A Family for the Widowed Governess

by Ann Lethbridge

  And when he lifted it high to look at her... Down there... She shut her eyes tight. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Admiring the view. And it is spectacular.’

  She giggled. And then wanted to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth. Oh, he would think her so wicked. Excitement rippled through her. What did it matter what he thought? She was a widow. Free to do as she pleased, provided she did not cause a scandal. Free to discover what other women’s chatter had indicated for them was an enjoyable experience.

  What if he, too, found her cold, the way Neville had? Passionless, he had called her, when he bedded her the first time and it had been extremely painful. Worse was his scorn and derogatory remarks, both in their bed and out of it. It was why she had left London and stayed in the country. That and knowing he had shown all his friends those horrible pictures. If only she hadn’t been so stupid as to sign them. The idea of it being published and passed around the whole of England...

  Jack was staring at her, his head tipped on one side. ‘There you go again, my dear. Off somewhere else and quite frankly looking quite terrified.’

  Here she was letting Neville make her life miserable. Again. She could do this. ‘I just didn’t expect—’ She waved a hand in his direction. ‘I have never—’

  Regret filled his expression. He set the candle aside and moved forward, returning to his earlier position, resting on his hands and looking down into her face. ‘Oh, my darling girl, I am sorry. It is years since I have had a beautiful woman in my arms.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I got carried away. I am moving too fast. I made assumptions, you being a widow and all.’ He gave her a wickedly boyish smile.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face. ‘I should not have done that. Tell me what it is that you like.’

  ‘I—’ She was either going to lie, or she was going to open herself to ridicule.

  No. Not true. Jack was nothing like Neville. He would not deliberately try to make her feel small. She closed her eyes, so she would not see his reaction to what she must tell him. If he left, in disgust or disappointment, she would not watch him walk away. Perhaps then it would not hurt so much.

  She took a deep breath. ‘My husband and I came together but rarely. Somehow things did not go well between us. I found his attentions painful. He found me cold.’ Humiliation was a hot tide in her veins.

  Jack frowned. ‘He hurt you?’ The gruffness in his voice gave her pause. He was angry.

  She winced. ‘He said he was trying to warm me up, but it seemed to make things worse.’ She had always hated the way he slapped her and pinched her, it was why she had vowed to remain a widow.

  ‘I see.’ Now he sounded grim.

  Oh, dear, she should have said nothing. Just done what she had always done, held still and hoped for the best. Perhaps it would not hurt with Jack.

  She dared to peek at his face. He was looking at her with kindness and there was a light of determination in his gaze. He gave her a gentle smile. ‘I think we need to start again.’

  She stared at him blankly, but then he leaned down and gently kissed her lips. ‘You are, to all intents and purposes, a virgin,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘And it will be my very great pleasure to teach you the way of it.’ And he kissed her again. Deliciously. Expertly. Until she felt lovely and desired and warm all over.

  When his hand came to her breast she stilled, expecting a painful pinch.

  ‘Easy,’ he murmured. Slowly he caressed her breast as if it was something precious. First one, then the other. They felt heavy and full and the tips seemed to tingle.

  He circled her nipple with his thumb while he continued his lazy exploration of her mouth with his tongue. Her core tightened. Her body relaxed. Oh, yes, she liked this, very much.

  * * *

  Jack knew some men liked inflicting pain. And he was experienced enough to know some women enjoyed being the recipients of those sort of activities. He could not understand it himself. He was all about giving and receiving mutual pleasure. Mutual was the key. Clearly this woman had not found her husband’s preferences pleasing. No wonder she was so reserved.

  Or had been.

  Right now, she was kissing him back with delightful eagerness and her hips were arching upwards, seeking a pleasure she probably wasn’t fully aware of. Her body knew. But her mind did not. When he had brought her up here to find the kite, he hadn’t been bent on seduction, though he had to admit his own body had been ready the moment he knocked on her door and saw her deliciously ready for bed.

  A half-truth. His body had been ready for days. He’d been having trouble focusing on his work because she had been intruding on his thoughts so much. But he had never had any trouble maintaining control of that part of his anatomy. At least, not since he’d reached adulthood.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure. He had been desiring her for days. And her apparent willingness to indulge him now left him at the very edge of his control. But understanding that she had suffered at the hands of her husband made him all the more determined to give her pleasure, even at the expense of his own.

  Her eagerness as he touched her in her most sensual places, her unbridled excitement, had him breathing so hard he was panting and trembling with the effort of holding back.

  He slowly broke their kiss and cruised his lips across her cheek to her ear. He blew softly and she shivered. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘That felt lovely.’

  His shaft hardened. He rocked gently against her hip, allowing himself a fraction of the pleasure he wanted. He licked and nibbled his way from her ear, across her throat to the shadowy valley between her breasts. He felt her stiffen. Fear of pain.

  He pretended not to notice and circled his tongue on the creamy flesh above her breasts while gently moulding the other breast with his palm, stroking and lightly squeezing until he felt her once more respond to the pleasure of his touch.

  The heat of her mons seared his thigh. When he had viewed her quim by candlelight, the sight of the dark red curls already gleaming with the welcoming dampness of her body, the image seared his brain, but she was not ready for that sort of love play. He wanted to make her happy, not frighten her to death.

  Her happiness, her pleasure, was important. Deeply important. More so than any of his casual sexual encounters. He’d had one or two since his wife died, but none of those women had touched him as deeply as Marguerite.

  He groaned softly. What was it about this woman? Was it her kindness to his children, or the aura of sadness he sensed in her appealing to his streak of chivalry? Whatever it was, he needed to make this perfect. He licked his way to her nipple, now a tight little nub beneath the cotton of her nightgown. He toyed with it with his tongue through the fabric. Her little cries of pleasure and her fast, shallow breathing were torment to his demanding cock. He ignored its wants and focused only on what brought her pleasure.

  He raised his head to assure himself he was on the right track. Her expression was soft, her eyelids at half-mast, her gaze hazy and her cheeks flushed. ‘Don’t stop,’ she gasped.

  Ah, there was the other part of this woman. The independent lass who knew what she wanted. The woman who hid the vulnerable girl who had been hurt, but to whom he hoped to prove not all men were beasts.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ he said, stealing a kiss from those luscious lips that issued orders.

  She arched upwards beneath him, offering her breast to his mouth. He blew on the sensitive peak. She shuddered. ‘Jack,’ she moaned.

  He pushed her gown upwards, until her breasts were bared to his gaze. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. Full and round and pale as the moon. The tips so light in colour as to be almost rosy. He licked first one, then the other and her hips wriggled beneath him, making his balls tighten in anticipation. Grimly, he ignored the urge. He closed his mouth lightly around the peak of her breast and circled her nipple with his tongue.

  She m
oaned.

  Gently, lightly, he suckled, giving her time to become accustomed to the pulling sensation. A small hand cupped the back of his head. The other stroked his buttocks through his dressing gown. This sign of boldness delighted him. He held still, suckling lightly while she ran her fingers through his hair and squeezed his bottom in a way that suggested she had never done such a thing before.

  She traced the outline of his hip and up his spine, her touch so feathery and light it was torture of the sweetest kind.

  He increased the suction on her breast and pressed his thigh harder against her mons. Her groan of pleasure made him smile and he let his hand wander down her body, until it reached the apex of her thighs. He rolled on to his hip and gently stroked one finger along her slit, so hot and wet he yearned to be inside her, seated to the hilt. Not yet. Not this time. He could not take the risk of scaring her off. First, she had to know what she was missing.

  He gently played with the little nub that would bring her fulfilment, rubbing and circling with his thumb, while he slowly dipped first one finger, then a second inside the silky soft heat of her channel. He curled his forefinger against the wall, seeking—

  She cried out. He suckled harder, pressing against her clitoris, while strumming that little place inside her...

  Her hips came up. She screamed loud enough to wake the dead, then collapsed against the cushions, her face full of wonder. Panting and round-eyed, she stared at him. ‘That was...’

  ‘A surprise,’ he teased, feeling surprisingly pleased given an arousal that was destined to go unsated.

  ‘Much, much more than that,’ she said between shallow breaths. ‘Lovely. Extraordinary.’

  He kissed the tip of her nose, lay down beside her and pulled her into the curve of his arm. ‘Rest, now,’ he murmured. ‘You deserve it.’

  He forced himself not to think about his aching cods. He’d deal with them later. He wanted nothing to spoil this moment.

  He lay still, listening to her breathing return to normal and feeling her heartbeat slow. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction. More satisfaction than he would have expected given he hadn’t reached his own climax. Which was strange, to say the least.

  Her husband must have been all kinds of an idiot if he hadn’t seen what a beautiful and passionate woman he had for a wife. Any man would be proud to be her husband. Independent-minded or not.

  He frowned.

  He supposed he wouldn’t mind a little bit of independence in a wife, as long as she didn’t go behind his back. Which led him to the question...did Marguerite really not want a husband?

  ‘Good heavens,’ she said, lifting her head.

  He relaxed his hold on her, a little. ‘Awake, are you?’

  ‘Oh, my word. How much time has passed?’

  He smothered a smile at her anxiety, but he also understood. What had happened just now had come as a shock. She would need time to understand and recover. ‘A few minutes only.’

  She shifted in his arms and he released his hold. ‘I think I should go back to my room. In case anyone notices I am gone.’

  ‘I cannot think who would notice.’ He didn’t keep his footmen hanging about in the halls in the middle of the night, the way his father had. Nevertheless, he sat up and helped her to do the same. ‘Let us take the kite with us so it is ready for the morning. I will have the other toys brought down tomorrow.’

  ‘The kite. Yes. The kite. Of course. If anyone asks, it is our reason for being here.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He pushed to his feet, straightened his dressing gown, turning his back to give her time to sort herself out.

  When he turned back she was once more covered from head to toe and looking very prim and proper except for her flowing locks, which she was madly trying to braid. ‘Let me help you with that.’

  Surprised, she ceased her efforts. ‘You know how?’

  He tried not to look smug. ‘I was married, you know.’

  She dropped her hands and let him work. The silkiness of her hair was enough to make him want to kiss her again. He’d forgotten the pleasure of these intimate acts with a woman one cared about. Not forgotten, but pushed the memories aside. He’d been so angry. Felt so betrayed. Perhaps it was time to let the past go.

  He quickly plaited the heavy mass until it looked neat and tidy. Then he turned her towards him. He tightened the belt at her waist for good measure.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘My hands feel as if they are too heavy for my arms.’

  Yes, she had fallen apart very nicely. ‘You will feel more yourself in the morning.’

  He picked up the kite and escorted her back to her chamber.

  He would feel more himself when he had some time alone with his good right hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Feel more herself in the morning? When Marguerite awoke at first light, she had never felt so different. She had never felt so womanly or so...so...light-hearted. She wasn’t cold or without passion. No, indeed. The disaster in her marriage had been her husband.

  She went about the rest of her morning in a bit of a fog. She set the girls to practising their letters, while her mind kept returning to the extraordinary occurrence of the night before. What had happened last night must not happen again. It went against everything she had promised herself. Did it not?

  She frowned. Why? Why must it not happen again? What harm would it do? Besides, while she had enjoyed it enormously, what had happened had been rather one-sided. He had given her a wonderful gift, but she knew there ought to have been more. The bliss she had experienced had not been mutual. It should have been, if it was done properly. She had been so shocked she had scurried away like a frightened mouse.

  Oh, no, what was she thinking now? That she needed to rectify the omission? Really? Was that her excuse for wanting to do it again? She went hot all over.

  Oh, no. She needed to be sensible. Besides, how could she ever face Jack and not blush thinking about what he had seen, what they had done? She put her hands to her hot cheeks in a futile effort to cool them.

  Face him she must, at dinner every day. She felt the urge to run home, to hide.

  She gazed at the two little heads bent over their slates, Elizabeth with her creased brow and Janey with her little pink tongue poking out and moving as if it, too, traced the letter. So sweet. She had not yet told them of the plan for the afternoon. They would never settle to their lessons if they knew there was a special treat in store. She had to remain at Bedwell until the new governess came, for their sakes.

  She glanced out of the window. It was not quite as windy as it had been the day before, but there was still enough of a breeze to get the kite aloft. She hoped.

  Bother. When she saw Jack again, she would simply have to pretend that nothing had happened in case anyone noticed a difference in her. Or in his attitude towards her. She must be as she always was, no matter how strange she felt inside.

  The clock struck noon.

  ‘Tidy up, ladies,’ she said.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Elizabeth said, putting her slate inside her desk and letting the lid fall with a bang. ‘I wonder what is for lunch.’

  ‘Pea soup,’ Janey said. The little girl loved pea soup.

  ‘We had pea soup yesterday,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I hope we have it today.’

  Marguerite checked that everything was put away properly. ‘Run along to the nursery and find out.’

  Now that things were running smoothly in the nursery, she ate luncheon in her own room. It was a brief respite from her duties that she treasured.

  The girls dashed off. They always did everything at a run. She loved their enthusiasm. She really was going to feel the loss when she returned home. She was also going to miss Jack terribly.

  A tray for one was waiting on the table in her little sitting room. She lifted the covers—there was
soup. Potato with leeks from the delicious smell wafting up. Poor Janey. She smiled. The little girl would live on pea soup if she was permitted. There were also cold slices of beef and ham, fresh crusty bread with cheese and pickles, and an orange.

  She also was starving, she realised. She had wolfed down her breakfast, too. She could not recall her appetite being so huge before. If this was what doing that... She pushed the thought aside and tucked into her meal. She glanced at the newspaper that had been left beside the tray, but found herself unable to concentrate.

  Last night had been simply too wonderful for words. At least, it had for her. What if he had been disappointed?

  He hadn’t seemed to mind that he hadn’t found his own pleasure. Whenever Neville had not given her his seed, he’d stomped away and told her she was hopeless.

  Surely Jack would not have kissed her so sweetly or plaited her hair or smiled in quite that way if he had been dissatisfied? Or was he being too much of a gentleman to show his disappointment? Had he, too, left her side feeling somehow cheated? The joy of earlier faded.

  Instead, she felt foolish.

  The idea of facing him now loomed unpleasantly before her. The thought of seeing disappointment, perhaps even disgust, in his eyes made her shrivel inside.

  She straightened her shoulders. Face him she must. Appetite gone, she folded her napkin and placed it on the tray. She might as well get it over with. She marched down to the nursery.

  The girls were finished with their lunch and the table had been cleared. They were now sitting cross-legged on the floor, building something out of bricks. No sign of Jack. He must be too busy to visit today. Strangely, there was no sign of the kite against the wall beside the nursery door, where they had left it last night.

  He must have thought better of letting them fly it and had it removed. Blast it. Why could he not see how good that sort of thing would be for his children? What would it matter if they skinned a knee or banged an elbow in the process? The experience would make them stronger and nimbler.