by Eliza Lloyd
His hand cupped her neck, his fingers slid into her loosened hair.
She expected him to roll away.
She did not expect to feel dampness against her cheek and neck.
Still, they said nothing. There was no awkwardness about it, no need to say something unnecessary.
He rolled to his back, pulling Imogene with him. Settling at his side with her cheek pressed to his chest and his arm wrapped around her shoulder, he held her in place. And then she heard the gentle sound of his sleep.
Had he really shed a tear for her? She peeked up at him. There was an unspilled tear, a small pool at the corner of his eye. As she watched, it trickled down the side of his face.
If only she weren’t Imogene Farrell and he weren’t the earl. They could be together until one of them took their last breath.
Chapter Eight
Jack had closed his eyes over a thousand nights since his wedding day, wishing the last person he saw was Imogene. Waking was even worse. There was a lonely hell for a man living without the woman with whom he should have spent his life. Maybe in some distant future, marriage wouldn’t be about political dynasties or lineage. Maybe someday it wouldn’t matter that an earl chose to be with a woman of no consequence. Or maybe it would be easier to recognize what consequence really meant. Character, rather than bloodlines. Kindness rather than a name.
When he opened his eyes and felt her warmth beside him, he could have shed additional tears.
The earlier emotional release had surprised him with its intensity. Just as he’d spilled into her, a great wave of sentiment had consumed him. Part of it was the powerful pleasure. The other part was the perfection he experienced when he was with Imogene—all of the pent up frustration, all of the joy of their reunion, all of his fondest wishes and dreams coalesced into a perfect moment and those few tears were the seeds.
Imogene popped up beside him. One of her fisted hands supported her chin and she stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Imogene Farrell,” he said.
“LeClerc,” she corrected, but smiled while she said her name. Her breasts pressed against his side and her shoulder gleamed in the candlelight. “I’m sorry about Catherine,” she said. “Death is a miserable, painful thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Is that why you are here? To wish me condolences?”
“I guess there’s more than one way to express sympathy.”
Her smile. The sparkle in her eye. She hadn’t changed. Not really.
“You could have written.”
She sat up, braced on one arm, the sheet falling to her waist. “I did! Didn’t you get my note?”
He pulled her close again. “Of course. I was teasing. I happen to like naked sympathies.”
She didn’t like her position and squirmed about so that she was practically leaning over him. Her knees were toward his armpit and he draped his hand over her thigh. But she was closer to him, and he looked up as she studied him—face to face.
Imogene touched his face, drawing her finger along the lines that had appeared overnight, it seemed. He could close his eyes and enjoy the tender caress, but he did not want to miss her expressions.
In truth he did not want to miss another minute of her life or another word that she spoke.
“Where did this scar come from?” she asked. She traced a scar on his forehead that cut through his eyebrow.
“Boxing. My opponent had a strong right hook.”
“I don’t want you to get any more scars.”
“Why? You won’t find me handsome anymore?”
“I don’t want you to be hurt.”
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Kissing Imogene might be the easiest and best thing he had ever done. Her lips were soft and welcoming, the taste of her mouth an elixir that should be enjoyed every day.
When Imogene pulled away, she studied him again.
“You came by yourself?” he asked.
She nodded. “I had to see you. Thinking about you alone is worse than thinking about you with Catherine. Do you miss her?”
“She was my wife for over five years, the mother of my children.” Jack did not want to talk about Catherine, not when Imogene was naked in his arms and looking so beautiful. “How long are you going to stay?”
“Just tonight.”
“No. I’m not letting you go in the morning, so don’t even think about leaving.”
“I have to.”
“Can I persuade you otherwise?” He ran his hand over her arse and squeezed.
She put a finger to his lips and her gaze darted to points across his face. Then she brushed her hand over his forehead and into his hair.
“You want to say something,” he said.
“No. I just want you to be happy. Are you?”
“Give me a minute and I will be very happy.” He still wore his open trousers. Lifting his arse from the bed, he shucked them and tossed them to the floor. “Now let us be about the business of why you are really here.”
He rolled, trapping her beneath with her legs spread wide. Her arms snaked around his neck while one of her legs rubbed up his thigh and over his arse.
She laughed. “I’ve missed this like hell.”
“Was Monsieur LeClerc not up to my standards?”
Her brow pulled sharply at the mention of her husband’s name. “He was a good man, but even so, I wouldn’t mind if you tried to prove it.”
His cock surged. Wrap her in satin, silk and diamonds and every man in London would want Imogene. And she was satisfied with him. She knew how to encourage a man’s ego with unintended flattery. For her, compliments came easy because it was the truth from her vantage point.
Did she still love him? Or had time tempered her feelings?
Was she here to resolve lingering sentiments? One last tumble to prove she no longer lusted for him?
If there was any woman who did not need a man, it was Imogene Farrell.
Perhaps he could take some hope in the fact she sought him out.
Her small hands twined in his hair and pulled his face close to hers. “Kiss me so I know you want me to stay,” she said.
“I’ll do more than kiss you.”
She teased him, pushing her hips upward, her mons stirring his cock no small bit.
“I expect fireworks, and grander than those I’ve seen in Paris.”
He reached for his cock, leaning as he did so. “Grand is my specialty.”
With slow deliberation, he ran the tip of his cock between her thighs, damp from his fluid and her growing excitement.
There had never been a reason to take care. Imogene’s eagerness had always matched his. When he pressed his cock to her sheath, she closed her eyes and arched her neck in anticipation.
She groaned, “Yes,” as he slid into her.
Warm and tight, just as he remembered. He stopped and took a full breath before he thrust again and found the depths of her welcoming cunny.
She was like fire, consuming him. Her hands traced evenly over both sides of his face and down his neck. She dug her nails into his back and bucked beneath him.
And when he looked at her again, her eyes were shining.
“Mmm, I want more,” she said.
He braced one arm near her shoulder, the other he used to grip her thigh. He thrust, settling into an enthusiastic in-and-out movement. When her hands grasped his arse, she commanded his movements, holding him deep while she used the muscles in her sheath to squeeze mercilessly before releasing him for another strong stroke.
They rocked against each other, Jack withdrawing to the flange of his cock, Imogene encouraging him to go deep as he shoved into her again.
How easy it was to drown in pleasure when he didn’t have to worry about his partner’s. Imogene would take care of herself. She would guide him.
Their mouths locked again. Her moans vibrated through him. Their tongues battled.
He broke their kiss and pressed his mouth to her neck. “God, Imogene, my god.”
Then he felt her hand at his shoulder, not pushing him away but pushing him down.
He licked along her collarbone and over the sweep of her breast, stopping to suck on the rosy, pebbled nipple. His cock slid from her body as he kissed further down and across her stomach, seeing the fine lines at her waist.
Stopping to ask about her child, her life, would have to wait.
What he wanted was between her thighs. More importantly, what Imogene wanted also lay there. She cocked one knee and let her leg fall open. Her hands brushed through his hair just as he spread the soft folds covered in dark down.
The real scent of a woman, not perfume or powder, hid at the apex of her thighs. It did not bother him that he’d already left his seed. Good sex for him was natural and Imogene was as natural as a woman came.
She was swollen with passion, the pleasure nub erect and puffed. He ran his tongue along the pinkened skin between her legs and swirled around her core.
Imogene reacted, squeezing his shoulder with her leg and gasping with each stroke. She uttered some profanity in French.
Then he sucked on her sensitive nub, slipping a finger inside her to guide her toward the crest that would soon consume her. His tongue flicked over her, his finger caressed inside. She gasped and her body tensed around him.
She arched, remaining immobile and unbreathing for long seconds before he heard her exhale. Her body contracted hard against his finger, pulsing in ever decreasing throes.
Jack moved quickly, coming over her again and filling her sheath with his still aching cock. After a few thrusts, he joined her, spending in great heaving spurts that left him exhausted and exhilarated.
And with Imogene at his side.
He rolled to his back, carrying her with him. She weighed next to nothing and settled over the top of him, her head tucked beneath his chin. He yanked at the coverlet they hadn’t bothered to crawl under and spread it over them.
For Jack, it was the perfect night. Each time they woke, they fulfilled their long denied cravings, taking and giving but mostly getting.
Come morning, Jack turned to her and said, “Please don’t go. Stay another day.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Because of this?” He stroked a finger across the stretch marks on her stomach and she recoiled. “I am a parent too, Imogene. I understand.
“Now tell me about your child,” he said.
* * * * *
Panic consumed Imogene, unnecessarily she thought. Hadn’t she imagined this moment nearly every day since Lily was born.
“Do you have a boy or a girl?”
His question wasn’t accusatory, only curious.
“Her name is Lily.”
“Just one?”
“Just her. She’s enough.”
Jack laughed. “If she is like you, I can imagine.”
Who better to tell than the man she hoped was the father of her child? Who better to keep secrets from?
“Oh, Jack. She is everything I could want. Smart and kind and curious. And bossy and temperamental and mischievous. When I hold her in my arms, I think I could perish from the love I have for her. I don’t think my heart has ever ached so much.” Except when I left you, she thought.
“I’m happy for you. At least you weren’t alone after your husband died.”
She laughed. “I won’t ever be alone. Pierre told me I could never be better than my old self unless I found a way to help my fellow man. Sometimes I would roll my eyes when he told me things like that. Me, Imogene Farrell, helping someone?”
“That’s what happens when you get old. You get wise.”
“So I have a house full of girls. Three French girls who were in perilous circumstances when I found them. And several weeks ago, I found a family, four girls and a boy, who were on their own. The oldest, Birdie, was earning money whoring. They needed a safe place. And I hired a couple, the Brewsters, to keep things organized because I ain’t one to keep house for myself, let alone a dozen people.”
“So what you are saying is there are plenty of people to take care of Lily and your horde for just one more day?”
“I’m not saying that. Hell, Jack, the house could burn down before I get back, and then what?”
“If it’s meant to burn down, it will burn down.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” She’d sat up by then, cross-legged beside him.
“You know what I mean. Stay,” he said, his big hand covered hers.
She did know. If she and Jack were meant to be together, they would be. Simply as that.
“When you say it like that, it makes me all crazy inside and I can’t think.”
“Stay. You haven’t used the new bathtub yet.”
Her eyes got big. “Let me see it. I haven’t had a proper bath since I left Paris.”
She jumped from the bed and padded toward the only other door in the room. She glanced back to see Jack had pushed up in bed, bracing one hand behind him.
“Hip baths are no fun,” she said.
Imogene opened the door and gasped.
“I got it in Italy two years ago.”
“Oh my god, Jack.”
“It’s marble. It took six men to get it up the stairs.”
She found the plug and cranked the handle. The water was cold to begin with but slowly warmed up.
“Maxwell said he was going to bring breakfast up.”
“When did you see Max?” Jack asked.
“Last night. He told me how to get to your room. Did ya think I was going to wander around the house knocking on every door?”
Jack had joined her, leaning against the doorjamb but he, at least, was wearing a robe and slippers. His gaze was bold, taking in her nakedness, but then she wasn’t hiding anything.
“I’m sure we’re not the only ones in the household awake now. Am I safe to trust that you’ll be here when I get back?”
“I’ll be here until your boiler runs out of hot water.”
“You are an expensive piece.”
Imogene climbed in the tub, stood naked with water to mid-calf and reached for a jar with a paper label showing lavender sprigs. The jar was identified as Castile soap, the shavings inside easily scooped out and poured into the water.
“Someone once told me to get everything I could.” She smiled at him, feeling young and carefree—as if they were the only people in the world.
He leaned to kiss her. “So you’re going to rob me blind now that you know your worth?”
“Close the door behind you.”
He kissed her again, licking his lips when he pulled away. “Be in bed when I get back.”
She flicked a few drops in his face. “Maybe.”
When he was gone, she set about the business of a serious bath and reached for a rough looking sponge.
As much as she wanted to plunge beneath the waters, she had her hair to consider, so instead she soaped herself from knee to toe, breast to fingertip, and then everything already covered by water.
Jack still hadn’t returned by the time she was done, so she dried off and slipped into her oversized shirt. It was old but clean—a relic from the past. A fond one, though, with its mended elbows, repaired seams and familiar frays.
She climbed into the bed and under the covers. She’d taken his pillowcase when she left five years ago. One day she couldn’t smell him anymore so she threw it in the rag bin. Wrapping her arm about his pillow, she pulled it close and inhaled Jack, the musky, manly scent that seemed as familiar to her as her old shirt.
* * * * *
“Papa, can we go to the park today?”
“You can go, but I won’t be able to go with you. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll sit with you until breakfast. How is that?”
Benjamin, his oldest, favored Catherine but seemed to be growing like a weed and likely would be as tall as Jack.
Justin, though, looked like his mother’s mother. A grandmother Jack never knew. She was an Italian woman with alabaster skin and dark curls. How
ever, Justin had eyes and brows that favored the Davenports.
“Why don’t I read to you?” Jack plucked Justin from his cribbed bed. The governess had already changed his morning frock. Jack had not exactly been an absent father while Catherine was alive, but he left the raising to her and the governesses—and would have until they were breeched. But with her death, he felt the need to be close to them—maybe as much for them as himself.
When he took the chair, Benjamin reached up and Jack drew him into his lap opposite Justin.
The stories they had been reading were from a book of moral tales. After he finished three, the boys’ breakfast arrived and he kissed them each on the forehead before he left them.
He hated having to choose between his sons and Imogene. Blood would tell but today Imogene was his.
His choice had nothing to do with their past or her role in it. Imogene wasn’t his wife. She wasn’t the woman he’d made vows to or owed allegiance.
Yet she was the woman he wanted.
Jack made his way back to the room, knowing that in two days he was leaving for Bath with his mother, the boys and a carriage full of servants. The doctor had recommended taking the waters and it would be good to spend time away. At least the decision had been made for him and it did not involve travel to Italy or the wilds of Scotland.
The outward affectation of mourning was easily accomplished without the distraction Imogene provided. He would do his duty, even if that meant a winter in Bath. And a winter alone in his bed.
And Imogene? She slept with her arm curled about a pillow.
Before he could climb into bed beside her, there was a light knock on the door. Maxwell! His time impeccable, as always.
“Your breakfast, my lord.” He carried a silver tray laden with scrumptious food in large portions.
“When did your kitchen duties start, Max?” he asked quietly.
“If it involves discretion, it is my duty. I’ve informed the household that you are not to be bothered today.”