She moved backward, still straddling his legs, until she touched the ties on his drawers. She pulled the loosened waistband carefully over his sex, revealing him in full arousal. She wished there was more light, for she could see nothing but the shadow of his shape.
As he kicked his drawers away, she tentatively skimmed her fingertips down his sex. Encouraged by his sharp intake of breath, she took him into her hand, curling her fingers around his length.
She’d never been so bold with William. She glanced at him. “Do… do you like this?”
“Yes,” he said in a strangled voice.
She moved her fist over him, stroking up the silky, solid length. It fascinated her. She moved again, this time downward.
“Becky,” he groaned. “Stop.”
Instantly, she let go. “I’m sorry.”
He grabbed her beneath her arms and hauled her up over him so she straddled him again. But this time there was nothing between them, and the feel of the hot length of him between her legs made her gasp out loud.
“No,” he grated out. “I’m the one who is sorry. I—God, just your touch is so close to making me explode.”
“Why?” She was truly curious. Even as she asked the question, though, she fidgeted over him, every move of his flesh against hers sending tiny tremors of pleasure sparking through her.
“Because it feels good. Too good.”
She smiled at him. It was a smile of conquest, a smile of power. She could bring this man to the edge of fulfillment with a simple touch.
“Kiss me,” he commanded.
She knelt to drop a kiss on his lips. As soon as their lips connected, a pulse of energy ran through them both, connecting them, and Jack took control. One hand pressed on the small of her back; the other fisted in her hair, locking her to him. She couldn’t move. She had no desire to move.
His mouth took possession of hers, his tongue exploring greedily, sensuously, and his taste exploded through her—hot, salty, commandingly male.
He nipped at her lip, then soothed the area with soft, warm kisses, leaving a trail of white-hot pleasure in the path of the pain. All the while, the length of his sex slid over the most sensitive parts of her.
Still kissing her, he turned her onto her back. He loomed over her, his body seeming twice as wide, twice as large, as her own.
The rough pad of his thumb stroked across her cheekbone, and his kiss traveled away from her mouth. He sampled her flesh, her jaw, her nose, her eyelids, and then he moved lower. He untied the neckline of her chemise to access her breasts, then used his mouth and hands to work the plump flesh and her nipples until every touch made her gasp and squirm, seeking more of him, seeking the fulfillment he could offer, the satisfaction only he could give.
“Please, Jack, please…”
He drowned her words in another of his overwhelming, hot kisses. She clutched his shoulders as he reached down, adjusting himself at her entrance. With his hand still tangled in her hair, he thrust into her.
Becky cried out. Her body arched convulsively.
“Oh, God. Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She writhed, moving against him, away from him. He drew out, and she whimpered at the sensation of his hot, hard flesh sliding against her inner walls.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her mouth. “So tight.”
Closing her eyes, she sighed in an agony of pleasure.
She allowed the sheer power of her desire and her love to rise, to burn her distrust and fear to ashes. They fluttered away on the wind, and without all that fear blinding her, she could see clearly again.
He would be—no he was—hers. Her lover. Soon, her husband. She was his.
She loved this man. Loved how he made her feel. But now, so close, so connected, she could not fathom a life, another moment, without him.
She was so in love with him. And that didn’t bring her pain. It didn’t even evoke fear. Instead it made her feel powerful. Invincible. He was beauty incarnate. Intelligent and worldly. Affectionate, and possessive. And she was worthy of all of those things.
He saw reciprocal qualities in her. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“Jack,” she said as he moved within her, a rhythm of pleasure. “Jack.”
The pleasure built, dark clouds gathering into a gale, beautiful and powerful at the same time.
“I can’t stop it,” he gasped.
She could hardly speak for the storm building within her. “Don’t stop.”
His strong body moved with quick, deep thrusts. He moved faster, harder, each of his exhalations a sharp explosion of breath. And then his fingers tightened in her hair, and the storm burst in a violent shower of pleasure that shuddered all the way through her, curling her toes and her fingers. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades.
“Becky.” It was a half-whisper, half-groan. He stiffened and stilled, and through her own pulsing pleasure, she felt his, contracting deep and hard inside her.
She lost awareness of everything except the point where they were connected, only returning to the world when the pulsing subsided and the tension in the body over her relaxed.
He touched his forehead to her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked. “What?”
“That was too fast. I did not give you pleasure. It was selfish of me.” She heard him grinding his teeth. “Damned inconsiderate.”
Reaching up, she pressed her hand against his cheek, turning his face so he could see her—or at least the shadowy outline of her face. “No. You gave me pleasure. So much pleasure.”
He released a harsh breath. “Come here, sweetheart.”
He rolled onto his side, bringing her along with him and tucking her backside against his body.
They lay pressed together for long, delicious minutes. This bed had seemed cold before he had joined her in it, but now a thin sheen of sweat covered her body, and she wiggled.
“Are you too warm?”
“A little.”
He pulled back and lifted her chemise over her head, leaving her completely bare. He tossed away the offending material and once again pulled her close.
“You fit here,” he murmured. “Perfectly.”
Yes, she did. She gave a drowsy murmur of agreement and snuggled against him, his warmth a lure, a promise of contentment. Of happiness.
Jack lay awake a long while after Becky’s breaths deepened and her body went slack against his. Still he kept his arms wrapped around her, unwilling to let her go.
He’d promised her honesty. Yet there were two things he could never reveal to her. The first was the truth about the night the Marquis of Haredowne had died. The second was his initial reason for wanting to marry her.
He was falling in love with the precious woman in his arms. Both of those truths would hurt her, abolish the trust she’d so generously extended to him, sever the connection they had built.
He couldn’t do that to her. Worse—he couldn’t do it to himself. He needed her too much. He was too selfish.
Full of self-loathing, he closed his eyes. And offered a prayer up to God that she would never put him in a position to lie to her. He would be honest about everything but those two things, and God must know that his intentions toward Lady Rebecca Fisk were now nothing but honorable and pure.
Please, God, don’t let me hurt her.
Still holding her tightly against him, he dropped into a fitful slumber.
Chapter Fourteen
She came downstairs in the late morning, just after Jack had returned from fetching their breakfast from their landlady in the village. Since he’d let the house, he’d communicated with the woman—a stolid, even-tempered widow with a puff of brownish-red hair and a deeply lined face—and he’d prepared her for his and Becky’s possible arrival at the house without notice. He’d already warned her about their need for board, and she obligingly provided him with a simple repast for breakfast and a promise of hot stewed beef for their luncheon.
Becky hesitated in
the doorway to the kitchen, and Jack turned from the stove. His chest tightened at the sight of her. So beautiful, in her rumpled chemise. She’d brushed her hair and it hung in a sleek black fall down her back. His eyes lingered on the suggestion of creamy mounds rising from the neckline of her shift.
“Good morning,” he murmured, dragging his gaze to her face. “Coffee?”
“Oh. Well, yes. Thank you.”
“Have a seat. I’ll bring you some. There’s also fresh hot cross buns and some boiled eggs.”
She nodded and sat at the table. He lowered a plate and a cup of steaming coffee in front of her and then took the chair beside her with his own food. She took a tentative sip of coffee. From the way she grimaced, it seemed she didn’t drink coffee often.
They ate their breakfast in comfortable silence, and though the table lacked Stratford’s ever-present stack of newspapers. Jack found himself more content to be drinking his coffee beside Becky.
When they finished eating, he took the dishes into the scullery, rolled up his sleeves, and washed them. She trailed after him and watched him with a bemused expression on her face.
“How odd.”
Up to his elbows in water, he raised his brows at her. “What’s odd?”
“You’re washing.”
“Yes…?”
“I never knew a gentleman who cleaned dishes before.”
“You haven’t known very many gentlemen.”
“True.”
“And we haven’t any servants to perform the task for us.” He reached a soapy hand out to her, and asked, “Would you like to help?”
Her lips twitched. “I haven’t the first idea what to do.”
“Tell me you’ve never in your life washed a dish.”
“I’ve never in my life washed a dish.”
“Not even when you were a child scampering after the servants and their children?”
“No. I never scampered.”
“Ah,” he said. “Did you frolic? Cavort? Romp? Play?”
“No.” She leaned against the doorframe, perfectly relaxed. “My father died when I was four years old, you see, and my mother when I was six. Garrett purchased his commission in the army when I was very young and was absent for most of my childhood. My aunt Bertrice made certain I was safe and well, but she wasn’t the most maternal of guardians, and she discouraged childish behavior.”
The wistful expression on her face pulled at his chest. She’d been lonely even as a child. He held out a cloth. “Well, then, I’ll help you. Use this rag and rub it round the plate. When it’s clean, rinse it in the tub here.”
She pushed up her sleeves and followed his directions. He nodded in approval after she pulled the clean plate from the rinse water, and he directed her how to place it on the drying rack.
“What happened to your parents?” he asked as he handed her another plate.
“My father died of an apoplexy. My mother of consumption.”
“Do you remember them well?”
She dipped the plate in the rinse water. “Not my father. I recall a very stern, scowling man, but I cannot say for certain whether my memory of him is accurate. My mother I remember a little better. She was always very frail, and she seemed unhappy. I was never to raise my voice or become boisterous in her presence, for such behavior agitated her. I always thought she was so sad because of something I did wrong, but now that I think back on it, I cannot imagine what it was.”
“I doubt she was sad because of something you did, Becky.”
They finished cleaning the dishes in silence, and then they went into the parlor, where Jack built a fire and then sat beside her on the sofa. He drew her head against his chest and played with the soft, silky strands of her hair while they gazed at the flickering orange flames.
“It is so peaceful here,” she murmured. “It’s like a dream. When we leave, we’ll wake up in a completely different world.”
“The harshness of that world cannot diminish what we’ve shared here.” What he hoped they could continue to share. He was unaccountably, oddly nervous. They both knew he’d ask her to marry him again, but the question was when. He wanted to choose the right time.
“I hope you’re right.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I know I am.”
“Did the harsh outside world diminish what you and Anne shared?” she whispered some moments later.
Against his will, he stiffened. Then he forced himself to relax. “I told you the rumors weren’t true. We weren’t lovers after her marriage.”
She was very still beneath his arm. “But you were before she was married.”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“That was many years ago. I was a boy of seventeen.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like talking about her,” he admitted. “I don’t speak of her to anyone.”
“I understand.” She paused. “I don’t like talking about William, either. But you can tell me now… if you will. I know you don’t like to speak of it, but…” Her voice trailed off, and then she added, “Perhaps I should know.”
She was right. Nevertheless, sickness churned in his gut. He had to be so careful. Careful not to lie to her, and yet he couldn’t reveal the truth. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about her.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “We were friends,” he finally said. “Her father’s lands bordered Hambly, my father’s estate in Kent. We were of an age—well, she was half a year older than I was. She seemed infinitely older than me when we were young.”
He tried to keep the facts on the surface, but as he said them aloud, they dug under his skin and burrowed deep. Anne, with her joyful smile and yellow hair and her snapping cornflower blue eyes. She was a bright, lively daisy.
“Did you love her?” Becky whispered.
He looked down into her ocean-blue eyes. So different from Anne’s. She was different all over. Older than Anne ever was.
This one, he wouldn’t let go.
“I loved her. Yes.”
Becky looked away from him, and he took her jaw in his hand, turning her back to him. “You asked for the truth.”
“Sometimes the truth hurts. I know it shouldn’t. But it does.”
“I won’t lie to you, Becky. You don’t want to hear my lies.”
“True.” She clenched her fists in her lap. “It is unfair of me. But I wish you didn’t love her.”
“I don’t love her anymore.” He pulled her close and kissed the corners of her eyes, tasting the salt of her unshed tears. “It was a long time ago. I was young. The young love violently.”
“Yes, they do.”
Jack realized that Becky was only three years older than Anne had been when she’d died. Older, yes, but still so young. And yet she’d eloped four years ago. Before her husband had destroyed her, she must have loved him as he’d loved Anne.
“There’s something about love that I always wondered,” Becky murmured.
“What is that?”
She licked her lips, stared up at him with eyes that had darkened to indigo. “Once you love someone so powerfully, is it possible to love again?”
He didn’t answer her; just stared down at her beautiful oval face.
“I have thought often that I could never love anyone after what happened with William,” she murmured. “Then again, there is my brother…”
“What about him?” Jack had heard the basic facts surrounding the divorce of the Duke of Calton and Sophie, the current Viscountess Westcliff, but Jack had only been back in England for a short time, and the complexities of the duke’s marriages and offspring had been difficult for him to follow.
“When I was a little girl, Garrett was madly in love with Sophie. He married her when I was six years old. They were very happy together, and when he went away to Waterloo, she was pregnant with his child. He didn’t return for eight years. He was presumed dead, and by the time he finally came home, I was eighteen, his d
aughter was seven years old, and Sophie had married Tristan, his cousin and heir, who had also assumed the title of Duke of Calton.”
“Good God,” Jack said. “What did he do?”
“He took possession of his title and lands and tried to win Sophie back. In many ways, he still loved her, and she still loved him. But they had both changed too much in all those years away from each other, and Sophie loves Tristan beyond measure. She couldn’t let him go. Finally, Garrett understood that Sophie would never fully come back to him. So he gave her up. He divorced her, and they share custody of their child.”
“Incredible,” Jack murmured.
“You’ve seen Tristan and Garrett together. On the whole, it is amicable, oddly and uncomfortably so for most. My family is one of the oddest families you shall ever meet, I’m certain of it. Yet they are also the most loving and generous people in the world. Any one of us would sacrifice anything for any one of the others.”
Despite their twisted relations, Becky’s family sounded far superior to his own. “You should feel proud to be part of such a family.”
“I am,” she said quietly. “I am very proud.” She gazed up at him. “Perhaps you have seen how deeply my brother loves his wife. Kate is my dearest friend, and they fought with such violent passion to be with each other. Yet Garrett is in his thirty-ninth year. He still loves passionately, even though he is no longer young, and even though Kate was not the first woman he loved.”
He gazed at Becky, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her plump lower lip. “So your brother has proven it is possible to love again. But I didn’t require evidence.”
“Can you really love again, Jack? Love as powerfully and as violently as you did the first time?”
“Yes,” he murmured as he bent down to kiss her. “Perhaps I already do.”
She flung her arms round his neck, kissing him back and thrusting her breasts against his chest with an urgent, brazen need that made his cock flare to life. Lady Rebecca, so reserved, so bookish, so melancholy and quiet, had proven herself to be a vixen in bed. And he loved it.
A Season of Seduction Page 17
