by Anna Small
She was no longer the child who hung from his arms while he swung her wildly into the air. A young woman had taken her place. He’d sensed her gaze upon him whenever they were in the same room together, and he’d avoided her, explaining away his guilty feelings with the thought he had no time to spend on an impressionable girl. Mitford had been present and lavished much attention on her, flattering her and dancing with her every night, while Jack made an excuse he’d hurt his ankle riding. He hadn’t wanted to risk anyone sensing the real reason he could not bear to be in her company. Why he didn’t want to feel her lithe body in his arms as they danced. Why he didn’t want to smile down at her impossibly beautiful face, all semblance of fraternal feelings gone as if they’d never existed.
She’d asked him the next morning why he hadn’t danced with her, as his limp had mysteriously vanished. He didn’t have an answer then, but he knew it as clearly as if it were written in the white puffy clouds overhead.
And damned if he knew what he’d do about it.
He crept from the bushes and back onto the path, straightening his neckcloth when he reached the front door. Sliding his hand through his mussed hair, he walked into his house with the casual air of a lord, although he was certain Philippe hid a smile as soon as his back was turned. He did not care for his supper. Not just yet. Suddenly, he had an intensely fierce desire to listen to his wife play the pianoforte.
Chapter Twenty
“Have you been shut up in here all day with the ghosts of old composers?” Jack announced from the drawing room door. He crossed the room to where she sat and leafed through the music on top of the case.
“Some of us are not carousing all day and night.” She played blindly, not caring what tune emerged from her fingers.
“Some of us are not doing that, either.” He picked up a stray sheet and held it to her. “What is this? I didn’t know Mozart illustrated his work.”
She glanced carelessly at the paper and gasped in dismay. At the bottom of the sheet she’d drawn their entwined initials, complete with tiny hearts and an attempt at a rosebud. She snatched the paper from him and crumpled it up.
“I was bored.”
“Hmm.” He went to the cabinet against the wall and removed a violin case. “I’ll wager you don’t know this about me.”
“Which of the myriad fascinating things about you do I not know?”
She bit her lip in feigned concentration, picking out the tune almost effortlessly. Normally, her excellent playing was a source of pride, but since coming to France, she took no pleasure in it. All she’d done since his absence was daydream and draw silly pictures. She was grateful she’d burned the last one before he came home—a little sketch of his lips she’d spent an hour drawing.
He unlatched the case and removed a violin and bow. He held it up to her, almost reverently. “This.”
“Was it left behind by one of your grandfather’s guests? The one with the smelly gowns, perhaps?”
He frowned comically, but she sensed a touch of bashfulness. “It was my father’s, if you must know. I did learn other accomplishments besides drinking and seducing daughters of groundskeepers while at university.”
As she watched in semi-stunned, amused silence, he placed the violin under his chin, took a breath, and closed his eyes as he drew the bow across the strings. The familiar strains of Boccherini poured from the instrument, as effortless as her own playing had been.
She snapped out of her dazed confusion and accompanied him on the pianoforte. As he played, he walked slowly toward her, his gaze locked with hers. Their playing was harmonious. Neither of them missed a note, and he even nodded briefly before playing a little faster, but she kept up.
With a flicker of his gaze, he indicated she should move over on the bench, and she did, without losing her place on the keyboard. He sat on the edge, his back against her shoulder as they continued to play. His hair brushed her face a few times, and she inhaled deeply, her breath catching as her pulse sped up. Sensual memories of the night before threatened to disrupt her concentration, and she had to consciously will her hands to hit the right keys. When the piece ended, he rested the violin and bow on top of the pianoforte and faced her.
“I had no idea you could play! Why did you not say something before? We could have played duets when you and Jonathan were home at Christmas.”
He grinned. “That is precisely why I did not say anything. Besides—I would much rather listen to you. You always played for me, Georgie.”
She turned toward the keyboard again, fiddling with a loose D-sharp key. “How you will flatter yourself.” Her heart pounded so hard she feared he could hear it. Perspiration broke out under her arms, and she shifted on the bench, wishing he would get up and move away from her so he wouldn’t detect the effect he had on her.
He chuckled. “I am speaking the truth. The last time I was home with Lockewood, you were—what, fifteen? You found out my favorite piece and learned it for a week. At the Christmas party later, you played it and stared at me with those big blue eyes the entire time. I still remember you wore a white dress with a pink bow tied in the back.”
She sniffed. “I was probably watching you drink all the wine punch and fawning over Lady Ellenton’s daughter.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about Clementine Ellenton. I wonder whatever happened to her?”
His hand rested on the keys. She dropped the lid, banging his fingers. He drew them back with a sharp yelp, and then looked into her eyes. She tried to return his grin but failed. Surely, he could see the helpless jealousy and naked emotion on her face. It was useless to pretend anymore. The feelings she’d had as a lovesick girl—unsated by even Edward’s flattering attention—were unabated where Jack was concerned.
She started to rise from the bench, but he caught her wrist, turning her body as he placed her hand around his neck. Her fingers curled into his hair of their own accord. The desire she’d experienced the night before—the yearning ache as she’d clasped him in her arms—rushed back in a torrent. She pushed at his shoulders, but it was more for show.
“If you want to find out about Miss Ellenton, perhaps you should write her. I’m sure she would love to hear from you. Perhaps you could visit her and let her nibble on your neck with her rabbit teeth.”
He shook his head, his face displaying his amusement. “I have no wish to see her. It’s your teeth I want nibbling on me.” He pulled her into his arms.
“You ignored me the last time you saw me. You refused to dance with me, leaving me to…to Edward’s devious plans.” The accusations tumbled from her and she thumped his chest, but he caught her hand in a strong grip. “You used to spend time with me, but that Christmas you avoided me as if I were leprous.”
The teasing grin faded rapidly from his lips. His gaze burned into hers, and she forgot to struggle. After an interminable moment when she’d nearly given up on him saying anything, he spoke.
“I didn’t want to see you all grown up. You were so…uncomplicated then.”
Her throat dried up. “Am I so complicated now?”
“I don’t know what you are.” He shook his head, his eyes glowing with wonder. “I hardly know you like this, Georgiana.” He drew a breath, his chest shuddering. “But I know I want you.”
“You want me?” She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Her hands slid behind his neck, her fingers locking together before she could stop herself. Without replying, his mouth captured hers, pressing and urgent. His hands slid from her waist to her hair, pulling it free from her modest chignon and then streaming it through his fingers.
“Yes, I want you, you tempting little creature. All day, I’ve thought of you and nothing else. You’ve distracted me to the breaking point.” His lips brushed across her cheek and toward her ear.
She arched against him with an overwhelming wave of desire that rose from his slightest touch. “I thought about you, Jack.” She would never tell him how much, or that she’d spent half the morning in his cham
ber, sorting his neckcloths and tending to the slightest mending of his shirts and linen, even though she had never sewn a stitch in her life. He had an appalling number of shirts missing buttons and stained with what resembled rouge, and she’d thrown those away, her stomach roiling until she’d had to lie down.
He lifted his head to gaze into her eyes. His breathing had thickened, and his eyes had a smoky gleam to them.
“Did you?”
She nodded, her eyes drawn to his mouth again. How was it possible that unsophisticated, ill-mannered Jack Waverley should have the most kissable lips in all of England? And probably in France, for all his boasting. She drew in a shaky breath. Her arms trembled as he pulled her onto his lap.
“I know we had to share a bed last night to ensure our protection from your potentially overwrought brother, but I cannot help wondering if…”
He played with a long curl that hung over her shoulder. A delicious shiver ran through her.
“If what?” She could barely breathe. Didn’t want to breathe, or move, or do anything if it meant leaving his arms.
“Well, I was thinking perhaps you might rather enjoy a second time.” His gray eyes twinkled with their familiar wickedness. “You know—without all the anxiety and nerves of last night.”
She held back her laughter and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I was not anxious or nervous at all. That was your conceit playing upon your mind. Again.”
“Indeed.” His mouth twisted as he held back his own smile. “In that case, perhaps we should have another go because I was so anxious and nervous last night.”
“You…you were nervous?” She tried to laugh in a worldly way, but her voice only cracked.
“Of course. It’s not every night a man is a bridegroom with such an irresistible bride in his bed, demanding all sorts of wanton experiences. I’m surprised I could even walk this morning.”
The laughter died in her throat. There was nothing the slightest bit humorous in what he was doing to her now. He traced an invisible line down her throat, ending at the top of her cleavage. Her breathing grew unsteady, and she leaned toward him dizzily, searching for his mouth even while he looked like he would speak again. He clasped her to him, one hand seeking her breast, which she felt through the layers of her clothes.
“Shall we…shall we go upstairs?” she whispered, her lips fluttering against his.
He shook his head and lifted one of her legs over his until they faced each other on the narrow bench. Her elbow banged the keyboard, and a dissonant chord broke the silence.
“Later. Right now, I just want to…feel…you…”
His words cut off by more kisses, until he stopped speaking altogether. Her lips parted to his tongue, and she tasted his mouth. His hand fumbled between them, and she realized he’d unfastened his breeches. A gasp of admonition rose to her lips, but she pushed the thought away, and released his neck to help him. He laughed into her mouth but continued kissing her deeply. The seconds flew by, and then he had taken her hand and gripped it around him.
A strange quivering rattled her bones, and the same helpless kind of yearning deep in her soul echoed through her again. She heard a faint sound of whimpering and realized it was coming from her. She hadn’t known he’d raised her skirts until his broad, warm hand was beneath her thigh, caressing her and lifting her onto him at the same time.
“Ah, Georgie,” he groaned, and she gave three short gasps the moment they joined.
“You—must—not—call—me—Georgie.”
“I thought—” He gulped audibly. “—that rule pertained only in bed. And we are not in bed at the moment.”
It was his turn to hit the keyboard, and soon, in their frantic struggle to remain on the bench, a discordant cacophony rattled her eardrums. Her feet were on the floor, so she was able to keep her balance while he held her hips, guiding and steadying her.
Any trace of modesty that might have lingered, unvanquished from last night, deserted her. She nearly rose to a standing position with the crushing force of her climax, his head between her breasts while she clasped him there, unable to move or speak. She froze in the timeless moment, and felt his release a second later.
Sinking down again, she remained in his arms, shaking with emotion and physical exhaustion. He ran his hands down her back and up again, finally framing her face and pulling away slightly so he could look at her.
“Georgie and Jack,” he murmured, a tender smile on his lips. His flushed face glistened with perspiration. “Who would have thought it, eh?”
He was still hard and inside her. She tried to talk, but nothing would come out. Her body spasmed around him one last time, and her head fell back as she let out a soft cry of completion. He held her close, rocking her slowly back and forth on his lap until her quivering dissipated and her breathing calmed.
“Never…never, in a million years,” she finally replied, closing her eyes and laying her head on his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-One
A week of sharing sensuous nights with her new husband had come and gone. They could barely face each other across the dining table without his sweeping her from her chair the moment the servants left the first course. She’d stopped wearing a corset because it was easier to breathe without it, especially when she was so breathless whenever he was around.
Georgiana lay in bed, blinking in the morning sunlight streaming through the opened windows. The night had passed in a blur of almost surreal passion, shared and spent. They’d hardly spoken a word to each other after supper the night before and had stumbled upstairs and into her chamber, falling onto the bed and dissolving into oblivion. He’d long stopped asking if he could share her bed and just assumed he could.
Not that she had any objection to this new arrangement.
Swiping her tangled hair from her face, she surveyed the ruined remnants of their bed. Half the quilt had spilled onto the floor, and she vaguely remembered him tearing one of her silk stockings in his haste to disrobe her.
Sighing and stretching, she hugged his pillow, drawing his scent deep into her lungs as if she could store it there for future reference.
“Where are you?” she murmured into the pillow. Her thighs twitched at the remembered pressure of his weight, and she groaned aloud, then laughed. Kicking off the sheets, she sprang from the bed and rang for Marie to help her dress. Perhaps Jack was in the garden or had gone for a quick drive and was on his way back home. He couldn’t have gone too far. He hadn’t even said goodbye, which was unlike him.
After selecting a mint green morning gown, she stood like a statue while Marie dressed her. He should be home by now. How long did it take to check the grounds or instruct a servant? Her ears strained for a sound, but no echo of banging doors downstairs or Jack’s jovial voice ringing through the house ordering all sorts of delicacies for supper reached her.
Marie asked how she wanted her hair arranged, and she shrugged, a sudden wave of unease tickling her stomach and making her hands shake. What if something had happened to him? Or worse, he’d had second thoughts? Even now, he could be on his way to the harbor, intent on abandoning her. She’d be stranded in France with only herself to blame. Had she not learned from the incident never to trust her heart?
She shook her head, and Marie questioned the movement. Georgiana motioned at her hair. “It’s fine. Whatever you think.”
Marie continued dressing her hair while humming softly beneath her breath. “You look beautiful, madame,” she said, settling a glossy curl to hang over Georgiana’s shoulder. “Monsieur will not be able to take his eyes off you.” She glanced archly at the disheveled bed. “Or his hands.”
“Cheeky,” Georgiana began, laughing despite the worried ache in her chest. Before she could say more, Philippe rapped on the door and entered the room. A folded piece of paper lay on a tarnished silver tray. It was probably from Aunt Adele, asking when they were going to visit. She took the note and scanned the hastily scrawled words. She read it twice before realizing it wa
s from Jack. She’d never seen his writing before.
The message was brief and impersonal. He could have been writing to a casual acquaintance. Crumpling the note in her hand, she forced a smile that belied her feelings. “Please inform le chef not to order anything special for supper. Monsieur will be dining out tonight.”
Philippe bowed and exited with Marie, but not before Georgiana noticed their exchanged looks. She tossed his note into the fireplace. She should be relieved her amorous husband was absent for the night, attending a ball he’d claimed was a business meeting. She pressed her hand into her lower back and stretched, a slight groan emitting from her lips. Too much rolling around the bed with his heavy body pinning hers had left her weak. She really could not complain, as he was only doing what she had encouraged. He could remain a bachelor, though legally her husband. She’d given him free rein to bestow his favors on anyone he chose.
She frowned, her heartbeat quickening. She’d never thought he’d actually take her up on it.
Before this week, her experience was limited to the few, fumbling kisses with Edward, which she’d bestowed mostly due to her excitement at the dramatic enchantment of the whole elopement, and not for any real desire to kiss him. She’d actually found kissing repellant, with the rasp of a rough chin on her cheek, the reek of another person’s breath in one’s nose, and the foreign invasion of a probing tongue.
But that was with Edward. She’d almost dreaded kissing Jack on their wedding night, much as his breath was quite pleasing and the shape of his mouth intriguing enough she’d wondered what it would feel like pressed against hers. She’d worried kissing one man was the same as kissing another. What a relief to discover kissing Jack and kissing Edward were two entirely different things.