Jane suffered another twinge of guilt. “You can come back to the bedroom.”
She set one hand on his back, then snatched it away. Perhaps too much touching wasn’t wise. It would be so easy to give in to him, but not now when he was drunk.
He rolled over with a speed that startled her, given his inebriation. The hand that closed around her wrist seemed to belong to a sober man, too. “What did you say?”
Jane licked dry lips and fought to steady her voice. She wondered if he noted her racing pulse. “You can’t be comfortable in here. It’s cold, and the bed’s too short. You can sleep with me.” She paused, although the disappointment in his face told her that he understood what she was offering—and what she wasn’t. “Just sleep.”
He let her go and turned on his side away from her again. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Don’t be a child, Hugh,” she said impatiently.
“You said you wouldn’t nag.”
“I changed my mind.” She caught his hand and tugged with no result. She tugged harder. And again, until she was panting.
Hugh shifted onto his back and surveyed her with weary displeasure. “Don’t be a henwit, Jane. You can’t shift thirteen stone of unwilling man.”
“I can try.” She braced her feet against the floor and tugged again. With as little success.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Or you could cooperate.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you can stop staring at my…bosom.”
His eyebrows arched in a supercilious expression. He looked less drunk by the minute. “When I made that damned fool arrangement with you, I never said I wouldn’t look. Or is this a new rule?”
She flattened her lips and let him go. “I’m trying to be sensible.”
“No, you’re trying to torture me.”
“No, I’m not,” she said hotly, picking up her shawl and knotting it around her neck.
“That’s a shame. Because you could win a cup for that.”
That hurt. She bit back a cross response and grabbed the edge of the threadbare blankets. “Move over.”
He sat up and regarded her balefully. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to keep you warm. I don’t want to be a widow before I’m a wife.”
“I’m as tough as old boots.”
Actually even their short—and chaste—marriage proved that wasn’t the case. Oh, physically he could take on all comers, but she’d learned that his feelings weren’t nearly as impervious to pain as he’d like them to be.
But it was late, and she had enough trouble on her hands already, without arguing the finer points of his nature. “It’s my fault you’re sleeping in the cold.”
“I get by. Anyway there’s no room.”
“If you lie on your side and squeeze up against the wall, there is.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You’re playing with fire, Jane.”
“I trust to your honor.”
“An inebriated man has no honor.”
She didn’t believe that either. “Hugh, I’m sleeping next to you. We can do it on this inconvenient contraption, or we can do it in the other room where we’ll both be comfortable.”
“Speak for yourself.” He groaned and set his feet flat on the floor. “You are a pain, Jane.”
Jane stepped back. His voice was so full of rueful affection, that she didn’t even mind him calling her a pain. She extended her hand. “I’m glad you saw sense.”
“You won’t be so smug, if I have a dream about snuggling up to my dear little bride, and you wake up to find me heaving about on top of you.”
She gave another of those delicious shivers. Right now, that didn’t sound nearly as threatening as he imagined. But this wasn’t the moment. She wanted him fully conscious when he claimed her.
Soon…
“You’re so tired that the second your head hits the pillow, you’ll start snoring.”
He still looking discontented, but he took her hand and stood. “I wouldn’t bet on it, sweetheart.”
The endearment was all irony, so it shouldn’t make her melt. But she couldn’t help smiling, as she collected the candle and led him into the bedroom.
Immediately the fire in the grate made her feel warmer. She let Hugh go, blew out the candle, and made for the bed. After a hesitation, he followed. Without meeting her eyes, he lay down about a foot away.
For a long moment, they remained unspeaking and flat on their backs. Then with another of those heavy sighs, Hugh reached out to wrap an arm around her and haul her across into the shelter of his body. Jane released the breath she’d been holding and curled against his side. Closing her eyes, she drifted to sleep, warm and strangely happy.
*
Chapter Seventeen
*
As Garson swam up from the murky depths of troubled sleep, the first thing he knew was that some buffoon was using the inside of his skull as kettle drums. The second thing—so close upon the first that it was almost the front runner—was that a soft, round breast filled his left hand.
This didn’t make immediate sense, but the percussionist’s enthusiasm beggared connected thought. Without opening his eyes, he gave a soft grunt of satisfaction and squeezed.
The woman in his arms responded with a sleepy sigh and pushed back so her rump pressed into his stirring cock. Despite his headache, he recognized that this was an unusually promising beginning to the day. But long and bitter experience counseled against opening his eyes.
For more than three years, Garson had dreamed that a lovely woman lay beside him, only to wake to odious reality. During most of that time, the woman had ruler-straight black hair and eyes the color of the Cornish sea. Over the last few days, though, his fantasies had undergone a change in casting.
Devil take him, when had that happened? Suddenly, even through his pounding head, it seemed important to get this straight.
He didn’t mistake his current companion for his lost love. Nor did he imagine that he was dreaming. His wife’s physical presence, warm and drowsing, was too vivid to be anything but real.
His eyes cracked open to darkness, although instinct told him dawn wasn’t far off. Inhaling Jane’s rich scent, he buried his face in her hair. The temptation to take this closeness to the next level rose, along with his unruly dick.
After all, the deal was that if she invited him to her bed, he could claim his husbandly rights. While patches of last night were deuced fuzzy in his recollection, he vaguely remembered her insisting that he joined her.
But his mouth tasted like the floor of a stable, and he badly needed a wash, and he wasn’t sure whether his wife was merely acting the Good Samaritan. Much as he wanted Jane, the risk of shattering the fragile trust they’d built over the last days was unacceptable.
While his conscience mightn’t have woken when he did, it was vocal now. What a bloody fool he’d been last night. He hadn’t been so bosky since his wild days at Oxford. He’d hoped he’d learned more sense since then.
Clearly not.
Half seas over as he still was, he was in no fit state to do Jane justice. After that incendiary and damned frustrating drive yesterday, he’d felt sick with self-pity. One drink in the shabby pub he’d stumbled into near the river had turned into another. And another. Before he knew it, the pub was closing, the world was reeling, and he was staggering home through dark streets to seek his lumpy bed.
Except when he’d got back, Jane had rescued him from his prison cell. More, she’d treated him with a tolerant affection he hadn’t deserved.
She was a jewel among women, his Jane.
Garson should get up, go back to the dressing room, wash, shave, dig out some clothes that didn’t stink of smoke and drink. But his late night weighed on him, it was cozy where he was, and he had his wife in his embrace. He’d get up in a few minutes, but right now he couldn’t summon the will to leave.
She was a luscious bundle, his Jane. Who knew that she’d fit so nicely into the space nex
t to his heart? Who knew that he’d ever think of Jane Norris as his Jane?
*
When Jane woke, it was late and she was alone—and disappointed that she was. A few times during the night she’d stirred, restless to be sharing a bed with someone for the first time. But there was something delightful about having a large male body pressed tight to her back and powerful male arms holding her close. She’d hoped Hugh might wake her with more kisses, like the kisses he’d given her yesterday. She’d even harbored a cowardly wish that events might pursue their course and save her from having to say the words inviting him to take her.
But it seemed if she wanted him, she had to tell him.
She set her hand where he’d lain. Ice cold. He must have been up for a while. She glanced around the room, but nothing hinted that Jane Norris had slept with a man. Even if she remained as pure as ever.
Almost. Heated reminiscence rippled through her, as she recalled the shocking, delightful things Hugh had done in the coach yesterday. Wickedly, she wondered what other marvels her husband could show her.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she rolled over and buried her head in his pillow. Immediately she inhaled Hugh’s rich scent. She’d know that scent anywhere. In the carnal sense, she mightn’t yet be his wife, but somewhere she’d crossed a barrier. He was no longer just her childhood friend, but closer to her than anyone else in the world.
*
Garson’s wife appeared in the doorway, neat as usual, beautiful hair constrained in a formal knot. How his fingers itched to release that glorious mane. He’d only once seen it unbound, on their calamitous wedding night. But even in a parlous state after yesterday’s overindulgence, he feared that if he started with undoing her hair, he’d move to undoing other things. Who knew where they’d end up?
He laid down his newspaper and summoned a smile, even as he winced at the bright light. “Good morning, Jane.”
Sunlight poured through the mullioned windows and added a touch of summer to the pleasant parlor. The light caught russet highlights in her hair, reminding him of the passion concealed under that demure manner. A passion he prayed she’d soon share with him.
He wanted to cross the room and take her in his arms. But he was uncomfortably aware that he’d been less than gallant last night, and some good behavior was called for.
“Good morning, Hugh,” she said with a faint blush. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than I should.” He rose from his armchair and pulled a dining chair out for her. The vestiges of a headache lingered, but several cups of the Red Lion’s strong coffee kept the worst aftereffects at bay. “I’ll ring for breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting down.
While the servants set up their meal then left, Garson composed an apology. But before he could speak, Jane gestured toward his full plate with her teacup. “That’s more than I thought you’d want. I expect you have a beast of a head.”
He heard no hint of criticism. “You’re used to seeing the effects of drunkenness?”
“I had to deal with the farmhands after the harvest. I may not have enjoyed much sophisticated society recently, but running the estate meant I saw plenty of real life.”
“I sometimes forget how capable you are.” He went back to his sirloin and potatoes. “You’ve had to take on so much, Jane, and I admire you for doing it with such pluck and efficiency.”
Her blush deepened, which was odd. She usually only blushed when he complimented her looks. Although she looked very pretty this morning, even in that gray rag of a dress.
“Thank you. I didn’t have much choice.”
“You still did a fine job in a difficult situation. I take my hat off to you.”
She set down her cup and began to butter her roll. “I enjoyed restoring the estate to prosperity, although I needed more capital to make a big difference. Papa lost interest in Cavell Court long before he fell sick.”
“It must have been hard work, though, and not what you’d been raised to do.”
“I already knew quite a lot. Because I was the plain sister, Papa saw no harm in it, when I went to the cattle sales with him or helped the steward with the accounts.”
Garson bit back a protest at the word “plain,” even if he’d once been guilty of thinking it. He still marveled that he’d missed her potential. After all, he was accounted a man with an eye for a pretty woman. That day in Dorset, he’d been in such a blue funk about contracting a loveless marriage. He’d been too het up to see that once Jane recovered her spirits, she’d be something special. Until now, he’d always believed Morwenna was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen, but his wife, pink-cheeked and sweet as she was right now, gave his true love a run for her money.
The idea felt vaguely disloyal and made him shift uncomfortably. Not that Morwenna gave a fig for what he thought, he bitterly admitted. “I hope in time you’ll come to think of Beardsley Hall as your home.”
Jane’s shy smile raked across his heart. “Thank you.”
“When was your last visit?” He should remember. But then he’d had no idea Lord Sefton’s quiet, bookish daughter would grow up to become his bride.
“Papa brought the family up for a hunting party when I was twelve.”
“Was I away at university?”
“No, you were there, but you and your friends were far too top lofty to pay attention to annoying little girls.”
He laughed at her mocking tone. “Top lofty at eighteen? I doubt my conceit was justified.”
The twitch of her lips sparked a sudden urge to kiss her. Except if he did, he wouldn’t want to stop. He was well aware that while last night had stretched their bargain almost to breaking, he was still bound to his promise that he’d kiss her only once a day.
“At eighteen, you were considerably more on your dignity than you are now.”
He suspected it was true. “I’m sorry I was a snotty nosed little toad, Jane.”
“You were never little.” The twitch blossomed into a full smile. “Even at that age, you were a young Hercules.”
He stared at her, grappling with his wife having the temerity to call him a toad, if not in so many words. Then he burst out laughing. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“Actually you were very kind.” She touched his hand. “You always have been a kind man, Hugh.”
He caught her before she could withdraw. “So I didn’t break your tender heart?”
“Oh, you did that. You were my hero, and it was pretty clear that I was getting under your feet. But to be fair to you, I was absurdly shy and silly.”
“Never.” He raised her hand and kissed it. Her fingers fluttered in his, but she didn’t try to pull away.
“I’m still shy,” she said softly.
He took the words as a warning—or perhaps an apology. “I know, sweetheart. But never silly.”
The endearment made her gaze fall. “I can be silly.”
“So can I.” It was time to apologize for his drunken blunderings. “I’m sorry I was such a damned lout last night.”
This time, Jane’s smile conveyed secret amusement. “You weren’t so bad.”
“Still I owe you better than rolling home drunk as a wheelbarrow, then stumbling around in a stupor and waking you up.”
To his regret, she withdrew her hand and poured him some more coffee. He noted that she made it as he liked, with a dash of milk and no sugar. This honeymoon that was no honeymoon at all drove him mad with frustration, but it had its benefits. They grew easier in one another’s company, and more accustomed to one another’s habits.
“You were rather charming.”
Not so he recalled. “Was I?”
“Yes. Until last night, I didn’t know you had a whimsical bone in your body.”
Whimsical? Was that a good thing? He didn’t think so. “You’re truly not angry?”
She sipped her tea. “No.”
Her forbearance had him rushing into explanations. “I didn’t set out to get foxed. Bu
t after that drive back from Stonehenge, I had to clear my head.”
She arched her eyebrows. “So you drank?”
“It sounds asinine, I know.” He shifted awkwardly. “I assure you that I’m a man of regular habits. I don’t make a practice of staggering about in my cups.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, still with a trace of irony.
He frowned. “Jane, are you teasing me?”
That luscious mouth pursed in thought, but when she met his eyes, he caught a flash of laughter. “Only a little.”
He was unable to resist, although usually he strategized when to take his kiss. He surged across the table and snatched her up. Her breath escaped in a startled oof, and her lips moved against his with an innocent enthusiasm that reminded him of their first kiss.
But not for long. Despite the awkward position, caught between her chair and the table, she twisted her body into his. Her arms slid around his neck, as she stretched up to kiss him back.
When her soft mouth opened, his tongue dipped inside. He made a deep sound of satisfaction and kicked the chair out of the way. Vaguely through the blood hammering in his head, he heard the thud as it tipped over.
Linking his hands loosely around her waist, he drew back to look down into her face. He loved to see her all flushed and ruffled, and at a loss for the self-possession she’d cultivated as mistress of Cavell Court. “You’re so lovely, Jane.”
“Thank you.” For once, she didn’t argue. “Kissing must be good for the complexion.”
He gave a grunt of laughter. “There should be more of it, then. Purely for therapeutic reasons, of course.”
“Of course,” she said drily, arms still around his neck.
Garson wanted more, but there was something to be said for loitering in a patch of sunlight and flirting with a comely wench. And he had plans for the day ahead. “You have a treat in store, wife.”
He liked calling Jane his wife. The evocative word planted all sorts of pleasantly masculine feelings in his chest. Pride. Possession. A surprisingly powerful affection. With every day, he liked her more. Good God, she didn’t even nag a fellow when he toddled home, soused as a sailor. She was a good sport, his bride, and nowhere near as prim and prune-faced as he’d feared she might have become over the hard, lonely years. She’d be a wonderful mother. Heat percolated in his veins as he imagined making those children.
Lord Garson’s Bride Page 12
