God save him, he could die happy with her like this, on top of him, around him. Filling his senses with her delicious taste, musky scent, and her sweet, sweet doe-eyed wonder at having learned something new about bedsport.
“Now you have to . . . move, my wanton goddess,” he choked out. “Up and down. The way I moved in you . . . last night.”
“Ohhh. Of course,” she said, her breath quickening. “Makes sense.”
She did as he asked, and he nearly erupted right then and there. She was like hot satin, sparking flames, setting him ablaze. He filled his hands with her bountiful breasts—he did love how buxom she was—and thrust up into her, now impatient for her to move faster.
But she didn’t take the hint. And when he saw the teasing smile on her lips, he knew she was doing it on purpose just to torture him.
“You’re . . . enjoying this . . . aren’t you, minx?” he rasped.
“A little.” Squirming atop him, she broadened her smile. “Mostly, I am . . . figuring out . . . what you like.”
“I like faster,” he growled. That was what he got for letting her set the pace.
She gave a throaty laugh and increased her rhythm. Shimmying and twisting, she rode him as if he were a Thoroughbred, seeming to be searching for the best way to find her own pleasure and ignite his. He let her have whatever she wanted. Because he wanted what she wanted.
And because the fact that she enjoyed lovemaking relieved him. He’d been told plenty of respectable ladies did not. But she was a natural-born wanton, driving him slowly insane.
“Oh, Sheridan . . .” she whispered, as she spread her hands over his chest and even thumbed his nipples, giving him a taste of what it must feel like when he did it to her . . . or she did it to herself.
The memory of how she’d looked while touching herself inflamed him even more. She was moving quicker on his cock now, and his hips took over, pumping up into her hard as he gripped her arms and stampeded toward his own release. “Ah . . . my sweet duchess . . . you’re mine now . . . always. Mine.”
“Yours . . .” she breathed. “Forever.”
The words were a vow. They ought to alarm him. Instead, they roused a fierce possessiveness as he neared his release. He felt her tightening around his cock seconds before she uttered an inarticulate cry and he exploded inside her.
As she slumped against him, his seed still spilling into her, and her mass of curls spilling over him, he uttered his own vow. “You’re mine. Under the covers. Over the covers. Everywhere.”
“Yes.” She nuzzled his neck. “Oh, yes, my darling.”
Only later did he realize, after carrying her to bed, that she’d never answered his question about Juncker. Instead, she had tried—successfully—to seduce him. Only later did he wonder, as he threw his arm over his still naked and already sleeping wife, if she’d thought of Juncker while she was making love to him.
God, what if she had? What if Juncker had her heart while Sheridan only had her body? He had to know. But asking her about Juncker again was liable to get him nowhere. She’d already evaded the question of how she felt about the bastard once. Nor did he have the right to ask her, when the memory of Helene still haunted him.
Or rather, the memory of the pain of losing her. After six years, he could barely remember Helene herself. That bothered him. Shouldn’t the woman he’d once been in love with have earned more of a place in his heart than this . . . this faint echo of her presence?
For God’s sake, his own mother had lionized Thorn’s father. Her former love had stood between her and Sheridan’s own father. That was why Mother and Father had never been in love with each other, never even had a chance to be in love with each other . . . because she’d still been clinging to the memory of the man she’d been married to for merely a year. Even after twenty-nine years, that had never changed.
Yet he couldn’t even mourn Helene for more than six years.
You’ll deprive yourself of one of life’s greatest joys out of a determination not to experience the pain love can also bring? That’s like refusing to ride because you fear falling off.
He laid back to stare up at the ceiling. How could Vanessa have the audacity to spout her opinions about love when she didn’t love him either? She certainly hadn’t said she loved him. Did she really expect him to take that leap when she wouldn’t take it herself?
Unless she’d already taken it with Juncker.
And if she had? Then he would have to find some way to tear her from the fellow. Because he refused to be cuckolded—even just in spirit—by that . . . arrogant arse.
As soon as they reached London tomorrow, he would find Juncker and determine exactly how much there had been between the faux playwright and Vanessa. Because Vanessa was his now. He’d meant that when he said it. And no damned poet was going to take her away from him, in spirit or anything else.
Having made that promise to himself, he was finally able to drift off to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
They reached London midafternoon the next day. Sheridan had never been so glad to see the city and rid himself of his new mother-in-law. He’d spent the entire journey watching his wife skillfully manage her mother, and he honestly wondered how she did it without wanting to strangle the woman.
Lady Eustace was a pest, plain and simple. First she was cold, then she was hot, then she needed air, then the air made her cold. The sequence was repeated ad nauseam until he informed his wife that he needed air and intended to get it by riding on the perch with his coachman. When she cast him an apologetic look, he felt guilty about his defection but not enough to offer to stay.
Besides, riding with Vanessa was a torment all its own. Despite the fact that she wore some all-encompassing, dark-green redingote that fastened up to her chin, he could still remember what sweet temptations lay beneath it. He resisted the urge to relive last night’s enjoyments. The last thing he wanted was for his mother-in-law to realize what he had in mind for her daughter. One more reason to sit atop the perch with his coachman, no matter how odd the man probably thought it.
Once they’d left Lady Eustace at her town house and were heading the short distance to Sheridan’s massive, money-eating London manor, Vanessa seemed to revive, at least enough to flash him a cheery smile. “The staff are expecting us, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Fortunately, he’d introduced her to them before the wedding and had watched as she charmed them all with a compliment here and a question for an opinion there. “I do have to pay one call before dinner.”
Her face fell. “It can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not. But it won’t take long, I don’t think.” He lied for all he was worth. “Just a minor business matter I was supposed to handle before I left for Lincolnshire. I’ll be back by dinner, I promise.”
She nodded, though her cheeriness seemed to fade some. “I wanted to have our ‘at home’ day tomorrow. Will you still be able to join me then?”
“Of course.”
Gwyn had already warned him that newly married couples were expected to have a day at home where they could accept callers eager to express their congratulations.
Seeing her fight to hide her disappointment, he shifted from his seat across from her to sit next to her instead and take her hand. “I swear I won’t be gone long.”
He hoped not, anyway. He knew where Juncker lived, and if the arse wasn’t there, he knew to look for him in Covent Garden, though finding the fellow there would take far longer. When she gave him a tremulous smile, he couldn’t resist kissing her. What he’d intended as a quick kiss to soothe her fears rapidly turned into something more passionate.
The coach stopping before Armitage House jarred them both out of their shared pleasure.
She gave him a slumberous look he recognized only too well from when he’d awakened her this morning. “Shall I wait for you wearing only the Armitage pearls?” she said in a low voice that reverberated through every inch of his randy body.
> For a moment, he considered having the coachman take a turn about Hyde Park while he seduced his wife.
But no, he had to do this first. Otherwise, he’d always be wondering who she was really thinking about when they made love. “I think that would shock my staff at dinner, don’t you?” he quipped.
She laughed gaily as the footman opened the door and put down the step. Sheridan jumped out and helped her down, then as she climbed the steps, he told his coachman to take him to the Albany.
Thankfully, Juncker was in his rooms, or so a member of the staff told him. Forgoing the man’s offer to fetch Juncker downstairs, Sheridan went upstairs alone, not wanting anyone to warn Juncker he was coming. It had finally occurred to Sheridan that the last time they’d seen each other, Sheridan had punched him. The man might not be that eager to meet with him.
Sure enough, when Juncker opened the door at Sheridan’s knock, the man scowled at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to talk to you about my wife.”
Juncker had the door open only partway and wasn’t budging to let Sheridan inside. “You’ve got it backward. You should talk to your wife about me.”
“I tried. She wouldn’t tell me a damned thing.”
Juncker looked him over, then sighed. “Come in then, if you must.”
As Juncker walked away, Sheridan pushed the door open to enter the man’s rooms. They were much finer than Sheridan would have expected a poet’s to be. “My brother must pay you well to pose as writer of his plays.”
“You know about that?”
“Olivia blurted it out accidentally.”
Juncker chuckled. “That sounds like her.” He didn’t seem upset, which surprised Sheridan. And when Juncker then walked over to pour himself a brandy and asked Sheridan if he wanted one, the man surprised him even more.
“This is not a social call,” Sheridan bit out.
Juncker lifted his glass. “Suit yourself.” He sipped some before narrowing his gaze on Sheridan. “You’re not planning to punch me again, are you?”
“That depends on what you tell me about your involvement with my wife.”
Vanessa paced her bedchamber. Where in creation was Sheridan? She’d asked the staff when dinner was generally served, and they had said seven P.M. It was six-forty-five and no sign of Sheridan. So much for his promise to be home shortly.
It made her nervous. This was the first meal she was in charge of in her new home—well, her new London home—and she didn’t want to ruin it. Sheridan struck her as the sort of man to expect things to be timely and orderly.
Except for in the bedchamber. No, she wouldn’t think of that. It would just start her worrying again.
The connecting door opened, and her husband stepped in. “There you are. I thought you’d be down in the drawing room having a glass of wine.”
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She pointed to his bedchamber. “You just have time to change for dinner. The staff told me—”
“Don’t fret. As soon as I came in, I told them to delay it an hour.”
“All right.” She thought about telling him that meals in progress didn’t keep well when delayed but figured he probably wouldn’t understand. He was a man, after all. “Did your meeting go well?”
“Quite well, actually.” He was watching her particularly closely, for some reason.
Oh, dear, did she have something in her teeth? She shouldn’t have eaten that pear after arriving. Perhaps there was a piece of peel in her teeth. Now, how was she to give a reason for needing to look in the mirror despite being fully dressed?
“So,” he went on, “I have a question for you. It’s the same one you refused to answer yesterday: Are you in love with Juncker?”
That brought her up short. Why on earth was he asking that now? Apparently her seduction of him last night had only bought her a day. And she was tired of avoiding the issue. “No, I am not. I never was.”
He stared at her. “That’s not what Juncker said.”
“Wait a minute—you talked to Mr. Juncker about this? When?”
He hesitated to answer, and that told her a great deal.
“You talked to him this afternoon, didn’t you?” She stalked across the room toward him. “He was your meeting!”
He scowled. “I had to know, damn it. Since you wouldn’t tell me . . .”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And he said I was in love with him? Why, that . . . that scoundrel! He lied.”
“Did he?” Sheridan said, his expression impossible to read.
“He most certainly did!” She paced around Sheridan. “But why would he lie? What could it possibly gain him? He knows I don’t care about him, so it couldn’t be anything like that. Besides which, he swore to keep my secret. Dirty traitor.”
“What secret?” Sheridan asked in a hard voice.
Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have said that. Sheridan had her so flustered that she didn’t know which way was up.
Well, there was no help for it now. She had to tell him, if only to counter Juncker’s lie. “The secret that . . . I only ever wanted you. That I was never interested in Mr. Juncker. I merely used him to make you jealous.” She tipped up her chin. “And it worked, too, didn’t it? Or at least a little.”
“What made you assume it would work in the first place?” Sheridan asked, again using that voice that told her nothing of what he was thinking.
She swallowed hard, hating that he was making her expose herself. “Because I had the sense that you found me as appealing as I . . . found you. But then I couldn’t ever get you to notice me. You seemed determined to treat me like Grey’s little sister, which made no sense. I couldn’t figure out if you felt the same way as I did. I was a woman, full-grown, wanting you to see me for who I really was.”
“So you decided to use Juncker to make me jealous? Why him, of all people, if you had no feelings for him?”
Good Lord, this was difficult. “I didn’t exactly plan that. I barely even knew who he was. But around the time of your father’s demise, Grey guessed I was interested in someone, and I didn’t dare tell him it was you. I knew he would reveal it to you if I did, and I feared you would find my interest in you suspect. You know—you’d see me as the silly young woman enamored of a duke. That’s why I told Grey it was some poet. I’d been reading Mr. Juncker’s poetry, and it seemed logical.”
She sighed. “Except that the whole thing got terribly out of hand. Mr. Juncker somehow got wind of my interest in a poet and started behaving differently toward me. Until then, I had barely had any association with him, and suddenly he was flirting with me and pretending he knew me. So I gave him womanly advice, knowing it would put him off. But I think he then assumed he could use me to annoy you and Thornstock.”
“He was right,” Sheridan muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Sheridan said. “That’s all it was. A scheme gone terribly awry.”
“I suppose you could call it that.” She turned away from him. “And we both know how much you hate schemes. And schemers.”
“I do, that’s true,” he said softly. “But I could never hate you.”
Her heart hurt, and his words only soothed the hurt a little. “I know you will never believe this, but Mr. Juncker lied about my interest in him. I never told him such a thing.”
“I know.” He came up close to put his arms about her waist.
“You believe me?”
“Yes. And I believe him. He did lie to me . . . at first. As you said, Juncker enjoys annoying Thorn and all his friends and relations. He’s a prankster, that one. But when I looked at him as if I might throttle him, he quickly admitted the lie.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Juncker has a strong tendency toward self-preservation.”
Breaking free of his hold, Vanessa turned on him. “Are you telling me, that when you came in here just now, you knew I’d never had an interest in him?”
“I did,” he said, though he sud
denly looked wary. “But I had to hear it from you. I don’t trust Juncker.”
“Yet you believed him at first.” She bore down on him. “When he said I was in love with him.”
Sheridan held his hands up. “Not entirely, sweetheart, I swear. Before he even admitted the lie, I began to consider a few things—like the fact that you only started talking about Juncker when I was paying more attention to your mother than to you. And the fact that you flirted with me long before Grey mentioned Juncker in connection with you.”
“That wasn’t enough to convince you?”
“Well, you did change the subject last night when I asked about Juncker. You seduced me to take my mind off of him. And honestly, you didn’t give me many other signs that Juncker might be wrong.”
“Many other signs. Truly?” That really annoyed her. “I agreed to marry you.”
“Only because we ended up caught in each other’s arms.” He cocked his head. “And that happened because you were letting Juncker kiss you with great enthusiasm. Or have you forgotten that?”
“I haven’t.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you forgotten that you didn’t show up for the visit you promised? That you left me to Mr. Juncker after saying you would accompany him? I assumed I had lost you. If I’d ever had you. I kept trying and trying to get your attention, and after our kiss at the theater, you didn’t so much as give me a buss on the cheek. So yes, when Mr. Juncker asked to kiss me, I agreed. I figured why not? If I couldn’t have you, what difference did it make?”
“I’m sorry.” He seemed to look at her through new eyes. “I had no idea you were chasing me all that time.”
“And if you had known it, would you have spent time with me?”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”
“Meanwhile, after we married, I eagerly shared your bed. Twice. And the second time was after I’d found out you’d only been showing me attention because you needed to interrogate my mother. That was well before you went to visit Juncker and believed his nonsense. How much more proof did you need that I cared about you?”
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