Safe? Who is to protect her from you? Westcott downed the last of his brandy, set the glass aside and heaved himself to his feet. The glowing embers cast just enough light for him to make his way to the window and push open the heavy draperies. Light from the full moon scattered shadows around him. Did Anne sleep with her curtains wide this night? Was the light changing the blond strands to silver, outlining the curve of her cheek?
The picture of her with hair unbound, as it was that night in the library, spread across the pillows and over the pale skin of her breasts, filled his head. A long time since he had taken a woman into his bed—too long. No wonder his cock stood at the ready, just thinking about sliding into her warm bed, sliding into her. Bloody hell, he was just a man, with a man’s needs—and she was his wife.
“Too much brandy, Nick. Stay out of her room. One of these nights Anne is going to wake up and see you looming over her like some voyeur. Go to bed. He rested his forehead against the door connecting their rooms while every reason he should not touch her marched through his brain with leaden steps, and still, his hand raised the latch and his feet carried him forward.
She lay partly on her side, her nightdress taut around her breasts, as though she had had restless dreams disturbing her sleep. Perhaps the same dreams were responsible for the hair loosed from its braid to curl around her face. How would she react were he to climb in beside her? Somehow, he knew, with absolute certainty, she would welcome him, without expectations, commitment, or false declarations of love.
Westcott removed his robe, laid it on the bottom of the bed, and stepped from his slippers before lifting the bedcover to stretch out beside his wife, all the reasons why this was so very wrong fading from his mind at the feel of her body spooned against his. One night, just one night.
~* * *~
The unexpected heat at her back pervaded Anne’s dreams, pulled her into a drowsy realization that she was not alone. Strong fingers at her hip, kneading, stroking, and she breathed in the unmistakable scent of her husband with a shocked gasp. “Nicholas?”
“You were expecting someone else?” Warm lips brushed the nape of her neck, lingered on her sensitive skin.
“I was not expecting anyone. Whatever are you doing up at this time of night? You should be in bed.” Her voice sounded strange in her ears, thin and breathy, and she forced herself to ignore the rapid pulse beating in her throat.
“I am in bed.” The tip of his tongue touched her ear, licked.
God, what was he doing? Butterflies danced through her belly. Was this a dream, her longing for Nicholas so urgent she imagined his touch? If she did not move, would it go on and on?
“But this is not your bed,” she said, in a puzzled voice. Had he wandered in here in error, half-asleep? Please, don’t let it be so.
“No, it isn’t. It is your bed I seek tonight. I want you, Anne.” He turned her to face him. “Let me kiss you.”
Shocking, the feel of him on her lips, tasting, exploring, his tongue hot in her mouth when she opened to him, swamping her with unfamiliar sensations. He wanted her? As in man and wife? Dared she believe it?
The kiss was long, the gentle pressure deepening, until she clung to him, shivering with need and almost unable to speak when he raised his head. “I thought you….”
“Don’t think. Tonight, we forget about everything else.” He feathered kisses along the line of her jaw and licked at her lips, until his mouth covered hers, insistent, compelling, his hand splayed on her back pulling her to him.
“You’ve a fever,” she breathed. “Your shoulder….”
His mouth nuzzling at her neck, she felt his lips curl in a smile. “No fever, except for you, and my shoulder is fine.” He rolled onto his back and then propped himself up on one elbow. “But since I am wounded…..” Sounding amused, he tugged at one of the ties fastening her nightdress. “Undo these for me.”
Her fingers clumsy with nerves, Anne untied the bows, dazed by the feel of his calloused hand sliding under the fabric of her gown to cup a breast. Hesitant, still half-believing this was a dream, she ran her fingers through the hair covering his chest. His skin twitched beneath her hand, and she pulled back with a gasp. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. Touch me however you wish.” He pushed the loose material aside, teasing at her breast with his hand, his mouth. Heat flooded her, pooling in her middle, the chemise abrading her swollen nipples, making her crave for more…more something.
“Sit up, Anne.” He slid the nightdress from her shoulders. “Take off your chemise.”
Anne raised her hips to free the chemise and pulled it over her head, vaguely surprised by her lack of modesty.
“Much better.” Nicholas went onto his knees beside her. “You are beautiful, Anne.” He palmed her breasts and rubbed his thumbs in lazy circles around her nipples.
“Nicholas.” His name a sigh on her lips, she was lost in the wonder of it, the feel of him as he eased her back and lay down, his solid body hard against hers. He kissed her, his hand hot on her skin.
“Nicholas!” Shocked from a sea of sensation, she cried his name as he moved lower, fingered the thatch between her legs and she tensed, her legs closing tightly together. He stilled, and then kissed her, hard, his tongue probing deep into her mouth until she relaxed and his hand again cupped her possessively.
“Anne. I need you.” He shifted, and she half-heard his grunt of pain somewhere in the back of her mind, before every thought flew from her head as his teeth closed over one taut nipple at the same time his fingers found her sex. She arched, hands clutched in the sheets.
“Nicholas!” A mixture of distress and enjoyment threaded her cry, and he rolled over until she lay beneath him, one hand still between her legs and the other arm now free to take some of his weight while he ravaged her mouth. She felt his cock, hard and heavy, rubbing her thigh with every movement.
“Anne, I’m sorry...I can’t wait any longer.” Hardly recognizable, so hoarse was his voice, apologizing, saying her name, and she did not understand, only knowing that he needed her.
Anne opened herself to his probing fingers, caressed the bent head suckling her breast, her heart thudding wildly under his mouth. “Then do not. I am willing.” She smiled, knowing he could not see it in the dark, almost overcome with the emotions that swirled through her in a glorious, terrifying flood; ignoring the pain when he plunged into her, the tears that sprang from her eyes, then…the reward, as discomfort eased and their bodies moved to a rhythm as old as time. She reveled in it, the tension that built to an almost unbearable height, his harsh cry as his seed spilled into her and he lay atop her.
Anne smoothed her hand along his back. She wanted him here, safe in her arms, more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life—and knew he would not stay. Indeed, he soon moved, rolled onto his back and shifted away, the sudden gap between them chilling more than her skin. Anne lay utterly still, listening to his breathing slow, steady. Could he hear her heart, which beat so hard she felt it might burst from her chest?
She ached there, and felt an unfamiliar liquid seeping onto the sheets beneath her. What was the protocol for a wedding night? Should she say something or wait for him? Get up and wash, while he is in the room? Not a wedding night, Anne. A first night, perhaps, or more likely an only night, and why now, after all these weeks of antipathy toward her? That he, unlike her, would see this loss of control something to regret, Anne felt certain. Now he would apologize, words she did not want to hear.
“I’m sorr—”
“No!” Anne cut him off before he could voice the regrets that hung in the tense silence.
“Don’t say it, please. You regret this; I do not.” She edged further away from him. “I think you should go, Nicholas.” Her voice betrayed none of the turmoil in her head, and pride dammed her tears. She would not break down in front of him, however much it hurt.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and hesitated. In the faint light of the growing dawn, sh
e saw him look over his shoulder. It seemed, for a moment, he was going to speak, and she tensed, but whatever it was remained unvoiced. He stood, wrapped his robe around him, and went away as quietly as he had come.
Aching inside and out, Anne turned onto her side and curled up, arms crossed tight over her breast. She was not going to cry. She was not. And, indeed, she lay dry-eyed, staring at the vacant pillow beside hers, his scent still clinging to the sheets, and her, until her stiff limbs complained. She stretched, turned over and sat up. It was what you wanted, Anne, to know a man’s touch, have your husband in your bed, and now you are dissatisfied?
“Yes! I want more.” Startled at her overloud cry of defiance, Anne grimaced, tossed aside the covers and went to the bathing room to wash. She wanted more, she deserved more, and Nicholas was not as disinterested as he tried to appear. This was more than a casual coupling to satisfy a man’s needs. He wanted her, and by the heavens above, she would haunt him until he acknowledged it. Anne did not know the first thing about seducing a man, but she knew where to go for advice—and she was a fast learner.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Anne stared at the spots of blood on her sheets, hot with mortification at the sudden understanding that Clara would know instantly what had occurred last night. It was the wrong time of month for her courses, which Clara knew also, eliminating that excuse. However much speculation there was amongst the servants concerning her relations with Nicholas, Anne wanted it to remain speculation. Changing the soiled linen herself was to open the door to even more rumours. If there was one thing she had learned in the past months, it was how little privacy one had in a house full of servants, all of whom took an inordinate interest in their master and mistress.
Anne sank down on the side of the bed, her lips tight with indecision. No more than she would Westcott want to have his most intimate affairs known. He didn’t seem to care last night. Did he think it could remain a secret, coming to her bed after all these months? “More that he did not think at all,” Anne muttered. Men didn’t, she understood, when their passions were involved. Passions? You are a fool if you think Westcott was doing anything but assuaging some masculine need for relief. Just because he came to you…
Westcott had come to her. Reluctantly perhaps, but he was not immune. It was a start, and not to be wasted with doubts.
“You need to speak to Juliette, and send for Maggie to help you with these damn sheets. And oh yes, stop talking to yourself!” Satisfied she had a plan in mind Anne rang for Clara and crawled under the covers. With any luck, she could avoid Nicholas until dinnertime, which might allow her to decide on how to face him without embarrassment. Although why she felt embarrassed, she had no idea. She hadn’t gone to him.
Pleading a sleepless night, Anne declared her intentions to her maid. Now to get through what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation with Maggie.
This proved less difficult than expected, as Maggie kept her opinion to herself, content with no more than a terse “It’s about time,” and a narrow-eyed scrutiny.
Of the sheets? Of Anne? Was her changed state so obvious? Anne studied her reflection after Maggie left with the telltale bedding bundled into one of her sewing bags. The face in the mirror looked no different to her, other than the colour that stained her cheeks whenever she remembered how Nicholas’ hands had caressed her breasts, how he suckled her breasts, for heaven’s sake! Heat swept over her and she fanned her face with her hand. Stop thinking about it, Anne, or you will never leave this room. Think of something else, some mundane thing, like planning the menu.
Anne splashed some water on her face and was able to greet Clara calmly, sidestepping the maid’s curiosity as to Maggie’s visit, and finally was dressed, hair neatly arranged, and her usual calm expression in place. She wrote a brief note to Juliette and handed it to her maid.
“Please let me know when Lady Lynton’s reply arrives, Clara. I expect to be taking luncheon at Lynton Hall. Tell Martin to have the gig brought around in an hour.”
“Yes, my lady. It looks to be a fine day for a drive.” Clara began tidying the room. “The show was grand, and the rest of the staff is looking forward to seeing it. Do you know when it might be?”
Anne smiled to herself. If Clara couldn’t discover the reason for Maggie’s early morning appearance, being the first to know when the staff was to see the puppet show would make up for it. “The date has not been set as yet, but I know the players are eager to perform again. It was wonderful, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Clara said, beaming. “It’s ever so nice, all the goings-on since you and the others came, my lady. Except for his lordship’s being hurt, of course.”
“Thank you, Clara. I’m happy to be here.” Anne smiled at the cheerful young woman and went out. Goings-on? That was one way to put it, she supposed, enjoying the irony, but personally felt a little less excitement might be in order.
Escaping the schoolroom later that morning, Anne hurried to change her dress. Juliette’s return note declared her “free and delighted to have Anne join her for luncheon”. Dressed in a warm walking gown of deep green wool and matching pelisse, Anne ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom just as Westcott came in, his hair ruffled from the wind and more colour in his face than she’d seen since the shooting.
“You’ve been outside.” Anne stopped short, one hand on the newel, and appalled at the accusatory tone of her voice, hurriedly added, “It isn’t too soon? If you overdo….”
Westcott handed his hat and gloves to Martin and walked toward her with a teasing, enigmatic smile on his face. Anne’s gaze fastened on his lips, the feel of them against her mouth vivid still and she felt the heat rise in her neck.
“I won’t overdo by a short visit to the stables,” he said mildly, halting just inches away from her. “I’m told you are going to Lynton Hall today.” He raised his hands, untied the ribbons of her bonnet, and retied them more tightly. “There is a chill wind. I’ve ordered the carriage for you. You’ll take cold in the gig.”
The backs of his hands brushed under her jaw, sending a shiver over her back. Gracious, she was acting like a mooncalf, and taking herself sternly to task, she stepped down and around him. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she managed, sounding far cooler than she felt. “Thank you.”
She took her gloves from Martin, whose impassive expression didn’t entirely hide his interest in this exchange, and trusted she was more successful in hiding her feelings. Moon over the man she would not. But you plan to seduce him, Anne? You won’t get far this way. For a second she hesitated. Dared she kiss his cheek? No, she wasn’t ready for that. What if she saw distaste in his eyes? Better when they were alone.
Anne edged toward the door. “I won’t be terribly long. A few hours at most.”
“Return whenever you wish, but I have given the coachman orders to bring you back before dark. The roads can be unsafe at night.”
Of course you have. The man thrived on giving orders. Annoyed, even though she never intended to be away so long, Anne fled before he said anything else. Before she said, or did, anything she’d regret. Like “kiss me, my lord?” Oh, and could she imagine that being well received?
No—perhaps—maybe. Ninny. If you have any sense at all, you will choose the first. But hard as she tried, Anne clung to the latter possibilities.
~* * *~
The curving beds planted along the front of Lynton Hall were bright with tulips and daffodils. Anne caught a glimpse of bluebells and primroses under the trees lining the drive and promised herself she would ask Westcott how he felt about Westhorp’s landscaping, which, with the exception of Sarah’s walled garden, was planted in the Italianate style of the previous century. She knew little of gardening, but felt she might enjoy it and this less formal design appealed to her.
“Your flowers are so pretty, Juliette.”
Juliette greeted Anne at the door, arms outstretched to embrace her lightly. “They are marvelous, aren’t they? I can say it be
cause Mother Lynton is responsible, although I am starting to implement some of my ideas in other areas of the gardens.” She stepped back and smiled. “Do give your things to Jarvis and we will have a comfortable coze in the morning room. Are you hungry? We can eat now, if you like, or have a glass of wine and some of Cook’s cheese biscuits. Delicious, I assure you.”
“Oh, the wine and biscuits, please.”
“Jarvis, you heard…wine and biscuits it is.” Looking resigned at this further evidence of his mistress’ informal ways, the butler went off, shaking his head. “Jarvis finds me a sad trial,” Juliette said, leading the way to a sunny room at the back of the house.
Anne had been to Lynton Hall previously but never in this section of the house, and she halted at the door, dazzled by the light pouring in through the high, many-paned windows. The furnishings—graceful chairs and sofas covered with fabric striped in rose and pale green—suited the warm, inviting ambience. A stunning bowl of Chinese porcelain held a potpourri lightly scenting the air. Roses, Anne decided when she took a deep breath, with a hint of something greener. An herb, perhaps.
“Why, this is beautiful. How you must enjoy spending time in here.” Anne followed her hostess to a pair of chairs placed between two windows, out of the direct sun.
“Thank you. I will take credit for this. Mother Lynton has another suite of rooms she prefers, and this one hadn’t been used for years. I raided the attics, which are positively packed with fascinating flotsam. I doubt if any St. Clair ever threw anything away, but I do love this furniture, so it is well they did not, n’est-ce pas?” Juliette paused while a footman brought in a serving cart holding a plate of flaky cheese pastries and several decanters of wine. “Will you have sherry, Anne, or do you prefer ratifia?”
“Sherry, please.” Anne accepted a glass and smiled her thanks. “I have never acquired a taste for ratifia”
“How wise of you! I think it dreadful stuff.” Juliette also took a glass and after one sip, set it on the cart. “This is excellent wine, from one of Westcott’s Portuguese holdings, I believe.”
An Inconvenient Wife Page 23