The Valentine Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  She closed her eyes, arched her back, and moaned. The old Jessie had never done that.

  He eased a finger inside her and felt her ankles lock behind his back again. “Yes,” he said, stroking her now, feeling the wonderful heat of her, the loosening of her flesh, that delicious arching of her back. When he touched her belly, then delved into those red curls to find her, she nearly bucked him off her again.

  “That’s it,” he said, coming over her to kiss her. Her breath was hot, she was panting, and he didn’t wait any longer. He freed himself from his breeches and came slowly into her.

  “James! That’s your stallion part.”

  “Hold still, Jessie. Just hold still and I’ll come in really slowly. That’s it, just relax. That doesn’t hurt, does it?”

  She was staring at him, watching the pained, utterly absorbed expression in his beautiful eyes. She tightened her ankles and it brought him farther into her.

  Suddenly she gasped. “Oh dear, stop, James. This isn’t good anymore.”

  “It’s your maidenhead, Jessie.” He was panting, his voice sounding like a creaking door that needed oil. His hands were shaking and he was inside her, but not far enough, not nearly far enough. “Trust me, Jessie. Every woman has one. I don’t mean she has one trust, she has a maidenhead.” He was staring down at himself pushing into her. He knew he wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t, not without dying. And if he did stop and he didn’t die, then he’d kill himself anyway.

  He smiled down at her, not moving, until he felt her ease and smile up at him. Then he shoved hard.

  She yelled at the top of her lungs. He prayed Mrs. Catsdoor wouldn’t start pounding on the door. He prayed she wouldn’t scream anymore. She was small, he’d hurt her, but it was over, finally, it was over, and he didn’t feel as though he’d violated his damned sister. No, she was his wife and he was touching her womb.

  “I’m not moving. Don’t shove at me and please don’t move. I’m a man, and things of the flesh are different for me. All right, Jessie?”

  He leaned down and kissed her mouth, her throat, then her breast. He nuzzled her breast with his chin, rubbed his cheek over her. “Is that better? Is the pain lessening?”

  “A little bit. The Duchess didn’t tell me about any of this. Is this the normal way of things?”

  The Duchess told her something about sex? She moved in that moment, and he knew it was all over for him. He heaved over her, feeling the release wash through him, making him shudder like a man with a violent fever.

  “Oh, Jessie,” he said, and fell over her. Her arms were around his back, holding him tightly against her. Her hair was against his cheek. He felt the heat of her drawing at him, and he shuddered with the pleasure of it. He didn’t move until he could finally breathe again. She squeezed him, then thumped him on the back with her fists.

  “Is that all, James? Oh dear, you’d best be careful. Your right hand is nearly in the calf brains.”

  Calf brains? He was inside Jessie Warfield, the eavesdropping twit who’d fallen through her father’s tack-room ceiling. He managed to pull himself up. He looked down at himself, a part of her, that white flesh of hers and that sinful red hair. He looked up her body, pausing at her breasts before he managed to get up to her face. She was staring at him, looking confused.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s all there is to it?” she said, then unlocked her ankles. Her legs were sore, the muscles pulling.

  He smiled and lightly touched his fingers to her woman’s flesh, soft and swelled and wet with his seed.

  “No, but it’s all for you right now. Before I leave you, Jessie, what did the Duchess tell you?”

  “She told me to think of her as my older sister and ask her anything about sex. I told her I knew everything. All about mounting, that is. She just said that wasn’t all there was to it, that I knew enough for now and that you’d take care of things. She didn’t tell me it would hurt. She didn’t tell me you’d be so free with my womanly self.”

  “It doesn’t hurt so much now, does it?”

  She thought about that. “Not so much now.”

  “Just lie still and let me clean you up a bit.” As he fastened his breeches again it hit him hard what he’d just done. He’d taken his wife’s virginity on the dining-room table. He closed his eyes a moment. No wooing, no extended time to ease her and to make her really ready for him. But she’d nearly bucked him off her, twice. Surely she’d been ready. He shook his head, poured a glass of water onto a napkin, and pressed it against her. He didn’t think the napkin was as soft and white as her flesh.

  As he washed her, he looked up to see that her eyes were tightly closed, her face turned away from him.

  “Poor Jessie,” he said. “I’m sorry for being such a clod.”

  “I wonder,” she said, not opening her eyes, “if stallions ever apologize to mares.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Her eyes flew open. “You’re lying. You have no idea. Oh dear, James, could you help me up, please.” It seemed she realized her breasts were free and she quickly began buttoning her gown only to realize that the bottom part of her was naked as well, and she slapped down her petticoats and skirt.

  “Let me help you.”

  He began the endless task of fastening those damned buttons. “I don’t like this gown,” he said after he’d managed two of them. “Let me just fasten some of the buttons. Promise me you’ll change your clothes and then toss this miserable garment in the kitchen midden.”

  Jessie met James’s dead wife’s father that same afternoon when she was swimming naked in the small pond only fifty yards from the east of the house. It was bordered by water lilies and willow trees and tall water grass.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  Jessie swallowed a mouthful of water at the sound of the man’s voice, whipped around, hoping the water covered her to her neck, and said, “I’m Jessie. Who are you?”

  “You’re James’s new bride?”

  “Yes. And you, sir?”

  “Lyndon Frothingill, Baron Hughes. I’m Alicia’s father. James is my son-in-law.”

  “Oh,” she managed. Her feet were sinking in the mud, and she wanted out of the pond. “Do you think you could leave, sir? I’d like to come out now.”

  He stilled. “You’re an American. Just listen to the way you talk. Like an illiterate nobody. And just look at you. No young English lady would even consider swimming in a pond, much less naked. My beautiful Alicia couldn’t even swim. You look like a trollop with all that red hair. You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That’s why James married you? He had to because he’s a gentleman.”

  Jessie wondered if that one time just after lunch in the dining room could have gotten her pregnant. He took that thoughtful look as a proof of her sin. He took a step closer to the edge of the pond and actually shook his fist at her, nearly yelling, “You damned little bitch, you trapped him before I could act. I wanted to give him time to forget Alicia. He loved her more than life, James did. I feared for him after she died. I’ve given him well over three years to recover. I was bringing him Alicia’s dear cousin, my own brother’s child—Laura. She should have been the one to wed him, not you, you damned Colonial trollop.”

  “Sir, I’m getting cold. Could you please leave now?”

  Baron Hughes stood on the grassy bank, his hands on his meager hips, staring at her, a sly look in his eyes. “Why don’t you just come out now? I’ll see what James has gotten in his second wife.”

  Jessie saw a very angry, very bitter man, who looked older than his years. Surely he couldn’t be older than her own father, but he seemed to be, deep lines scoring both sides of his mouth. His eyes, though, looked vicious, his mouth thin and mean. She wondered what he’d been like before his daughter’s death.

  “I’m sorry about your daughter, sir. I know James did love her very much. I didn’t trap him, sir, at least not in the way you believe. I’m not a trollop. I’m a horse racer.”

  For
a moment, the vicious look left his eyes, leaving blank amazement, then returned quickly. “You’re not even a good liar, are you?”

  “James says I’m not. Please, sir, I’d like to come out now. Won’t you leave?”

  “No. Since you’re pregnant, perhaps you won’t be on this earth much longer, though strumpets like you tend to flourish while sweet angels like my Alicia are taken. I’ll just pray you’ll die in childbirth just like my poor Alicia.”

  “If I do, will you wait another three years before you trot out your niece?”

  “I won’t have to. James will have forgotten you in months. I daresay he’ll want to remarry before the grass grows over your grave.”

  “This isn’t very pleasant, sir. Please leave now. I’m being nice because I realize you’re still upset by your daughter’s tragic death. But it wasn’t my fault, sir. James is now my husband. You must accustom yourself to it. If you don’t leave me alone now, I’ll be forced to do something you perhaps won’t appreciate.”

  “What would that be, you damned chit?”

  “Well—”

  “Actually, sir, I think my wife would like the privacy.”

  “James!” The baron whirled around to see his former son-in-law standing beneath the waving branches of a willow tree.

  “She didn’t lie to you. She’s not a trollop. She’s a horse racer. Come along, sir. You need a brandy. Jessie,” James added, giving her a nod, “dry yourself well. I don’t want you to take a chill.”

  The baron gave her a malicious look, shrugged, and followed James.

  When she was tying the ribbons on her slippers, Jessie wasn’t too certain she wanted to see the dead Alicia’s papa again.

  She went to the stables and spent the next hour grooming Selina, one of the Arabian mares James raced in York.

  She was on her knees oiling Selina’s hooves, as filthy as any stable lad, when she saw a shadow. She looked up the length of James’s body. He was wearing black boots, tight dark brown buckskins, and a white shirt, open at the neck. He looked healthy, tanned, as savory as Mrs. Catsdoor’s nesselrode pudding. She realized she was staring at him, her mouth open, and snapped it closed.

  “Is that your last hoof?”

  “My last what? Oh, yes, it is.” She patted Selina’s leg. “She’s a beauty, James. How old is she?”

  “Seven. She was sired by Janus. She’s foaled two stallions, both racers. Now, it’s late and you’re in dire need of a bath. You look like the old Jessie. I don’t want that anymore. It makes me feel depraved.” He paused a moment, then came down to his haunches beside her. He wrapped his finger around a loose curl. “Even your streamer is sweating.”

  “The old Jessie didn’t have any streamers.”

  “No.”

  “You must strive to remember that, James. The old Jessie didn’t have a peach satin chemise either.”

  “I’m sorry I ripped it.”

  “Mrs. Catsdoor said she’d mend it for me. She fancied I wasn’t too handy with a needle, seeing as how I was from the Colonies and lived with horses all my life. I told her I fancied you weren’t too good with a needle either, for the same reason. She tskd-tsked and patted my hand and said I needed guidance and she would provide it.”

  “She’s right, but you’re young enough to learn.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes, the baron’s gone. He’s an angry man, Jessie. I’m sorry he behaved as he did to you. On the other hand, what the devil were you doing swimming naked in the pond?”

  It was a silly question, so she didn’t answer it. Instead, she finished polishing Selina’s hoof. As she rose, she ran her hands over Selina’s legs, her shoulders, and her withers and combed her mane with her fingers. “You’re beautiful now, my girl, more beautiful than I am, and I can’t run as fast as you can. Here’s a carrot for you. That’s right, don’t bite my fingers. Just nibble. That’s it.”

  Jessie brushed off her skirt, knew she looked a mess, but she did have her streamers, soaked with sweat though they were. Nor was she wearing any pantalettes. She gave James a sideways glance.

  “What does that look mean?”

  “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said, laughed, picked up her skirts, and ran, looking over her shoulder to see him standing as still as a fence post, staring after her.

  21

  “JAMES?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do many women die in childbirth?”

  He stopped nuzzling her neck and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. “Yes, too many. But you won’t, Jessie, I swear it to you. I told you that after Alicia’s death, I read every book I could find on childbearing. I spoke at length with George Raven. Had he but been here when her time came, I doubt she would have died. Don’t worry.”

  “Maybe I won’t get pregnant. Maybe I can’t since I’ve ridden horses all my life.”

  “Where did you get that errant bit of nonsense? No, don’t tell me. It was your mother, right?”

  “Yes. She said I had probably ruined my female parts.”

  “You still had a maidenhead.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” she said, sounding as pleased as Fred who’d probably cornered Clorinda again and stolen another peck. “Well, that’s a relief. Maybe everything else is in order as well. I hope so. I certainly like foals and Charles and Anthony.”

  The thought of rending that small barrier made him tremble with lust. He could practically feel himself again as he’d shoved through it, so frantic with urgency that he’d nearly spilled his seed at that moment. He pulled her closer to his chest and began nuzzling her neck again. She was sitting on his lap in a large winged chair in the bedchamber. It was their bedchamber, he’d told her when they’d come up after dinner. She wasn’t to sleep alone in the adjoining room. He didn’t like that at all.

  Jessie, who knew nothing about the proprieties of sleeping arrangements between husbands and wives, solemnly nodded. “I’d rather sleep with you. I’ve never slept with anyone before. It’s an adventure.” She wrinkled her forehead. “You know, James, I don’t think Papa and Mama sleep in the same bed.”

  “You’re chattering again, Jessie.”

  “Sorry. I’m nervous, James. I’m in my nightgown, and you don’t expect me to be wearing any pantalettes. You’re in your dressing gown, and I know you don’t have anything on beneath it. This is unnerving.”

  He smiled as he kissed her hair again. He hugged her close to him as he said, “You’re right—this is unnerving. I never thought I’d want to do anything with you other than beat you on the racecourse. And now that I’ve untied that very pretty bow, I can slip my hand inside and touch your breast. Ah, you’re as soft as Selina’s belly, after you brushed her. You know, Jessie, I didn’t get to see all of you on the dining-room table today, just those important strategic parts. Let’s get that nightgown open.”

  He untied three more bows and pushed the soft muslin apart. It parted all the way to her feet. He looked, nothing more, just looked, for a very long time. He lightly laid his hand on her hip, turned her toward him, and began kissing her. He was surprised and inordinately pleased when he felt her hands untying the sash of his dressing gown. “Yes,” he said into her warm mouth, “I want to feel your breasts against me. My God, Jessie, that’s incredible.”

  It was, she thought, trembling now, those strange urgent feelings pulsing low in her belly, even when it was her breasts hard against his chest. She moved a bit, and they both moaned.

  He laughed. He had to because, after all, he was the one with the experience here; he was the one who shouldn’t just fall apart and slaver all over her, baying like a hound at the moon, just because her she was brushing the hair on his chest.

  “I like your legs,” he said, watching his brown hands stroke her white flesh, feeling the sleek muscles, admiring the long length of her legs.

  “Thank you. May I see your legs, James?”

  “Actually, you can. I can’t take too much more of this, Jessie.” He lifted her in
his arms and carried her to the bed. He set her on her feet, stripped off her nightgown, and pressed her down until she fell onto her back. She stared up at him, embarrassed—he knew that because her cheeks were becoming nearly as red as the hair on her head. He slipped out of his dressing gown, planning to let her look her fill at him, but he couldn’t manage it. He came over her, lying with his full length on top of her, her legs spread beneath him.

  “No more maidenhead, Jessie—just pleasure for you.” He came up on his knees, lifted her hips in his large hands, and brought her to his mouth.

  He felt her freeze in shock. He paused a moment to look at her face. She looked utterly bewildered.

  He watched her wet her lips with her tongue. “I don’t know about this, James.”

  “Well, I do. Just be quiet and enjoy yourself.”

  “I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”

  He wondered if he would fail with her and nearly laughed at himself for his impatience. This was the first time for her and he hadn’t done much to soften the shock of it, just came between her legs and lifted her in his hands. He’d just wanted to take her with his mouth and he had. He would have to slow down. He eased away from her and came down beside her. He kissed her once, again, and yet another time.

  He stroked her, learning her, hoping to ease her after his frontal attack. It did ease her. When her hands were on his back, stroking his shoulders, kneading his chest, he wondered how he could be such a reasonable, rational man one moment and a ravening beast the very next.

  He knew she was ready for him, and he couldn’t wait to stroke her more. He just couldn’t. He came into her quickly, pushing hard, and felt her flesh accommodating him, but it was still tight, so incredibly tight that he lost his head.

  The release was even more powerful than the one on the dining-room table. He’d thought a release like that had to be only once in a marriage, when the man took his bride’s virginity—a heady act, that. But it wasn’t true. His heart was pounding so loudly he doubted he could hear anything. He felt her hands, those palms as callused as his own, stroking up and down his back.