by Liz Carlyle
———
Jonet could not stop looking at Elmwood. At its architectural core, the house was an elegant Elizabethan manor house, modernized with a brick facade and two graceful wings, the whole of it nestled like a rare jewel amongst ancient trees and simple gardens, then ringed with a moat, which had long since been permanently bridged. Other than an hour spent romping in the gardens with the children, Jonet spent the whole of her first afternoon simply strolling through its elegantly landscaped perimeter, then drifting inside from one comfortable room to the next The interior was rambling, and for the most part, cozy rather than stentatious. The main hall boasted a sweep of darkly paneled walls and a fine Jacobean staircase. A dining room large enough to seat twenty, and a long, dark library completed the picture of country house elegance.
Cole had said that the house had once been the vicarage of St Ann’s, a fine old Norman church that sat at the southern edge of the village proper, hardly a stone’s throw from Elmwood’s rear lawns. If the cerebral tomes which filled the library, and the portraits of those long dead clerics which lined the upper hall were any indication, Elmwood had remained a vicarage, practically speaking, until very recently. Jonet was left to wonder what sort of tragedy could drive a man from a home he clearly loved, and a duty he was so obviously meant to take up. In the drawing room, she began to understand. The portrait of Cole’s late wife was set in a gilt frame, hanging high on the carved oak chimneypiece, the style of the clothing leaving little doubt as to the identity of the artist’s subject Rachel Amherst had been a traditional English beauty, with cool blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She had been painted in a high-backed Stuart chair, one hand resting limply along the arm, and the other lying across the Bible she held open in her lap. But it was the expression— or rather a lack of it—that brought Jonet to a halt in the center of the room.
She strolled closer, bracing her hands across the back of a settee that flanked the hearth, and leaned intently forward. The late Mrs. Amherst looked... detached, almost as if she were unaware of being painted. It was not a weakness of technique on the part of the artist. Nor was it a modesty of expression in the subject. But rather, a dull, almost placid look about the eyes. A sort of shuttered appearance which seemed to close in her own thoughts while shutting out the thoughts of those about her. Jonet’s reaction was strangely visceral, as if icy fingers were touching the nape of her neck.
“Oh, she was a fair, pretty thing, was she not?” said a soft voice behind her. Jonet screamed and whirled about.
“Oh!” chirped Mrs. Birtwhistle, setting down a huge vase of flowers and hastening toward the settee. “My dear Mrs. Rowland! I fear I rather crept up on you. Do forgive me.”
Jonet looked down at the tiny woman and felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Oh, please!” she said, one hand still pressed to her heart. “I daresay I had no business snooping through the house like this, it’s just that...”
Mrs. Birtwhistle nodded knowingly. “Aye, what with himself shut up in that study all the live long afternoon, like as not you’re bored to death. But ‘twill soon be time for dinner, ma’am, and if I know Mr. Amherst—and bless me, I do—he’ll not be missing a meal.”
The housekeeper flitted across the room to a wide mahogany sideboard. “Now, why do you not sit down right there, Mrs. Rowland, and let me pour something to settle your nerves.”
In a moment, she returned with a measure of something that looked to be sherry, and Jonet sipped at it gratefully. Mrs. Birtwhistle, who was still looking at her expectantly, seemed disinclined to leave, and so Jonet seized the moment “You have been here for some years, I take it?” Jonet asked pleasantly, letting her eyes drift toward the portrait “I daresay you knew the late Mrs. Amherst well.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed the housekeeper. “She came here as a bride in ‘06, and stayed until she died, some four years later. Such a pity it was, too.”
“She died in childbirth, did she not?” asked Jonet, deliberately keeping her tone level.
Mrs. Birtwhistle nodded sadly. “Indeed she did, poor woman. But I cannot say as how I was entirely surprised.”
“Not surprised—?”
The elderly woman shrugged. “Well, it’s not my place to say, ma’am, but she had that look about her, if you know what I mean. That wan sort of look—like a person who’s not really a part of this earth, and just not terribly interested in it, either. Sort of like a—a fading away, before your very eyes.”
“I think I have some idea of what you mean,” said Jonet softly.
“Do you? It’s fanciful talk, I daresay. But when the babe came, I was proven right— though I took no pleasure a’tall in it. Never had a chance, poor thing.”
“Never had a chance? In what way?”
Mrs. Birtwhistle shook her head sadly. “Breech, it was. She labored for three days and simply had not the strength to deliver it And by the time she did, well, ‘twas simply too late.”
“Oh, dear,” answered Jonet hollowly. “How dreadful.”
“Well, these things do happen, and ‘twas no one’s fault Though that Mr. Moseby does say the master blamed himself when word came. But he oughtn’t think such things, for he was a fine husband. Always bending over backward for her, and she seemed scarcely to notice. And she had the best of care for her confinement, and a fine doctor, too.” Lightly, the housekeeper stroked the back of the settee, as if soothing a skittish colt. “But there now, Mrs. Rowland, let’s not talk of that any more, shall we?” Her smile brightened. “Mr. Amherst has come home at last—and one oughtn’t fret over the past.”
———
Sleep did not come easily that night. Cole had not expected that it would, and so he had fortified himself with an extra pillow, a pair of lamps, and a well-thumbed copy of Milton’s Latin elegies from his father’s library. As he thumped his pillows into submission, Cole tried to take comfort in the fact that although his heart—perhaps even his sanity—might be at risk, at least the children were safe.
Everyone now slept in the family rooms on the second floor. Cole had deliberately given Stuart and Robert a large bedchamber to share, and placed Moseby on a cot in their dressing room. The man was a notoriously light sleeper, and his quick response had sent more than one careless French scout on to his great reward rather sooner than expected.
Yes, the children would be safe with Moseby. And as he had told Jonet over dinner, tomorrow he would send someone to speak discreetly with Donaldson to find out what, if anything, was known about the outbreak of illness at Mercer House. Then, as soon as it could be safely done, Ellen or Nanna—even Donaldson, if she wished it—could be brought to Elmwood, to stay as his guests until they had decided what next to do.
But he had made it plain that under no circumstance would he tolerate Lord Delacourt under his roof, nor would he even accept so much as her writing to inform him of their whereabouts. Jonet had jerked back, as if he had dealt her a physical blow. Nonetheless, after a short argument, she had reluctantly acquiesced. Cole only hoped that she would keep her word, because as soon as it could be safely arranged, it was Cole’s intention to return to London alone. It was time, he had firmly decided, to have a long talk with Dr. Greaves and the magistrate about just who was behind the dreadful goings-on in Brook Street.
Through the dim light, Cole scowled at the door which led through his modest dressing room, linking his bedchamber to Jonet’s. It was the devil’s own temptation, that bloody connecting door. And there was yet another inexplicable thing—what the hell had he written to Mrs. Birtwhistle, anyway? She was old and a little flighty, but far from incompetent. Undoubtedly, he had written something that was as vague and misleading as the conflict which raged within his heart.
Slowly, as if he had willed it, his dressing room door creaked open, and Cole watched, transfixed, as Jonet appeared in a flowing wrapper, which caressed her body in all the right places. The soft fabric almost shimmered as she moved across the room, and Cole knew instinctively that she was naked beneat
h. In one hand, she cradled two glasses, and dangling from her fingertips, she carried a loosely corked bottle of wine. A wicked smile curved her lips.
“I pilfered your cellar,” she blithely confessed, sauntering toward the edge of his bed.
Peering at her over his spectacles, Cole sighed, then closed his book and laid it to one side. “Why does that not surprise me, Jonet?”
With another feint smile, she leaned provocatively forward to put down her burdens on his night table, allowing her cloud of black hair to fall forward and her wrapper to slide open invitingly. “Really, Cole,” she said throatily, as she pulled away the bedcovers and sat down to face him, “you did not honestly expect that I would be able to resist this, did you?”
“I do not suppose,” he finally said, watching as she leaned gracefully forward and removed his spectacles, “that there is any point in telling you that you have no business whatsoever being alone with me in my bedchamber? Nor in warning you that we might be caught out?”
Jonet merely shook her head. “None whatsoever,” she agreed. “If you’re caught compromising my dubious virtue, you’ll just have to wed me. But I daresay we both locked our doors, did we not?” She looked at him knowingly, one fine black brow quirking up.
“Yes,” he confessed, his voice thick with sudden need. “Very... tightly.”
His heart in his throat, Cole watched Jonet’s breasts shift and sway as she leaned over to fill the wineglasses. She made no secret of—nor any apologies for—what she wanted. And there was no doubt whatsoever that he wanted her. In fact, if he were completely honest, he would admit that his cock had been half hard since seeing her tumbling in the grass with Stuart this afternoon.
Inside, however, the memory of the last night he’d spent in Jonet’s arms was as tender as a new wound. Oh, she had wanted him then, too. But he had very much feared that it was only that, and nothing more. And yet, today on the long carriage ride from Loughton, Jonet had very nearly laid open her heart to him. She loved him, she had said. She wanted to marry him—and in her usual obstinate way, Jonet had simply thrown her pride to the wind and asked.
Cole still did not see how it could possibly work, when he had nothing whatsoever to offer her. But abruptly, he found himself sitting fully up in bed and leaning forward to kiss her, threading his fingers lightly into the soft hair at her temples, cradling her face in his big, rough hands, and pushing his lips gently against hers. “Oh” she said breathlessly, as if the tenderness of his gesture shocked her. And then she kissed him back. Once, twice. And a third time, with her lips softly parted, her tongue lightly seeking. And then, with a shudder, she eased him gently back into the heap of pillows. “Let us be patient for once,” she whispered hesitantly. “We have all night. I would have us learn about one another. May we do that, Cole?”
Ruthlessly, Cole stomped his fire down to a smolder and banked it. “As you wish,” he agreed, lowering his lashes as he captured her hand and dragged her inner wrist to his mouth.
“Cole—” His name came out on a sigh. “If you run that wicked tongue of yours down my arm again,” she warned, “I shan’t be accountable for the noise.”
“Very well,” he reluctantly agreed, restoring her hand to her lap. At once, she leaned forward and took up the wine glasses, now full, and passed one to him. Then, cradling the bowl of the glass in her palm, she tucked her knees under her wrapper and wriggled herself a little closer, until her hip was nestled companionably next to his thigh and they faced one another.
Cole held her eyes and raised his glass, lightly tapping the rim of hers. “To you, my dear. Now, what dread secret would you have me confess?”
Jonet looked suddenly mischievous again, her fingers snaking forward to toy with the throat of his nightshirt. “Well... first of all, I should very much like to know if you always wear clothes to bed?” She wrinkled her nose ever so slightly.
Cole felt a feint warmth flush across his face. “Not always, Jonet. But a nightshirt hardly constitutes clothing”
Deftly, Jonet slipped the single button loose and turned back the shirt facing to let her fingers play lightly down his chest “That may be,” she agreed, her voice soft and throaty. “But be aware, sir, that if I can persuade you to marry me, I intend to cut them all up into dust cloths.”
Her hands felt like fire playing down his chest “Jonet,” he rasped, watching in fascination as her fingertips stroked lightly across his left nipple. “I really don’t think we can have any meaningful conversation if you keep doing that”
Jonet’s heated gaze came up to catch his. “Yes,” she admitted, her lips parting softly. “You are perfectly right Whatever was I thinking?” And then slowly, she returned the wineglasses to the table and began to unfasten her wrapper. Cole watched in wordless anticipation as she pulled open the silky fabric, letting it slither off her shoulders to pool around her hips, revealing her high, full breasts and her softly rounded belly.
Boldly, with her catlike grace, Jonet shifted her weight to climb over him, leaving her wrapper behind, tangled in his sheets as she straddled his knees. Then, she bent elegantly forward to slide her hands beneath the fabric of his nightshirt, pushing it to his waist leaving his bare skin trembling with anticipation. Jonet’s eyes never left his as her hands skimmed back down the jut of his heavy hipbones, then smoothed across the shivering plane of his stomach, and lower still, until she found what she wanted.
“Ummf,” she said, the sound more of a moan than a spoken word.
“Ah—” Cole sharply exhaled as Jonet took him, her strong, perfect fingers lacing tightly about the base of his rigid shaft, the other lightly cupping his testicles.
Cole had made love to a good many women, but in the whole of his thirty-four years, he could never recall having been made love to by a woman. However, despite the haze of sensual delirium which was rapidly possessing him, he realized that that was Jonet’s precise intention. Cole had no more strength with which to resist her. And so he simply gave himself up to the inevitable, reveling in the long strokes of her firm, strong hands, and savoring the heat of her womanhood across his legs.
But when her hair swept down over his belly, and he felt her breasts brush his thighs, the haze abruptly cleared, and his hands came up to stay her shoulders. “No, Jonet —.” he heard himself rasp. “Not like that!”
“Why?” Her voice was tender, the question soft. “Why may I not love you, Cole— in every way I feel drawn to?”
Why not, indeed? Because it was something only whores did? Because it was something he himself had rarely experienced? But Jonet’s breathless plea made the first reason seem blatantly wrong. And the second was just a feeble excuse, tendered in the faint hope of holding back a part of himself from this woman who already threatened to possess him body and soul.
His hesitation was answer enough. Jonet’s mouth was on him, drawing his shaft deep into her warmth as she caressed and stroked him up and down, slicking him with moisture, her tongue encircling and enticing him with ribbons of fire, her hand tight about his throbbing base. First enthralled, then wildly excited, Cole let his hands drift down to thread through her hair, resisting the impulse to both push her away, and to drag her nearer. She loved him greedily, wickedly, for long, timeless moments, until Cole hung suspended between exquisite pain and perfect pleasure. Until he was left straining upward with a desperate, visceral hunger, arching off the bed, and dragging her upward.
“Inside,” he rasped harshly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arm. Yet he was barely certain he had spoken the word aloud. Roughly—too roughly—he pulled at her shoulders, dragging her mouth from his pulsing cock. “I want inside you now!” he demanded, and this time Jonet’s head jerked up, her eyes wide and limpid, her lush mouth wet and gasping. Obediently, she slid up his length, straddling his shaft.
“Now, Jonet,” he begged, his tone softer, his hands instinctively sliding around to lift and part her buttocks. Balanced delicately atop him, Jonet nodded mutely, then tip
ped back her head and impaled herself downward in one long, perfect stroke.
“Oh, God,” Cole heard himself groan.
Jonet let out her breath in a whispery sigh, then lifted herself up and glided enticingly down again. Over and over she moved, until knowingly, his hands left the sweet weight of her hips and slid over her thighs. Settling one hand over the soft, damp curls of her mound, he let his fingers ease between her swollen folds, through the warm heat, and back again, to find what he knew would be her hard, eager nub. And it was. Ah, yes! It was.
He brushed it once, lightly, with the ball of his thumb, and Jonet began to pant wildly, her hair curling enticingly around rose-pink nipples that were hard and erect She lifted herself high and slid down once more. After that, it was over very quickly.
Jonet’s thighs worked feverishly as she rode him, her tight feminine sheath pulsing up his length as she came, rendering him powerless, sucking the very life from him.
“Oh ...oh... oh...!” she gasped. His hips came up, forcing her weight fully off the bed as Cole strained, mindlessly pouring into her. And then, he felt the sheets, cool against his back, and Jonets weight falling forward to bear him deeper into the softness of the bed.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered tremulously, her lips somewhere near his earlobe.
And then, the room was plunged into a deep, restful silence. Through the open window, a light breeze stirred across the bed, carrying with it the soothing sounds of a country night. After years of often sleeping out of doors, Cole could not bear being shut in. Now, it felt good to be away from London, in his own home, in his own bed, with the woman who was—or perhaps could be—his as well.