She made no resistance. As the heat of his body mingled with hers, she put her hand on his shoulder and that hand did not push him away.
Hungrily, he sought her mouth, and the sensation of her lips beneath his was beyond everything he’d dreamed, like a ribbon of warm satin, like cream. She tasted of tooth powder and innocence, her kisses shallow and fluttering, like butterflies’ wings. She responded as if she’d never been kissed by a man before.
Hot blood roared through him, and it took all of his will to deny his own needs while he explored and discovered hers.
He still held the dressing gown, not her, and their bodies never touched; he sensed he might frighten her if she knew the full power of his desire. Illogical, yes, given her widowhood, but his instincts overbore logic. He didn’t want to ruin it all by rushing this. When she was his wife, they’d have all the time in the world.
So he didn’t deepen the kiss, but instead let his lips drift along her cheek, whispered hot praise of her beauty into her ear that made her shiver and throw her head back. He kissed her throat where the pulse beat beneath his mouth and heard her wordless cry. He brushed that sensitive zone over and over, resisting the urge to mark the spot with his teeth.
Her hand moved restlessly along his shoulder to settle against his nape and press him closer. Her quiet, pleasured moans told him she was ready for more.
The silk dressing gown slipped from his grasp and hushed to the floor. One hand found her waist; the other drove through her hair to cradle her delicate skull. With his lips and tongue, he coaxed her mouth open and licked inside.
She stiffened for a moment, but he continued regardless, until she sighed and relaxed into it, tentatively stroking his tongue with hers.
That fleeting, hesitant touch set him ablaze. His arms tightened around her until her every curve molded to his, his burgeoning erection hard against her softness. Dimly, he realized his body was taking over from his brain, that in no time he’d have her flat on her back on the kitchen table, but he couldn’t seem to remember why he ought to stop.
Until Jane gave a choked, panicked cry. Her body twisted and strained; two small hands flattened against his chest, pushing him away.
Constantine let her go as if she’d burned him. He was breathing heavily, disoriented, aching, suddenly furious. He’d lost control when he’d been determined to keep it. He’d sensed the depth of Jane’s uncertainty, her physical reticence. He’d planned to seduce her in a slow, tantalizing slide into sin. Yet he’d mauled her like a goddamned animal.
He heard a sob and the skitter of slippers on the tile as she fled.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jane didn’t stop running until she flung herself onto her bed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something. She bunched her sheets in her hands and growled all her confusion and anguish into her pillow.
How could she have done that?
She’d offered herself to him, encouraged him. A rake like Constantine wouldn’t stop at kisses! She’d been stupid not to expect he’d take matters to their logical conclusion. And yet, the strength of his arms around her, the sensual mastery in his kiss—all of that led her to the point where she hadn’t been thinking anymore.
But she’d woken from that pleasure-ridden haze the instant he’d pressed himself against her. She remembered with vivid, horrible clarity the pain and humiliation that went along with an aroused male organ.
When she married him, she’d have to suffer that, wouldn’t she? Regardless of his need for an heir, Constantine Black was not the kind of man to accept a frigid wife with complacence. Even now, the heat and power of his sensuality made her body tremble with pleasured recollection. Why did all that lovely kissing have to culminate in such a disgusting, painful way?
Nights of clumsy fumblings in the dark flooded back, cramping her stomach. Frederick had been hasty, vigorous, and not at all gentle. Her first time had been so excruciating, she’d begged him to stop, the tears streaming down her face. He hadn’t even heard her; he’d simply kept pumping away until it was over, then left immediately afterward, oblivious to her devastation.
He could never understand why she’d still suffered pain after that first occasion. Though he’d never said it in so many words, she’d sensed he’d wished she’d simply cease complaining. Lie back and think of something else, he’d said.
Frederick had offered no solution to this awful problem. The only women Jane might have felt comfortable asking were all maidens. She tried her best to relax, as Frederick told her to do, but every time he paid her a conjugal visit, her insides went rigid with the fear of pain she knew would come.
When, finally, she’d barred Frederick from her bedchamber, Frederick had called a doctor to examine her. The experience had been mortifying, but she’d been willing to suffer it if some remedy could be found. No such happy event occurred, however. The doctor gave his opinion that her body simply wasn’t made the right way to endure Frederick’s attentions. Frederick had never visited her bedchamber again.
But he’d visited many, many other bedchambers, hadn’t he?
She buried her face in her pillow. The few moments when Constantine had pressed against her told her he was even larger than Frederick in that department. She shuddered at the thought of that impaling her on their wedding night.
But this time, she would simply have to suffer bedding without complaint. She owed that much to Constantine, after all.
* * *
Jane rode out alone the next morning, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and the humiliation of last night. The sun shone, fighting to convey its warmth through a chill, persistent wind.
Of course, there was no escape from the painful thoughts that chased one another around her head.
She hadn’t slept for thinking of Constantine. It had seemed as if three nights passed before the dawn finally arrived. With a click of her tongue, she spurred the mare forward, riding hard to block out the images that rose to her mind.
She was panting and more than a little thirsty by the time she reached sight of the stream beyond a high hedge that bordered the field.
“I suppose you’d like a drink, too, old girl?” She patted Sirralee’s neck, intending to dismount and find a way to push through the hedge.
Startled bleats of sheep rang out behind her. At the sound of hoofbeats, she turned her head to see a large white stallion with a dark figure astride it. Unreasoning panic rippled through her. She spurred Sirralee forward.
Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Jane saw Constantine was gaining faster than she’d have thought possible. Knowing what a risk she took, she urged her mount on, slowing to a steady pace toward the hedge. She held her breath and silently sent up a prayer as the mare gathered herself and launched them over the timber barrier, landing soundly on the other side. Miraculously, Jane kept her seat.
Laughing with relief, she hunched low over the saddle, like a jockey, and let Sirralee fly. In her bones, she knew this flight was hopeless, but the sick feeling of humiliation made her desperate to get away.
The white horse drew abreast of her before she even reached the stream.
“Draw rein!” She’d never heard such a note of command in Constantine’s voice before. A glance at his face told her he’d grown pale under his tan and his features were hard with fury.
Still, she rode on, wondering if Sirralee had it in her to clear the stream, but it was too foolhardy to attempt. She wheeled away from Constantine, urging her mount to run along the stream’s edge. In no time, with scarce a check, the big white stallion ranged between her and the water, herding her away from the slippery bank.
She couldn’t outrun or outsmart him. It was undignified to try. Panting, Jane threw Constantine a fulminating look and slowed her horse, then reined in.
She sat rigid in the saddle, feeling foolish and angry at herself.
Before she’d retrieved her dignity, he was at her side, reaching up. Large hands spanned her wais
t, lifting her down as if she weighed no more than a rag doll. His strength, the sheer size of him, made it even more imperative to get away.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, now gripping her shoulders and bending so he could glare into her face. His green eyes had lost every vestige of his usual cynical amusement. They drilled into hers.
“Well?” Constantine never wanted to relive those heart-stopping moments when Jane had sailed over that hedge and he’d lost sight of her. The barrier had been too high for that mare to jump; Jane was certain to break her neck.
That she would risk such danger to get away from him horrified him. Later, when he’d realized she was well and unharmed, it had angered him, too. Granted, he’d crossed the line last night, but that didn’t make him a monster. Didn’t she know that?
He ought not to have given chase when he saw her riding away from him. He’d endangered her by doing so. After the miracle of seeing her alive on the other side of that towering hedge, he ought to have let her go.
The notion made him even more furious—at himself.
He gave her a small shake. “Answer me, damn you!”
He couldn’t even summon the patience to temper his words to her, despite the fact she trembled, her gray eyes wide. Her body was so slender, so fragile. He could break her in two. Yet, she rode with the courage of an Amazon and the skill of a born huntress. Latent pride in her warmed his chest, even as his brain seethed with anger.
With a gasp, she wrenched from his hold and stepped back. “Isn’t it obvious what I was doing? I came out here to be alone!”
“And instead, you nearly got yourself killed. Don’t ever do that again!”
Her sleek brows snapped together. “You are not my husband yet, Lord Roxdale. Don’t presume to lecture me.”
“You may thank the fact that I am not your husband for my restraint! Have you no consideration for your horse, if not for yourself?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. Her lips pressed together; her nostrils flared.
“You are right,” she admitted. “Confound it! I knew it as soon as it was done, but I—” She passed a shaking hand over her eyes.
Jane’s frank acknowledgment that she was in the wrong disarmed him.
“Why?” he said huskily. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Her struggle was almost painful to witness, but he didn’t break the fraught silence that ensued. He sensed that whatever the problem was, it loomed very large for her. At this moment, her defenses were down. He’d have no better chance of finding out than now. Thank God she wasn’t a weeper; he could never resist feminine tears and would have let her off the hook without another word.
“Come,” he said gently, taking her hand in a light clasp. “Our horses are refreshing themselves. I’ve no doubt you are parched, too.”
She went with him willingly. She bent over the clear, cool stream, where he made a cup for her with his hands. She held his wrist to steady it. He tried to keep his mind off her lips as they inadvertently brushed his palms.
She murmured her thanks, dabbing at her damp mouth with her fingertips, then waited while he satisfied his own thirst. He gestured to a nearby tree and assisted her to sit in the shade.
No sooner had he made himself comfortable beside her than she sprang up and began to pace. With an inward sigh, he made as if to rise also, but she waved at him in a gesture that he took to mean he should remain where he was.
One hand clenched into a fist, Jane bit the tip of her thumb through her glove. Then she turned to face him, the skirts of her black riding habit swishing about her boots.
“Do you still wish to marry me after … after last night?”
Constantine well knew that the man who hesitates over that kind of question is lost.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh.” Apparently, that came as some surprise to her. Her gaze was so pointed in its concentration, she seemed to be trying to read his mind.
He smiled. “In fact, at this moment, I can’t think of anything I would rather do.”
Startled gray eyes flew to his. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Even though—even though I ran from you?”
“You were naturally unprepared for such a display of, er … passion,” he reasoned. “It is I who bear the blame. I have no excuse, except that I lost my head over you.”
And was likely to do so again, because she colored so charmingly at the oblique compliment. Her black beaver hat set off her auburn curls to perfection and all that pent-up emotion had made her eyes sparkle with cool fire. Her lips, perhaps chapped by the wind, were cherry red. Made for kissing. It was as if a cruel god heard Constantine’s resolve to behave himself and flung it in his face.
But despite the temptation, he would behave himself. He wanted more from this woman than a quick tumble in the grass. Marriage was a serious business, which was why he’d so assiduously avoided it in the past. And clearly, seducing Jane required more patience, subtlety, and self-control than even he had guessed.
“Last night was … disconcerting,” he added, in a flash of honesty.
Unimpressed by a disclosure that had, in fact, cost him something, she shook her head.
“You don’t understand.” She made as if to clasp her hands together, and ended by rubbing them over her face. “You don’t understand, and I can’t begin to tell you.”
“Am I so forbidding, then?” He said it lightly to cover his real concern.
She made no reply, though her agitation seemed to vibrate from her in waves.
After a moment, he added, “You know, I always thought that confessions ought rather to be made to sinners than to saints. Sinners have so much more compassion.” He thought about that. “Well, they don’t often sit in judgment, anyway.”
She seemed struck by his words, fallible though the logic might be. For some moments, she chewed on her lip before she turned to face him. Unsmiling, he gazed back at her, willed her to unburden herself of this terrible secret.
Her lips parted; her eyes softened. One strand of that glorious hair rippled across her face …
Then she looked away, blowing out a long, unsteady breath, her confidences borne off by the wind.
An ache formed in his chest that had no business being there. Why the hell should she confide in him? What would he do with her troubles anyway?
Make them ten times worse, his father would have said.
“I have to get back.” Disappointment roughened his tone. Foolish and unreasonable of him, but he wanted her to trust him.
He rose, putting on his hat.
She nodded, still refusing to look at him. For a moment, he watched the gauzy black scarf that trailed from her hat flirt between her shoulder blades. He wanted to shrug off the unsettling, unnamed emotion that made him linger without an agenda or a plan, or even a clue, if it came down to it.
The silence seemed to stretch forever between them.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Jane. Grant me a favor?” He tugged on his gloves.
She stiffened. “What is it?”
He glanced back at the hedge, and then at her mount. “Please. Take the long way home.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Extraordinary Meeting of the Ministry of Marriage
Agenda (notes by Oliver, Lord deVere)
Attendance, apologies
Where is that blasted Arden? Lazenby?!
Minutes from last meeting
Mr. Wicks verbose as ever. Get on with it, you old woman!
Candidates:
Lady Amelia Black
Awful mother. Excellent dowry. Bad teeth.
Miss Melanie Pitt
Pretty enough. Don’t like stable. M can have her.
Lady Emma Howling
Ape leader. Ugly as sin. They’ll never fire her off unless they whack another £10,000 on the dowry. And even then …
Lady Jacqueline deVere
!!!
Lord Maccles<
br />
Genteel fortune. Political ambitions. No chin.
Sir Stanley Westruther
Rich as Croesus, bit of a pill. Might do for K.
Mr. Thomas Black
Bounder. Owes me a monkey.
Other business:
Jane, Lady Roxdale
I’ll have Arden’s pretty hide for this!
Buns or scones with tea?
What idiot put that on the agenda? Bloody Wicks.
Adjourn
Thank God! Load of upper- crust inbreeds!
The Duke of Montford sat in a deep leather armchair at White’s club in St. James Street, London, drinking good brandy and amicably trading barbs with Oliver, Lord deVere.
Their rivalry had lost much of its former heat. As the years rolled by, Montford found himself with increasingly more in common with the head of a rival house. Not that either of them would ever admit it aloud, least of all to one another.
“Think you’re vastly clever, don’t you?” DeVere’s voice was a deep aristocratic rumble. “Think I don’t know the pair of you are in league together.”
Eyes half closed, deVere slumped in his chair, swirling his brandy. The man was in his forties, drank deeply, yet maintained a fit and muscular physique. Montford often wondered how he managed it.
The duke didn’t trouble to answer the charge deVere laid at his door. Even if he denied it, the man wouldn’t believe him.
The hastily convened meeting of the Ministry of Marriage had unfolded exactly as Montford had foreseen. He’d heard the cases put forward for each candidate and the proposed matches. He’d taken due note of every point for and against, smoothing over the arguments that naturally erupted between proud and volatile personalities with so much wealth and position at stake.
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