by Olivia Drake
He left her standing in the middle of the carpet while he strode to the dressing room to peer inside. It was the dinner hour, and her maid would be downstairs in the servants’ hall. Then he returned to the door and twisted the key.
The click of the tumbler set off a slow pounding deep inside her. She stood very still, watching him approach her, his gaze intent, his mouth tempting. His fingers worked at his neckcloth, undoing the knot and dropping the length of white linen to the floor.
Yes. Oh, yes. A thrill that was pure arousal shot through Jane. Her legs felt weak, her mind dizzy. She wanted him to make love to her. So much.
“Ethan.” Her voice sounded breathy, uneven. “You really are an honorable man.”
“Fine. Now let’s move on to more important matters.” He cupped the back of her neck in his big palm, his fingers slowly kneading the taut cords, the pressure bringing her forward until her aching bosom met his waistcoat. In a gravelly tone, he muttered, “I believe this is where we left off.”
Then he brought his mouth down on hers.
His kiss was deep and slow, stirring a wild yearning in her. She slid her hands into his hair and held him for fear he might end this delight too soon. No wonder women adored him, for he was a master at kissing, plying his lips and tongue in ways that fed the riotous passion in her, the need for him that transcended all thought, all rationality.
His fingers plucked at the buttons of her gown, his mouth moving over her face, descending to her throat. She moaned, pushing off his coat as frantic desire surged in her. The gown melted away and then her undergarments. When she stood naked before him, he undid the clasp of her locket and caught the trinket as it fell against her breasts, the warm gold chain trailing against her skin. He dropped the locket on a table, lowered his head, and suckled her until she swayed on her feet and clutched at him, too weak with need to stand alone.
Then he carried her to the canopied bed and laid her down on the cool counterpane. He stood watching her while he undressed, dropping waistcoat and shirt and breeches without taking his dark eyes from her. His gaze roved over her nudity, so that her breasts tightened and her skin flushed with heat. A place deep inside her ached at the magnificence of him, his maleness standing thick and erect.
He came down on her, his large form blocking out the shadowed room. A candle on the bedside table cast a faint flickering light over his sinfully handsome features. Wanting him, Jane opened her legs, but he rolled onto his back, bringing her over to straddle him. She gasped at the unfamiliar wonder of it, her hands braced on his shoulders, her breasts hanging unfettered, her loins touching his hardness.
“Take me inside you,” he said roughly.
His command inflamed her. She took him into her hand, lifted her hips, and guided him to her soft folds. His penetration was gradual, and she whimpered with impatience, pushing downward until he filled her completely. The feel of him inside her caused her to tremble, her breath shuddering out in a moan. Dear God, she had forgotten how beautiful their joining could be, though she had relived it a thousand times in memory since that night in the tower.
“Ethan. How I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve missed this.”
She meant to correct him, but he reached up to caress her breasts, bringing her down so he could take one peak into his mouth and then the other. The need in her became frantic, unrelenting, and she thrust her hips in an effort to ride the flood of sensual tension. He held her bottom, forcing her to go slow, denying her the release that lay just beyond her grasp.
His control frustrated her. In a frenzy, she strained against him, undulating her hips, instinctively tightening her inner muscles until he hissed out a groan, his breath hot against her bosom. With a swift upward thrust, he seized dominion, and it took only a few deep strokes to shatter her. Lost in ripples of rapture, she heard his hoarse cry against her throat.
Utterly replete, she lay limp and spent, draped over him. She was aware of the heat of his body and the coolness of air against her back. Agaisnt her cheek, she could feel the raspy hairs on his chest and the slowing thrum of his heartbeat. The musk of his skin filled her senses. He was still inside her, not as large as before, but his very presence there was enough to cause a gentle echo of pleasure to unfurl through her belly. She would be content to stay here forever.
His hand drifted up and down her back in a comforting sensation. They lay together for timeless moments until he spoke in a low tone. “I’ve a proposal for you, Jane.”
Curious, she raised her head, a curl of hair trailing down her shoulder. He tucked his arm behind his head, and he looked every inch the sinful rake. Her sinful rake. “I accept.”
He chuckled, a sound ripe with male satisfaction, his teeth flashing white in the candleglow. “Just like that?”
“Yes.”
He lightly slapped her bottom. “Does this mean I’ve finally tamed you, Miss Maypole?”
“The real question is, have I tamed you, my lord?”
His smile abated to a faintly wolfish slant. His eyes were inscrutable, dark as a midnight shadow. “That, Lady Chasebourne, remains to be seen.”
She adored the way he spoke her title, as if he were pleased she belonged to him—though his words were evasive. “So what, pray, is your proposal?”
“We both find pleasure in bed. And I should like to sire an heir. So I propose that from this night onward, we indulge our desire for each other.”
And what about love?
Her small stab of dismay was assuaged by a fierce longing. This was her chance to win his heart, and the challenge excited Jane. She cupped his cheek in her hand, loving the bristly male texture of his skin. In a tender flash of understanding, she realized she could give him what he had been denied by his first wife. “Oh, Ethan. I want to bear your child … your children. I want that with all my heart.”
His dark gaze went soft, unfocused, while another part of him grew harder. Closing his fingers around her waist, he turned her over onto the pillows and lay flush against her, his heavy leg anchoring her thighs, his hand stroking her sensitized breasts. “I’m pleased we’re in agreement, then.”
His calm response made it sound like a business arrangement. But there was nothing businesslike about the way he touched her, nothing indifferent in his skilled seduction. Surely they could build a marriage on their attraction for each other. Surely in time he would grow to love her. The longing burned as intensely as the carnal cravings he aroused in her.
She caressed his broad shoulders, the column of his neck, the crisply curling hairs that roughened his skin. And she kissed him, tasting the saltiness of his throat and the wild wonder of his mouth, gasping when he reached between her legs to circle her tender flesh. The delight of it spread through her like heated honey, and within moments she reached the shuddering peak of pleasure.
He hadn’t come with her; he lay iron-hard against her thigh. She was gripped by the hunger to make him lose control. Curling her fingers around him, she explored him intuitively, letting her forefinger swirl around the tip, taking the tiny drop of moisture there and spreading it over him. A harsh groan rumbled from him; emboldened by her success, she let her fingers trail downward until she held his soft sacks and squeezed lightly.
The breath hissed out of him. “Blast you,” he muttered. “Who taught you that trick?”
A keen sense of feminine power made her smile. “You,” she whispered. “You inspire me.”
With a feral growl, he mounted her, a wolf taming his mate. She loved the weight of him, the scent of his skin, the feel of his coarse hair rasping against her flesh. His chest was solid, his arms muscular from hard exercise at the gymnasium. He took her mouth in a drowning kiss that left her breathless, and without further ado, he joined their bodies. She cried out from the joy of it, tilting her hips and locking her legs around his waist so that he could penetrate deeper. She needed this closeness, this physical bond. She needed him.
Her hands threaded into his hair, and she pressed
her lips to his jaw, helpless to stop the feelings that poured from her. “I love you, Ethan. I love you.”
His arms tensed around her as he thrust hard and fast, heat radiating from him in waves. This time, he reached his climax first, and the quivering of his powerful body sent her over the edge with him. She drowsed in the aftermath, and she must have fallen asleep, for she had a sudden, hazy awareness of his weight lifting from her. The feather mattress dipped and swayed as he rose from the bed. She murmured a groggy protest, but he drew the coverlet over her, nestling her in a cocoon of warmth.
At the click of the door closing, Jane came fully awake. She pushed up on her elbow and blinked at her shadowed chamber with its gilt furnishings and primrose draperies. Ethan was gone. She felt bereft without him, empty, though her loins felt heavy with sated pleasure.
How inconvenient for you … to be shackled to a man who despises you.
The warm sheets carried his scent, and she breathed deeply, hugging her pillow and fighting off a wave of despondency. She should have expected him to leave her. It was customary for aristocratic couples to keep separate rooms so they could lead separate lives.
Nevertheless, she wanted to be with him, to share every aspect of his life. He was her husband. She wanted to snuggle in his arms all night, to wake up in the morning and see him lying beside her.
The truth struck her like a blow. They were lovers … and strangers. And that was exactly the way Ethan preferred it.
Chapter 21
“What do you think of this one?” Lady Rosalind asked. She studied herself in the pier glass at the milliner’s shop, turning her head back and forth as she examined her extravagant hat.
Jane looked askance at the tall blue bonnet with its huge cluster of curly foxtail feathers. “I think it’s a bit too…”
“Gaudy,” the dowager pronounced, and lifted her gloved hand in an imperious motion.
The prissy proprietor had been waiting anxiously by a table filled with trays of trimmings. He scurried forward to remove the bonnet, bearing it back to the window.
While Lady Rosalind conferred with the shopkeeper, Jane strolled past the colorful display of hats along the wall, stopping now and again to touch a silk flower or to stroke a ribbon. Lady Rosalind had asked Jane to help her choose the last few items for her trousseau. Jane didn’t dare plead weariness for fear she might blush and the dowager would guess the truth, that Jane had forsaken several hours of sleep the previous night for a long bout of lovemaking.
A fortnight had passed since she and Ethan had reconciled. Two weeks of unbridled passion. He had tutored her in the ways to please him, and in turn, he lingered over her, curbing his own release until she had succumbed to his patient ministrations. Sometimes he visited her chamber in the dark of night, and she would awaken to find him already inside her, an erotic dream come true.
And always, he returned to his own bed. She scarcely saw him during the day, and he never invited her up to the tower room. On several occasions, she had asked him to accompany her to the lending library or to the park with Marianne, but he had refused politely but firmly. When they were together in the evenings, he kept their conversations light and amusing, devoid of deep emotion, and she had gone along with his wishes, biding her time and hoping that eventually he might grow to love her.
“Does m’lady wish to try that one?”
Jane blinked. The proprietor gazed politely at the turban of striped blue silk in her hands. “Oh, heavens no.” Quickly she extended the hat to the dowager. “This is for you.”
“Ah! That is the very thing. I knew I was right to bring you along, Jane.” Smiling in delight, Lady Rosalind nestled the turban over her tawny gold curls, adjusting the plume of white ostrich feathers and preening at her reflection. “This will make a cunning addition to my trousseau. Did I tell you His Grace is taking me to the Continent for an extended wedding trip?”
“No, you did not.” Jane frowned in alarm. “Is Gianetta attending you? You said you can’t manage without her. Who will feed Marianne?”
Lady Rosalind laughed gaily, walking over to pat Jane’s hand. “Spoken like a true mother. Never fear, I’m leaving Gianetta behind. I wouldn’t dream of denying my granddaughter her source of sustenance.”
Jane’s tension eased. “I’m so glad, my lady.”
“Oh, do call me Rosalind. My lady is too formal, and mama-in-law makes me feel horribly old.” She sighed. “It is hard to believe I have a son who is about to reach twenty-seven years. You did remember his birthday is next week, did you not?”
“No, my—Rosalind.” Jane searched her brain for the date. “It is June the fifth, is it not?”
“The eighth. Two days before my wedding to Kellisham.” Her pastel blue skirts swirling, she turned to regard her hat in the mirror again. In a distracted tone, she added, “Do not purchase a cravat pin for him, though. I give him a new one every year.”
Jane had no intention of buying jewelry for him. She wouldn’t begin to know what to select, nor did she have the funds to pay for an expensive piece. Though Ethan had granted her a generous allowance, she wouldn’t use his money to buy him a gift. So what could she give to the man who had everything? A book? But somehow, that didn’t seem enough.…
Then she had an idea so perfect, so wonderful, she was stunned by its brilliance.
* * *
That afternoon, Jane waited until Ethan had left for the gymnasium before she slipped into his bedchamber. His valet was gone; she had overheard him say he was to supervise the earl’s laundry in the basement. Lifting her skirts, she hastened up the winding steps to the tower room.
Though sunlight streamed through the window slits, the stone walls kept the circular room cool. The grate was swept clean of ashes. As she glanced at the hearth rug where Ethan had introduced her to ecstasy, warmth filled her. She didn’t regret deceiving him. No, she did not.
She had come here that first time to trap him into marriage. Now she intended to prepare a gift for him.
Buoyed by anticipation, she hurried across the chamber. The big mahogany desk with its many cubbyholes looked as untidy as ever. Surveying the clutter, she shook her head and wondered how Ethan ever found anything. Perhaps the lack of order would work in her favor. He would never miss the few pages she borrowed.
For a moment, her hands hesitated over the papers. He had been so furious that night she had read his poems. He had despised her invasion of his privacy. This was his secret, the depth of thought he hid from the world behind a mask of charm and wit. The part he shut off from her.
She subdued the hollow ache inside herself. Things would be different once he realized she could be his helpmate. And the surprise she had planned would be for his eyes only. He surely would appreciate her thoughtfulness.
She began a methodical search of the papers, being careful to replace them exactly, in case he knew some mysterious order in the scattered piles. Of course, her absent-minded father had never possessed that skill. Hector Mayhew had depended on Jane to rummage through the clutter on his desk and extract the papers he needed.
It was logical to assume that Ethan was working on the top-most poems, and those she left alone. She explored swiftly, systematically, stopping only to scan the ink-spotted, crossed-out lines. She probed in compartments and poked through niches, seeking the poems he would be least likely to miss. Parchment rustled; the familiar smells of ink and paper brought a wave of nostalgia. How she welcomed the opportunity to work again. Much as she loved spending time with Marianne, Jane looked forward to this new undertaking.
At last she had gathered a slim sheaf of verse, which she tucked into the crook of her arm. She took one last survey of the desk. All looked as Ethan had left it, from the silver-capped ink pot and array of fine quills to the unlit lamp and jumbled papers.
She descended the stairs, peeked out to make sure his chambers were empty, and then slipped back into her own bedchamber to begin her task.
* * *
The sound of
gentle splashing came from within Jane’s dressing room.
Ethan put his forefinger to his lips and motioned to the young maid who appeared, toting an empty coal scuttle. Her dark eyes rounded. She bobbed a curtsy, stifled a giggle, and went scurrying out of the bedchamber.
He walked quietly into the dressing room. A gown of deep amber gauze hung from a wall hook. On the carpet rested a pair of dainty tan leather slippers. Frilly undergarments draped a chair. The air held the scent of powders and perfumes and the indefinable essence of Jane.
His gaze focused on the black-and-gold japanned screen that had been moved in front of the dressing room fireplace. From behind the screen came the sound of more splashing. Denied the pleasure of seeing Jane at her bath, he cursed under his breath. In the next moment, he realized that the dressing table mirror reflected a clear view of his wife.
Her back was turned, so she could not know he was watching. He settled his shoulder against the wall and enjoyed the sight. Immersed in the gleaming copper tub, she caught the cake of soap that bobbed in the water. She lathered her hands, then lifted her arm to wash it, her skin rosy and glowing from the heat of the water and the fire on the hearth.
A few dark curls had tumbled down her back. He could hear the contented sound of her humming. She looked slim yet sturdy, and he knew well that blend of softness and strength, the feel of her long limbs wrapped around him in bed.
His body tightened with need, and the force of his desire disturbed him. Other women never held his interest for more than a fortnight, yet his passion for Jane showed no sign of burning out. He found himself thinking about her at odd hours, wanting to be with her, as much to talk as to make love. She distracted him from his writing and tempted him to visit her. This morning, the impulse had proved impossible to resist.
His steps silent, he walked toward her, and when he rounded the screen, she gasped, her arms lifting to shield her bosom in an age-old feminine action. Droplets of water rolled like dewdrops down skin flushed from the water. Then a smile tilted her mouth, and she lowered her arms. “Ethan. Good morning.”