Julia Justiss

by Wicked Wager

  His rigid shaft, still sheathed deep within her, leapt in response. Murmuring in what sounded like approval, she quickened the pace, pulled his head down to lick his lips with greedy impatience. His member tightening at each stroke of her tongue, though he craved the satisfaction of hearing and feeling her dissolve into climax around him again, he wasn’t sure he could hold off long enough the explosion building within.

  But as before, her desire spiraled quickly, and within a few moments her even breathing had deteriorated to ragged gasps. He reached down to cradle her buttocks and bring her closer, increasing the force and depth of each thrust. And seconds later, her fingers once again clenched on his shoulders and her body convulsed.

  Like the most exquisite starburst, the tension within him exploded, firing every nerve with sensations that lingered, scintillating and shimmering, in long slow aftershocks. As rapture cooled to simmering hum, he fought the urge to sink into blissful unconsciousness.

  Knowing how little time he had left to savor the incredible gift she’d just given him, he cradled her against him, tangling his fingers in the damp tendrils that had escaped the pins of her coiffure. Until he realized that the small, slight tremors now shaking her body were not the aftermath of passion—but stifled sobs.

  Anguish skewered his chest. He wanted to comfort her, offer words of affection, but the syllables clogged in his throat. He could only hug her more tightly while moisture filled his own eyes and dripped down into her hair.

  He wasn’t sure how long they stayed thus, but some time later, with a shuddering sigh, Jenna gently pushed herself upright. With quaint dignity, on hands and knees she backed away, removing herself from him—and him from her—until beyond the sheltering branches, she stood and smoothed down her skirts, turning away while she tidied herself to give him privacy to straighten his own garments.

  He wished rather desperately to say something, but could not decide what. She’d likely dismiss as too facile or calculated the endearments on the edge of his tongue, however genuine and honestly he felt them. She might even resent them, believing he had no right to offer, nor she to hear, any words of affection.

  As she remained silent, in the end he said nothing, either.

  His humiliation deepened at knowing he was going to have to half-crawl from under the branches until he could reach a handhold far enough from the tree’s base to be able to lever himself upright.

  But before he could initiate that procedure, Jenna leaned closer and offered her hand. With his other arm braced against the tree and her pulling, he was able to stand up.

  Touched by that kindness, an ember of hope stirred. Maybe she wasn’t going to despise him after all.

  But she did nothing further to encourage that optimism, turning her back on him again once he was upright and walking with quick steps back toward the meadow.

  He limped after, stopping her with a touch before she could exit the curtain of greenery. Though she flinched, at least she did not pull away.

  “I believe our assailant rode off immediately after he fired the shot, but let’s be prudent.” As they had just been most imprudent. “I’d prefer that we avoid the road and make our way downhill under the cover of these woods.”

  “Will that not be more…difficult for you?” she asked without looking at him.

  She meant his leg, of course. “I can manage,” he replied shortly. “Also, though the coachman and footmen seemed as startled by the shot as we, just in case someone at Fairchild House is involved, I shall tell them I’ve concluded it was a hunter’s stray bullet.”

  “As you wish,” she said, and stood aside to let him lead the way.

  As you wish… So many things he wished for. That he could have been as strong and upright of character and frame as the man she’d loved. That she might have looked at him after their coupling with joy, or at least satisfaction, in her eyes. That she would look at him at all, now.

  That she might not banish him forever.

  The silence in which they made their slow descent over the often steep, rock-strewn ground did not give Tony much reason to believe any of his wishes would be granted. Not until they reached the inn yard did Jenna turn to him and say softly, “Thank you…for keeping me safe.”

  Before he could reply—even if he’d known what to reply—Sancha spotted them and came running, throwing her arms about her mistress with a welcoming cry. And then the footmen appeared, babbling questions, and the coachman approached, wishing to know whether they intended to continue their journey.

  Deciding that until they solved the mystery of the attack, it would not be wise to take her into unfamiliar territory, after answering the inquiries with the story they’d agreed upon, Tony told the coachman to ready the carriage for a return to the metropolis. Then Sancha, her thanks ringing in his ears, shooed him away to partake of some ale and hot meat pies, telling him she had bespoken a private parlor where she could assist her mistress to bathe her face and repair the ravages crawling under pine trees had wrought in her gown and hair.

  How differently might Sancha treat him, he wondered with a grim twist to his lips, if she knew what else had transpired beneath that shelter of trees?

  From the moment Sancha spotted them in the inn yard, they had no opportunity to exchange a private word. Once the ladies descended from their private room, Jenna announcing she felt quite fit for the return journey, Tony could do little but summon his horse and content himself with riding alongside the carriage, still wondering how Jenna would deal with him now.

  Don’t think about it, he told himself. As he had on the eve of a battle, he reminded himself that what was going to transpire would happen when and whither it would, and could not be changed by any amount of worry.

  That rationale gave him no more comfort now than it had in his army days.

  He struggled as well to beat out of his brain the searing images of Jenna making love to him. Faith, though he’d known in his bones since practically the moment he met her that she would prove a passionate, inventive lover, reality far exceeded his fondest imaginings. He would indeed be the luckiest bastard in Christendom were this morning to mark the start of a long-term liaison.

  He might even dream, could he bedazzle her as much as she’d bedazzled him, of coaxing her to marry him, permanently solving with one blow both his monetary difficulties and the deep need that seemed to have rooted itself in him to keep Jenna Montague close.

  Ah, to think of knowing she’d be waiting every night in his bed! He had to grin. ’Twould be enough to inspire a man to frequent naps in broad daylight.

  But, he thought, his grin fading, her rigid silence and the silent weeping after their joining more likely signaled that, as he feared, Jenna had regretted their impulsive coupling from the moment the heat of passion cooled. The fact that he’d, however feebly, sought to prevent it probably wasn’t going to help him salvage something of their relationship.

  Much as he’d love to keep her as his lover, he’d settle for trying to recapture the teasing, semiadversarial relationship they’d had before this journey.

  He would, he realized, agree to virtually anything, as long as she continued to see him.

  Just when, he thought bleakly, had Jenna Montague become so essential to his well-being that the thought of living the rest of his days without gazing on her face or hearing her voice had come to seem intolerable?

  Idiot, he castigated himself, to have stumbled so far down that road, when he’d known from the beginning that, given their history, he was lucky she even tolerated him.

  But he’d have to coerce her into doing at least that. Though he might not yet be able to prove it, all his instincts told him Jenna Montague was still in danger. He intended to protect her whether she wanted his protection or not, until he’d removed whatever threatened her.

  His eyes narrowed as he recalled the chilling image of the rifle bullet buried in the tree trunk just over her head. She might not be so lucky next time.

  Their midmorning return j
ourney took much longer than the passage out, now that the streets were filled with their usual complement of merchants, urchins, vehicles and pedestrians. It was nearly luncheon when Jenna’s coach finally halted before the entry to Fairchild House.

  “I urge you to reconsider staying here,” he said in a murmur as he waited to hand her down.

  “Nothing and no one will drive me away,” she replied. After hesitating, as if not wishing his assistance but unable to manufacture a plausible public reason why she would suddenly refuse it, she took the arm he offered.

  Silence strolled with them up the stairs.

  Somehow he was going to have to get her alone, make her talk to him and try to repair the ragged breach their lovemaking, born of her desperation and his desire, had ripped in the fragile fabric of their relationship.

  But as they entered the hallway, they were met by the butler—followed by Colonel Madison Vernier.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “MY LADY, YOU ARE HOME much earlier than expected!” Manson exclaimed. “I’d just been telling the colonel you were to be out of London for the day.”

  “We had an unforeseen…change in plan,” Jenna said.

  “How fortunate for me,” the colonel said, bowing to her. “’Tis a delight to see you again, Lady Fairchild—and Mr….” he let the sentence trail off.

  “Viscount Nelthorpe, formerly Captain Lord Nelthorpe of the First Dragoons,” Jenna said.

  The colonel’s assessing glance turned to approval. “The Royals, eh? A pleasure to meet you, my lord. A good show your troopers made of it at Mont St. Jean.”

  Dispensing with the lie that he was pleased to meet Vernier—especially not lying in wait for Jenna in her front hallway—Tony replied, “Not nearly as impressive as your stand at Chateau Hougoumont.”

  Vernier waved away the praise. “Am I interrupting your plans?” he asked, giving them a speculative look.

  “Lord Nelthorpe was just leaving,” Jenna replied. “I’m a bit…fatigued after my journey this morning, and was about to rest.”

  Perhaps it would be better if he did not attempt to talk with her now, Tony thought, damping down the hurt spiraling through him at her dismissal. She probably needed time to sort out her thoughts.

  Some distance wouldn’t hurt his perspective either.

  “I am disappointed, for Lady Charlotte sent me to see if you would join her, Lord Riverton and I for nuncheon,” Vernier was saying. “Actually,” he added with a far too attractive grin, “I asked if I might include you, and she readily agreed. We shall be devastated at your absence.”

  Jenna paused, obviously considering the offer despite her alleged fatigue. “I should hate to disappoint my dear friend.”

  “We must treat with tender care those we allow close to us,” Vernier agreed.

  Color crept into Jenna’s face. So she cannot dismiss me so easily, Tony thought, somewhat mollified.

  “Indeed,” Jenna said, not looking at Tony. “If you do not mind waiting, after I change my gown and refresh myself from the…rigors of road, I should be happy to join you.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Vernier replied. “Lord Nelthorpe, I hope to see you again. Thank you, Manson, I can find my way back to the parlor.” With a bow to them both, he walked away.

  Tony ought to be equally polite and take his leave, but the imperative to get some sense of how relations now stood between them made him plant his boots in the center of the hallway and stay there.

  Finally she was forced to glance at him, though she still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Lord Nelthorpe, thank you again for your care of me today.”

  “For all of it?” he asked, knowing it probably wasn’t wise to force matters but compelled to ask.

  Her face colored. “I shall have to…consider matters carefully. We shall talk later. For now, I bid you good day.”

  His pulse leapt and he released a shaky breath. So she wasn’t going to repudiate him completely—not yet.

  “Until later, then, Lady Fairchild,” he agreed, and bowed himself out.

  TAKING A COVERT GLANCE over her shoulder from her vantage on the first floor landing, Jenna watched Lord Nelthorpe limp out the door Manson held open for him.

  God in heaven, what had she done?

  With a sigh, she continued down the hallway. She’d thought once she reached the sanctuary of her chamber she’d be able to pawn off everyone with a plea for the solitude in which to compose herself after the shocking events of the morning—avoiding even a solicitous Sancha. Nor was she sure she was ready for company yet.

  But she’d had plenty of solitude during the long carriage ride back. And Colonel Vernier’s unexpected arrival would allow her to implement the tentative conclusions she’d reached during that journey.

  She’d spent the first hour with her face still burning in shame at her brazen boldness. There could be little doubt what Anthony Nelthorpe thought of her now. A woman whose words proclaimed virtue but whose acts proved wantonness. She’d virtually confirmed his swaggering claim that, given the attraction between them, she wouldn’t have resisted him for long, had he persisted in trying to compromise her all those years ago at Badajoz.

  No, her actions today made her face what she’d been denying since that morning. Having lured her to that deserted location to, he claimed, nurse injured women being brought there from the city, Nelthorpe proceeded to ask for her hand—and the fortune she’d just inherited from her father. Having long been attracted to each other, they would deal well together, he promised. And added, lest she prove reluctant to accept his offer, that he didn’t intend to let her depart until she granted him her hand—and her favors.

  Under the guise of acquiescing, she’d been able to wrench free and impress him with the finality of her refusal by drawing a knife blade across his throat. But in her heart, she’d known that had he really meant to hold her there against her will, with his superior size and strength he could have wrestled the knife from her and overpowered her resistance. He hadn’t, even in that instance, been quite as black a villain as she had always tried to paint him.

  Afterward, Garrett had intervened to insure Nelthorpe was not able to approach her, sparing her the necessity of confronting him and her contradictory feelings.

  But oh, how priggishly certain she’d remained of her own moral superiority, looking down on Nelthorpe for his reputed lapses into dissipation! So proud of her own vaunted self-control. Despite the clear warnings she’d received in their last few meetings, she’d persisted in feeling arrogantly confident of her ability to resist the attraction between them.

  This morning’s incident had given her a more penetrating insight into the flaws of her own character than she’d really wanted, showing her to be just as capable of such lapses and just as lacking in self-control, as Nelthorpe himself.

  True, her thinking had been clouded by a sudden paroxysm of grief, Nelthorpe’s suspicions forcing her to confront again all that had been taken from her. Just when it seemed that she was beginning to pull free from the morass in which she’d been dragged after the double blows of losing Garrett and his child, anguish struck her unawares, sucked her back into the vortex of pain and despair in which she’d spent most of the hellish first months after Waterloo.

  Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever be completely free of it. Only to feel in the next moment a stronger guilt that she would ever wish to lose sight of the enormity of what she had lost in losing Garrett.

  Pushing that thought aside, she made herself focus on the implications of her lapse in behavior. But more troubling than the lack of self-discipline that had led her into his arms was the stark realization that, even in anguish, she would not have lain with a man for whom she cared nothing.

  She couldn’t, for instance, imagine having reached out to Lane Fairchild, despite his consideration for her.

  So she had to admit there was something about Nelthorpe that attracted her on a level deeper, more fundamental, than mere lust. A conclusion that alarmed
her far more than having to admit her other faults.

  Much as he’d pleasured her—and she wasn’t hypocrite enough to deny the pleasure he’d given her—in his embrace she’d also found comfort. And not just the simple comfort, after eight months of desolate loneliness, of being enfolded within strong masculine arms.

  She’d wept afterward on Nelthorpe’s chest at the tenderness of it, with guilt that she was alive and Garrett was not, with shame at replacing him in her arms with this man of whom he would never approve. For much as Garrett might—might—forgive an act committed in the fog of grief and passion, she was certain he would neither understand nor forgive the…affection she was beginning to harbor for Anthony Nelthorpe.

  She wasn’t sure what to do about it herself, she concluded as she entered her chamber. She knew her battered spirit was still too fragile, her feelings too entangled in grief and regret, to allow her to become emotionally tied to any man.

  She should put some distance between herself and Nelthorpe, let this confusing boil of emotions cool.

  Besides, she concluded as she rang for Sancha and threw open the door of her wardrobe, Nelthorpe had won their wager this morning. She could dispense with the pathetic illusion of trying to reform him.

  Colonel Vernier’s timely appearance offered her a chance to replace Nelthorpe’s escort with a man to whom not even Nelthorpe himself could fault her for turning. Who would question her forming a preference for the company of this well-respected soldier of unimpeachable character, a member of the dearly familiar army world in which she’d spent her whole life?

  Should the colonel reciprocate her interest, she would have the opportunity to see, as she’d previously decided would be wise, if she could not forge a connection with this man of whom Garrett would certainly approve.