she saw him hesitate.
Brett forced himself to appear relaxed and smiled at her. "Not a thing in the world, love—except that I haven't given you your birthday gift yet." He picked up his jacket and withdrew the package from its pocket. "Here," he said softly as he placed it in her hand. "Happy birthday, love."
Ashleigh's eyes sparkled as she examined the small bundle. Then she peered at it more closely, curious. "Why, it's wrapped in—" her fingers carefully pried the outer wrapping loose "—some kind of document!"
"Oh, that... yes," Brett acknowledged. "Actually—"
"Oh, Brett!" Ashleigh squealed excitedly. "Oh, it's a certificate of ownership—of Irish Night?" She looked up at him, incredulous. "I—I cannot believe... It has my name on it!"
"Of course it has, goose," he chuckled. "Don't they usually place the owner's name on the space where—"
An embrace that, from any larger person, would have been a bone-crusher, cut him short. "Oh, Brett!" Ashleigh cried, "I've never had a better gift!"
Brett held her close, delighting in her exuberance, marveling at how easy she was to please. "She's been yours all along, Ashleigh," he murmured against her hair, noting for the dozenth time that morning how it smelled like fresh rainwater and violets. "I wanted to give you this paper when we got married."
At this, Ashleigh sobered and withdrew to look at him. "And I spoiled everything by being frightened off like a scared rabbit, by not trusting you and—"
Gentle fingers closed her lips. "Hush, love," he murmured. "We both made mistakes in those days. But we love each other, and the past is behind us. And I'll not have you troubling yourself about any of it—especially on your birthday!"
Ashleigh kissed the strong, tanned fingers at her lips and smiled tremulously while tears misted her eyes. "Oh, Brett, I love you so very much!"
"And I you, Ashleigh... forever." Suddenly he grinned. "Now, aren't you going to open the box the paper was wrapped around?"
Ashleigh blinked. She'd been so caught up in the perfect moment between them, she'd forgotten about it! Hastily she flipped up the lid o
f the small black box. Then she gasped.
There, lying against a bed of deep blue velvet, lay a huge oval sapphire pendant, surrounded by diamonds. It was a piece of jewelry fit for a queen.
"Oh, Brett," she breathed, her hands trembling as she only half dared to touch the delicate gold chain attached to the pendant, "it—it takes my breath away!"
"And the woman who'll wear it robs me of mine," he told her quietly. "Here, love," he added, helping her extract the neck piece from the box, "let's see you with it on."
He rose and helped her from the bed, then guided her toward the large cheval glass near the door to the dressing room. Once there, he faced her toward it and, positioning himself behind her, fastened the chain about her throat.
They were both silent for a long moment as Brett stepped back a pace and viewed her image.
She stood there wearing nothing at all, save his gift. Her shiny black hair tumbled down her slim back and over slender, creamy shoulders that appeared even fairer in contrast, and her sweetly curving lips were tinted the color of wine from his kisses. The stones of the pendant, as it nestled in the crevice between her lush breasts, sparkled and winked reflections of sunlight, yet he found these poor rivals for the light shining in her eyes. Slowly the words of Byron's poem took shape in his mind, and he whispered:
"She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
Ashleigh barely breathed as she heard him murmur the words, then watched as he bent to place a kiss at her neck where the delicate chain touched it.
"Thank you," she whispered when he'd raised his head and found her gaze in the mirror.
The mantel clock chimed the quarter hour and broke the spell.
"Damn!" Brett swore, glancing at the time. "I'd better leave you to your toilette, sweet," he told her with a rueful grin. "If you hurry, you might just be in time for the old witch's rowing exhibition."