“I am not so firm as I once was.”
“You fit me perfectly. You have aged like a fine wine, and I enjoy very much sipping from you.”
He tumbled her onto the bed, and she welcomed the weight of him. He was still firm and well-muscled. She didn’t think that he’d ever go to fat. She glided her hands over him, while he buried his face between her breasts, kissing the inside of one and then the other. With his tongue, he drew little stars over her skin.
He caressed and stroked, kissed and plundered. Familiarity made them comfortable with each other, increased the pleasure. Awkwardness never emerged between them. They knew what each other liked, and they delivered.
They became a frenzied tangle of limbs, and when she thought she could stand it no longer, he finally entered her with one sure thrust—
And stilled.
He gazed down on her, and in his golden eyes she could see all the love he held for her. Had she really ever thought she would give this up?
Slowly, he began to rock against her, taking her higher and higher, until they reached the pinnacle of pleasure and flung themselves from it at the same time, their cries echoing around them. Slowly, they returned to reality. She opened her eyes to find him smiling down on her, his golden eyes drowsy. She could hold him here forever.
After several long moments of taking his fill of her, he finally rolled off. Sated and lethargic, she nestled against his side. His arm came around her, holding her near. It took long moments for their breathing to return to normal, for their hearts to stop pounding. Content, she began drifting off to sleep.
“By the way, Tess . . .”
“Hmm?”
“The answer is yes. I’ll marry you.”
Chapter 22
Ainsley stood in the garden at Grantwood Manor because all the activity in the house was driving him mad.
Tradition dictated that members of the family marry in the chapel on his estate. Westcliffe had married Claire there. Stephen had married Mercy. Ainsley’s mother had married his father there. Now she would marry Leo there.
While his sisters-by-marriage saw to all the numerous details, and his overbearing mother made sure every aspect was as she wanted it, Ainsley had merely trudged over the grounds and left them to it. But soon the guests—the elite of London—would be descending on them. Tonight he would hold a dinner and ball in the couple’s honor. Tomorrow the ceremony would take place, after which she and Leo would leave for their wedding trip.
At least that’s what he’d been told.
He didn’t care about the particulars. All he cared about was that Jayne had responded to the invitation and indicated that she and Walfort would be delighted to attend the wedding. She and Walfort.
And the baby she now carried.
He’d known of course that sooner or later their paths would inevitably cross. After all, they moved about in the same circles. Still, he was not as prepared to put on a stoic front as he’d hoped. All his mother’s planning—she would not be rushed when she’d waited so long to marry again, and for the last time—had delayed the wedding. Here it was, nearly the end of March. The daffodils as well as several other varieties of flowers that his gardener nurtured were coming into bloom. The house and the chapel were overflowing with flowers from the greenhouse.
But it was not only the flowers that were blossoming. Jayne would be as well. Since she was traveling, it was unlikely that she was showing, but still he would know. He would look at her, and he would know.
He had to pretend it didn’t matter. He had to welcome Walfort into his home without revealing how much he had come to care for Jayne. He had to greet Jayne with a cold aloofness that did not give away the fact that he missed her beyond all endurance.
Where was the blasted mistress when he needed her? It would probably help matters if he went about attempting to acquire one. Damn it all. What had his mother been thinking when she invited them?
“Uncle.”
He jerked his attention from the blossoms and his troubling musings, arched a brow and looked down. “Nephew.”
Waverly stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, a stance very similar to Ainsley’s. He wondered if his own son would stand in the same manner. Was it in the blood, or a result of exposure to the family?
“Grandmother sent me to tell you that the first of the guests are arriving. You’re to greet them.”
“It’s her blasted wedding. She can greet them.”
“But it’s your friend. Lord Walfort.”
“Right.” Wise of her. Best to get the encounter over with now when there was no one to see. Then everyone could get comfortable before all the other guests arrived. “I shall see to my duty.”
He’d taken two steps when Waverly said, “Uncle.”
He stopped and turned. “Nephew.”
“You need a dog. I don’t have one to play with when I’m here.”
“Bring yours next time.”
“Mother says Fennimore will make a mess in the coach and she will not be happy. Father says we must always make Mother happy.”
Ainsley grinned. “Your father is quite right. It is your job to keep your mother happy. I shall have a dog here the next time you come to visit.”
Waverly’s face broke into a wide smile before he walked sedately toward the door that led into the kitchen. He wondered if his own child would like to have a dog, then shook off the thought. He was years away from having a child. He needed a wife first—and obtaining her would be far more trouble than obtaining a mistress. Here, he had yet to get a mistress.
He strolled around to the front of the house, arriving just as Walfort’s carriage and another rocked to a stop. Taking a deep breath, he continued on.
Footmen were scurrying around. Randall stepped out of the second carriage and ordered a footman to remove the wheelchair from the roof. Ainsley had not considered how much trouble would be involved if Walfort traveled. Little wonder they’d arrived hours earlier than needed. Walfort no doubt wanted to be safely ensconced in the residence before the other guests arrived. Ainsley realized he would have to give some thought to transporting him to the chapel with as much dignity as possible.
He reached the first carriage as a footman opened the door and handed Jayne down. Once both her feet were on the ground, she froze, her gaze latched onto his. His memories didn’t do her justice and he cursed them for failing him.
She curtsied. “Your Grace, it’s so nice to see you again.”
He stepped forward, took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Lady Walfort, may I say—” His gaze dipped to her waist. He thought he detected a slight rounding. But with the volume of her dress, he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to drop to his knees and press a kiss to her belly. “—you look lovely as always.”
“You’re far too kind.”
He hated the formality but would endure it because it was expected.
“Ainsley, old chap, how are you?” Walfort asked. He was still in the carriage, peering out the window.
Ainsley stepped back. Walfort didn’t seem at all distressed seeing him for the first time since he’d sent his wife to Blackmoor Cottage. He wondered if he could be as unaffected as Walfort if he found himself gazing upon a man who had known his wife intimately. He didn’t think so. As a matter of fact, he knew so. In all likelihood, even if he had no use of his legs, he’d find a way to catapult himself from the carriage and introduce the man to his fists.
“Don’t know if you’ve heard,” Walfort continued. “Jayne is with child.”
He understood the motivation behind his cousin’s announcement. He’d done it for the benefit of the servants. A man thrilled with the realization that his wife would soon give birth. A man letting all know that he was still a man.
Ainsley couldn’t help himself. His gaze flickered back to Jayne. “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.” He thought his voice could not have carried less excitement if he were already in the grave.
“Thank you,” she
said softly, and he knew beyond a doubt that she’d been the one to send the missive, even though he’d asked her not to.
He longed to talk with her in private, to find out if she was truly happy now that the dream had become a reality. But they were all on stage, with an audience.
“Come, let’s get you settled in the house before the hordes of guests arrive.”
While a footman hauled the chair up the steps and into the residence, Randall carried Walfort inside, where he proceeded to settle the marquess in the wheelchair. It was as though someone had sounded a bell. His family swarmed into the entry hallway to welcome the first of their guests.
Well-wishes greeted Walfort’s news of his impending fatherhood. He was making quite the production of it. Jayne merely blushed becomingly and avoided gazing directly at Ainsley.
“Come,” Claire said. With his mother preoccupied with her wedding, and Ainsley having no mistress of his household, Claire was serving as the hostess, the one arranging things and ensuring that all went as planned. “We’ve arranged some rooms in the family wing for you. I believe you’ll be most comfortable.”
“You go ahead, Jayne,” Walfort said. “After that long journey I am more interested in something for my parched throat. What say you, Ainsley? Have you something to offer me?”
“Let’s adjourn to the library, shall we?”
His brothers were only too happy to join them. Ainsley suspected they welcomed the excuse to keep themselves from being underfoot—or available to handle tedious tasks—as the ladies worked. Selfishly, Ainsley wished they’d gone elsewhere. Sooner or later he and Walfort would find themselves alone, and then the awkwardness was certain to descend.
“Let’s drink a toast to Jayne and hope she delivers an heir, shall we?” Walfort said once everyone had a snifter of brandy.
An heir? A boy who should be duke. The thought hit Ainsley like a punch to the gut. He’d known the risks going in, but surely Walfort wasn’t praying for a boy.
If his brothers noticed his less than enthusiastic raising of a glass and “Cheers,” they gave no indication. He wondered if they suspected the truth of the matter. Surely not. Why would anyone think he’d do something so incredibly irresponsible?
Ainsley drained his glass and poured another. He ambled over to the window and wondered how he might find a moment alone with Jayne. Then realized the foolishness of trying to achieve that end. What more was there to say?
“So will marriage make your mother less scandalous, do you suppose?” Walfort asked.
“I doubt it,” Stephen said, his blue eyes dancing. He combed his fingers through his dark blond hair. “The Duchess of Ainsley and scandal are rather synonymous. She enjoys a good scandal, especially when she’s at the center of it.”
“I say, Ainsley, any plans to make your mother a dowager anytime soon?”
He wondered what had prompted Walfort’s question and why his cousin should care. Perhaps he was not as unaffected by all that had happened as he appeared.
“This Season, if Ainsley’s plan bears fruit,” Westcliffe said.
Ainsley jerked his attention to his oldest brother. “I never said anything of the sort.”
“At Christmas, when you were into your cups.”
He recalled, just barely, mentioning something about the Season.
“Good news, then. It’s long past time you married,” Walfort said. “And you have some catching up to do with your brothers here.”
“Have you become my mother?”
“No, but you have a responsibility to provide an heir.”
Ainsley’s fingers tightened around his snifter. “What if Jayne delivers a daughter?”
Swirling the brandy, Walfort held his gaze. “Then we shall just have to try again.”
He wondered where his cousin intended to find the stud this time. He doubted that he’d have the strength to let her go if he had her for another month, another week, another day, another hour. Just once more.
Gazing out the window, he spied Jayne strolling in the garden. “If you’ll excuse me, I forgot about a matter to which I must attend.”
He emptied his snifter with one burning gulp, set it aside and strode from the room. He knew it was foolishness to seek her out. Better by far to ignore her, to pretend she didn’t exist. But it seemed his head had no control over his legs. Before he knew it, he was in the garden. Then it was only a few long, quick strides and he was beside her.
I missed you. Dreadfully. But he couldn’t give the words freedom. They were not his to be spoken. So instead, he asked, “Should you be walking about?”
She studied his shoes as though wondering who had polished them. Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, and he could see that she wasn’t quite certain they should be alone in the garden, as though she feared he might seek to ravish her behind the hedges. Not that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. The desperation with which he wished to take her in his arms was unsettling.
“Yes,” she said softly. “My physician advises it. It’s good for me . . . and the babe.”
He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from reaching for her.
“Are you well?”
She nodded, her cheeks blossoming into the color of one of his gardener’s prize roses. “I had some nausea in the beginning, but nothing to worry over.”
These were not topics usually discussed but he wanted to know everything.
“I feared you’d be angry with me,” she said.
“What could you ever do that would make me angry?”
“I sent you the missive after you instructed me not to.”
“I was glad you did. Learning of it as Walfort announced it through the carriage window might have given me the vapors.”
He could see her fighting back her smile. This was all so bloody awkward. He hated it.
He didn’t think it possible, but her cheeks turned even a brighter hue. “He’s been so boastful that I’ve begun to feel rather like a prized broodmare.”
“His intentions are honorable. He seeks to spare you from gossip and scandal.”
“I simply wish he’d do it a bit more quietly.” She glanced around. “Have you climbing trees here?”
“Not good ones. But the stars at night are magnificent.”
She held his gaze for a moment before looking down at the ground. “This is terribly awkward. I knew it would be, but . . .”
Her voice trailed off. He slipped his finger beneath her chin and lifted gently until he could look into her eyes. “I’ve been . . . concerned about you.”
He guided her toward a bend in the path that would hide them from view of the house. When he was certain no one could see them, he stopped and simply took his fill of her. He reached out to touch her cheek, caught himself and shoved his errant hand into his pocket. “Are you truly well?”
“I am.”
“Is Walfort . . . is he all right with what’s happened, now that it’s actually happened?”
“Yes, he really is happy. Overly so.”
“I’m glad. He treats you well?”
“He treats me as he always has.”
No kisses, then. He should have been glad, but it saddened him. He needed to have a talk with Walfort, make sure he understood his duties where his wife was concerned. She deserved—
She released a startled sound of surprise, her lovely blue eyes growing as round as saucers.
“What is it?” he asked, alarmed.
Her smile was one of wonder and delight as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, tugged his hand from his pocket and flattened it against her stomach. He was surprised by the firmness of her body, the roundness of it. Her dress hid everything, on purpose he was certain.
“Jayne—”
“Shh. Just wait.”
Beneath his fingers her body undulated slightly like the tide washing over the shore. The wonder of it nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
“Was that—”
/>
“Your child.”
“No.” He pulled his hand free and turned away from her. “It’s not mine. I gave it to you and Walfort. Meeting you out here was a terrible idea. I knew it was, but still I came. What happened . . . we are not to talk of it. That was the arrangement, the bargain.”
“You asked me, now that it happened, if Walfort was all right with everything. Perhaps a better question is: are you?”
Forcing a façade of indifference, he faced her. “I am. It is simply important that we never forget that this is not my child.”
He saw the pain flash over her lovely features before she shored up her resolve and presented a convincing mask. “Of course, Your Grace. How silly of me to forget. If you’ll excuse me, I must complete my turn about the garden. I prefer to be alone. I use the time for quiet reflection and contemplation. It is important that I be calm so I do not have a nervous child.”
She didn’t wait for his answer, but spun on her heel and walked away from him. Everything in him urged him to call her back, to apologize, to not be such an ass. But feeling the movement of the child—his child, no matter what stupidity he had agreed to—had devastated him. He would never hold the child in his arms. He would not see it take its first steps. He would not be there to protect it. He had forfeited the right to be this child’s father when he had taken another man’s wife.
Now he would exist in a hell of his own creation.
Absence made the heart grow fonder. Or so the old saying went. Jayne had convinced herself that it was true, merely a trick of the mind, memories made sweeter by the passage of time. Until she stepped out of the carriage and looked up to see Ainsley standing there. At that precise moment she realized she’d been deceiving herself.
Absence had not been responsible for the fondness she felt toward him. It was not the reason she carried him into her dreams. It was not the reason she pressed her hand to her abdomen and wondered if she’d see him in the face of her child. It was not the reason that she had written him letters never to be sent.
As she sat beside Walfort in the great hall where an orchestra played and a thousand candles flickered in the chandeliers, she knew Ainsley—not absence—had made her heart yearn for him.
Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers) Page 21