She turned and looked back at him and they just kind of got . . . stuck. Because there was only one place to go from here. The tour was over. It was going on one in the morning. The only place left was the bed.
“I guess it’s time,” he said, his voice hoarse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kemble watched the flush creep up Jane’s neck and felt the heat in his own cheeks answer. She blinked several times, rapidly. Was she frightened of him? Or just what he was about to do to her? This was so screwed. They were married, for God’s sake. It had to happen sooner or later. And whose fault is that? His. He was the one who talked her into this. Or rather gave her an escape hatch from her horrible situation. She’d had no choice but to accept, really. She wasn’t likely to get another offer since she spent almost all her time with her mother or at the Breakers. But she had accepted and here they were. Best get on with it. He cleared his throat.
But it was Jane who spoke. “If you could get me the . . . the basket, I’ll just . . . freshen up.”
Okay. Okay. That was something he could do. He turned and practically dashed for the basket with the gifts. Or rather the one gift she’d need. But he brought her the whole thing.
Her blush increased. “Thank you.” She retreated into the bathroom and shut the door.
Kemble wasn’t aware of how he had gotten to his closet, but he was here, taking off his tie, hanging it on one of the circular tie racks. He unbuttoned his cuffs, kicked off his shoes. He’d never thought about what he’d wear to bed. He usually just slept in his boxers, or in the buff in the summertime. But you couldn’t wear underwear to bed on your wedding night. He couldn’t imagine just springing himself on Jane naked either. She’d probably faint. Like all the Tremaine men, he was pretty well-endowed. Pajamas? He owned a pair he kept for hotels. You never knew when there’d be a fire alarm and everyone would end up out in the street in whatever they were wearing. Not that he’d been to a hotel since the family went after Drew in Chicago. Five years. Had it been that long? Where were the damned pajamas? Aw, hell. You couldn’t wear pajamas on your wedding night either. Shades of Ozzie and Harriet. When Jane would be wearing that little red silk négligée? Pajamas would practically be an insult to her. Well, he better think of something before Jane came out. He looked around, disgusted with himself. He should have had a little more foresight. Okay. A robe. He had a robe somewhere. He found it hanging on a hook in the back. It was a dark blue. Terrycloth. Not exactly sexy, but it was what he had.
He unbuckled his belt and hung it on the belt wheel mounted on the wall and stripped off his suit pants, taking time to hang them neatly. Socks and boxers went into the hamper in the corner. He shrugged on the robe. There. That was pretty appropriate.
He actually peered out to see if the bathroom door was still closed. What was he? A rabbit? He straightened and walked purposefully over to turn down the bed on the side nearest the bathroom. He heard water running. The digital clock with speakers and an iPod on the top said 1:23 a.m. He thumbed through the music menu on the iPod before he remembered that the bedroom had a sound system. He flipped a switch embedded in the night table. Hip-hop blared out and made him jump. He heard something crash in the bathroom as he fumbled for the switch. The voice was singing about “big-assed bitches” when he slammed it back to silence. What a fool he was.
“You okay?” he called.
“Yes. Just broke a glass.”
Damn. “Are you barefoot?” He started toward the door at a run. Was that a gasp? “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”
He burst through the door to see Jane standing in her négligée, in the middle of a minefield of broken glass, on one foot. She held the other up gingerly and balanced herself with a hand on the sleek black vanity. A bright flower of blood bloomed on the ball of her foot. He started across for her.
“Kemble,” she said sharply. “You’re barefoot too.”
Damn, again. “Okay. Stay where you are.” He rushed for the closet.
“It’s not bad. Just a little cut,” she called.
His new bride had cut her foot on their wedding night because he had blared hip-hop at her at 1:30 in the morning. Great, Kemble. Just great. He shoved his feet back into his dress shoes and strode back over to the bathroom, crunching right across the broken glass to scoop Jane up in his arms. The shock that hit him as his fingers curled around soft, pale skin went right to his groin. He looked down at her, frozen. Jane had goose bumps, and even he couldn’t suppress a shiver. Was the bathroom that cold?
Of course he knew Jane had lost her baby fat years ago. As a child she’d been plump. He remembered Drew telling their mother that kids at school teased her. His mother had taken pains to assure Jane she wasn’t fat and that she’d grow out of being plump. Well, his mother had been right. Not that Jane was skinny. Not like those models he and Tristram used to date, where you could see every vertebra in their backs, like a snake skeleton. She had curves. They were just the right curves and Drew’s wedding gift revealed almost all of them. Kemble’s body reacted. How could it not? Jane never wore any makeup, but Kemble hadn’t really thought about how lovely and fine her skin was. Maybe he’d never looked at her up close. He was looking now. Her lashes were long, slightly darker than her brown hair. He bet she’d been blond as a very young girl. And her eyes . . . no, they weren’t Drew’s dramatic, storm-cloud gray. Their gray was more serene, like billowing smoke with flecks of charcoal floating in it.
They were staring up at him now. He realized he needed to breathe. So he did. Then he cleared his throat. “Let me get you over to the bed.” Wait. He didn’t mean it that way. “So . . . so I can look at your foot,” he amended.
She nodded, looking kind of dazed. She must be in pain.
He set her gently down on the bed and knelt down in front of her. Her foot was dripping blood onto the marble floor. He took her bare foot in his hands, carefully, by the heel. She had high arches and small feet. So delicate. To his horror, he realized he was getting an erection. Great. Be an asshole when she’s hurt, Kemble. He tried to concentrate on her foot and ignore what touching her was doing to him. Yep. A piece of glass caught the light. “I should get this glass out before we take you over to Mother.”
“I’m not going back over to the Breakers tonight.” Jane surprised him with her determination. When he jerked his gaze up to her face, she seemed a little shocked at herself too. “I . . . I don’t want to wake everyone up again. And besides, it’s just a little cut. You can jury-rig a bandage . . . can’t you?”
He blinked for only a second. Of course, she was tired. It was late. He could have his mother Heal her tomorrow. Either way, this was probably the death knell for romance tonight. He wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. But his cock didn’t seem to be getting the “no romance” message. “Right,” he said, rising. “Don’t move.” He spun on his heel and crunched over the broken glass to grab a bright yellow towel that would shortly be ruined. As he strode back over to the bed, he couldn’t help but notice the rise of Jane’s pale breasts over the red négligée, her delicate collarbones, her smooth, creamy shoulders. Thank God for the strategically placed towel. He dropped to his knees in front of her and laid the towel aside, hoping she wouldn’t notice his condition. “I’m afraid this will hurt,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. But looking up, he could see a tight look around her eyes and mouth. She was in pain, all right.
He took a breath and held her heel to steady her foot. “Just hang in there. Won’t take a second.” The glass was a long gleam on the ball of her foot. She looked away as he took the piece firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulled.
To Jane’s credit, she didn’t even jerk, just sucked in a breath. He held it up the triangle of glass. “There’s the culprit.” She looked pretty pale, but she managed a small smile.
“Thank you. That was kind.”
Kind? Strangers were kind. She was now officially his to protect, and doing his job wa
sn’t being “kind.” “Who keeps actual glass in the bathroom?” he growled. “Hasn’t he ever heard of plastic? That’s just asking for trouble.” He put the offending shard of glass on the black lacquer night table that seemed to be suspended in midair.
“Oh, no. It’s all my fault. You know how clumsy I am.” Jane was flushing.
“Clumsy? I’ve never noticed that you’re clumsy.” He watched Jane deflate. What had he said wrong?
Kemble decided silence was safer. He wrapped the towel around her foot and put his arm around her shoulders to swivel her so her back was against the pillows and she could keep her foot elevated. That shot all available blood down to his groin. His erection was officially painful. He put another pillow under the foot and one under her knee. “You, uh, just keep your, uh, foot up while I see if I can find a first-aid kit.” What was he, a stuttering fourteen-year-old with his first girl? But now he really had a dilemma. Jane was sure to notice his erection. Which he should not be having when she was in pain. Okay. He’d deal. He kind of swiveled as he straightened, hoping he’d concealed his problem and practically ran from the room. He’d check the kitchen first. This place had better have a first-aid kit.
*****
Jane sighed as Kemble dashed out the door like he couldn’t wait to get away from her. Damn Drew’s silly wedding gift. She didn’t belong in something like this. Kemble could see that, even if he’d never noticed how clumsy she was. How did he not know that about her? It was like she was a shadow. She didn’t exist in men’s eyes. Most women’s either, for that matter. Once she’d thought it was because she was always in Drew’s company. Drew Tremaine could eclipse anybody. But that wasn’t true. No one noticed Jane even if she was by herself. And Kemble, whom she’d known for nearly twenty years, didn’t know the first thing about her.
She knew everything about him. He liked classic rock, but only the seminal work, not the trashy excess. He was kind, no matter how dour he’d looked when she told him that. He took care of his younger siblings when his father would let him. He had a soft spot for Tamsen’s animals. He was the one who fed them and let them out when she was away at horseshows, back when she was allowed to leave the Breakers. He’d taken over tutoring her in mathematics and taught her to use a computer. Lanyon too. It had killed Jane to see him go out with all those models back when he and Tristram were cutting a swath across the L.A. basin. But she understood. Handsome heir to a fortune? The world was his oyster. But he’d lost interest in all that, long before Tristram did. She wondered if it was because he lost the confidence necessary for that lifestyle. The longer he worked so closely with Brian, the more it chafed him that he’d never be as good at anything as his father was at everything. She wished she could convince him to see himself through others’ eyes, like hers for instance, rather than comparing himself constantly to an Adapter.
She sighed. It was clear now that this marriage had been a terrible mistake. He didn’t know her at all. Witness the house he’d bought. She’d never seen a house she thought was colder and less like a home. She was just any port in his storm, that’s all, and she was selfish to have accepted him, selfish to let him send her mother to a rehab facility. What had she been thinking? He deserved someone he could love, even if it wasn’t destiny. Not someone he’d never even noticed. It wasn’t too late to have the marriage annulled. Her mother could come home as soon as she was out of rehab. It would mean that Jane would no longer be welcome at the Breakers. That almost gave her more pain than her throbbing foot. But maybe it was best.
Still, if she told him she wanted the marriage annulled, wouldn’t that hurt him too?
Oh, dear. She couldn’t turn him away without embarrassing him in front of his family, in essence telling him he wasn’t good enough to be her husband, which was so far from the truth it was ludicrous. She didn’t put it past Kemble to believe it, though.
He came striding back through the door with a broom and a dustpan in one hand and his other arm around a plastic case and another bottle of wine. He was wearing dress shoes without socks and his blue robe. She couldn’t help but smile. Actually it might have verged on a grin.
He stopped. “What?”
She cocked her head. He looked down then gave her a sheepish grin, shrugging. “Height of fashion for modern bridegrooms, yes?”
“Yes.” She nodded, trying to be serious. “I’m sure it will be all the rage.”
“Well, I did find a first-aid kit.” He leaned the broom against the wall and set the dustpan on one of the highboys. He opened the bottle of wine and poured her a generous glass. “Drink this. Medicinally, of course.”
Jane accepted the glass. Kemble seemed less tense than when he’d left; whether it was her grin or something else that had relaxed him, she didn’t know. She sipped the wine.
“Be aggressive there. Drink up. We’re doing pain management.” He produced four ibuprofen pills. That essentially made the over-the-counter medicine into a prescription-strength dose. She downed the pills with the wine. “Good girl.” Then he was all business, opening the little case and setting up shop at her feet. He unwrapped her foot gently from the now bloody towel. After sluicing the cut with Betadine and wiping it carefully, he examined the damage. “You’ll last until tomorrow.”
“No doubt. It really is just a little cut.”
“Well, it’s pretty deep. And I don’t want you getting an infection.” He squeezed some antibiotic cream on his finger and smoothed it over the cut. Then he pawed through the kit and came up with a sterile pad and one of those stretchy wraps that sticks to itself. Before she knew it, her foot was looking very professionally bandaged.
“There,” he said.
“Very tidy.” She held her foot up.
“The least I could do since the damn house I bought you had glass in the bathroom. And I blared hip-hop and made you drop it.”
“Not your fault,” she said, surprised. But she could tell he didn’t believe her. Instead he grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept up the bathroom. Jane heard the clink of glass in the wastebasket. Then he went over it again.
He stuck his head back in. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she lied. In truth, her foot felt better, but she was a little loopy, what with wine and ibuprofen on top of being so tired. But this was their wedding night. Or morning as the case might be. She glanced to the bedside clock and saw that it was nearly two.
Kemble followed her gaze. His gripped his lips and went to her closet. After some rummaging around he came out with one of her nightgowns. It was white cotton, long sleeved, with white embroidery over the high bodice. “I expect you’ll be more comfortable in this,” he said gruffly. Jane swallowed. “I mean, it’s just that it’s late. And we’ve both had a big day. And you’re foot is cut and all . . . I mean maybe discretion is the better part of valor as Edwards says, and we should, uh, wait until we’re both rested, or, well. . . .”
“Yes. I expect that’s sensible.” She managed to make her voice even. He was right. Of course he was right. But had she disappointed him? Or was he just relieved he wouldn’t have to be a husband to her tonight? Either choice was daunting.
“Can . . . can you manage?”
“Yes.”
He stood frozen to the spot for a long moment. When he moved it looked like he’d forcibly uprooted his feet. He went into his closet. He didn’t shut the door, but it was two-thirds shut. He might as well have slammed it.
So . . . she was supposed to change into her nightgown. She reached for it slowly. The négligée made him uncomfortable. Of course it did. It made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t the kind of woman to wear something like that. He knew it too.
Jane held herself carefully numb while she pulled the garment over her head. She wiggled out of the tiny matching thong and pulled it over her foot. Then she shimmied into the cotton nightgown as quickly as she could. She needn’t have rushed. Kemble was making sure he didn’t come out and interrupt her. She waited, heart pounding, but strangely cal
m in her mind until he came out. He had on striped pajamas.
“Do you need . . . anything?” he asked. He looked nervous. Like she’d pounce on him and force him to have sex with her.
She shook her head.
He turned out all the lights except the one on the other side of the bed. Then he came in and tucked her under the covers, being oh-so-careful of her foot. “Do you think you can sleep?” The concern in his voice was obvious. He was a good man.
“Yes,” she said.
He started to move away and then thought better of it. He came back and leaned over her. She remembered the dance tonight at the Breakers. That dance had held so much hope. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.
“Goodnight, Jane,” he whispered.
“Goodnight.”
He went round to his side of the bed, turned out the light, and crawled in. The bed was so huge they might have been a hundred miles away from each other. Jane’s eyes filled.
Well. She was married. Sort of.
*****
Kemble thought he wouldn’t sleep a wink with all the dire thoughts running around in his head about how he’d failed Jane, whether he should have married her and whether she hated him for proposing, or would someday, whether she liked the house or not, etc., etc. But pretty soon he was dead to the world for about five hours.
Now, at a quarter to eight in the morning, he was bent over contracts in the conference room of the office wing at the Breakers where he could spread out, while Jane was down with his mother, getting the cut Healed.
He’d been totally unprepared for last night.
Well, he could fix that. Sign the contracts, follow up on a lead he’d had on the Cup Talisman, and then he was going to do some serious research. Jane might not want him to do his spousal duty anytime soon after last night’s fiasco, but if she did, he was damn well going to be more ready than he’d been last night. There must be some information on the Internet besides porn sites on what to do with a virgin to make her experience the best it could be.
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