Leaning across to open the other window, she returned to her corner of the carriage and continued watching her husband’s broad back.
“Husband,” she said to the dogs, rolling the word around on her tongue. It felt good. It felt right. It felt large and masculine and absolutely thrilling.
“I have a husband. An earl husband. Lord of Kisses.” It got better the more she said it, especially when she recalled the kiss of peace that had sealed her marriage vows.
“I think I took him by surprise,” she told the dogs. Erp thumped his tail, but Piddle just gave her his usual melancholy stare. “I do hope his lip heals quickly.” She thought for a moment. “And his head. And the toe that one of his bays crushed.”
She looked back out the window. He really was the most amazing man. She couldn’t wait until tonight, when he would finally answer all the questions that had arisen when Aunt Honoria sat her down to have a talk about wedded life. She knew her aunt had meant well, but surely Honoria must have had some of her facts confused. It wasn’t as if she, Gillian, were naïve, after all — she was five and twenty, not a girl fresh from the schoolroom. Ah, well, tonight it would be straight in her mind. She smiled at the thought of having Noble all to herself, alone, with no distractions, and mindful of her propensity for unfortunate events, she made a mental note to clear the room of all potentially lethal objects. It wouldn’t do to accidentally strike down her bridegroom while her curiosity was still piqued.
Three hours later the carriage turned between two massive wrought-iron gates and rolled up a smooth drive edged with tall oaks.
“Nethercote,” she breathed, her heart racing, and peered out the window for the first glimpse of her new home. Rounding one last curve, the house finally came into view. A large four-story structure with wings extending on either end, it was built of a warm gold-colored stone. Seemingly hundreds of windows glittered in the early evening sun, dazzling the eye.
“Turrets!” Gillian exclaimed as she grasped her husband’s hand and alighted from the carriage.
Noble looked at her bemused face and felt her pleasure warming him deep inside his chest. Her cheeks pink with excitement, her green eyes the color of emeralds in sunlight, Gillian was the picture of delight personified. She turned to Noble and gifted him with a blinding smile. The warmth in his chest spread as he placed her hand on his arm and took her forward to introduce her to the staff gathered on the front steps.
“This is Tremayne, my butler.”
Gillian shot the earl an amused look. “Your butler, indeed, my lord. Pull the other one, it has bells on it! Good afternoon, Tremayne. How did you get here from London so quickly?”
“My dear, this isn’t Tremayne my head coachman; this is his brother.”
“No! Truly? They look identical! How unusual.” Noble nodded and introduced her to Mrs. Hogue, the housekeeper, then followed behind as she was introduced to the rest of the female staff. When Tremayne took her to meet the male staff, she came to a halt and giggled.
“You’re playing tricks on me, aren’t you Tremayne? You must have ridden very hard indeed to arrive here before us.” She waggled a finger in front of his face.
Noble took a deep breath. There were times when he felt his life resembled a French farce. “This is my valet, my dear. He isn’t Tremayne the coachman.”
Gillian looked from the valet to the butler. “Triplets? Identical triplets?”
The two men nodded. Gillian bit her lip to keep from laughing. Weston sighed again and, taking his wife’s arm, escorted her over to where two people stood aside from the staff.
“This is Rogerson, the tutor. And Nicholas, my son,” he said as she was in mid-curtsy. Her knee seemed to buckle for a moment, but she caught herself and whirled around to face him.
“Your son? You have a son? You have a son and you didn’t bother telling me? A son, Noble?”
Noble narrowed his eyes as he watched surprise, astonishment, then anger flit over her face. Her eyes glittered back dangerously at him. He was about to suggest that they step inside to continue the conversation when she threw herself into his arms, kissed him directly on the spot she had accidentally nipped during their wedding ceremony, then was out of his arms and hugging his son.
“Imagine that; I have a son and I didn’t even know it,” she chirped at the nine-year-old boy, who looked just as flabbergasted at the turn of events as his father. “You look just like your father, you know. The same lovely gray eyes and black eyelashes. And the same chin. Oh, I’m so happy! I have acquired a husband and a son on the same day!”
She took Nick by the arm and started toward the house, chattering as she went. A bit dazed, Noble followed, wondering when she would notice that the boy didn’t speak.
“A cold supper, Mrs. Hogue,” he told the housekeeper. “My dear, Mrs. Hogue will show you to your rooms. I will meet you in the library in an hour. Nick, Rogerson, my study if you please.”
Noble waited until Gillian went upstairs, the two hounds trailing morosely after her, before following his son and the tutor into his study. He had fully expected his troubled son to reject his stepmother, but so far the earl noted only stunned astonishment on the boy’s face. He hoped his instincts were right and that Gillian would be just the antidote Nick needed to bring him back to the world of the living.
Noble knew only too well what had driven the boy into the hell that had robbed him of speech, and although he had been patient and followed the advice of the doctors, the lad still refused to speak. Since Noble himself had built formidable walls against the pain and heartbreak of loving unwisely, he knew just how hard it would be for Gillian to breach the boy’s defenses, but he had hope that if anyone could do it, she could. Ignoring his son and the tutor, he stared out the window and thought about his wife. She had a way of getting under his defenses that made him extremely uncomfortable. His plan to leave her in the country for a month while he finished up business in town became more appealing with every minute he spent in her presence. She would settle in at Nethercote and begin to work her magic on his son, while he would be away from the danger her innocence and lively mind posed.
He turned and asked for a report from the tutor. Once completed, he spoke at length to his son about his expected behavior with his new stepmother and inquired after the boy’s pursuits. Nick shrugged at the questions and looked impassively back at his father. Noble had no way of knowing, but the look was identical to the one he himself affected in public. Rogerson noticed, however, and, genuinely fond of both his charge and his employer, sent up a prayer of hope that the new countess would be able to reach the father and son where others had failed.
“How did you find your rooms?” Noble asked his wife a short while later, when the two were seated in front of the library fire, a cold repast spread before them.
“I turned right at the top of the stairs,” Gillian replied.
The Black Earl looked up from where he was slicing ham. “That is an old chestnut, madam.”
Gillian smiled. “I know, but I couldn’t help myself. Truly, my lord, the rooms…well, to be honest, I clash with them.”
One delectable eyebrow went up. Gillian’s fingers tingled with the desire to smooth back the hair that fell over his brow and brush the satiny eyebrow.
“How so?”
“They’re pink, my lord.”
“Noble.”
“They’re pink, Noble. Very pink. I look terrible against pink.”
Noble carved a slice of duck and added it to her plate. “Gillian, you are now the Countess of Weston, mistress of this house and three others. If something displeases you, you may change it.”
“Truly? Anything?”
Noble nodded. “Within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” Gillian agreed. Fortunately for his peace of mind, her husband was busy with his own plate and didn’t see the speculative look in his wife’s eyes.
Supper, a quick tour through the house, and a visit to the stable to settle the dogs passed th
e remaining evening hours quickly. With some surprise, Gillian found herself alone in her repulsively pink bedchamber, dressed in her best nightrail and a rather worn dressing gown, awaiting the appearance of her husband. She was mildly disconcerted by the pitying look her newly assigned maid had given her as she left, but her anticipation of the day’s culmination kept her from worrying about it too much. She just hoped she wouldn’t do anything to hurt Noble before he had a chance to explain everything to her.
“Woolgathering again, my dear?”
Gillian jumped a foot and spun around to see her husband close the connecting door. He was dressed in a rich blue velvet dressing gown that didn’t quite go to his ankles. Gillian stared at his feet. They were as bare as hers.
“Um. Woolgathering. Yes. Your feet are naked.”
“So are yours.” Noble took her hands in his and gently pulled her forward until she was leaning against his chest. “You are allowed to be frightened, my dear, given the circumstances. I give you my word that I will do my best not to hurt you, but I’m afraid there will be a certain discomfort the first time.”
Gillian looked up into his gray eyes and wondered how she could ever have thought them icy. They blazed now with a fiery heat that warmed her down to her bare toes. She didn’t care how much discomfort the evening held; he could pinch her black and blue, he could torture her, he could stretch her out on the rack in his dungeon — just so long as she could stand in the blaze of those glorious eyes.
He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her tighter. “Nethercote doesn’t have a dungeon. Did your aunt explain tonight’s proceedings to you?”
“Well, she tried. I am afraid I lost track of what she was saying at some point. I had hoped you would explain it all to me.” Gillian looked so wistful Noble couldn’t keep the smile from his face. He knew from her reactions to the few chaste kisses they had shared that she had an untapped font of passion simmering just below the surface, but he had assumed that like most virgins she would view her wedding night with trepidation or horror.
“I’d rather show you than explain it,” he murmured against her hair, slipping her dressing gown off her shoulders. Gillian shivered as the air reached her through the delicate linen of her nightwear.
“Cold, sweetheart?” Noble asked, nibbling his way down the ivory column of her neck and along her collarbone. Gillian clutched both hands in his hair and held on for dear life. She had no idea what he was doing — Aunt Honoria certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about him tasting her — but she didn’t want the wonderful sensations to stop. He dipped his tongue into the hollow behind one ear and suckled on an earlobe.
“Dear God in heaven,” she moaned. Surely this wasn’t right. Surely Noble shouldn’t be sending flames of desire licking down her body. Licking, oh lord, he was licking her! Gillian’s skin prickled as her nightrail was pushed down over her shoulders, over her hips, and left to pool around her ankles. Before she had time to comment on the embarrassing situation of her nakedness, he picked her up, headed for her bed, paused, then turned and carried her through to his chamber. Gillian didn’t have a chance to take an inventory of the bedchamber before she was settled with exquisite gentleness on his bed. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched closely as he disrobed.
“Well! That answers a good many questions,” she muttered, staring at his arousal. Then, to Noble’s complete surprise, utter amazement, and undying gratitude, she reached out and touched him.
“Yes indeed, it explains much. Am I hurting you?” she asked, concerned about the grunt of pain that had accompanied her touch.
Gently, ever so gently, Noble pried his wife’s hands off his nether regions and, gritting his teeth with the determination not to shame himself ten minutes into his wedding night, he pushed her back onto the bed and lay down beside her, panting slightly.
“You are perspiring. Are you too hot? Should I open a window? Fetch you a cold beverage? Would you like me to fan you?” Gillian snuggled closer and placed a hand on his chest. Her fingers drew lazy circles around one flat brown nipple. He slapped a hand over hers and held it tight. He’d never make it through the night. If he didn’t shame himself first, she was going to kill him with her innocent erotic seduction. He ground his teeth together in an attempt to distract himself from the thought of plunging deep inside her.
“Nothing. Just lay there. Don’t move. And if you have any mercy in your soul, stop touching me there!”
Gillian jerked her hand back. “I’m sorry. I thought it was allowed.”
Noble tried hard to swallow past the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “It is allowed; nay, encouraged under normal circumstances, but this, my lady wife, is not a normal circumstance.”
“Oh.” She lay next to him and wondered if his breathing was always so ragged. Surely it couldn’t be good for him to be breathing so shallowly for any length of time. Perhaps if she stroked him as she did the hounds when they became distressed, he would calm down and his breathing return to normal. Disengaging one hand, she lightly caressed his chest from shoulder to navel.
“Oh, God.”
Gillian didn’t think he meant that as a prayer; it sounded more like a groan of agony. His head must be paining him. She tilted her face up until her lips were a hairbreath away from his. “Do you hurt, Noble?”
He moaned softly against her lips and with one hand cupped the back of her head so he could plunder her mouth.
“Is it your head?” she asked, the words catching in her throat.
Now her own breathing was erratic, but there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it, what with Noble’s tongue probing her mouth like an enthusiastic explorer in a particularly moist cave. Unable to withstand the surge of emotions and desires flooding her body, she pressed against him, eliciting another moan from deep within his chest. Then suddenly she was on her back and he was poised over her.
“I meant to do this right, I swear I did,” he said hoarsely as he positioned himself. “But you’re so damn hot. Bloody hell, I’m only human! You can’t blame me for being human! Tell me you don’t blame me!”
He seemed to require some sort of reassurance, so she stroked his arms and back gently. “I don’t blame you. You’re beautiful, Noble. Even your muscles have muscles. You’re made very differently from me.”
Weston stared at her for a moment that seemed to him to last at least a lifetime, then slowly, with a patience he thought beyond human control, he sank into her.
“Well, I think this just about answers all of my questions,” Gillian gasped, her voice simultaneously huskier and higher than she had ever heard it. There was a sharp jab of pain, but it quickly faded into unimportance in the rush of other, much more pleasing feelings.
Her husband didn’t answer her — hell, he was incapable of words at that point. All that mattered was making Gillian his own, bonding with her, joining with her until they ceased to be two entities and were one.
Gillian uttered his name in a brief shriek and arched up beneath him. Sunlight exploded behind his eyes as he drove into her one last time, crushing her beneath him, pulling her into his soul just as surely as she pulled him into hers. Noble and Gillian ceased to exist; there was only a united pair. Together, joined, one body, one breath, one heartbeat.
An eon later Gillian gave a contented sigh, and wrapped her arms around the man lying limp on top of her. Her husband. Her life. Her Lord of Lovers. Forever he would be hers and hers alone. She stroked one hand down the damp muscled planes of his back and sent profusions of thankful prayers heavenward. Suddenly her hand paused.
“Noble?” She nudged him. He didn’t move.
Oh lord, she had killed him!
“Noble?” Her voice rose to a near scream. He bucked upward and sucked in one huge breath like a drowning man surfacing for air. Gillian was surprised there was any oxygen left in the room.
“I thought I had killed you!” she cried with relief, and placed a cautious hand over his heart. It was beating m
adly.
“You almost did,” he replied grittily; then, grinning, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them both onto their sides.
“It’s amazing how well we fit together, don’t you think? Considering how very large you are and all.”
“Mmm.”
She snuggled into his chest and let a languorous sigh of fulfillment escape. “When can we do it again?”
Noble drew a deep breath. “I might have recovered enough to give it another try in eight or nine years. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
Gillian tipped back her head to see whether or not he was jesting. His eyes were closed, but the corners of his mouth were quirked.
She snuggled back onto his shoulder. He was jesting.
“…and that is how I met your father. Isn’t it a romantic story?” Gillian strolled with Nick and the two dogs around the rose garden early the following morning. Nick peeked at her out of the corner of his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. Gillian had realized that something was seriously troubling her new son but was content to let him come to her with the problem rather than force him to tell her his woes. Mothers, after all, had an instinct about such things. He would come to her in his own time and explain everything.
“Oh, dear, Piddle, I don’t think the gardener is going to appreciate that.” Gillian ignored the soft snicker beside her and avoided looking at the dogs altogether. She loved them dearly, but they did have a penchant for embarrassing her at the worst time. All she needed now was for Noble to pop up and notice the gift the dog…oh, no, both dogs, had left in the middle of the formal, pristine, not-a-leaf-out-of-place garden.
“My lady—”
Gillian shrieked at the deep voice behind her and spun around, clutching her heart to keep it from flinging itself out of her chest.
“Lord, Tremayne…er…which Tremayne are you?”
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