by Liz Carlyle
It had seemed like a small thing to do for a man who had given so much. As trustee of Thomas’s perfectly adequate estate, Cole had made it plain to Rachel that he would always be there for her; that she need not wed him in order to be assured of his care and friendship. And so five days later, when she’d said yes, Cole had sincerely believed that Rachel harbored some secret affection for him. He had been pleased. He had been genuinely fond of her, although he had not known her well. Rachel had seemed perfect; serene, lovely, and gently feminine. When her mourning had ended, they were quietly wed.
Cole had begun the marriage with hope in his heart, but too late, he’d realized that Rachel had married because she viewed it as God’s intended role for women. What he had taken for serenity went well past that, and into an emotion so restrained he could ill define it. Rachel had had no interest in cultivating any sort of mutual passion. It was, he soon learned, an emotion that made her acutely uncomfortable. In Rachel’s view of marriage, gentle subservience was a wife’s duty, and she had summarily placed housekeeping and lovemaking into that same category, with considerably more enthusiasm attached to the former than to the latter. Yes, Cole’s bed had been almost as warm as his hearth, but neither had felt especially welcoming.
Rachel had loved him with half a heart, seeking only a contented existence. Inexperienced in the ways of love, Cole had come to believe that the fault was his; that he was incapable of stirring true passion in a woman. Now, despite a good deal more experience, he secretly feared it still might be true. But good God, how Rachel haunted him. Even in the dimly lit schoolroom, he could almost see her, the crisp white nightrail tied at the throat, the long plait of cool blonde hair that fell across one shoulder. He could see her face, too. Full and pretty, with wide-set blue eyes filled with a childlike innocence. But Rachel had been four-and-twenty, hardly a child. Cole swallowed hard and looked into the lamplight, willing away the vision. Many men would have been happy with a quiet, undemanding wife. He, however, had not been. After three years of such a placid existence, Cole had realized that he still did not know his own wife, and the knowledge had left him sick with disappointment. Again, that had been his Ming. But why now, of all times, should Rachel torment him?
Or better put, why was he deliberately torturing himself? Initially, he had not loved her, it was true. But he had wanted to. Many good marriages began with less. Cole had always believed that love was like a delicate flower that required cultivation and warmth. Had he been so wrong to think that his love for Rachel would grow? This wild, hot thing that bloomed in his heart for Jonet Rowland was no tender, delicate rose. That emotion had sprung quickly to full flower, its blood red petals unfurling as if impelled by a tropical heat beneath a searing sun. More passion than reverence, more lust than admiration, it was a desperate emotion, one that was beyond Cole’s realm of understanding.
Restlessly, he shifted his weight on the sofa and watched another bolt of lightning split the sky. A shaft of fire. Yes, that was precisely what he felt in his gut—and in his loins—when he touched Jonet. Such a thing could not be love. A man could not love with such mad desperation a woman he did not fully understand. A woman who, at times, made him wild with anger and reckless with lust. Perhaps Rachel had been right all along. Surely this sense of having one’s heart torn out of one’s chest was worse than a safe and tepid affection. He could not be at peace in the same room with Jonet, and yet, when she passed from his sight, it was as if a part of him had been torn away.
Last night, Cole had slept poorly. In his imagination, he had been driven to a heated madness by sultry dreams of Jonet, when he should have been worried about the children. That was his job. And yet, twice he had awakened bolt upright in bed, wondering where their mother was. Then he would find himself obsessively wondering if Delacourt had somehow managed to creep into her bed. Damn it, he wanted to know. And as he had begun to drift back to sleep, Cole had unwittingly begun to fantasize about the wicked things he would do to Jonet Rowland if he were to share her bed.
In the whole of his life, Cole had never been in love with anyone, not even the woman he had married. And now he was beginning to fear that he had allowed himself to do what everyone—Lauderwood, Madlow, and yes, even his insensible Uncle James—had warned against Suddenly, the rain increased its tempo, rattling wildly through the downspouts. In the western sky, lightning flashed again, and this time, the low rumble of thunder could dimly be heard. On the table, Nanna’s lamp sputtered and went out, submerging the room in darkness. Cole dragged his arm over his eyes once more, and his awareness of the storm melted away.
———
“Psst—”
The soft, insistent sound roused Lord Robert Rowland from a near dead slumber. One fist screwed into his eye, the boy sat up in bed and peered into the darkness.
“Iszat you, Stuart?” he managed to mumble. Robert listened as his elder brother’s footsteps trailed lightly across the carpet to the edge of his bed then paused.
“Psst—.’” came the sound again. “Robin, did you hear a noise?” Stuart’s whisper fell somewhat short of brave. Robert felt his brother’s weight settle onto one corner of the mattress as he continued explaining. “Because I thought I heard voices. And then a thump. It might have come from the attic. Didn’t you hear it?”
“All I heard,” grumbled Robert sleepily, “was you jabbering to Cousin Cole.”
Robert collapsed back into a heap of feather pillows with a breathy whoosh! “Now, for pity’s sake, Stuart! Go to sleep! You’ve been hearing things in the night since Papa died.”
Stuart crept a little further up the mattress. “No, honest, Robert! I heard more noises after I left the schoolroom. I think someone is hiding in our attic. Probably in that closet near the maids’ rooms.”
“Oh, go back to bed, Stuart!” groaned his brother, dragging the covers over his head. “It’s just a thunderstorm.”
“I swear there was a noise, Robin!” insisted Stuart. “Anyway, you sleep like the dead. A herd of vicious elephants could come in here and eat you alive —”
“Awww—elephants don’t—”
“And you would never hear it!” insisted Stuart, ignoring his younger brother’s interjection. “I daresay I ought to sleep in here with you. It would be safer, don’t you think?”
“Noo—!” wailed his brother. “I don’t think. You kick, and you steal the sheets. Now go back to your own bed. We’re safe. Cousin Cole is just down the corridor. Depend upon it, Stuart! He will catch anyone who comes skulking down the hall.”
———
The squall of newly tightened door hinges slowly stirred Cole to a hazy wakefulness. He had no notion what was wrong, just the vague sensation that something was not... right. How long had he slept? And where the devil was he? Silently, he listened, trying to bring his senses to full alert.
Ah, yes. The schoolroom. Hinges shrieked again. Cole’s body jerked taut. Was it Stuart? Or had an intruder slipped past Donaldson? Outside, the rain beat down relentlessly, suppressing all sound, swathing his senses in cotton. But someone was in the room.
His thoughts still disjointed, Cole spun to a seated position and stood. In the windows behind the sofa, lightning flared. Too late, Cole realized he had been silhouetted against the glass. Thunder rolled ominously. Cole darted toward the door. A sharp, powerful shoulder caught him low in the spine, sending him facedown into the floor with a breathless grunt.
Coming fully awake, Cole moved to throw off his attacker, but the sharp prick of a blade beneath his chin forestalled all resistance. He froze. Something was very wrong. Suddenly, it occurred to him—just as a bead of warm blood rolled down his throat. The attacker splayed half across his back felt taut and powerful—but absurdly light Far too small to be either Donaldson or one of the footmen.
“Aye, don’t even twitch, you bastard,” rasped a cold, feminine voice against his ear, “or I swear, I’ll slit your throat from ear to elbow.” As if to reinforce the threat, she shoved his face h
ard against the floor.
“Oh my God,” whispered Cole, his cheek pressed to the cold planks, his words unsteady. He could feel the point of the blade quiver against his skin. “Have you utterly lost your wits?”
The shapely feminine form atop him stiffened for a long moment, and then collapsed, her mouth slack and panting against his ear. “Oh ... shite,” came her tremulous whisper.
The blade fell to the floor.
Smoothly, Cole twisted about until he could pitch his attacker to one side. He did not need light to know that it was Jonet he held in his arms. He could smell the deep, sweet scent of her, feel her breasts and belly pressed to his. Judiciously, he reached for the knife, tossing it from her reach.
“Jonet?” he said softly, squeezing shut his eyes despite the dark.
Against his chest, he felt her begin to tremble like a green soldier who has just survived his first brush with death. “W-w-what?” she finally answered.
“Jonet, where did you learn that disgustingly vulgar word?”
Her breath came out on a wispy little sigh. “F-f-from Charlie Donaldson, I think.”
“I see,” he said with utter calm. “I wish you would not use it again. I find it offensive.”
“Just let me go, Cole” she whispered, but she made no move to roll away from him. Vaguely, Cole wondered if he would ever be able to do what she asked. He knew he had no business touching her. She felt too good, smelled too enticing. But blast it, the woman had jumped him in the dark, and he damned well ought to teach her a lesson. Just then, another bolt of light ning split the night, lighting up the schoolroom. Good Lord—Jonet was wearing nothing but a plain cotton night-shift!
“Oh, Cole—!” As if the sight of his face had somehow unleashed her tension, Jonet collapsed in his embrace. Her trembling intensified to a bone-deep shudder. “I—I hurt you... I’m sorry.”
Cole made no move to let her go, telling himself that it would be wrong to do so when she was so obviously distraught. “Jonet,” he said, folding her tightly to his chest and speaking softly into her hair. “What do you mean by behaving so rashly? For God’s sake, you’re shaking all over.”
She said nothing, and after a long moment, Cole looked down. In the gloom, he could not see her face. But he could sense that her breathing was still shallow, and he could hear the little hitch of fear in it. “A noise,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirtfront. “I was checking on the boys, and then ... I thought I heard a noise in the schoolroom. Did you? Did you hear anything at all?”
“No.” Uneasily, Cole tried to shift his weight incrementally away from her. Relief was obviously flooding through Jonet, but he was far from relieved. Feeling rather like the word he had just ordered her not to say, Cole tightened his embrace, feeling his arousal leap to full flame. Good Lord, what a prince he was. Jonet had been scared witless, and now his cock felt like an axe handle shoved up against the softness of her thigh. Cole prayed to heaven she would not notice, but he couldn’t make himself move away.
“It’s just a storm, Jonet,” he said softly against her hair. She smelled surprisingly innocent; warm and inviting, like apple blossoms and spring grass under a cloudless sky. Like a woman a man could lie down and sleep with. But not him, of course. Cole lifted his head away. “Jonet, the weather worsened rather quickly. Perhaps a rumble of thunder awakened you?”
“I ... yes, perhaps,” she said uncertainly. Slowly, her characteristic composure returned, and she pushed him away a little. Cole levered himself up onto one elbow, trying to bestir some shame. A gentleman would have been on his feet by now, helping her up from the floor, and warning her not to be so heedless. But Cole was doing neither, and Jonet did not seem to expect it. “Jonet” he finally whispered, “perhaps we oughtn’t be ... on the floor like this?” Lightning flashed again, more muted this time, and he glimpsed her face. Her eyes were wide and luminescent now, the lines of her mouth soft and suddenly inviting.
“Perhaps not,” she replied. Long black hair cascaded over Jonet’s shoulder, heavier and more wavy than Cole had expected. He began to be painfully aware of just where all their body parts were pressed together. Absolute lust— hotter and more intense than anything he had ever known—surged through him, pulling him toward her.
Nearly sightless in the gloom, Jonet looked up at the man whose body half covered her own. Even in the dark, he was huge and overpowering. The relief she had felt upon realizing it was Cole she had tackled had been quickly—too quickly—replaced by the sensations of deep, shuddering need. Though lust was an emotion she had had little experience with, Jonet knew it for what it was. She knew, too, that she should be ashamed of what she was thinking. Of what she wanted.
A bitter smile curved her lips. Perhaps she was not, strictly speaking, the type of woman Cole Amherst would ordinarily consort with, but it was rather obvious that his lofty morals had failed to inform his nether regions. Pressed against her thigh, Cole’s rod was as hard as his heart. And at the moment, Jonet wanted them both. With a calculated deliberation, she reached up and drew Cole’s lips to hers.
It was as if someone had sent a blazing oil lamp crashing to the floor. Heat and flame rolled over them with a fierce intensity, burning up every shred of resistance, every scrap of dislike, and every grain of suspicion. On a slow moan, Cole dragged his mouth over hers, then surged inside. Hotly, harshly, he plunged into her, again and again, giving her no chance to respond or refuse. Fleetingly, Jonet wondered just what she had unleashed, and then carelessly pitched herself headlong into the fire.
Her mouth open hungrily against his, Jonet listened in feminine satisfaction as a second groan—deeper, far more urgent—rumbled through Cole’s chest She felt his erection grow even harder against her leg. She felt the stubble of his beard rake across her face. Willfully, she skimmed both her hands along his sides, feeling the ripple of big ribs and taut muscle. And then, she felt his hands come up to roughly shove her shoulders hard against the floor.
In one smooth motion, Cole rolled her fully onto her back and dragged himself over her with powerful arms, rucking up the hem of her nightdress with his knee. Jonet felt a second moment of alarm, and then inexplicably relaxed again when she remembered that it was Cole whose hardness was now pressed between her thighs. She let her fingers come up to slide through his hair, but Cole mistook the motion.
He captured her hand in his own, and dragging it up over her head, held it knuckles-down against the wood for a long moment, still kissing her. Cole. Oh, yes! Jonet let herself move suggestively against him. She wanted and wanted. Oh God, how she wanted him. She yearned to forget her troubles in the shelter of Cole Amherst’s arms. It was weak and wrong—even sinful—to want anything in such a desperate way. Tomorrow she would no doubt feel humiliated. Tonight, she simply did not care. In that instant, Jonet would have given up everything she possessed just to have this man slide deep inside her. The need was fierce, frightening, and wholly unlike anything she had ever known. Her mouth still under assault, Jonet tilted up her hips and pressed herself eagerly against his shaft.
Arms braced wide above her shoulders, Cole jerked his mouth from hers just as light flickered through the room again. “Jonet—” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. “This is wrong.” His wild, golden mane fell forward, and Cole froze, his eyes glassy, his face stark with unleashed need.
With her silence, she dared him to deny the depth of the emotion which both of them felt. He could not. On another feral groan, Cole’s head dropped forward to take her breast in his mouth. He drew it between his teeth, into the warmth of his mouth, sucking hard through the sheer fabric of her gown. Desperately, Jonet deftly slid her hand down his ribs, feeling his flesh quiver at her touch, until she reached the bearer of his trousers.
Slowly, she let her fingers skim beneath it, then worked her way down and down, until Cole sucked in his breath and she captured the sweet weight of his rod in her hand. Greedily, she wrapped her fingers around it and felt it twitch powerfully against
her palm. Cole jerked his mouth from hers, his breathing raw and rasping in the darkness.
“Ahh ... yes.” Jonet breathed out the words against the damp skin of his throat, reveling in the heat and the weight of him. “Take me, Cole. I’m so tired of being alone. Just take me to your bed. Give me this. Please...”
Cole had her off the floor and in his arms before she could draw her next breath. Wedging his bare foot into the door, Cole kicked it halfway open and strode through the darkness toward his bedchamber. Cole kept waiting for Jonet to protest, to claim that he had misunderstood her words. He kept waiting for sanity to flood back, all the while forcing it away. With one shoulder, he shoved open his door, then carried Jonet through his small sitting room, into the bedroom, and deposited her unceremoniously into the middle of his half-tester bed. Hastily, Cole began clawing at his cravat, whipping the linen from around his neck. He knew—oh, by God, he knew—that come tomorrow he’d regret this.
But nothing would now stop him from spreading the Marchioness of Mercer across his bed, stripping her naked, and plunging himself into her up to the hilt. That he would undoubtedly be plunging into something far worse seemed suddenly a worthwhile risk. Indeed, he could no longer recollect precisely why he had been trying to resist her attractions. Ripping his shirttail free, Cole dragged his shirt over his head and pitched it to the floor.