Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers)

by Lorraine Heath

  It was . . . when she first arrived. Now . . .

  “Will you stay with me?”

  He didn’t answer with words. He simply crawled beneath the covers and wrapped his arms around her.

  When she awoke in the morning, he was still with her, holding her.

  Chapter 16

  As Jayne stood in the gazebo, a cloak and a blanket draped around her, she thought the night sky had never looked more beautiful. Or perhaps it was simply that her life was filled with a richness she’d not expected.

  Everything between Ainsley and her had changed. It was as though he could never get enough of being with her. As the minutes of their time together slipped away, so they spent more of those minutes together. They’d completely dispensed with his beginning the night in his bedchamber and then coming into hers. He slept with her throughout the night, and only went to his bedchamber to dress for the day. They would feed each other, laugh, tease, and talk.

  They made love in the morning, the afternoon, the evening. Some days they never left the bed. He would have the meals brought to the bedchamber.

  They bathed together, read together, ate together, napped together. They trudged over the land. Rode the horses. Took carriage rides. They visited the village. Fished. Climbed in the tree and welcomed dawn. And now he was sharing a bright, though partial, moon and the stars with her.

  She watched his shadowy figure as he peered through a telescope he’d placed on a pillar that he’d had built onto the gazebo for just that purpose. Apparently he loved gazing out on the universe. She wished it was summer so she could enjoy it a bit more, but the night was chilled and every so often her teeth clattered, but she wouldn’t complain. She wanted to share this moment with him, something special. She was capturing more glimpses into the man, and each one touched her heart.

  “There we are,” he said. “Now, come here.”

  She moved beside him and adjusted her position so she was in front of the telescope.

  “Are you shaking?” he asked.

  “I’m just a little chilled.”

  “Jayne, you should have said something.”

  Removing his coat, he draped it over her shoulders. Even with the cloak and blanket, the coat swallowed her and drowned her in delicious warmth. “Now you’ll get cold,” she told him.

  He kissed the nape of her neck. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before. I’ll be fine. Now, peer through the eyepiece and you’ll see the moon as few people have.”

  The bright orange moon filled her vision. She could see strange indentions, circles with ridges. “What are they? It looks as though someone punched it.”

  “No one knows exactly what they are or how they were created. When Galileo discovered them, he called them craters. Men of learning have been arguing ever since about what they are precisely and what caused them.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever know?”

  “I shan’t be at all surprised. Look at all the technological advances we’ve made in so short a time. Railways. The telegraph. All the marvels that were displayed at the Great Exhibition. So many possibilities.”

  “Do you think there are creatures up there looking down on us?”

  “If so, at this moment they would be envious of me and think I’m a very lucky man to be gazing at the stars with such a beautiful woman.”

  He flattered her with such ease. Sometimes she didn’t know how to respond to it so she chose to deflect it. “We’re looking at the moon, not the stars.”

  “We’re getting to the stars.” He leaned in and she could feel his breath warming her cheek, smell the bergamot scent he favored. “Very slowly and carefully nudge the telescope around until you are no longer seeing the moon but are gazing at the stars.”

  She did as he instructed. “Oh, they’re so much larger and brighter. How many do you think there are?”

  “Millions. Too many to count.”

  “They’re so beautiful. Peaceful.”

  “Hmm. Now, I want you to keep watching them until you see stars of your own.”

  “What are you—”

  “Shh. Trust me.”

  “Have I not demonstrated that I do?”

  “Then trust me a little more.” He nibbled on her ear.

  Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back.

  “The stars,” he reminded her.

  Opening her eyes, she gazed through the telescope, aware of his inching her skirts upward, his hand skimming over her leg until it reached the juncture between her thighs and sought solace there.

  “Ainsley—”

  “You’re so warm there and my hand is cold.”

  “It’s not. How can it be so warm?”

  “The wonder of gloves, my sweet. I only just took them off.”

  The conversation made little sense, but she no longer cared. His mouth was creating delicious tingles along her neck and his fingers were working magic below. Sensations rippled through her, growing stronger with his increased attentions.

  With his thumb, he rubbed her sensitive swollen flesh. Her knees weakened. She clutched the railing of the gazebo. She wanted to grab him, but he remained behind her, taunting her. Then he slid one long finger inside her, and she released a tiny cry.

  His other hand came around her, slipped inside her cloak and cupped the mound of her breast. Through the cloth, his fingers pinched and pulled, soothed and caressed.

  “Ainsley, let’s return to the cottage.”

  “Not yet. Not until you’ve seen stars.”

  “I saw stars . . . through the telescope.”

  “I want you to see stars I created.”

  Two fingers went inside her, and the pressure built. She pressed herself against the hard ridge of his palm. She was hot now, so hot. Summer had arrived. She no longer needed his coat, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the rioting pleasure—

  And then the stars. Millions of them. Bursting across the heavens, dancing before the moon.

  Her cry. His hot kiss against her neck. His fingers stilling. His holding her tight against him as though knowing she was close to collapsing.

  “You didn’t.” She breathed in quick gasps. She had learned so much from him in so short a time. Different positions. Different angles. “Shall I bend over, lay down—”

  “Jayne.” He pressed her firmly against him, squeezing her tightly, holding her securely as though he were loath to let her go. “Not every moment of pleasure has to result in the depositing of my seed. I wanted you to have this with no expectations.”

  She was beginning to understand the truth of his reputation as a great lover. It was more than the immense pleasure he brought a woman in his bed. It was the manner in which he treated her when she wasn’t in it.

  She leaned her head back into the curve of his shoulder and looked up into the heavens. A small part of her wished that from this moment on time would stand still.

  But time marched on.

  It was raining her last day at the cottage. The sky was filled with thick, heavy clouds that blocked out the sun. The rain beat against the windows with a steady, relentless staccato. It was the type of storm that demanded one stay in bed.

  Even without the storm, she thought they would have stayed there.

  She was nestled against Ainsley’s side after a rather rousing session of lovemaking. He was skimming one finger along her cheek, her chin. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly, provocatively.

  “I rather like the village,” she said quietly. “I’m going to miss it.”

  “You like the gingerbread.”

  She smiled wickedly. “Yes, I like the gingerbread.”

  They’d taken to going to the village nearly every afternoon. They strolled along the street, browsed the shops, and always purchased weeds from Ainsley’s favorite flower girl.

  “I shall have the baker send your cook the recipe.”

  She trailed her fingers over his chest. “I shall miss climbing.”

  “I’m sorry you got another scar
.”

  Climbing down one morning, she slipped, and the rough bark had torn at her knee. “It’s not bad. And now my knees match.” And it was a souvenir. She would never be able to look at it without remembering how it had come to be.

  “I think I shall miss the stars most of all,” she said.

  “You have stars at Herndon Hall.”

  “But they’re brighter here.”

  “Perhaps you’re only looking at them through different eyes.”

  She rose up on her elbow. “The way I look at you now. You are so very different than what I thought.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “No.” How could she be when he had given so much of himself unselfishly. She hoped her child would be like him.

  They dressed for dinner and seated themselves at the table in the dining room, but neither of them ate much. Then they returned to the bedchamber and made love through the night. Each time they expected it to be the last coming together, and afterward they would say, “Once more.”

  Until finally it was the last time. Dawn eased in through the curtains and he pulled her beneath him. As he slid inside her, she could see the farewell in his eyes. This, then, would be their final coming together, the beginning of their parting.

  She wanted to run her hands over every inch of him, but he tangled their hands together and raised her arms so they rested on the pillow, leaving her vulnerable to him, but with no fear. She tightened her fingers around his and wound her legs around his waist to hold him near. His movements were slow, deliberate. Long, sure strokes that reached deep inside her, not only to her womb, but to her heart.

  She didn’t want this moment to end. She’d come here intending to have brief interludes with him, to keep everything impartial. He’d torn down her defenses, touch by touch, smile by smile, laugh by laugh. He’d given her far more than she had expected to receive.

  When she was with him she glowed, she welcomed the coming of day, the arrival of night. She tried to convince herself that none of this was real. They’d been here with no responsibilities, no demands, no worries. It had truly been a holiday.

  And now it was coming to a close. Reality would soon intrude.

  But for this last moment, it was only the two of them, their gazes locked as their joined bodies flowed in a corresponding rhythm. She watched as he clenched his jaw, and she reveled in his deep guttural growls. She responded in kind with sighs and moans.

  His hands clamped around hers. She could see him straining to hold back. The dappled sunlight danced over him. She saw him so clearly now. So clearly.

  The pleasure built until it exploded in a crashing crescendo. Her back arched and she raised her hips to receive his final deep thrusts. Groans were torn from his throat as he trembled and shook above her. He released his hold on her hands, and she wound her arms around him, held him near, as the lethargy settled in around them.

  She heard him swallow as he pressed a kiss to her throat. Why did it make her so sad? He’d just taken her to a glorious place. She usually smiled afterward. But this time she couldn’t, because this time she knew it was the last.

  Easing off her, he rolled over. Turning her head to the side, she watched as he stared at the canopy. She wondered what he was thinking. She should say something. Let’s stay one more day. Only she’d want to say the same thing tomorrow. So she said nothing at all.

  He sat up, swung his legs off the side of the bed, and waited. She studied his broad back, wanted to run her fingers over it one more time. But it was time to say good-bye. She knew that, knew that she had to let him go. They needed to leave soon. Walfort was waiting for them.

  With a heavy sigh, without words, he shoved himself off the bed and left her to begin preparing for the journey. She did what she’d done following the first time they’d come together.

  She wept.

  Chapter 17

  She and Ainsley traveled together in his coach. Her carriage followed, her maid journeying inside. Had anyone asked her four weeks ago how she saw herself escaping from Ainsley’s cottage, she’d have said she saw herself racing away, never looking back, leaving him behind with all due haste, staring after her. Sprinting away because she couldn’t leave fast enough, wanted to be done with him.

  Instead she’d found one excuse after another to delay her parting. Even knowing that Ainsley would be traveling with her, she hadn’t wanted to begin the journey home. Their time together had turned into something bittersweet. She’d always believed that Walfort loved her; she still believed that to be true. But she’d never before felt loved.

  With Ainsley she did.

  He held her now, nestled against his side. She rested her hand on his chest and felt the steady, rhythmic pounding of his heart. Beyond the window, she could see the countryside changing, becoming more familiar, more recognizable. She was nearing home. She both welcomed it and dreaded it with all her heart.

  The past four weeks had not gone at all as she’d expected. The physical aspects had been far more shattering. The emotional journey was one she regretted ending. She would miss Ainsley so terribly, terribly much.

  It would hurt him to know the truth of her feelings toward him, so she intended to keep them to herself, to hold them near, to suffer in silence. Hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago she had wished all manner of torment on him. Now she would do whatever she could to spare him.

  She flattened her hand against her stomach. She halfway wished she wasn’t with babe. Knowing the man he was, she understood what she hadn’t before: it would be a hardship for him to not acknowledge this child. And yet she desperately wanted to be carrying his child—not because it was a child, but because it would be his.

  “When will you know?” he asked quietly, and she wondered if his mind traveled along the same path as hers.

  “Soon, I should think. I have not always been precise with my . . . menses. A day or two late, a day or two early, it fluctuates. Shall I send word?”

  “No.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back the tears. “If I had known then what I know about you now, I would have never agreed to this.”

  He slid his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head back until he could gaze into her eyes. “Knowing you as I do now, I would have agreed without hesitation. Never doubt that I want you to have this.” He threaded his fingers through hers where they rested against her womb. “I hope it happened.”

  She was not going to weep. She was not. And yet the threat of tears did not abate. “Know that no child in all of England will be loved more.”

  He gave her a forlorn smile. “I have no doubt.”

  Past his shoulder she saw the large stone that marked the start of Walfort’s property go by in a blur.

  “Please have the coach stop. I don’t want you . . . we need to part ways here.”

  He gave the order and the coach rocked to a stop, nearly making her nauseous with the motion. Almost immediately the footman opened the door.

  “Give us a few moments,” Ainsley barked, and the door was quickly closed.

  Easing back so she could see him more clearly, she traced her fingers over the lines on his face, lines too deep for a man his age. “I shall never look upon a star in quite the same way.”

  He flashed a familiar grin. “Neither shall I, I assure you.”

  She licked her lips. “In all our time together, you never kissed me on the mouth.”

  “One of your rules, sweetheart. I was determined not to break a single one. But if you broke—”

  With a desperation, a hunger that astounded her, she covered his mouth with hers. He tasted richer than she remembered, and while she may have initiated the kiss, he was not shy about taking it further.

  She was barely aware of him moving her onto his lap, securing her against his chest while his mouth plundered hers. She should have insisted upon this sooner, should have sent all her blasted rules to perdition. Their tongues mated and danced, searched and explored, but there wasn’t time
now, not enough to learn everything. The first instance when they’d kissed, she was terrified by the feelings he’d brought to the fore. Now she relished in them. She felt so alive. Every nerve sang. Every inch of her skin tingled.

  His skilled hands roamed over her, pressed against her. Everywhere he touched, pleasure and desire mingled. She became aware of his fingers massaging her calf, sliding up—

  “No, no,” she breathed against his mouth, pressed her forehead to his, fought to stave off the tears as long as possible. “Good-bye, Ainsley.”

  She slid off his lap, reached for the door—

  “Jayne?”

  She didn’t want to look back at him. But he’d given her so much, she owed him at least a final glance. She twisted around. Her heart ached at the raw emotion she saw in his eyes.

  “You once asked me if I’d willingly trade places with Walfort.”

  “And you said no.”

  “I have since learned that I was mistaken. I would rather be a cripple and have your love for all of a single moment than to live as I am without ever having it.”

  She couldn’t say the words she knew he longed to hear. It would devastate her; in all likelihood devastate him as well. Better to pretend that for them they didn’t exist.

  Shaking her head, she opened the door, grateful to find the footman at the ready to hand her down. When he closed it, she rushed to her own carriage without looking back.

  Walfort sat in his wheelchair by the window, waiting. He knew she would be returning this afternoon. Strange how he was anticipating and dreading her arrival in equal measure.

  He had not loved her when he married her. Had not loved her when he was a complete man. He’d only come to love and appreciate Jayne after so much had been taken from them. Her devotion had astounded him. Her loyalty had humbled him. The sacrifice forced on her—to never have children—had tormented him.

  If she knew the truth of that night, of so many nights before it, she’d despise him. He couldn’t add her hatred of him as another failure in his life, couldn’t burden her with that emotion. Selfishly, neither could he live without her brightening his days.