by Lyn Stone
One day soon, she would question him as an adult about what sort of man had sired her and then sent her away. Not tonight, however. The mood was too pleasant to mar with unhappy history.
Instead, they spoke of his and Jack’s outing, their visit to the village and tenants. “I look forward to exploring beyond the main house myself,” she added after Jack expressed how well everything had progressed.
Mr. Hobson excelled at holding up his part of the conversation, and she could not imagine anyone of more exalted rank doing any better.
“Must you return to London so soon?” she asked as they sat watching their main course being served.
“Yes, I am afraid I must. I need to see about contracting someone for repairs on some of the cottages and begin negotiations for next spring’s wool sales.”
Laurel nodded her understanding. The man had duties. “Well then, you should return for the harvest festival. Mrs. Mundy says the tenants—”
A sudden commotion in the doorway interrupted her words as a woman shoved the butler aside, marched in and halted near the head of the table.
“Lady Portia!” Mr. Hobson jumped up from the table and his chair tipped backward, slamming to the floor, its loud report echoing in the silence that followed.
Laurel watched as Jack laid his fork on his plate and stood. She followed suit, knowing who the woman in unrelieved black must be. The dowager.
Oh, my. The housekeeper had told her that their former mistress was away in Bath. Laurel had hoped to become settled before having to face the woman Jack said had banished her from the family.
Lady Portia was no ancient, probably only a shade over forty-five by the look of her, but her black hair was streaked with gray and her extremely fair complexion had gone rather pasty. Dark, piercing eyes only accented her paleness.
The extra two stone she carried on her rather short frame did not flatter. However, one could not fault her ensemble. Laurel doubted anyone had ever concocted a more elaborate one for mourning. Tiny tucks and black dyed lace trimmed every edge of the expensive bombazine.
Her dark, silver-threaded hair was curled in tight ringlets, caught up in a jet-studded bandeau. An attached black ostrich feather quivered with her every move.
Mr. Hobson cleared his throat. “Lady Portia, may I present...”
“I know who he is, Hobson! What are you doing here?” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I...I was invited, ma’am. His lordship insisted that I—”
“Has you at his beck and call already, I see,” she said to Jack.
Laurel beckoned the nearest footman and whispered, “Please bring another setting for her ladyship.”
“Don’t bother,” the woman said, huffing as she waved a hand in dismissal. She glared at Jack. “So you are now Elderidge.”
“I am.” Jack left the table and approached the dragon. “And I am glad to meet you, ma’am. Let me assure you of your welcome here anytime you wish to visit your former home. It must have been so difficult for you, having to vacate after so many—”
“Save your breath. This old pile of stone is a boil on the backside of England and I hate it with a passion. You’re welcome to it.”
She turned to Laurel, who stood waiting for her turn at the woman’s vitriol. All she received from the dowager was a puzzled look.
Perhaps no one had told the dowager whom Jack had married. Laurel squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I am Laurel, Countess of Elderidge.”
The woman laughed, a bitter sound. “You have the attitude for it, I see. Well, my girl, you’ll need it. Elderidge is of common stock and the Ton is not forgiving of that.”
Laurel saw red, but she kept her anger in check and her voice cool and polite. “Elderidge is of the same family you married into, Lady Portia.”
“Precisely my point.” She turned to the solicitor. “So is Hobson here, but then I suppose he neglected to apprise you of that little-known fact, eh? Wrong side of the blanket, but still a Worth, if not so named. Blight on society, the lot of you!” She fairly sneered. “And here is the family by-blow at your table looking like a cream-fed cat.” She trained a gimlet eye on Jack. “That certainly speaks to your regard for the title!”
“Enough, madam,” Jack insisted with quiet authority. “If you have an ax to grind with me, I suggest we postpone it until tomorrow and keep it between the two of us.”
She tried to stare him down and failed. Laurel was amazed at Jack’s ability to intimidate with a mere expression. His sea captain’s face, no doubt.
Finally the dowager blew out a noisy sigh and her wide shoulders slumped dramatically. “No axes, Elderidge.” She dragged out a chair and with no grace at all, plopped down on it, propped her elbow on the table and rested her tightly coiffed head on her hand. “I have had the most rotten day of my life,” she declared.
Laurel and Jack exchanged quizzing looks. It was Mr. Hobson who spoke, his voice soft with concern. “May I escort you home, Lady Portia? Was the journey from Bath so terrible?”
She nodded and rose again, almost absently, as she reached for his hand. “You’re a good sort for a bastard, Hobs. Always thought so.”
“Thank you. Come along now,” he replied and gently helped her from her chair and guided her out of the dining room.
Laurel was shaking her head in disbelief as the door closed. Jack quirked his mouth to one side.
“Well, what do you make of that?” Laurel asked.
One of the footmen coughed.
“I think we should discuss it later,” Jack said, turning his attention back to his roast of beef.
Laurel followed suit. She chewed thoughtfully, tasting nothing, wondering what would happen when the dowager found out that her stepdaughter was the one who now wore her title. Laurel’s name obviously had not registered with the woman. If and when it did, they could probably expect another, even grander scene than the one just experienced.
When they had finished dessert, Laurel decided to employ the new rule she had learned and excuse herself even though there were only the two of them at table.
She had already departed earlier from the expected by ordering their three places set at one end of the table, hers to Jack’s right and Mr. Hobson’s to his left, for the sake of conversation and convenience. That departure from tradition had caused a small stir among the staff. What with the dowager’s untoward visit, Laurel felt the need to apply at least a modicum of civility to what was left of the evening.
“I will leave you to your port,” she declared as she laid down her serviette and prepared to rise. A footman rushed to the back of her chair to assist.
Jack stood and offered her a smile, though it looked somewhat forced, probably for the benefit of the three servants who hovered about waiting to clear. “My compliments. The meal was superb, my lady, as was your company.”
“Thank you, Elderidge,” she replied with a wry twist of her lips. Then she raised an eyebrow in unspoken question she hoped he would understand.
He gave a slight nod and she watched his smile become real. Laurel’s heart swelled with anticipation. Apparently they would never need words for this particular arrangement. Jack would come to her again tonight.
* * *
Jack stayed in the dining room for a quarter hour, sipping the port he detested, despite its quality. He almost wished he could abide smoking, if only to have something to do as he killed the appropriate amount of time.
He knew he ought to go outside and walk off some of the angry tension that contracted every muscle in his body. He had barely been able to sit still, much less eat anything after the dratted dowager had burst in and ruined the evening.
He had thought her to be in Bath and hoped she would remain there. She would know the terms of her husband’s will, and Jack had feared that at any moment, she might blurt out the truth. Now he must devise some way to keep the two women apart.
Deception spread its tentacles like ivy on the facade of his life, creeping up to cover it completel
y. He felt smothered by it, wished he could rip it away. But then, his life might not have Laurel.
It would not do to go to her in his current frame of mind. On that thought, he pushed away from the table and strode out to the gardens.
How long would it take for Laurel to finish her evening ablutions and get rid of the maid? His strides ate up the graveled walkway through the well-tended roses, on past the edge of the hedges of the maze and out on to the green beyond.
Darkness enveloped him, so he broke into a run, trying to free himself of pent-up pressure. Finally, exhausted and sweating, he stopped, resting his hands on his knees and breathing hard.
Resigned to the fact that exercise had not helped much, he walked back to the house at a fast clip. Now he needed a bath. Problem on top of problems, he thought with a huff of frustration. And things had gone so well until midway through supper.
George waited for him at the foot of the stairs wearing a curious expression. “Are you unwell, sir?”
“No. Bring water for a bath and don’t bother to have it heated,” Jack said as he passed him.
When he reached his room, he was already tugging at his loosened neckcloth, anxious to strip off his damp clothes. He did so, donned his oldest banyan, then poured himself a brandy from the decanter on the table.
His door to the dressing room stood open, though the other to Laurel’s room was closed. She would be waiting in there, wondering when he would come to her.
Nothing would help him more than to go now, sweep her onto the bed and bury himself in her welcoming body. There, he wondered if he would find the quiet lassitude that came after they made love. Was how she affected him a wondrous discovery he had never even hoped to make? Or had it only been that relief had followed release and lasted longer than usual, almost throughout the day, in fact? It seemed that her very presence at supper had renewed his ease within. Until the dowager showed up.
The liquor burned its way to his stomach and lay there, doing nothing to dispel his mood.
The dowager might, at any time, reveal her husband’s bequest in front of Laurel as spitefully as she had the circumstance of Hobson’s birth.
That strong possibility decided the issue for Jack. He must be the one to tell Laurel. If it came from someone else, he would never be able to convince her how he felt about her now—how much he had come to admire her, like her and need her—independent of her former holdings. Holdings that were now his by law.
The admission would require exactly the right timing, of course. And his words must convey an abject apology that somehow did not also mean he was sorry they had married. His would be a tricky and potentially disastrous confession, but one he now viewed as necessary. He would have to choose the moment carefully and do it when he was perfectly calm and collected.
Not just now, then. Not tonight.
George knocked and Jack bade him enter. Two footmen brought in water and prepared his bath. He dismissed them all for the night and finally sank into the tepid water.
Somewhat refreshed but still feeling like an overwound watchspring, he toweled off and marched naked to his wardrobe to don the black silk banyan he had purchased in London. Properly, it should be worn over shirt, waistcoat and breeches, but Jack didn’t bother. The thought of Laurel waiting for him, all smiles and compliance, stoked his need well beyond that of his desire for peace.
He went back through the dressing room, hesitated for a moment, breathed several deep breaths in an effort to conceal his urgency, then knocked softly.
Chapter Twelve
At last he had finished his bath. She had sat there on the bed listening to the commotion in the next room, hearing a door close as the servants departed and then the subtle splash as he washed. She imagined him naked, thinking of those strong sun-kissed hands of his soaping himself, perhaps thinking of her as he did so.
Who would have guessed that the mere sound of a man bathing could engender such feelings in a woman? She smoothed the soft fabric of her shift over her thighs and sighed with impatience. The subtle splashing had stopped. What was he doing?
The knock came at last, an almost tentative request. Laurel sighed. “Come in.”
And there he stood, resplendent as always, wearing a black robe that exposed his bare chest. His hair was damp, strands of it lying slick over his forehead as if he’d absently brushed it across his brow with his hand.
He seemed somehow vulnerable beneath the powerful shield of strength that surrounded him all the time. She had yet to see a weakness in Jack, nor did she now. What she detected was more of a yearning that peeked through. It touched her as surely as his hands had last evening.
Laurel opened her arms. The look of relief on his face as he crossed the room fueled her desire to hold him as nothing else ever would. He wanted this, wanted her, more than she had known. She needed no sweet words, no romantic verse or teasing entreaties. Only him.
He attempted gentleness when he embraced her, but Laurel felt it give way almost instantly. His mouth found hers and consumed with a fury. Her mind fogged with pleasure, feelings scattering thoughts like chaff in the wind. Hands, his and hers, claimed, stroked, clutched and soothed.
Growls, groans and sighs mingled as they rolled, pressed together, upon the pillowy coverlet. She tugged away the tie of his robe as he raked up her shift. His desperation seized her or perhaps hers caused his own. One thrust and he was home within her. “Yes!” she rasped against his neck.
He began to move, slowly at first, a struggle for him, she knew. Deliberately, she rose faster, increasing rhythm, altering his pace yet begging for mastery. His body reacted almost fiercely. Those long, strong fingers plowed through her hair, holding her head immobile for the wildest, wettest, longest kiss ever. Laurel returned it in kind, thoroughly emboldened. Nothing forbidden, he had said.
She felt the building of pleasure with each frantic thrust, knew as he grasped for the pinnacle, he swept her with him. Suddenly it was all too great to bear and her body shuddered with an explosion of pure heat, sparks showered behind her eyelids as she clenched them tight. She cried out as he poured himself into her with a soft roar.
Laurel could barely breathe the effort seemed so great. He lay still for a long moment, then braced himself on his elbows, his hands still threaded in her hair. When she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her with an expression of awe. Or, on closer inspection, perhaps stunned regret.
She smiled to show him it was all right, his abandoning of control. For a man who probably prided himself on his command of every situation, he might even feel embarrassed.
“That was remarkable!” she whispered.
He released the breath he’d been holding and looked to one side. “I want to say I’m sorry,” he said on a sigh.
Laurel breathed a little laugh as she raised one hand to his clenched jaw, then trailed it down his neck to his chest. “But you won’t say it and you shouldn’t. I have never in my life felt so...alive. So free.”
He withdrew slowly and moved to her side so that her head rested on his shoulder and his arm held her tight against him. No words were needed as far as she was concerned. Laurel felt so wonderful, she couldn’t express it anyway. And he must be at a loss, as well.
They lay that way for a long time. Suddenly he asked, “Do you like this room?”
“I love this room,” she replied lazily. “It is the most wonderful room in the entire world and I shall always love it.”
“Let’s go next door,” he said. “You can love my room, too.”
Laurel laughed and pushed to sit up. “All right. Too many ruffles for you? Is that why you were gone this morning when I awoke?”
“I never sleep more than four or five hours and I could never lie abed. Didn’t want to wake you. Come on.”
They got off her bed and he swooped her into his arms. He turned sideways to get through the dressing room doors and deposited her on his enormous four-poster. George must have turned down the bed for Jack before leaving, so she slid
between the sheets.
“Are you cold?” he asked, following her under the covers, propping up on one elbow as he looked down at her. “Shall I warm you a little?”
She gave a salacious wiggle and grinned up at him. “Warm me a lot.”
He began toying with her hair, winding it around his finger. “Do you have any inkling how you affect me, Laurel?”
“Hmm. Let me see... I make you wild?”
He winced. “Well, that, too, but only when you arouse me.”
“How do I do that?” she asked, playing coy for the first time in her life.
“Without even trying,” he admitted. “You might have noticed how difficult it is for me to contain my...need to move about. All of the time,” he added and pulled a wry face. “I have to be forever doing.”
She nodded and snuggled closer. “I understand.”
“I wish to hell I did. The only thing good about it is that I get a great deal accomplished. But it’s nice to just sit or stand, you know, at rest? Not rush about like a man on fire.”
She traced a fingernail along his shoulder, admiring the line of his muscle. “I like the man on fire.”
He issued a little grunt of satisfaction. “Well, you can always have that with a come-hither look. But you seem to give me something precious when we’re together like this. Afterward, it’s as if you lend me your stillness for a little while.”
She slid her hand behind his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “Then I take it back so you may borrow it again. Afterward.”
* * *
The next morning, Laurel woke when Jack’s clock chimed eight. Betty was humming softly in the dressing room, pouring water in the ewer.
When Laurel started to stretch, she realized Jack was still curled next to her, sound asleep. It was the first time she had ever seen him sleeping. For several minutes she simply watched him, noting how much younger he looked, how boyish with his hair in total disarray and his cheek lying on one hand.