Dauntless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  She sighed, her breath sweeping over his chest, raising the hairs, and then spoke. “I didn’t think it would be that way.”

  He gazed at her, drinking in the soft golden-brown hair that caressed his skin with silken beauty, the perfect soft flesh that had aroused him to desperate need. “What way?”

  “So…so encompassing. I couldn’t think of anything else while we were…doing it.”

  “Making love, Dru.” He would allow that much. But her betrayal still rankled. She had not known what she was doing. He’d give her that. She could not, because Charles preferred to remain in seclusion. The fact that she’d come so close to describing them spoke of her imagination, not her spying skills.

  “Yes.” She settled closer to him, shifted position so her slick center moved against his thighs. His cock behaved in the inevitable way but more instantly than he was used to. It hardened to painful intensity.

  He’d just taken her virginity, for God’s sake. He couldn’t pounce on her again like a rampant bull. He needed to calm down.

  Deliberately, he invoked the vision that put everything else in his life into perspective. The sight of his brother lying under the smashed carriage after the horses had dragged it over him. That throb, the realization his brother was dead. Until Charles coughed, rolled over, and screamed.

  That life-changing moment reminded Oliver of his purpose, of what he should hold important.

  For the first time in his life the remembrance failed to work. His erection remained determinedly rampant and his desire for this woman charged through his system. “How do you feel?” he asked, in an attempt to regain touch with civilization.

  “Wonderful.”

  Her drowsy, happy voice did nothing to quell his desire. “I’m glad to hear it. Would you object if we did it again?” She flinched, and he felt her pain as if it were his own. “Sometime.”

  “Oh.”

  God help him, she sounded disappointed.

  “Was it… Did you…”

  “You were adequate.” He put on the voice of a bored dandy. If he’d had a lace-edged handkerchief to flourish, he couldn’t have done it any better. But when he felt her sigh, and the way she stiffened against him, he relented. “You were wonderful, Dru. I want you like that all the time.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I should…” She gave a light chuckle.

  “We’ll have plenty of time to find out what you should and shouldn’t. In the bedroom we are equals, Dru. We will explore one another. No secrets, ever.”

  After a hesitation, she nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  “You seemed unaware. Reticent. As if you had never experienced such intimacy.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re sandwiched between two sets of twins. They shared a room, but I always had one of my own. Smaller than theirs, but solely mine. I read a lot.” She swallowed. “And wrote.”

  Well, that helped his desire deflate. “What did you write?”

  “A journal. Stories. I read Pamela and fell in love with the idea of telling other people’s stories. Like writing a play, but more private.”

  And his damned cock was hardening again. With Dru moving so sensuously, something he suspected she didn’t realize, he couldn’t keep his hands off her for much longer. Clearly, he had work to do before he could trust himself with her sweetly feminine curves again.

  Decisively, he moved, flung the sheets aside, and slid out of bed. Unconcerned by his state of nudity, he crossed to where he’d left his robe. Her sound of distress made him turn back to her.

  Tears stood in her eyes, but her attention went to his groin. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “About what?” Shrugging on his robe, he went back to her.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, especially tonight. But you asked, and I wanted to tell you—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss, the best way to demonstrate his feelings to her. “Shut up,” he said tenderly against her lips. “It’s not that. You saw me just now. I want you again, Dru.”

  “Yes, please. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re in no state to do anything further tonight.” He kissed her. “If I were a brute, I’d take you again. Although both of us want it, we cannot. I took your virginity tonight. You are sore, much though I tried to ease the way. I want lovemaking to be a pleasurable activity, but if I stay, neither of us will get any sleep. You had a difficult day. Rest now.” He touched her chin, stroked the soft vulnerable skin under it. “Do you understand?”

  At least her tears had stopped. He had their marks on his chest. He would not forget that. She hadn’t had to say she was sorry for him to know it. Their next steps had to be obfuscation, laughing at fools who thought they cared about some scurrilous tome. He had to ensure they were seen in public, and for that, she had to be able to walk.

  She nodded. “I think so. Thank you. But I’d rather have you here.”

  Oliver closed his eyes. His wife had no sense of self-preservation, and if he stayed, she would not be safe from him. “I cannot. Should not.”

  “I want you to. I’m not too sore, truly.”

  With a groan, he shucked the robe and got back into bed, reaching for her. “Dru, you’ll be the death of me.”

  Chapter 13

  “I called for you last night.” Seated in his usual wheeled chair, Charles looked as he did every morning—immaculately dressed, ready to receive visitors. But between the brothers a profound change had occurred. Oliver was a married man now.

  Oliver raised a brow. “Charles, last night was my wedding night.” He crossed his legs but uncrossed them when his chair rocked alarmingly. He had to move it to take the front leg off the rug that was sending it off-balance. He would order Burnett to have the thing removed or repaired.

  “All night?”

  Oliver laughed at his brother’s wide-eyed incredulity. “Yes, all night.” Twice, although his brother didn’t need to know that. The second time had nearly killed him with joy. He’d taken as much time as he could, determined Dru would enjoy the experience. He flattered himself that she had.

  Usually he shared everything with his brother. Painfully aware that Charles had ruled out any kind of intimacy for himself, Oliver had even shared details of evenings with one or another of his mistresses. But he knew he would never share anything about Dru.

  So when Charles said, “So? Was it good?” Oliver knew what he meant. He was supposed to go with a blow-by-blow account, from first kiss to falling into an exhausted sleep. Much though he loved his brother, he would not do it. Every cell in his body rebelled against it. What he’d found with Dru was private, their own.

  He’d never felt like that before, especially with Charles. He owed his brother. He put on a careless air, as if last night had been unremarkable. “Satisfactory. We are on the way to making an heir, which, after all, is the purpose of this exercise, is it not?”

  “I suppose so.” Charles’s response was decidedly cool, his gaze chilly.

  Normally Oliver would hurry to reassure him, but not on this point. “I will continue to use my bedroom, though.” He would not spend all night with Dru. Last night was an excusable exception, though he would admit that he had enjoyed waking with her in his arms.

  Charles nodded, and a touch of warmth returned. “Yes, of course. She has her place, does she not? I trust she is up to the position she is required to occupy?”

  “Her father is a marquess, and she has been brought up to the dignity. I must presume so.”

  Charles shifted, and his hand drifted over the cover of the book on the table beside him, as if by accident. Oliver recognized the binding. He would know that book anywhere, since his wife had written it. Charles’s gentle reminder served to bring Oliver back to reality. “She has made a serious error.”

  “Did you buy another copy?”

  Charl
es had lent him the book yesterday. Oliver had not yet had a chance to read it, but he would remedy that today. He had previously wondered if he should concern himself with it, since it seemed set to become a nine days’ wonder, but he supposed he should see what all the fuss was about.

  “I didn’t want to deprive you of yours, so I sent someone out for another. You could always ask the author to sign it.”

  Oliver snorted. “And leave another clue to people who want to discover the author? There’s speculation already. But the affair will pass if the bonfire isn’t fed.”

  Charles lifted his good shoulder in a half-shrug. “That is probable. It is a shame you did not wait until the affair had blown over, because if her identity is ever discovered, that drags our family into the mire.”

  “We are there already. Framing me as the villain of the piece.” He grimaced, but without the venom of before. He had to learn to accept Dru’s transgression if they were to exist together in any kind of harmony. They must get over this hurdle, but he was not yet prepared to let her completely into his life.

  A tap on the door heralded the entrance of Burnett. Oliver disliked the way the manservant came in without waiting for a summons to enter. But this was Charles’s room, so he must organize his servants the way he wished.

  “Sir, you should try to eat something. I’ve had your favorite breakfast prepared.”

  Oliver’s mild resentment dissipated. The man only had his brother’s best interests at heart. “Indeed, I will leave you to your repast. Dru will join you soon, as you asked.”

  Although he would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, relief washed through him before he sternly quelled it. Visiting his brother, having him close pleased him, he told himself firmly.

  * * * *

  Dru heard the “Enter!” with a degree of trepidation. Fixing her polite smile to her face, she went through to the pleasant room occupied by Oliver’s brother. She felt better today. She and her husband had come to some kind of peace.

  The sight of Charles stirred her. He resembled Oliver closely—at least, if Oliver were confined to a chair every day and one arm didn’t work properly. But the eyes, they were the same shape and size. The mouth, so sensual, warm, living sculpted marble, and the face, strongly masculine with a firm jaw and the shadow of dark beard hair were enough the same to mark the men as brothers.

  Charles was not Oliver, but close enough for her to feel pain at his predicament, so much that whenever she saw him, sympathy washed through her.

  He gave her a sweet smile. “Do sit. We should not stand on ceremony, should we?”

  “Of course not.” Smoothing her skirts, she took her place in the chair set out for her. It tipped a little to one side as she sat, and she tightened her hold on the arms but then noticed the cause and relaxed. One of the legs was perched on the rug set to one side, and it put the chair slightly off-balance. She would have to favor the other side. That was all. “Are you feeling better now?”

  His mouth flattened. “I am recovering well, although sometimes afraid I may never wake from the attack. What has Oliver told you of my injuries?”

  She liked his frankness. Early afternoon sun streamed through the window, catching her eyes so she was forced to favor the wobbly side of the chair, after all. “That you were severely injured in the carriage accident. You are completely unable to walk, and you have…fits.”

  “Ah, yes, you saw that. You are not to be afraid. They come upon me without warning. That, you must be aware, is why I choose not to appear in public. I never know when they will happen, and I have no desire to become a laughingstock.”

  “Oh, you will not. Society speculates, but I have heard nothing of that nature.”

  “Did you ask?”

  Shocked, she shook her head. “I take no pleasure in malicious gossip.”

  “Ah, but the other kind…” He leaned forward, taking his weight on his bad arm. “I do enjoy hearing the gossip. I would greatly appreciate you keeping me informed. Oliver can relay the talk in the clubs and coffee houses, but he has no entry into the feminine salons, and I’m afraid he doesn’t always report it correctly.” He waved vaguely to a pile of thumbed-through newssheets stacked neatly by the door, ready for the servants to remove.

  That reminder of the foolish way she’d disposed of her book filled her with shame. But that was not Charles’s fault, nor should she allow every little thing to remind her of her transgression. “You read all those?”

  “Yes, indeed. They are from yesterday. I still have some to read, but I fear my eyes need to rest sometimes.” He touched a gold and ivory magnifying glass. Its handle was dulled with use. “This helps. So does having books read to me.”

  That was such a blatant hint Dru couldn’t help but smile. “So I am to read to you?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “I would enjoy it. What would you like me to read to you today?” She fumbled in her pocket for her glasses and perched them on her nose. Best that her brother-in-law knew her properly. She would not strain to read small print with these.

  He arched his brows. “Very fetching.” He lifted a book from the side table, supporting it underneath with his bad hand.

  With a sinking heart, she recognized the tome. “This?”

  “Indeed. How many people can say they have had a book read to them by the author herself?” He gave an easy smile, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “Even that most people would not know if she did so. That is our secret, is it not?”

  Numbly, she took the book and opened it, leafing through the prefaces and preambles. She had not written them, but publishers generally included dedications and devotions to sponsors. On the last page, she noticed a name, returning to study it. “An unknown person sponsored the printing of this book? It says a gentleman of great state and nobility is to be thanked.” Had somebody paid more to have the book published? So Wilkins had taken her money and then accepted more from somebody else? The blackguard—she should have let Livia shoot him.

  “Ah, they always say that.” He dismissed the dedication with a careless wave. “The publisher probably put up the money himself.”

  “He seemed a poor man.” She recalled the musty office and battered furniture.

  Charles stilled, his eyes alert. “You met him?”

  “I looked the office up on the map,” she said, not precisely lying but not telling the whole truth. She didn’t want to tell anyone of that miserable visit and its outcome. “The area he has his office in isn’t known for its graciousness.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “I feel there is more to this story. But we will no doubt come to a point where we are good enough friends to trust one another with all our secrets.”

  She didn’t like the way he said that. Why did it feel as if the exchanges would be one-sided? She was no doubt overly sensitive, since she was holding the source of her shame in her hands. Glancing down, she flicked over to the title page and then the first chapter.

  “The Prince of Tirolly, Chapter One.”

  * * * *

  “Why does Charles refuse so adamantly to go out?” she asked Oliver later.

  They were sitting over dinner, only the two of them tonight, since her mother-in-law had bidden them a fond farewell and set out for the country. The servants had laid the table seating her to Oliver’s left instead at the other end. She wondered if he had requested it, because she hadn’t thought to do so. One course with six removed made an elegant though not too extravagant repast. She felt comfortable enough to ask him after the servants had taken the covers away and put a pretty dessert service in its place, leaving the newlyweds alone.

  “He does go out,” Oliver answered, selecting a succulent peach and finding a fruit knife to peel it with. “He takes the air sometimes, but he does it in an unmarked carriage and he doesn’t go to the places society expects. He prefers to sit in the garden
, when the weather permits it.” He carefully discarded the first sliver of fuzzy skin.

  “But not into society. That would quell some of the more outrageous rumors.” Leaning back, Dru sipped her glass of Madeira wine. The sweetness trickled deliciously down her throat.

  “What kind of rumors?” Oliver seemed intent on his self-imposed task, not looking at her.

  “I do not care to repeat the more scurrilous ones. But some say he is terribly disfigured, or that his mind is completely gone. Neither is true.”

  “Underneath the fine clothes, he is terribly disfigured,” Oliver remarked. He looked up as he quartered the peach and removed the stone.

  His hands dripped with juice. What would it be like to lick the juice from his hands? Would he enjoy it? Uncertainty kept her still. That kind of behavior would not have crossed her mind before yesterday, before that night that had changed her perception of marriage forever.

  Oliver continued, “His scars are terrible and his injuries worse. So much that I have not seen him unclothed for some time. He prefers to keep his body private. Only his caregivers see him.”

  “That’s another thing. If the servants saw him and reported he was a fine man, not affected mentally, would that not be better?”

  “In what way?” He placed the carefully sliced peach on her plate and picked up a napkin to wipe his fingers. “For them or for him?”

  “For him. To pave the way. To show he is merely reclusive, not insane or deformed, or—” She bit her lip. “Of course I will do nothing.”

  He raked his cool gaze over her. “No, Dru, you will not. Do not talk to him about it. His mind is made up.” He leaned back, picking up his glass of burgundy. “However, I agree with you on some points. I do want to change his mind. Perhaps a visit to the theater would amuse him, for instance. Then, if we refused entry to our box, he would not have to speak to anyone. But I will deal with the matter, if you please. You are too precipitate. You have met him only twice, whereas I have lived my whole life with him.”