So In Love

by Karen Ranney

Nor, surprisingly enough, did he put Jeanne in the category of obligations. She brought back his youth, his past, a feeling of being young and too excited about life to be wise. She was his glorious error, his profligacy, and his imprudence.

  And a temptation he didn’t want to ignore.

  He pinched the flame out between two fingers and left his darkened bedroom before he could change his mind. His conscience surprisingly did not speak during the long walk down the hall to Jeanne’s chamber. Placing his hand flat against the door, he wondered if she had locked it against him. There would be none in this house who would dare disturb her, so if the latch was engaged, it would be a signal to him alone.

  He pushed on the handle and the door swung open easily, almost in invitation. Closing the door quietly, he stood with his back against it, waiting for a sign of either welcome or repudiation.

  A lone flickering candle on the bedside table was the only illumination. Jeanne was sitting up in bed, attired in her threadbare nightgown, her knees drawn up and her arms around them.

  “I heard your carriage,” she said, her look direct and unflinching.

  Fool that he was, he answered her with too much truth. “I was away too long.”

  She only nodded in response, as if afraid to reveal her vulnerability. But she had never been fragile as a girl.

  Standing, she came to him, took his hand, and led him back to her bed. He allowed her to mount the steps and sit on the edge of the bed, and slowly untie his stock.

  “Did you miss me, Jeanne?” he asked, the words like jewels in the silence, each one as precious as a ruby or diamond.

  “Yes.”

  She halted in the act of undressing him and looked at him, her eyes hiding nothing. He had the discomfiting thought that if he stared long enough he might unearth the contents of her soul and all manner of secrets.

  “It’s been a long time since I had a woman companion,” he said, deliberately crude. “I should have a mistress.”

  She hesitated for a moment and then resumed her efforts, his stock finally untied. With deft fingers, she began unbuttoning his vest.

  “Should you?”

  How calm her voice sounded, and yet he had the feeling that it was difficult for her to speak with such aplomb.

  He reached down and tilted up her chin with one finger.

  “I haven’t asked you to be my mistress,” he said.

  “Don’t now,” she said, reaching out and placing her fingers against his lips. “Please, don’t say such things. Later, after we’ve loved, there will be time enough to wound one another.”

  Startled, he drew back from her touch, gripping her hand tightly. Immediately he realized he’d been too forceful and bent and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist in a wordless petition for forgiveness.

  “Do we wound each other, Jeanne?” he asked softly.

  Once again, he had the feeling that he would be safer leaving her. He wanted to be around her more than was wise. When he was separated from her, it felt as if his very soul ached.

  She placed her hands flat on his chest, surprising him. In the candlelight, her look was somber. He should have guessed her next words. “Why are you here, Douglas?”

  He placed his palms against the backs of her hands, thinking that they felt soft and warm, almost fragile. She was trembling, but he couldn’t have discerned that from her steady look.

  Did he terrify her as much as she did him? How strange that they were going to be lovers again, fearing each other so much.

  Why was he here?

  She had forced him into looking at his own motives. He stepped away from the bed, turning and walking toward the window. He should have left the room, but as difficult as this moment was, he still didn’t want to leave her.

  He didn’t want her comfort, although physical pleasure wasn’t something he’d willingly forgo. He didn’t want forgetfulness—there were some memories that could never be expunged from his mind. Nor did he lie to himself and hide behind the pretense that he wanted to avenge his daughter.

  Why was he here?

  Not even because she was his past. He had been a boy and was not one any longer. But the man could fall in love with her as easily as the boy had. Perhaps that emotion would last longer than before and be twice as destructive.

  “For forgetfulness,” he said finally. “For a bit of comfort in the night.” Twin lies that he offered up to her to hide his own confusion.

  He wanted to ask her why she’d done what she had to their child, but that was a question that could not have a good answer. Instead, he concentrated on the view of the park, the wrought-iron gate with pointed spears and benches arranged in strategic spots. A lantern on all four corners illuminated the park and was kept lit by a man paid to patrol the area.

  Money guaranteed him privilege but it didn’t assure him peace of mind.

  Douglas realized that he didn’t want to invite the past into this room. It had no place in his life at this moment. He wanted an hour or two of Jeanne. Of pleasure. Of love.

  God help him.

  He turned to find her standing beside him. Her smile was enchanting and utterly damning. This was the woman who had tried to kill his child. But even that accusation sounded wrong, as if he were missing part of the puzzle of Jeanne du Marchand. He made a decision, in that moment, to wonder about it later. Now he wouldn’t think.

  “The world is filled with fools,” he said cryptically. “And I’m just one of them.” A statement he didn’t mean to make. But then, he had not meant to bed her the first time or the second, and he should not have come to her tonight.

  Slowly she unfastened his shirt, before placing her hands flat on his bared chest, her thumbs meeting and her fingers splayed wide, as if to claim him with her touch. His hands remained at his side, the one part of his body that was obeying. His erection, however, was rampant and rebellious, seeking an escape from the tight confines of his trousers.

  He removed her hands from his chest and picked her up and carried her to the bed, arranging her so that she sat on the edge, her feet dangling. He gripped her worn nightgown in the middle of the neckline and slowly began to tear it down the middle.

  She didn’t utter one word of protest, her silence an aphrodisiac of its own. As if he needed one at the moment.

  Jeanne sat until he finished, until the frayed edges of the material framed the perfect globes of her breasts. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her to him. He wanted to kiss her but he wouldn’t, not yet. Not until her eyes were dark with desire, and her breath was nothing more than a gasp.

  He bent down and tasted one nipple, his tongue tracing a path first around the aureole. She shivered in response and made a sound deep in her throat. He smiled as she wound her hand around his neck to flatten on the back of his head. Her fingers pressed against his scalp and urged him closer.

  Teasing her instead, he touched only the very tip of her nipple with his tongue. She placed her other hand beneath her breast. This time he succumbed to her urging, tasting the whole of her nipple, sucking her until his cheeks hollowed and her indrawn breath was expelled in a sigh.

  Separating the gown, he looked at her illuminated by the candle. Her eyes were closed and her hands clenched the sheet on either side of her.

  “Look at me,” he said softly.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes.

  “I want you to watch what we do.”

  She nodded, her eyes never leaving his as he reached out and caressed her breasts with both hands.

  “You’re very responsive.” His thumb brushed over a nipple, felt it grow tighter, and he bent down to lick it in praise.

  “Am I?” Her voice sounded choked.

  He placed both hands at her waist and helped her from the high bed. When she stood before him, he gently turned her.

  “Lift up your hair.”

  She hesitated for a moment before moving, holding her hair up from her neck in a thoroughly feminine gesture. Her hair wasn’t long, only shoulder-length,
and he realized that it was because of her years at the convent.

  When she bent her head, he saw her scars once again. I did something that earned my father’s displeasure. Had the Comte sent her there because of their love? Because she’d met him countless times in secret assignations? Because she’d borne a child?

  The questions begged to be asked, but the moment they were, more revelations would follow. He didn’t want to hate her tonight. He didn’t, God forgive him, truly want to know.

  One by one he kissed her scars before turning her. She stood in front of him, her eyes pooling with tears. When had she learned to show so much emotion in her eyes? He didn’t want her grateful or sad. He wanted her needy and desperate with it.

  Wordlessly, he helped her to the bed again, pulling her so that she sat on the edge, her feet dangling. Pulling off his stock completely, he wound it around one breast and then the other, framing them with the white cloth.

  “It’s silk,” he said when she only looked at him, surprise banishing her tears. “Do you like the feel of it?”

  She nodded, and he was grateful she didn’t speak. He didn’t want to hear her voice if it was laced with any emotion other than lust. He pulled on the ends of the stock and both breasts were gently constrained. He pulled harder and she closed her eyes.

  With the fringed ends of the stock he brushed a nipple, still impudent and tight. He blew on it, and it seemed to lengthen beneath his ministrations.

  “Do you want me to kiss you there?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He ceased moving until she opened her eyes.

  “Do you want me to kiss you there?” he asked again, and this time she spoke.

  “Please,” she said, her voice throaty and seductive.

  “Why?”

  She looked confused for only a second before a small smile curved her lips. “Because I like the way your mouth feels on my breasts.”

  They had teased each other years ago, and she’d not forgotten the game, it seemed.

  He kissed her breast, drawing out the nipple between his lips. She sighed again, and he wanted to be in her, now. But he delayed, knowing that the pleasure to come would be greater for not being easily gratified.

  Gently his hands stroked over every inch of her body. Tenderly, he touched her, making her sigh or gasp. This woman alone of all the women he’d ever met confused him and delighted him and made him behave with such reckless abandon that he should have been worried for his immortal soul.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said as his fingers touched the curly, soft hair between her legs.

  She licked her lips as he spread her legs, unsurprised to find that she was damp at his touch. She’d always been receptive and passionate.

  “Do you think so?” she asked, too breathlessly for composure. He stroked a finger down a delicate fold, hesitating where the flesh looked puffy and swollen. She closed her eyes and moved her legs wider, an unspoken entreaty to continue.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, as if they were conducting a civil conversation within earshot of others.

  Another stroke.

  “Has no one ever told you?” He bore down with one tender fingertip, found the one place he sought, and gently circled it. She made a slight sound in response.

  He pulled on the stock with his free hand and it slid across her breasts, further stimulating them. Inserting a finger, then two, into her, he stroked her with his thumb. Brushing a palm over her sensitized nipples, he leaned over and kissed her. His fingers kept up a rhythm of fast, and then slow, repeating the motion until her hips arched. He inhaled her soft sounds as she climaxed, held her as she shuddered in his arms, moved his fingers gently to prolong the sensation.

  Winding her arms around his neck, she held on to him, trembling. Sighing against his cheek, she whispered, “Come in me, Douglas. Please.”

  So much for restraint.

  In record time, he’d thrown off his clothes and freed his erection. She reached out to touch him, her hands stroking him tenderly.

  He was both the winner and loser in the game of seduction. Suddenly he realized it didn’t matter anymore, they were so equally matched in lust that they were both winners. And if they lost, perhaps it was only a sense of themselves.

  She stroked him between her palms and looked entranced as he grew harder and longer under her ministrations. He spread her legs with both hands on the inside of her thighs and lowered himself over her. She widened her knees still farther so that he could have easy access to the core of her.

  All he could feel as he entered her was Jeanne, not vengeance or retribution, only the pleasure she effortlessly offered and he selfishly accepted.

  He moved closer and bent over her, bracing himself on his forearms. Only then did he kiss her again, a deep drugging kiss that sent his mind spiraling in delight.

  Her hips arched as she surged upward, granting him a sensation of dizzying pleasure. He prayed for control and found it only with the greatest of wills, thrusting into her again and again. Breathing hard against her throat, he repeated her name over and over as if the sound of it granted some power beyond that which he’d ever known.

  “Douglas.” She shuddered around him, pulling him to her. When he climaxed, it felt as if he’d expended all his life force into her. She returned it to him in an exclamation, a soft crying gasp that made him surge forward repeatedly.

  He thought he might actually die in that moment when his breath raced in the same frantic patter as his heart. His vision darkened and his memories faded, leaving only Jeanne and then simply nothing.

  Long moments later, he roused to find that his weight was fully atop her. He drew back and she moved her hands over his shoulders as if to keep him with her.

  “I’m too heavy.”

  “No,” she said softly, sweetly, her voice low and seductive.

  A soft sheen of perspiration was on her chest and her face. A rosy glow transformed her torso, and her eyes were languorous. If he could have, he would have commissioned an artist to paint her just that way, pleasured and flushed. He knew in that instant that he would never satiate his lust with her. She would resurrect it with a smile, a kiss, or a look in her eyes.

  Standing, he donned his clothes again, slowly so that his mind might have an opportunity to catch up with this body.

  The only solution to his dilemma was to send her away.

  Instead of dressing, she sat up with her legs to one side, one hand braced on the mattress, the other draped on her thigh. Her head rested against the headboard as if she had been wearied by seduction. He glanced at her once and then away, thinking that the sight of Jeanne naked was too tempting. He wanted to join her on the bed, tease her with his fingers and his lips. Make her sob with pleasure until she was hoarse.

  “I missed you,” she said, the words little more than a whisper.

  He wanted her again.

  “Did you?” he asked, thinking that it would be just as easy to strip off his clothes and join her. He’d wake in the morning, before the servants were up. No one would know that he’d spent the night in decadent pleasure with Jeanne.

  “I did,” she said, her voice sounding throaty and passionate.

  He removed his trousers, and then his shirt, uncaring where they landed. Naked, he went to her and embraced her, bending down to kiss her again.

  “Show me how much.”

  Chapter 21

  J eanne woke in the night to find that Douglas had left her, which was just as well. She didn’t know what to say to him. They had not yet admitted the past to each other. Yet each time they met and loved, they stripped another layer of pretense away.

  A glance at the clock on the mantel made her sigh. Only three-fifteen. But she knew that she wouldn’t fall asleep again.

  Just then, she realized that the connecting door to Margaret’s room was ajar. Donning her wrapper and slippers, she pushed open the door to see Douglas sitting on the edge of a bed in a room created for a princess.

  The be
droom was unlike Davis’s spartan chamber. Margaret’s furniture was constructed in scale for a child. The four-poster bed was hung with shirred white silk, the coverlet monogramed with two M’s intertwined. A flowered carpet in shades of blue and pink stretched from the bed to a miniature mahogany armoire topped with an arched pediment.

  A little girl sat in bed propped up with at least four pillows, all of which were covered in a thick crocheted lace. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders in a cloud. The candle on the nightstand sent shadows around the two of them.

  “Just remember, Meggie,” Douglas said tenderly, “that nightmares can’t hurt you.”

  The little girl’s gaze was fixed on her father as if he were the center of her universe.

  “But it was coming after me, and it was making me run. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Douglas said, smiling lightly. “Nightmares aren’t supposed to make sense. When I was a little boy I used to dream about a bull. It was coming through the fence after me, and chasing me into my mother’s parlor.”

  “A bull? That’s silly, Papa. A bull can’t come in the house.”

  “Neither can a wolf.”

  “But it had big long teeth,” she said, protesting.

  “It’s not here now. Shall I check to make sure?”

  She looked away and then back at him, the beginning of a smile on her face. “Please, Papa.”

  He made a great show of looking under the bed and in the armoire. As he turned, he glanced at Jeanne, but didn’t say anything to alert Margaret as to her presence.

  “No wolf here, Meggie.”

  She slipped down farther beneath the covers and nodded.

  “Could you stay just until I fall asleep?”

  “Of course I can,” he said easily. “And after that, Betty will be here with you if you like.”

  Just then Margaret glanced toward the door, and Jeanne almost gasped aloud. The child’s eyes were the most beautiful that she’d ever seen. Like Douglas’s, they were blue but much lighter than her father’s, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. Coupled with her pale skin, Margaret looked not unlike a fairy princess. The portrait had not done her justice. But then, she doubted any artist could have captured the child’s beauty.