‘Yes. How did you guess?’
‘I met a few Etonians when I was up at Oxford. Were you homesick?’
‘God, yes—at least at first. But I was good at sport, tall for my age, and full of the confidence my parents had nurtured in me. A bit cocky, really. I soon settled in. Some never did. God knows how Rufus survived.’ March looked at her questioningly. ‘How about you?’
‘I went away to a school in the Cotswolds when I was eight. But I loved it; I wasn’t homesick in the slightest. It was Kate, unknown to me, who cried her eyes out alone in London because her baby had been sent away so young.’ Jo shivered suddenly.
‘You’re cold?’
‘Not really.’
‘You just hate to think of your mother in distress,’ he said softly.
‘You’re a very perceptive man.’
‘Are you a perceptive woman?’
Her eyes widened on his. ‘What should I be perceiving?’
‘How much I want to kiss you again.’ March pulled her to her feet and kissed her with such heat she melted against him. Her heart hammered against him as the kisses grew wilder and hungrier, until at last he raised his head a fraction, his eyes blazing with a look which took away what breath she had left.
‘I want you so much, Joanna,’ he said, in a rough, husky tone nothing like his usual drawl.
She nodded mutely.
‘Do you want me?’
Jo nodded again, but with such reluctance March smiled wryly, and the tension between them lessened.
‘But you have reservations?’
‘Yes.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘If the bloody title’s the problem again—’
‘No. It’s not that. Please don’t laugh.’
‘Believe me,’ he assured her, ‘I’m not laughing. What should I not find amusing?’
‘I’m probably taking too much for granted,’ she said, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake, ‘and correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear to want more than just a session in bed.’
‘Of course you’re not wrong.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘But why the hell did you think I would laugh?’
Her chin lifted. ‘At my presumption.’
He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘God in heaven, woman, you know damn well I want to be your friend and your lover. And one day a lot more than that,’ he added, in a tone which left no doubt of his meaning.
‘I’m up for the first two, March.’ She braced herself. ‘But if “a lot more” means something permanent, I’m just not the right one for you.’
His eyes bored into hers with an icy gold glare. ‘You mean, Joanna, that I’m not the right one for you.’
Jo looked pointedly at March’s hands until he removed them. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t mean that. I could very easily fall in love with you, but—’
The rest was lost as he kissed her with all-conquering triumph, taking her admission as licence to make love to her with an assurance she found hard to resist. Jo shivered as he stroked her breasts. Even through the wool of her dress their skilled, arousing touch caused fierce tumult as her sensitised nipples transmitted darts of sensation along every vein. The blood thundered in her ears, but when his hand slid to cup her bottom she stiffened, tearing her mouth from his as she pushed at his shoulders. She saw March change before her eyes from all-conquering lover to a man fighting for self-control.
He ran his hands through his hair, his face turned away. ‘For God’s sake, Joanna, I’m only human. How did you expect me to react to a statement like that?’
‘I thought it might be my fault again,’ she said bitterly. ‘I would like to go to bed here now, please.’
‘No need to be so precise,’ he snapped. ‘I know you didn’t mean mine.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Why the devil did you tell me something like that?’
Her mouth tightened. ‘It was a mistake, but it was the truth. It doesn’t make any difference, March. The situation remains unchanged.’ She halted suddenly, aware that a tide of embarrassed colour was rising in her face.
‘Joanna,’ he said, eyes softening, ‘what’s wrong?’
Her chin lifted. ‘I may have confided my emotions, but you haven’t said a word about yours!’
He gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Because I was afraid to frighten you away! Surely I’ve made my feelings obvious from the first day we met?’ He glowered. ‘Now, listen to me. Listen very carefully. Why do you think it was such a blow when I thought you were married?’
‘You liked the look of me?’
He held her eyes. ‘For me it was recognition. Something told me that in you I’d found a woman to share my life. I did the falling in love bit with Lavinia, but with you I felt I’d found a woman I could have a loving, solid relationship. With the kind to build a life on.’ He took her hands, smiling sardonically. ‘But you want to stay friends, maybe even make a perfectly natural progression to being lovers, but nothing more permanent than that. Which is a euphemism. In plain English you don’t want to be my wife.’
Jo shook her head sadly. ‘You’re wrong there, March. I could get used to the idea all too easily. But then I would be Lady Arnborough, and that’s just not for me.’
‘Then it’s checkmate.’ He dropped her hands, smiling mirthlessly. ‘Just my luck. The females Hetty pushes at me make it embarrassingly plain they’d jump at the chance to be my lady. Whereas the only lady I want declines the honour.’
When Jo also declined tea, and everything else he offered, March looked in a drawer in the chest.
‘My sister keeps a few things here,’ he said politely, and handed her a nightgown. ‘Please make use of anything else you need in the morning.’
‘How kind. Thank you.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight.’
When the door closed, Jo hugged her arms across her chest, eyes tightly closed for a moment. Then, embarrassed by her own melodrama, she threw off her clothes and pulled the handful of lace and crêpe de Chine over her head. Her eyebrows rose as she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror on her way to the bathroom. A bit different from the night gear she normally wore, but it fitted so well Hetty had to be built on the same lines as her. At last Jo switched off the bedside lamps and got into bed, wondering if she was the biggest fool in the world for not jumping at March’s proposal. After meeting Lavinia tonight she’d been as jealous as hell. Still was, purely because he’d been madly in love with the woman—whereas his emotions were far more stable where Joanna Logan was concerned. Did she want him to be madly in love with her, then? Of course she did.
Forget all that and go to sleep, she ordered herself. But, beautiful though the room was, in the dark it was scary. Overwhelmed by the centuries of antiquity surrounding her, she switched a lamp back on again for company, and settled herself against the banked pillows. March had made no mention of ghosts, but in a house this old there had to be at least one.
Along the landing March lay equally sleepless, for several reasons, not least of them the problem of unrelieved lust. Not that lust seemed the right word to associate with Joanna. For one wild moment earlier, when she’d actually admitted feelings for him, he’d thought Christmas had arrived early. Wrong. Whatever her feelings were, they did not equate with wanting to make love with him. He frowned. If he were just plain March Clement, who ran the estate and lived in a house like Ed Pargeter’s, perhaps Joanna would have been in bed with him right now. Nothing he could do about that. There was no way he would renounce his title even if he could. He was the last of a long line of Clements. And if he didn’t do something about it soon the line would end with him. Unless Rufus had a change of heart. Which was unlikely. He tossed and turned for a while, then swore when he realised he was so thirsty he’d never sleep without a drink.
To avoid waking Joanna, he got out of bed and into his dressing gown without turning on a light. On bare feet March stole along the landing in the dark, then let out a smothered howl as he stubbed his toe
on a banister. The door of his mother’s bedroom flew open.
‘Who’s there?’ called Joanna sharply.
‘It’s just me,’ said March, massaging his toe. ‘Sorry I woke you.’
She stood in the doorway, watching him. ‘I hadn’t gone to sleep. Did you hurt yourself?’
‘My fault for skulking around barefoot to get a drink. The idea was to avoid waking you. Would you like something?’ He licked suddenly dry lips, wondering if she knew her body was silhouetted in detail by the light shining through the flimsy nightgown.
Jo knew. She stood her ground very deliberately to let him look. In the interval since they’d said goodnight she’d had a change of heart. Or body. This opportunity might never happen again. It was time to follow March’s motto and seize the day. He might not be madly in love with her, as she was with him, but she wanted him to be her lover. Even if it was only for one night. But how to make that clear without literally throwing herself at him?
‘I don’t want a drink,’ she said in sudden inspiration, ‘but could you possibly keep me company for a little while? I found it a bit scary in the dark. It suddenly occurred to me that a house as ancient as this must surely have a resident ghost.’
‘Of course it has,’ said March, forgetting about a drink. ‘Get back into bed and I’ll tell you all about it.’ He averted his eyes as she made for the bed, then followed her and sat on the edge of it once she was settled against the pillows. ‘No clanking chains, or anything like that, just a lady who drifts along the long gallery searching, according to legend, for the lover who failed to turn up at the altar on their wedding day.’
‘He developed cold feet?’ asked Jo.
March shook his head. ‘Killed by a rival suitor who lusted after Lady Blanche’s dowry. Her father had always favoured the murdering rival, and married the unwilling Blanche off to him post-haste. Though it’s generally held that she had the last laugh.’
‘Why?’ said Jo, fascinated.
‘The son she bore was the image of the murdered swain.’
‘You’re making that up!’
March shook his head, wondering if Joanna had any idea how delicious she looked with her dark eyes like saucers. ‘What’s more,’ he said, ‘Blanche never bore her husband any children, so he was stuck with the other man’s son as his heir.’
‘Served him right,’ crowed Jo. She bit her lip. ‘Does Blanche keep to the long gallery, or does she wander further afield sometimes?’
‘She’s never been seen in this part of the house,’ he said, with complete truth.
‘Why doesn’t that reassure me?’ She slid down further under the covers. ‘I really, really wish I hadn’t asked about a ghost.’
‘I could bunk down on the chaise to guard you from things that go bump in the night, if you like,’ March suggested.
Jo thought about it, then nodded. ‘But wouldn’t it be horribly uncomfortable for you?’
‘Not at all,’ he lied manfully. ‘I’d be far more uncomfortable in my own room, knowing you were lying awake in here, terrified that Blanche might join you.’
‘Not terrified,’ she protested. ‘Just nervous.’
‘I can’t promise I won’t snore, but at least you’ll have company,’ said March, enjoying the indecision on his guest’s face.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘And if the lady does come drifting in here you’ll have to chase her out. After all, you’re her descendant.’
‘True. I’ll just dash back to my room for my duvet.’
It was some time before March returned, and from his aura of soap and toothpaste it was obvious why.
‘No sign of Blanche?’ he asked, as he spread his duvet on the chaise.
‘No.’ Jo smiled at him from her nest of pillows. ‘And now you’re here I’m even brave enough to turn out the light.’
He moved to the side of the bed. ‘You look very comfortable in there.’
‘But you won’t be on that chaise.’
‘You could kiss me goodnight to make it up to me.’ March leaned down, putting a hand on the bed either side of her. ‘See? No hands.’
Jo laughed, and held up her mouth for the kiss he planted on it very fleetingly. But when he straightened she shook her head.
‘Stay,’ she whispered.
March’s eyes smouldered into hers for an instant, then with a smile of triumph he slid into the bed to take her in his arms. For a while they lay completely motionless, then March ran a light, caressing hand down her spine and kissed the corner of her mouth. When the mouth smiled against his he locked his arms tighter and kissed her with all the pent-up passion he’d been fighting to control for what seemed like hours. With a gasp Jo’s mouth opened, and his tongue surged to caress hers as he slid a hand beneath the lace covering her breasts.
‘Wait,’ said Jo. She pulled away to take the silk and lace over her head. ‘If you’re going to make love to me, I’d rather not wear your sister’s nightgown!’
He gave a husky, delighted laugh. ‘No if about it, my lady.’ He planted kisses all over her face, one hand holding her against him as the other caressing hand paid loving attention to her taut breasts. At last his hungry mouth settled on hers with a heat and intensity that thrilled her to the core, his kisses demanding and receiving a response which tightened his embrace until every curve and plane of her body was locked against every angle and muscle of his. When his mouth left hers to follow a path down her throat, sucking on the pulse at the base, Jo’s heart beat a frenzied rhythm. Her hips thrust against him in invitation which brought his erection seeking against her hot skin, and her breath caught in her throat.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ he whispered, and continued on his downward path to close his mouth over her breast.
She gave a helpless moan at the sensation that was almost pain as his skilled lips and grazing teeth teased her nipples, arousing feelings so exquisite she let out a cry of protest when he stopped the torment. He held her fiercely close as he kissed her mouth again, his tongue surging in substitute penetration that drove them both wild. Without breaking the kiss he slid a caressing hand over her thighs, his long fingers moving on a tantalisingly slow voyage of discovery to learn how much she wanted him.
Jo herself had no idea just how much she wanted him until March found the little bud hidden beneath its hood, his skilled fingers arousing such extreme, piercing sensation she sank her teeth into his shoulder. With a fierce growl his body covered hers, iron-hard with the need to mate, his control suddenly gone as she dug her nails into his shoulders and reared up against him. With a visceral groan March slid home into hot, tight warmth which ripped his wits away. Her ragged gasp of pleasure was almost his undoing, but with teeth clenched he held her fast, his fingers gripping her hips to hold her still until he mastered himself enough to make love to her with all the skill at his command and bring them to the overwhelming climax they finally reached within seconds of each other.
It left them gasping for breath in each other’s arms. And for March the discovery that a bridge had been crossed in their relationship filled him with elation.
He leaned out a hand and switched on a lamp, his eyes on Jo’s face. He retrieved pillows from the floor to pile them up against the headboard and drew Joanna up to lean against them, then slid out of bed. ‘I’ll give you five minutes to yourself while I fetch a drink. What would you like?’
‘Something cold, please,’ she managed, breathless at the sight of so much muscular nudity.
March shrugged into his dressing gown and, aware of her discomfort, gave her a glinting smile on his way to the door. The moment it closed behind him Jo leapt out of bed and made for the bathroom. On the way back to bed she retrieved the nightgown and slid it over her head. She was propped against the pillow, the covers pulled well up, when March returned, armed with a bottle of champagne and a couple of flutes.
‘Sorry I was so long. I went down to the kitchen for this,’ he explained, filling the flutes. He handed one to Joanna and then go
t into bed with his own. He touched his glass to hers and smiled into her eyes. ‘To you, and to the most glorious experience of my life, Joanna.’
‘Glorious it was,’ she agreed, ‘ but it doesn’t change things, March.’
‘Ah, but it does. Irrevocably. We are now both friends and lovers,’ he informed her, with the confidence that was so much a part of him. ‘It is possible to be both, Joanna.’
‘You know this from experience?’ she demanded, tasting her wine.
March leaned back against the stacked pillows, utterly relaxed. ‘Only from observing my parents’ marriage, and Hetty’s. Personally I’ve known—still know—women who are just friends, and I’ve enjoyed encounters with others—including the mad, passionate interlude with Lavinia before harsh reality set in. But you are the one woman I want for life, Joanna.’ He turned his penetrating gold gaze on her. ‘Now you’ve given yourself to me, I’m keeping you. Get used to the idea.’ He relieved her of the empty glass.
‘March, be reasonable,’ she protested, determined to set him straight. ‘What or who you really need is someone who would be only too delighted to be Lady Arnborough. If we go on as lovers I would just get in the way.’
‘The only Lady Arnborough I want is right here in my arms. So stop fighting your destiny, Joanna.’ He drew her into his arms. ‘This is where you belong.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she protested, as he kissed her neck.
‘A man must use all weapons to hand,’ he said huskily, and removed the nightgown, his mouth and hands moving over her in such seductive persuasion that she was soon defeated by her own body. It responded to him with such fervour, and their climax engulfed them so convulsively, that at last tears slid from Jo’s eyes as March held her in a bone-crushing embrace while the storm receded.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked, kissing the tears away.
‘I don’t know. This is all so overwhelming, March. I’ve never felt like this before. The physical thing, I mean,’ she added, sniffing inelegantly.
March rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘Of course not,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You belong to me.’
The Mistress of His Manor Page 11