by Jen YatesNZ
Jane sat with her back to the floor, the better to forget Lord Baxendene even existed. His hand at her elbow and his voice by her ear showed her the futility of such a desire.
‘Our dance,’ he murmured.
Two words but they might have been thunderbolts hurled from the heavens straight into her bloodstream. Why hadn’t she been facing the room so she’d be ready and in control by the time he reached her? Why did he have such a devastating effect on her senses? All of them!
The rich, deep rumble of his voice vibrated her every nerve ending. The woodsy, masculine scent pervading his person set up a quaking in her belly. The touch of his hand was a searing brand on her skin regardless how many layers of cloth stood between them. The heated wanting she saw in his eyes raised a similar burning desire within her and then all she wanted was another taste of the addictive flavor, the powerful essence of Lord Baxendene’s mouth.
Dear God! She was trembling and hardly knew how to stay upright before they’d reached the center of the floor. As if he knew all the stuffing had somehow been plucked from her limbs, he pulled her close to the wondrous breadth of his chest and held her there, his arm at her waist, practically lifting her so her feet floated across the surface of the floor.
Rather than swing her into the rhythm as was his usual way, he gently swayed their bodies to the mesmerizing flow of the waltz.
‘What’s the color of your gown? It’s not apricot exactly—nor is it pink.’
‘S—salmon.’
‘Ah. I knew it’d be something edible. In that color I simply long to devour you, my lovely Jane.’
He looked down at her and she was helpless to drag her gaze from him.
‘And your eyes are melting like chocolate left too long near the flame. Is there something that makes you warm—melts you, Angular Jane?’
‘Stop it! Please!’
She lowered her gaze to the plain knot in his neck cloth. No one could accuse Hades Delacourte of being a dandy. Yet his natural unstudied style drew the eye. Which probably meant it wasn’t the style, but the man himself, so imposing, well-put-together, so—much more than any other.
And with the sinful good looks of an otherworldly devil-angel. Lord, he was messing with her head so she was starting to sound like a candidate for Bedlam.
Then between one breath and the next he’d danced them through the great brocaded arras hanging behind the Lord’s Dais.
Devil-Angel indeed! She tried to pull out of his arms; told herself she really had tried, but his hand at her waist held her close and his other trapped hers against his chest.
‘Hush,’ he murmured, and she’d swear his mouth was in her hair, the stuff of fantasy. Ever since that last wicked kiss in the Brisco drawing room she’d been plagued with dreams of how it would be if he were to kiss her again—and more.
A small desperate moan escaped the back of her throat.
‘Ah, Jane!’
With a soft groan she felt vibrate through his chest to the tips of her breasts pressed so intimately against it, he lowered his head and stole her breath with his mouth.
Had he attacked, demanded, she might have stood a chance of resisting him. But when his lips gentled, brushed lightly over hers as if seeking permission, she was lost. Surrounded by the scent, the strength, the force majeure that was Hades Delacourte, every cell in her body melted, flowed, in an eager current to accept all he offered.
‘Woman,’ he growled, nuzzling against her neck. ‘You smell of orange blossom and warm summer days, a perfume sweeter, more intoxicating than the most exquisite wine. I want you, Jane. Come to me tonight. Invite me to you.’
She was drowning. His lips were hot against the upper swell of her breasts and her neck no longer had the strength to keep her head from falling back in blatant invitation. Was there no straw she might clutch to save herself from drowning entirely?
‘You want me as much as I want you. Tell me you’ll come to me tonight!’
‘No—please.’
‘Don’t say no! Please don’t say no. I’m going mad for want of you, Jane. No one else will do.’
His huge hands cupped her head and his mouth found hers again and she opened for him like a daisy to the sun; drank him in as if her thirst could never be quenched.
If there’d been a saving straw to clutch she’d not have noticed it, for her eyes were closed; the better to savor every sensation of Hades’ tongue in her mouth and the addictive taste of his lips.
The music stopped. The spell was broken and Jane had never felt so adrift, so unreal. Voices and footsteps sounded loud on the dais beyond the heavy, brocaded arras. A door opened in the back wall and servants trundled trolleys of food through, preceded by the rich tantalizing aroma of hot baked goods. Fortunately they moved down the opposite side of the dais and Bax suddenly pushed her in that direction.
‘Mingle with the staff as they bring the food out. I’ll join you shortly.’
Moving as one in a dream, Jane wondered if she shouldn’t slip out that door in the wall and run to wherever it took her. Another laden trolley came through the opening with a puffing footman behind it and she slipped quietly behind him, coming out into a mercifully dim area of the Great Room to the right of the dais.
She’d hardly gone two steps when a large hand closed round her elbow and a deep voice from behind said, ‘Allow me to escort you into supper, Lady Rotherby.’
Leaning closer, he murmured, ‘You’re looking a little flushed, my dear. Are you all right?’
She couldn’t answer. Emotions tangled her tongue beyond unravelling. His touch sent ribbons of fire streaming through her body, every one coalescing at the apex of her thighs in a maelstrom of conflagration. His words however, caused a molten fury to fuse with the fire in her blood so explosion felt imminent.
How dare he make her forget herself like that; steal her every sense of propriety and sensible behavior, so she melted—like that warm chocolate he’d mentioned—all over him. Lord, she’d practically climbed up his body, and he’d definitely been about to devour hers. And she’d not been about to stop him.
He’d professed to want her—desperately. No other would do. He’d sounded as overcome as she and yet here he was, cool, suave, mocking!
Had he ever been publicly slapped? Oh, she wished! But she could imagine how he’d laugh at her. Toss back those devil-angel locks, crinkle up those smoky-grey eyes, open that all-pleasuring mouth, and laugh.
At naïve, innocent, virginal Lady Jane Rotherby.
‘I collect you’re mad at me,’ he said, putting his head a little to one side to observe her once he’d settled her on a chair in a dim corner of the room. ‘Best get a hold of your temper, Jane my love, or people will notice—and wonder.’
‘I do believe I’m feeling a little overset,’ she said, her teeth almost snapping on each word. ‘I’ll bid you a goodnight.’
‘You’re retiring?’ he asked, looking a little taken aback. ‘I’ll escort you up then.’
‘You—will—not,’ she managed, between her teeth. She knew she was being a little irrational but he simply filled her with terror. The only thing going to keep her out of his bed was her temper, and she had to stoke it with all the fuel she could gather.
‘I’ve repeatedly asked you not to harass me—not to—Oh!’
Unable to put words to the mass of invective she wanted to hurl at his head, she surged to her feet.
Anger was her only defense, her only protection, however irrational he might consider it to be. To succumb to the fiery need he lit within her was unthinkable. He was many things, yet in that one thing she knew he’d be unfailingly honorable. He didn’t bed virgins because he’d no intention of marrying. But if he succeeded in bedding her, only to discover her innocence he’d consider himself honor-bound to wed her.
Where would that leave them? With a forced marriage neither wanted—for, while she might dream of marriage to Hades Delacourte, she knew that way lay heartache beyond imagining. She knew the reason he so
assiduously avoided that institution was his inability to remain faithful to one woman—and the pain such a betrayal would visit upon a wife.
She must leave Wolverton. Tomorrow she’d begin her journey to Dover. Would that she could leave this instant!
‘Good night, Lord Baxendene. Please make my excuses to your sister. Tell her—I have the headache!’
***
She didn’t dare tarry, didn’t dare look back at all that tempting man. She only had to say ‘yes’ and he’d do the rest. He’d show her how it felt to be a woman, enamored of a man who wanted her, desired her above all others—for now at least. He’d rid her of her damned virginity. There was no one she’d rather have do it. And yet—
Oh God! Her mind ran in the same constant circles of what she wanted, what she couldn’t have, and why those things were denied her while her feet raced through the old part of the Castle into the newer house abutting the south wall of the old Keep, up the stairs and along the sconce-lit hallway to her room.
‘My Lady!’ Dolly cried, leaping from a chair by the hearth, where she’d been diligently mending the lace on one of Jane’s petticoats. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Dolly. But I—.’ She stopped to draw breath. ‘I—um—thought I should apprise you of the fact we’ll be leaving here after breakfast in the morning, so perhaps we could do a little of the packing tonight.’
Dolly blinked a couple of times as if she didn’t understand what her mistress had said.
‘We, my Lady? Packing is my job and I’ll get right to it—but—are we going on to Dover? Have you had word from your sister?’
‘I—’ Dolly had given her the perfect excuse, but lying was not something she intended to start doing at this late stage of her life. ‘I’ve not had any further communication, but she’s weighing on my mind.’
‘More likely as that great Lord Baxendene has unsettled ye, my Lady,’ Dolly said sagely. ‘Reckon as how he’d unsettle any woman he decided to cast his hat at, and he’s certainly been castin’ it in your direction lately.’
‘Dolly!’ Jane gasped. ‘What do you know of Lord Baxendene’s attentions?’
‘Only what they’re sayin’ in the servants’ hall, my Lady. You know as how staff al’ays like to gossip about their betters! Nothing much slips by unnoticed—and they all love Lord Baxendene. I mean, why wouldn’t you? Those shoulders, my Lady! Have you ever seen such shoulders on a man? He’s so tall he has to duck going through doorways—and his thighs—oh, my Lady!’ Dolly’s voice faded as if she might swoon then her eyes flew wide with the realization of what she’d said and to whom she’d said it. ‘I’m sorry, my Lady. I shouldn’t have said all that.’
‘No, Dolly, you shouldn’t,’ Jane said sternly. At least she meant it to sound stern, but feared she was in similar case to her maid; like to swoon from considering the immense, extremely well-put-together form of Hades Delacourte.
Damn the man! She should probably give Dolly the key for safe-keeping, she thought, as she turned it in the lock.
***
Jane would have preferred to leave before breakfast; before anyone else was about to see her fleeing like—a virgin from a would-be seducer! Grimacing at herself in the mirror, she picked up her gloves and left the room to walk downstairs. It’d be the height of bad manners to leave Wolverton Castle without thanking her hosts, and possibly unlikely they’d be first down to breakfast. Dare she hope Lord Baxendene was still abed? Had he found some other woman more willing than she, last night—
Now where had that thought come from? Damn. Damn. Damn the man! She’d never been so enamored of bad language until she’d come to London and renewed his acquaintance.
His deep voice was the first she heard as she neared the breakfast room. Stopping to leave her bonnet and gloves with a footman in the hallway, she calmed herself with a deep inhale before entering.
Thankfully he had his back to the door. With the stealth of a mouse trying to steal a crumb, she slid into the room and made straight for the sideboard. Quietly filling a plate, she hurried round to the end of the table and indicated to the hovering footman she’d sit in the vacant seat by Selena.
Only then did she look up and greet everyone at the table in a general kind of way. Neither Holly or her mother were yet present, or the invalid Dowager Countess of Windermere; but most everyone else was gathered about the huge table and quickly reverted to the conversation they’d been conducting with their neighbors, or to simply eating.
All except Lord Baxendene, who leant back in his chair with a scowl aimed directly at her. There was an empty chair at his side and she’d no doubt he’d been hoping to inveigle her into it. Lowering her gaze, she concentrated on the scrambled eggs and muffins she’d decided on to break her fast. Not that she had much of an appetite with that grey scowl directed her way. Did he not care tongues were probably already wagging about them?
***
He’d been feeling particularly mellow until Jane appeared, slipping into a vacant chair as far down the table from his as she could possibly get. He’d woken early after retiring earlier than he’d been accustomed to in a long time. Her fault, Bax ruminated as he scanned her subdued ladyship.
Riding out at dawn, he’d come across Dom communing with the morning and they’d finally retrieved their lifelong accord. Dom had thanked him for waking him up to the perfection of Lady Sherida, now his Duchess, and had made Bax a gift of the horse he’d sacrificed in the endeavor.
Zeus would reside in the Baxendene stables again and suddenly much that had been wrong in his world was righted. He’d felt as if he’d stepped into the sun after one of his long gloomy descents into the ‘Townville Darkness.’ He was probably going to have to disappear down to Bancombe Park after he returned to London, if only to try to paint that damned red-headed vixen out of his system.
There was no way, it seemed, he was going to achieve that end in a more satisfactory way. If he didn’t miss his guess, she was dressed for travelling. For a moment he found himself considering riding after her, forcing her driver to take his horse while he—kidnapped her, took her to Townville Manor hidden away down in Somerset.
That he’d considered the foul deed showed how she was messing with his head. There wasn’t a woman alive who could cause the Great Bax a moment of misery! He’d always taken great care to ensure that. Ergo, he’d not let damned Angular Jane with her luscious curves and wealth of silky red curls, affect him in any way.
He would contain himself and remember that moment of supreme joy when Dom had told him he was gifting Zeus back to him and he’d realized his wicked interference in his cousin’s life had been the right thing to do. Unusually, there’d been a time or two when he’d doubted himself on that score.
He managed to hang back when everyone trooped out to see Jane started on her journey to Dover. She avoided looking at him and it appeared she’d leave without directly bidding him farewell. That, he wouldn’t allow.
Joining her at the door to the carriage, he growled, ‘Running away, Angular Jane?’
‘You leave me no choice,’ she hissed.
‘You were weakening,’ he accused, ‘were afraid you couldn’t hold out much longer.’
What was wrong with him? It sounded, even to himself, as if he wished to hurt her, rile her. And in this last he knew he’d succeeded.
She sucked in a deep breath and turned blazing gold eyes on him. Suddenly her mouth stretched in the most spurious smile he’d ever seen and she asked, ‘Tell me, Lord Baxendene, has any woman ever been driven into slapping you?’
Their gazes held for a moment, his cheeks almost stinging from the force of her words, but neither could look away.
He offered her a smile as false as her own, bowed low before her and said, ‘Consider me slapped, my Lady. May you enjoy a safe journey.’
With a huff of fury she exploded up into the carriage as he was raising his hand to assist her, and slammed the door in his face.
Since most of the wedding guest
s were out on the steps to wave her off all knew without a doubt something was going on between them.
For a brief moment he wished he could emulate Jane, call his carriage and head for home, but Mama and Selena were set on staying at least another couple of days. Damn it!
He strode off in the direction of the stables.
Chapter 12
Goddammit, London without Jane was beyond dismal! Balls, soirees, routs, musical evenings! He was sick of the lot of them. Eleven days ago Jane had fled to Dover, supposedly because her sister was ill and needing her. She hadn’t mentioned the possibility before they’d left London and he knew her flight was his fault. Now he didn’t even have the comfort of the blaze of her red hair across a crowded room; couldn’t look forward to the possibility of even a polite greeting in passing, or of inhaling the delicious orange blossom scent he’d come to know as distinctly Jane’s.
Mama had let him know she was seriously annoyed he’d obviously done something to upset Jane. Even Holly had voiced her displeasure, informing him he was to be present at every event their niece attended until Jane returned. Skulking about in card rooms with the gentlemen did not come anywhere near what was required of him apparently.
He hadn’t minded while Jane was present. In her absence he was slowly losing his mind, regardless he told himself it was because he’d rarely attended such events in the past.
Complaining to his sister only gained him the further aggravation of her unusually acid tongue. She held him personally accountable for Jane’s absence and was inclined to scold and harangue every opportunity he offered her.
With dragging feet he approached the Brisco’s front door and banged the knocker. Eleven days, and he was beginning to wonder if Jane intended returning to London at all. He’d stopped asking Holly if she’d had any communication, for her answer—ever in the negative—was always accompanied by yet another scold. Not only was he bereft of Jane’s presence, he’d lost his youngest sister’s unstinting adulation.
