She laid one hand, then the other, on the eggshell satin of his waistcoat. Palms flat on his chest. It was a strange sensation, to know that she might touch him as much as she liked.
Mine, she thought, just as I’ve always wanted. Her own heart hurried to match the thumping of his, a wonder beneath her palm. She could have remained thus for minutes, hours, allowing the realization to sink through her body and mind.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrists, slid them. Her palms skated up his chest; his breath hitched. Then her fingers caught beneath the lapels of his coat. With his coaxing grip, she pushed at the black superfine, easing it over the hard angle of one shoulder at a time. He released her then and turned to the side. The sleeves now. Jane caught each cuff in turn and tugged as he shrugged free. Broad shoulders flexed; his movements stirred her all up inside, hot and turbulent.
As he draped the coat over a chair, Jane watched the movement of his body, its every line revealed in the snug fit of trousers and waistcoat. Not a bit of spare flesh on his tall, solid frame. He was lean; maybe a little too much so.
Perhaps that was the effect of a sudden debt and betrothal on a man’s body.
Ah . . . but his body also showed the effect of a woman waiting in his bed. Thanks to some lewd books Jane had found in her cousin Xavier’s country house the previous year, she knew men had many names for the organ they valued so highly. But its real name was penis, and her husband’s had grown large and hard enough to distort the line of his clothing.
She wasn’t the only one feeling a bit turbulent inside.
“Boots next?” She was not entirely successful at keeping the quaver from her voice.
He shook his head. Silently over the deep-piled carpet, he stepped back to the bed. Standing at its foot, he rested his hands on the counterpane, one on either side of Jane’s kneeling form. “Your gown, if I may.”
She shut her eyes. Already, it was a struggle not to grab for Kirkpatrick’s body and pull him into her—though they were both still mostly clothed, and he wasn’t even touching her.
That was about to change. “Gown, then,” she said. She turned atop the bed, presenting him with her back. While he worked at the buttons, then found the laces of her underlying stays, she wadded up her silk skirts, stretched out her legs, and began unhooking her stockings from their garters.
Kirkpatrick’s hands slid down her back. Spanned her waist. Trailed downward to the bundled fabric at her hips. “I like the scent you wear,” he said, low in her ear. Heat clenched her belly.
“It’s only soap,” she said gruffly. “Ashes and animal fat. What is there to admire so much about that?”
“How poetically you describe it. Now I like it even more.” He pressed his lips to the skin below her jaw, just once, like a punctuation mark to end his sentence.
Ah. For years, she had observed him as he flirted, pouring his sweet words into the ears of lonely widows and wallflower debutantes. What he did with them besides offer compliments and comfort, she’d no idea.
Now it was her turn, and he’d fallen silent. Not still, though; those big hands were sliding again, past the fabric, wadding it further, easing her toward him so that she rested with her back against his chest as he stood.
In this position, his hands could roam further, and they did. They slid upward, downward, finding entry to her loosened clothing. Tantalizing her bare skin, plucking and stroking and caressing. Her nipples; her navel; her hot, slick feminine parts. He had her writhing against him within moments, pressing herself into his touch with shameless fervor.
And then he stopped. “Excuse me,” he said, and the heat of his hands was gone from her. An eddy of cool air raised gooseflesh on her half-bared back.
She folded herself up, knees against her chest, ankles crossed, trying to school her rebellious body into obedience. It was too much, this lust for him; she was certain to forget herself.
He returned to the bedside with a lamp, and she realized he had also removed his boots. He set the glass-globed light on a table close at hand, then pulled the bedcovers back. Jane scooted from the foot of the bed onto the cool crispness of linen sheets, then watched as he again began to divest himself of his clothing.
After sliding his braces from his shoulders, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and hesitated. “You can look away if you like. I won’t be offended.”
“Not likely, Kirkpatrick. We’ve bought and paid for each other, and I want the full show.”
Though her face went hot, his expression looked pleased. Oh, that Jane, was how she would translate it into words.
That was fine for now. Amusement was fine. The trousers still came down.
He looked away, as though giving her a chance to express shock or horror without the additional embarrassment of his gaze. “No need to be bashful, Kirkpatrick,” she said. “I’ve read some very scandalous books.”
Not that woodcuts and etchings had prepared her for the wonder of living flesh, of her big, handsome husband standing next to the marital bed with a massive cockstand. The dark hairs that dusted his legs, chest, abdomen all seemed to guide her eyes—there.
“Dare I ask where you got hold of these books?”
“A lady must have some secrets,” Jane said.
Gently trailing her fingers over his length, she explored him by lamplight and fire glow as the world went gray outside. His skin was hot and satin-sleek, smooth over a startling hardness. When she stroked up, then down, he gave a little moan and rocked on his feet.
Interesting. Enticing. Would he pounce upon her now? She unfurled from her huddle to face him, kneeling on the bed.
No, he eased himself into the bed slowly. Deliberately. As though he thought a sudden movement would make her bolt.
Never. She sank to one side, face-to-face with him, letting her loosened garments fall how they liked. This close, she could see him as never before. The lamplight pulled hints of red out of his dark hair. It revealed faint freckles across his cheekbones, plus one at the corner of his mouth.
She kissed it gently, placing her seal upon his lips.
When she pulled back to gauge his reaction, he was smiling at her. In the yellow-orange light of the lamp and fire, his blue eyes looked tawny as a lion’s. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing you need to thank me for.” She paused. “Yet.”
Kirkpatrick took this as permission to proceed, as she’d intended. He returned her kiss; first a peck, then a lingering press of the lips, and then a sweet, quick, openmouthed kiss. She threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him to her, and what was sweet and quick became long and hungry, and he covered her, bracing himself upon his elbows. Her gown and stays had worked their way into a pointless barrier of cloth, and with a few kicks on her part and shoves on his, finally, they were skin to skin all down their lengths.
His mouth was hot on hers; the hairs of his body tickled and woke her skin. The world fell away, so there was nothing but flame light and the bed and the inevitability of their joining.
When he entered her, it hurt. She could not suppress a gasp. But his fingers cradled her face and danced over her breasts, unknotting the pain. Soon it was entirely unraveled and a new kind of tension began to coil.
Lust. Passion. These words could not capture the wonder of the act. Each long slide of his body made her covet him more. She dug her nails into his shoulders, his back, pulling him ever deeper.
The pleasure built, slowly but inevitably, until it became quick, eager. Frantic. Before she expected it, it overpowered her, and she trembled from the shock of it, wrapping her arms around his sweat-slick back and crying out. “Oh, Edmund,” she moaned. “Edmund, I love you.”
He froze: propped on his elbows, half-in and half-out of her body. “What?”
At once, she suspected she had made an error. “Never mind. Keep going.”
He did not. How could a man hold himself so still like that? How could he just . . . stop? If he had stopped before she reached her
peak, she would have crawled over him, used him, done anything to find her pleasure.
His arms were corded with the effort of holding himself away from her. “You called me Edmund. You’ve never done that before.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“You said . . .” He turned his head away. “You love me?”
“I believe people say all sorts of ridiculous things during intercourse.”
“Is it untrue, then?” His eyes met hers, then slid away again. So blue; so beautiful.
“No,” she said on a sigh.
The slick heat between them had turned clammy. He levered himself up, then slipped from her body. Jane caught a glimpse of his naked form before he tugged part of the sheet around himself. The long, hard staff had sunk, hardly rigid anymore.
So this was what the truth would do. She had meant to keep her feelings a secret until she was sure of his, but she hadn’t expected the revelation to kill his pleasure so completely.
She shivered with what should have been the remnants of passion, but instead felt like a bone-deep chill.
He pulled in a long, deep breath, pressing a fist against his abdomen. “I didn’t know.”
Then he turned back to her, drew the sheet up over her nude body, and sat back against the high wooden headboard.
“I didn’t know,” he repeated, eyes fixed upon the bed hangings. “I’m so sorry.”
Jane had not thought anything could increase her humiliation. It had grown so large and palpable, it was almost like a third person in the room. Lying between them, laughing at her. Oh, you foolish girl.
But she was wrong: the apology made the humiliation worse. The apology meant that he had not expected her to love him. That he didn’t want her to love him. And why would that be?
Because there wasn’t a prayer of him returning her feeling.
She needed every scrap of her acting ability to don a polite mask. “Don’t worry about it, Kirkpatrick. It won’t be a problem.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You may say that now.” His voice threaded, muffled, through his fingers. “But we will come to want very different things.”
Jane would have very much liked to end the conversation right then. But just as at Sheringbrook’s table, the game was not truly over, even after the cards had been played. There was still the question of payment. Kirkpatrick had gotten less than he should have in taking a wife with no dowry. But he had also received more than he’d bargained for when he’d learned that wife loved him. And it seemed he did not like the surprise.
So she must rake the coin of her love back. Hide it away like guineas in a miser’s purse. “I shan’t trouble you with messy emotions; you needn’t worry about that. We can go on just as you expected.” Whatever that is.
His hand fell to rest atop the sheets. His throat flexed, as though he was swallowing whatever he meant to say. Then after a long pause—“I’m honored. And I will do my best to make you a good husband.”
Her smile felt fragile. “I’ve no doubt of it.” No one doubted Kirkpatrick’s goodness, or the fact that he always exerted himself to make women happy.
He returned her smile, looking relieved.
That same sweet, slow smile had captured her—what had it been, eighteen years ago? She’d been no more than three years old; her mother, newly widowed and grieving. So Jane had been sent away, to visit her half-grown cousin Xavier while he was between school terms. A handsome friend was visiting him, too. Jane had been sad, and the older boy had been kind, and she had set aside the whole of her grateful heart for him.
She had been in love with Kirkpatrick for years before she realized he was just as kind to everyone else. By then, though, loving him was a habit she could not shake.
“Thank you,” he repeated, and the politeness was just as dreadful as the apology had been.
He excused himself then, slipping from the bed to pass through the connecting door she had observed earlier.
This was to be her bedchamber, then. Not theirs.
As he left her behind, sated yet achingly hollow, Jane wondered whether being married to the man she loved was the best thing in the world, or the worst.
Chapter 5
Concerning a Pulverized Breakfast
They met again over breakfast.
Edmund had left Jane alone the night before. After the shock of her revelation, it seemed a great unkindness to return and try to pretend she had never spoken of love. Or to bring up the subject again, knowing that he couldn’t reply with an honest “I love you” in return.
Love had not been part of their marriage bargain. In marrying her, he knew he was taking too much just by claiming her body; now her heart tipped the balance irrevocably askew.
He had no idea how to right matters. It was like being handed a chess piece and being told to strategize, when one had been expecting to batter one’s body in a rousing game of cricket.
It was like being handed a flower he knew he could not keep alive.
But somehow he must make this marriage work. The morning would be different; better and easier. In the breakfast parlor, they had all the armor of daylight and clothing and food with which to busy their hands and mouths. Surely they could chatter and be friendly, just as they had for years.
As they faced each other, standing near the doorway, he mucked about for something to say. “Did you sleep well, Jane?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You want to discuss sleep?”
“I just thought you—”
“I’m fine.” Her cheeks had gone a little pink. “The night passed tolerably well.”
“Tolerably?” He could not explain why this pale word stung.
“Yes. Don’t get huffy, Kirkpatrick. ‘Tolerably’ isn’t so bad.” With a fingertip, she scratched at the pin-striped wallpaper. “This room is pretty.”
He accepted the offered turn of subject. “It’s my favorite room in the house.”
She regarded the row of gleaming salvers on the sideboard. “So I see. I never took you for a glutton.”
A surprised laugh popped out. “Not because of the food. It’s—well. I like the feel of the room.”
Half an explanation, though in itself it was true. Cream-walled and high-windowed, the breakfast parlor managed to catch sunlight even on the smoky, dim mornings of late autumn and early winter.
But it was also the room in which he greeted each morning; the table at which he celebrated passing through another endless night.
Years ago, he had replaced the family portraits hanging here with some old flowery paintings that had been stored in the attics. The subsequent improvement in his mood was so great that he had proceeded to replace every portrait in the house with pictures of flowers, or dogs, or hunting scenes. Anything without a familiar face.
“A pity you like it so much.” Jane’s murmur broke into his thoughts. “I’d have liked to redecorate this room in the Egyptian style. Gold leaf and lacquer everywhere. Wouldn’t you prefer salvers with Sphinx heads, too?”
His expression must have betrayed his horror.
Jane rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Kirkpatrick, you have no sense of humor before breakfast. Eat up, you old maid.”
“There are so many things wrong with what you’ve just called me,” he murmured in her ear. She turned still pinker, but shrugged him away.
Good. Friendly, just as they’d always been. Maybe—maybe this would work.
He turned his attention to the salvers. On his own, Edmund usually ate no more than toast; the pain in his stomach made him eschew richer fare. But this morning, the kitchen had also provided beef and eggs, muffins and ham, tea and coffee and chocolate.
Edmund realized that his servants had no notion what their new mistress preferred. Nor did he.
“May I serve you a plate?” He offered Jane a friendly smile.
She shrugged that off, too. “No need. I’m used to doing for myself.” As she lifted each cover in turn, the sunlight through the east-facing windows ca
ught the emerald in her wedding ring.
Edmund piled some of everything on his own plate, giving her implicit permission to take as much as she wanted. She settled on a boiled egg and a bit of ham, then seated herself at the foot of the small rectangular table. They could fit as many as eight around it; a man and wife and a healthy brood of children.
Pain gnawed at his insides with sharp teeth, and he nudged his plate away as he sat down.
A distraction, then. “You look lovely this morning,” he said. “That color suits you.”
Quick as a thought, she ducked beneath the table. “Does it? What color would you say it is?”
For a moment, he only blinked at the chair where his wife had been. “Um. Jane. Jane?” He tried to think how to tell her baronesses don’t climb under the table without the footman overhearing.
Her voice sounded muffled from beneath the tabletop. “I just wondered whether you noticed what color I was wearing when you said I looked lovely in it.”
“Most amusing,” he replied. “Ha. Give your breakfast a try.”
“You didn’t really notice my gown, did you? You just said something that you thought sounded pretty.”
He should have remembered this about her from the night he proposed: her intolerance of common compliments. Considering how willing she was to play a part, she ought to be more forgiving of such everyday deceit. Besides, what sort of woman questioned a compliment instead of accepting it?
Probably, said a small voice in his head, the sort of woman who doesn’t get many.
“Your gown is green,” he guessed.
Jane straightened up. Her light brown hair had become ruffled by her upside-down jaunt beneath the furniture; her expression was just as rumpled.
But her morning gown was green. A sort of pale apple-y color. “See? Lovely,” Edmund said, hiding his relief.
“A lucky guess,” she muttered.
He ignored this incisive comment; instead, he skimmed his eyes over her, looking for something pleasant to say that she would not be able to puncture or pick apart. The apple-green shade did suit her hair and skin, and the gown’s simple line flattered her slim form. Had her maid advised her on its choice? He remembered Jane nearly drowning in ruffles and bright colors in the past.
Season for Scandal Page 4
