Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels)

by Christina Brooke

  With a visible gulp, Larkin bowed and took himself off.

  But her ploy didn’t work. It was more than an hour before Constantine came, and when he did, it was not for her.

  A sudden silence fell over the gathering. Jane looked up to see Constantine standing in the doorway, bearing a woman in his arms.

  Water ran in rivulets from his hair, dripping into his face. His features were gray, taut with exhaustion and, she thought, despair. He was coatless, hatless; his white linen shirt was plastered to his body, ripped in some places.

  “Constantine!” Jane ran forward. “Quick! One of you make a pallet with these blankets here, on the floor. We must try to get her warm.”

  “Too late. She’s dead.” Constantine’s voice cracked. He laid his burden gently on the makeshift bed. “I’m sorry.”

  A wail went up from one of the women. Jane was thrust aside as the dead woman’s family and friends gathered around her.

  “What happened?” she asked Constantine.

  Constantine rubbed a hand over his face. “As far as I can gather, she must have slipped and fallen down the stream bank, hit her head on something as she went in.”

  Bleakly, Constantine watched the outpourings of grief.

  Jane took his hand—it was gloveless and freezing—and led him away.

  She moved to get him a blanket. “No,” he said, “I have to get back.”

  “You need to rest,” Jane insisted. “There are others to do this work.”

  Anger blazed like lightning across his face. “Do you think I could? Do you think I could rest when there are still more people out there?” He shook his head. “Jane,” he said huskily. “You don’t know me at all.”

  Panic threatened to choke her. She’d missed something. Something vital. She felt as if she’d lost something important and would never get it back.

  She swallowed down her fear. Shakily, she said, “You expected me to go. You told Larkin to order me home.”

  For a long moment, Constantine stared at her. “That was different.”

  Unable to bear his intensity, the pain she saw plainly in his eyes, she lowered her gaze. “How is that different? Because I’m a female?”

  “No.” He reached out and traced her jaw with the back of his finger. “Because I never expected you would obey me and go.”

  * * *

  Constantine didn’t allow himself to rest until well into the next afternoon. By midday, he’d assured himself that everyone in the district was safe and accommodated, at least temporarily, billeted at nearby cottages, in the church hall, or at the King’s Head.

  His own tenants had risen to the occasion, bringing meals and taking in those who couldn’t get shelter closer to home. It would have been far more convenient to have put them all up at Lazenby Hall, but these folk were proud and understandably nervous about bedding down at the local baron’s house. They were better off, so Jones had assured him, with their own kind.

  Jones fixed him with a long, hard stare. “I’m coming back.”

  Constantine was so tired, he almost missed the fellow’s meaning. Then it dawned on him that Jones had offered to resume his former position as steward of the estate. Constantine’s smile felt like it would crack his face.

  “Good man!” he said, putting out a hand for Jones to shake. Jones hesitated for only an instant before gripping Constantine’s hand. Larkin would be demoted but the boy needed more experience, and would doubtless be glad of Jones’s guidance for a few years yet.

  Glad that at least one good thing had come out of last night’s devastation, Constantine devoured a sandwich and a tankard of ale at the King’s Head and then set off again to confer with the engineer who’d arrived from Bristol. Lord deVere and Montford had both returned from the manor, having eaten and changed their raiment. Of Trent, there was no sign.

  “I can start work as soon as may be, but I need permission from the owner of the land,” said Mr. Granger.

  “You have permission,” growled deVere. He fixed Constantine with a basilisk stare. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Constantine nodded. “Do the work.”

  Granger shouted to his men and Constantine turned to Montford and deVere. “I’m obliged to you both.”

  Wordlessly, deVere clapped him on the shoulder and left.

  “Go home, Roxdale,” said Montford. “You’re no use here, dead on your feet.”

  Constantine bowed his head, unwilling to accept dismissal. He knew, however, that Montford was right. He ought to go. And he would, too, if he could manage to move one foot in front of the other.

  Montford lingered, to what purpose Constantine didn’t know. He was too exhausted to fathom the duke’s intentions.

  The rumble of carriage wheels grew louder. Constantine turned his head to look.

  “Ah,” said Montford. “Perfect timing.”

  Constantine stared at the carriage as if he’d never seen one before. “My horse,” he said vaguely.

  “My groom will see to him. Go home, Roxdale. I’ll send word if you’re needed.”

  * * *

  Getting into the carriage was the last thing Constantine remembered before he woke in his own bed. Sunlight streamed through the window, slathering the walls with a buttery glow. Had he slept all afternoon? All night as well?

  He flung an arm across his eyes as the anguish of last night came flooding back. He cursed the sunshine. If only it had come sooner. If only he’d swallowed his pride and used persuasion to secure Trent’s cooperation instead of insult. If only he’d ridden roughshod over Trent and taken it upon himself to dismantle that dam days ago.

  All the if onlys. If any one of those things had happened, that poor woman would not have had to die.

  Hester. That was her name. He’d heard a woman keening it as he’d walked out again, into the storm.

  Shuddering, he sat up and buried his head in his hands. It was as if that sobbing, communal grief crowded the bedchamber. He could hear it, feel it inside him.

  Those sounds … they came from him, he realized. Dry, racking sobs that seemed to lodge and burrow deep in his chest.

  Too late. His pride and Trent’s stubbornness. Between them, they’d killed an innocent woman.

  A breath of air stirred at his nape. Two slender arms came around him and a tender kiss was pressed to his shoulder. A soft voice whispered, “No man could have done more.”

  He exhaled a long breath. “Don’t.”

  Jane crawled around to face him. Those clear gray eyes were so fierce, they seemed to grip his so he couldn’t look away. “Constantine, you must not blame yourself. It is not your fault.”

  He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t.

  She put her hands on his shoulders. “The responsibility was and is Trent’s. He’s a coward and a fool, Constantine, and his tenants know it.” Leaning forward, she stroked his jaw with a gentle hand. “You should have heard the things they said of you last night,” she whispered. “You are a hero to them. I was … very proud.”

  At her touch, so welcome, the tightness in his chest eased, just a little. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her palm.

  When he opened his eyes again, her face was close to his. Her gaze lowered to his mouth and went back to his eyes, then lowered again. Planting one hand on the bed next to him, she leaned in to brush her lips over his.

  * * *

  Jane was unbearably aroused by that simple, soft kiss. She’d waited for Constantine to wake up for so long she thought she’d go mad with impatience. Earlier, she’d given orders that neither of them were to be disturbed on pain of dismissal. She’d unlocked the communicating door and crept into his bedchamber to watch him sleep.

  He was shirtless, but he’d been put to bed in his breeches, barely able to stand when he’d arrived home the previous afternoon.

  Now, she waited for him to take her, but Constantine sat curiously still, his features hard and drawn. More than anything, she wanted to hold him, to tell him all would be well. She slid h
er arms around his torso, but it was like embracing a statue. He didn’t yield to her, didn’t return her embrace.

  Hurt, she sat back, her brows knitted in confusion.

  Suddenly, with a muttered curse, he caught her face between his hands, kissing her desperately, driving his fingers through her hair. Then he hauled her into his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

  His breathing was harsh in her ear. “Oh, God, Jane. I need you. I need you and I can’t—”

  “Hush, it’s all right.” She wanted to give herself to him. Wanted it more than anything, more than her next breath. She no longer cared whether she could accommodate him comfortably or not. She would suffer pain if that was what it took to give him some measure of release. He was torturing himself with needless guilt and it killed her to see it.

  His fingers were already fumbling at the ribbons of her bodice. “But I can’t be … I can’t go slowly, make it perfect for you. Not this time.”

  “It will be perfect,” she said, smiling a little. “It will be perfect because it’s you.”

  He found her breasts then, gathered them in his hands, and the power of speech abruptly deserted her. He lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, and when she gasped with delight, his fingers found her sex, delving into the wet folds, touching her as he’d instructed her to do that first night.

  No longer did such liberties feel wrong, or a violation or a precursor to pain. She moaned with pleasure as he pushed one finger inside her, then two. She let her legs fall open, giving everything to him, letting him in.

  This time, she suffered no embarrassment. It felt right—utterly perfect—when he covered her body with his. The heavy flesh of his penis came to rest against her thigh. Instead of fear, a wave of longing swept over her. She needed this as much as he did. She ached for him, deep inside.

  Jane opened her eyes and looked up at Constantine as he reached down between them. Her heart was so full of love for him that fear became a state beyond her comprehension.

  She loved him! And the joy and terror of it were beyond anything she’d ever imagined.

  Jane slid her hands up his braced arms to his shoulders, glorying in his muscular beauty.

  She knew she had to tell him what she wanted, so that even if he did cause her pain at the crucial moment, he would know how much she’d craved him.

  “I need you inside me,” she said. “Constantine, please.”

  His shoulders tensed beneath her hands. The head of his erection nudged forward, and with one great thrust, he was sheathed inside her.

  And it felt … a little strange … but mostly … wonderful.

  Constantine groaned, the tendons standing out in his neck. “Did I hurt you?” he gasped.

  “No.” She threw back her head and laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  “Oh, thank God,” he managed. “I’d die if I had to stop now.”

  That struck her as so amusing, he had to kiss her to muffle her relieved, delighted laughter.

  She gloried in their closeness, in the way their bodies fit together. He began to move inside her and she stopped laughing and moved with him, chasing after a prize that she hadn’t even dared to dream about for so long.

  She loved the feel of him, so warm and hard, yet with skin so smooth beneath her touch; she loved watching sunlight define the musculature of his shoulders and gleam in his thick dark hair. She loved the scent of him, earthy and masculine. She loved the husky timbre of his voice when he whispered her name.

  I love you, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t know if she deserved to say it yet. She’d misjudged him and she had yet to pay the price.

  He changed the angle of his thrusts and she lost that thread of thought altogether, became a mindless collection of pleasured nerve endings and sighs and building heat.

  “Ah, Jane. I can’t hold on much longer.”

  He reached down and pressed the flesh above where they fitted together. A sudden burst of light scattered across her eyelids as all the heat inside her gathered and exploded, sending waves of pleasure through her body.

  She clung on, coasting the waves as his thrusts increased in power and speed. His breathing grew more labored until his entire body jolted and he pulled out of her with a hoarse cry. Shuddering, he collapsed on the mattress beside her, one arm lying heavily across her breasts.

  Jane lay beside him, entranced by the echoes of delicious sensations that still played like ripples of music through her body. She was sore in places she’d never known existed, yet she’d never felt so alive, so full of joy, so connected to another human being. How could she have survived without this for so long?

  Constantine turned on his side and gathered her to him, so that his front curved around her back.

  His hand closed possessively over her breast. His lips skimmed behind her ear. “I lost my sanity back there.” He hesitated. With a soft laugh, he said, “I never thought I’d need to ask this question, but tell me how it was for you.”

  With a sigh, Jane snuggled back against his chest.

  “Perfect,” she said. “It was perfect. As I knew it would be.”

  He captured her hand and held it pressed against the valley between her breasts. The gesture was so intimate, so tender, that she had to blink back a tear.

  They lay there for a long time without speaking, until soon, Constantine’s deep breathing told Jane he’d fallen asleep. She ought to leave and seek her own bed, but he held her fast, his long, muscled legs entangled with hers. She wouldn’t wish to wake him by moving, so she let him be, and allowed her eyelids to drift shut.

  When Jane woke again, it was dark, but candles lit the room and a fire crackled and snapped in the grate. She turned her head to see Constantine staring at her with that intensity back in his gaze.

  He smiled. “I’ve never seen someone so dead to the world as you were just now.”

  “You’ve been watching me sleep?” She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea.

  He leaned over to kiss her. “Sleeping Beauty. You enchant me.”

  She frowned. “I don’t recall Sleeping Beauty having any magical powers. Didn’t she just doze through the entire book?”

  He grinned. “You have a very literal mind, my dear.” He sat up. “Are you hungry? I’m sure you must be. I’ll go down to the larder and see what I can find for us.”

  “That would be most appreciated.” She threw her arms over her head. “Ah, I could live in this bed forever, but there’s so much work yet to be done.”

  He smiled and reached for his shirt. “Yes, but the work must wait until daylight, so we still have tonight.”

  While he was gone, Jane donned her wrapper and got back under the covers. Her body was alive with sensation, her mind alert. She could scarcely believe that after all the agony of self-doubt she’d suffered since her wedding night, Constantine had so quickly and easily made her feel like a full-blooded, passionate woman, a sensual, healthy whole.

  The revelation was stunning in its simplicity. She was a normal woman, after all.

  She was tender and achy in some intimate parts of her, but it was a good and satisfying ache. A delicious thrill scintillated through her. They would have all night.

  When Constantine returned bearing a tray stocked with a feast fit for two kings, they both fell upon it and ate with gusto.

  “Mmm.” Jane closed her eyes in delight. “This tart is pure heaven. We must increase Cook’s wages immediately.” She wiggled her fingertips, which were covered in fruity goo.

  “It seems I forgot napkins,” said Constantine. With a wicked glint in his eye, he reached for her hand. “Allow me.”

  Jane gasped as he bent and closed his lips over one fingertip. The moist, warm flesh of his mouth made a languorous pleasure steal over her body. His gaze never left her face and that gaze was hot with desire.

  When he’d finished making a meal of her fingers, he turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then moved up to her wrist. Her puls
e quickened under his lips, leaped at the touch of his tongue.

  “Oh, you are a wicked, wicked man,” she breathed.

  “I can be far more wicked than that.” He drew her toward him for a kiss, this time so suggestive and lascivious that he might have been making love to her mouth. Her body melted; her mind grew dazed.

  He drew back. “Jane, we have to talk.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After that kiss, Jane took many moments to regain her focus.

  “Talk?” she said vaguely. Talk? When she had years of experience in the bedchamber to catch up on?

  “Yes. I need to tell you about what happened all those years ago.”

  He picked up the tray and set it down on the table by the window. Then he shucked his breeches and crawled back into bed with her.

  She tried to keep her eyes off certain intriguing parts of him. It was rude to stare. And of course, he pulled the covers to their waists so she didn’t have the opportunity to investigate further. Jane sighed. So much to learn.

  A quirk of his lips told him he guessed the reason for her sigh, and she blushed.

  “You wanted to tell me…” she prompted, gathering her tattered dignity around her.

  He looked a little grim at that. “Yes, I must.” He paused. “You asked me to explain about my disgrace. Well, I suppose you might say it’s a little like the boy who cried wolf.”

  Perplexed, she shifted against the pillows. “How do you mean?”

  Constantine lay back against the banked pillows, one bent arm behind his head, one arm around Jane.

  He exhaled a long breath through his nostrils. “Oh, I was a wild child as a youth, there’s no doubt. I was bored and rich and reckless and I discovered early on that I loved women. I was nearly sent down from Eton for various transgressions and my father refused to send me to Oxford because of it. He said I’d waste my time there, just as I had at school.

  “Certainly, my pranks weren’t at all to my credit, but there was no great harm in them. I grew out of it, but my father was a stern, righteous man, and he didn’t understand that. He thought my character fixed at the age of seventeen.”