Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers)

by Lorraine Heath

  Her husband’s eyebrows lifted at that. “I daresay you’re probably correct.” He leaned forward slightly. “And that, Jayne, is precisely why he is such a good choice to get you with child. He has an insatiable appetite where women are concerned, and you’ll be but one of a hundred.”

  Obviously her husband’s paralyzed state was extending to his brain. “And that should please me?”

  “He has extensive experience. He is sought after. He can make it pleasant for you. And for him it would be simply . . . another night. When he leaves your bed, he would not look back. So there would be no remorse, no regret, no . . . bother.”

  His words chilled her. As though nothing would be between them except mechanics. She had enjoyed her husband’s visits to her bed. Had thought it was more than obligation and duty. Had he considered it a . . . bother? “Have you so little care for me that you see me as nothing more than a broodmare? And so little care for your friendship with Ainsley that you view him as nothing more than an adequate stud?”

  “It is because I care for you so much that I want you to have this. A child. With no complications.”

  She shook her head. “I fear you misjudge the ease with which all this will come to pass.”

  “He’s had many women in his life, Jayne, and not a single one ever hated him when he moved on.”

  “Please cease with this battering, Walfort.” Each word was like a blow to her heart. “I am your wife. I took a vow, in sickness and in health, to share your joys as well as your sorrows—”

  “And my sorrows would be a good deal fewer if you would do this. Randall!”

  His servant stepped into her bedchamber, stopping further conversation.

  “Good night, Jayne,” Walfort said, just before Randall pushed him from the room.

  He left her seething. She wanted to pick something up and throw it at a wall. How could he not fathom what he truly was asking of her? He was the only man who had ever known her body. She couldn’t so easily share her most private portions with another man. Especially not with Ainsley.

  Joining his body with hers might mean nothing to him, but to her it meant everything.

  She rang for her servant, and an hour later she was lying in her bed, in the dark, staring at shadows waltzing over the ceiling. Never in her life had she felt so abandoned and alone.

  Chapter 4

  It was not so much the actual hunting of the fox that Jayne enjoyed, but the chase. The scramble over hill and dale, the leaping over hedgerows and fences that made the sport so exciting. She couldn’t care less about the fox. No, not true, she thought. She’d always been greatly relieved if no foxes were actually killed. She knew that was unlikely today. Without the annual hunt, the foxes were now in abundance. She was quite certain that at least one would lose its life this day.

  But she wouldn’t be there to witness the brutality of it. She’d strayed off from the main group. It wasn’t that she wasn’t in the mood for cheer. It was simply that she was having a frightfully difficult time pretending that everything was as it had once been.

  It had been particularly grueling to watch Walfort, sitting in that monstrosity of a saddle, his head held high, his smile broad, signaling for the hunt to begin . . . and then to be left behind. She doubted anyone else had noticed that his grin did not reach his eyes. He had so loved the hunt.

  She’d been tempted to return to the estate with him. She almost had. But then Ainsley, who also held back, arched a brow at her, and she’d doubted her reasons for wanting to stay. Was he correct in his assessment? Did she add to Walfort’s burdens when she refused to partake in activities that he could no longer enjoy? Had he not indicated the same last night when he mentioned how she might lessen his sorrows?

  Now she was riding as though the very devil was on her heels. She could even hear him. She glanced back. Blast it! Ainsley was galloping toward her. She’d thought he was going to return to the manor with Walfort, keep him company. She hated thinking of her husband alone. She should turn about. Instead she increased her horse’s pace, then settled in as the hedgerow came into view. They flew over it and for that brief moment in time, she was free—

  But the landing was ungainly. Cassiopeia lost her footing, screaming as she went down, tossing Jayne off in the process. She hit the ground hard in a graceless sprawl. By the time she shoved herself into a sitting position, Cassie was standing again, but it was obvious all was not right. She favored her right leg. Sorrow filled Jayne because of the suffering she’d caused the poor creature. What in the world had she been attempting to prove?

  “Jayne!”

  She heard Ainsley’s voice before he appeared at the hedgerow, bringing his horse to a halt, taking in the situation on the other side. “Christ! I saw you tumble. Are you injured?”

  “I see no reason for blasphemy,” she said as she gingerly pushed herself to her feet. Her bottom and hip would no doubt be bruised on the morrow. Not that she intended to reveal that bit of intimacy to Ainsley.

  “Stay there,” he ordered. “I’m coming over.”

  Standing as she was on a small rise, she was able to see him as he trotted away, turned about, and urged his mount toward the hedgerow. They vaulted over it with such grace, the horse and man obviously one, it was quite a breathtaking sight. She didn’t wish to be impressed with his horsemanship. But she was. Blast him.

  He dismounted with such elegant yet powerful ease. She could see the corded muscles of his thighs bunching and rippling. His long, sure strides carried him toward her. He was magnificent, and she cursed herself for noticing.

  With eyes the green of clover upon which she had once lain, he scrutinized every aspect of her, causing flesh bumps to erupt over her. Such a strange reaction when she was suddenly unbearably warm, her breathing labored as though he clasped her in an unyielding embrace—when he was touching her not at all.

  “Are you injured?” he asked, the concern in his voice mixed with determination. He was not one to be trifled with. He would ferret out any untruth. Not that she cared. He didn’t intimidate or frighten her. He quite simply irritated her.

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed sharply, and she capitulated. “A bit bruised, but nothing to worry over. It is Cassie for whom I have concern.” She made to march past him and nearly tumbled again when she brought her full weight down on her right foot. His hand was immediately beneath her elbow, supporting her with so little effort.

  “You are hurt.” His curt tone reminded her too much of the chastisement she’d received from Walfort the night before.

  “It’s nothing. A slight sprain, perhaps. Nothing about which to panic. You’re quite overreacting.”

  “Will you be able to dance tonight?”

  What an idiotic question. “I don’t dance.”

  He stiffened, his fingers tightening on her arm, his gaze riveted on hers as though she was suddenly a puzzle whose pieces had not been put together properly. “I’ve had the pleasure of watching you dance. No lady is as elegant upon the dance floor as you.”

  “I did not mean that I am incapable of dancing. Rather I do not, by choice, dance. You may release me.”

  He did so, ever so slowly, as though with great reluctance. “Why do you no longer dance?”

  “Because Walfort can’t.”

  “I thought since you’d become involved in the hunt, that you agreed with my earlier assessment that to not do what you are capable of doing is merely a punishment for him.”

  “Your argument might apply to the hunt, but I seriously doubt he would take pleasure in my waltzing in the arms of other men.”

  “I think he would take pleasure in your smile and the sparkle in your eyes.”

  An image of being swept along in Ainsley’s arms flashed through her mind. They’d never danced. Even before the accident. He’d kept his distance. She’d never thought to wonder why. Not that it signified. “I think you’re mistaken. Now I must see to Cassie.”

  “Allow me to approach her first. If she�
�s in pain, she could strike out.”

  She didn’t like his ordering her about, but neither could she deny the wisdom in his words. The last thing she needed was to be incapacitated when she had so many guests to see after. So she stayed where she was, gingerly testing her own foot. Surely it would be fine by evening.

  She watched as Ainsley removed his gloves. To provide more comfort to the horse, she supposed. His fingers were long, elegant, his hands large. He stroked Cassie’s withers, murmuring softly, giving all his attention to the horse as though it were the most important creature in the world. She suspected he did the same with the ladies who warmed his bed. She did not want to consider what it might be like to have those capable hands skimming over her flesh. It had been so long, so very long, since she’d been caressed intimately. Walfort seldom touched her without her initiating the contact, and then it was merely a brief joining of their hands or a quick brush of his knuckles over her cheek. She doubted that Ainsley would do anything swiftly. He would linger, entice, stir passion to life. She couldn’t hear the words with which he soothed the horse, but the rich timbre of his voice carried toward her, sending shivers of such intense yearning through her that she nearly lost her balance.

  Taking a deep shaky breath, she gathered herself up. It was only because of Walfort’s stupid proposal and Ainsley’s inappropriate words on the bench in the garden last night that her mind was wandering to these dark, forbidden places where she’d long ago buried her desires. Through gritted teeth, she cursed them both soundly.

  Unfortunately, at that moment Ainsley crouched, his breeches stretching tightly over his backside and muscular thighs. It was quite obvious that he did not spend his entire day indoors. He did not lollygag about. He was firm and sculpted as though by the hand of a great artist. She imagined how the ladies must have taken such delight in running their own hands over a body that was certain to please.

  Good Lord, it was suddenly so remarkably hot. What strange weather they were experiencing this year.

  He gingerly examined Cassie’s leg, and Jayne lamented that she’d been so quick to brush off his wanting to ascertain the extent of her injury. To have him knead her calf, her foot . . . to simply be touched with tenderness. She longed to have it in her life once more. Perhaps she should consider taking a lover. Although Walfort might not be so keen to accept a child who didn’t carry Seymour blood.

  “How—” Surprised by the strangled sound, she cleared her throat. “How does she fare?”

  Still crouched, he twisted around, the front of his breeches much more impressive than the back. She jerked her gaze up to his, expecting to see him mocking her, but if he had any notion regarding where her eyes—and thoughts—had strayed, he gave no indication. A spark of gratitude she didn’t want to feel wormed its way through her.

  “Fortunately, it’s not broken. Just a slight sprain I think. But she’ll need to be walked back to the stables. I can do that if you’d like to take my horse.”

  “A lady does not ride astride.”

  “I can replace my saddle with yours.” He unfolded his body, a study in perfect balance and movement. “Although to be honest, I’ve always thought the sidesaddle looked like a torture device.” She detected a slight challenge in his gaze.

  How did he know that she’d long yearned to ride astride? It seemed a much more pleasant way to travel, but to spread her legs over the horse, in front of Ainsley—it seemed like a rather naughty endeavor. “I’ll walk her back.”

  “Coward.” His voice was low, yet teasing.

  “I’m not,” she insisted. She glanced around for her riding crop, located and retrieved it. If he continued down this path, she might use it on him.

  “I’ll at least accompany you back to the manor,” he said.

  “I see no need. I’m quite familiar with our grounds.”

  “I must insist. The bore might make another appearance.”

  “I have no fear of Sheffield.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to protect me from him.”

  Gingerly, careful of her step, she made her way to Cassie and took the reins. “Truly, Ainsley, I see no need for you to give up the hunt.”

  “Whatever makes you think I’ve given it up?”

  She jerked her head up, only to find him watching her with such intensity that she was unable to hold his gaze. She petted Cassie because the action gave her something to think about other than him. Was he insinuating that she was his quarry? Why did the thought fill her with inappropriate giddiness? He’d not be giving her any attention at all if Walfort hadn’t set him on her path. What interest did she have in a man who noticed her only because she belonged to another?

  If she were wise, she’d accept his offer to change saddles and allow her to ride his horse. If she had any sense at all, she’d simply straddle his horse now and gallop home. His nearness unsettled her. His masculinity flustered her. It had been so long since she’d done little more than exist. He gazed upon her as though she were lovely, desirable. As though she was once again a woman.

  She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet his unrelenting gaze. “I have no interest in your attentions.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Has Walfort instructed you to give them to me regardless of my preference on the matter?”

  “I saw you take a tumble. I came to assist. Make no more of it than that.”

  “You deny following me?”

  “Walfort asked me to watch over you.”

  “I love him.”

  “I never thought otherwise.” His somber voice reflected sadness.

  “I miss him,” she rasped, blasted tears once again threatening to consume her.

  His lips parted and she held up a hand to stay whatever it was he planned to say. She did not want his sympathy, his reassurances, or his flirtations. She shook her head briskly. “Partaking in this hunt was a dreadful idea. I must return to the manor now to see that tonight’s ball does not disappoint.”

  “My horse is spirited, but I’m certain you can manage him. Allow me to change the saddles.” He leaned in, his mouth forming a conspiratorial smile. “Or ride astride. It would save time.”

  Oh, she wasn’t half tempted. But that would require assistance, and Ainsley was the only one near enough to assist, which would bring their bodies in much too close proximity. He would either have to boost her up, his hands forming a cradle for her foot, or he would lift her, his hands clasping her waist, her hands folding over his broad shoulders. On the way up, her breasts might brush against his chest. Her nipples puckered painfully with the thought. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she was a coward. She shook her head. “No, I shall walk back.”

  He grabbed the reins of both horses, leading them, while she strolled beside him.

  “Are you certain you can manage with your foot—”

  “It was only a momentary discomfort. I shall be fine.” And she would. If it killed her.

  For the longest time, the most courageous woman Ainsley had ever known was his mother. She’d married young, at sixteen, a man far older than she, the Earl of Westcliffe. She’d given him an heir. When he lost interest in her, she’d taken a lover. She’d given him a son—a carefully guarded secret until recently, with only the immediate family now aware of the truth. When Westcliffe died, he left her destitute, and she promptly married Ainsley’s father. He perished shortly after his heir was born. Ainsley remembered little of the man who sired him. His mother, however, had been a dominant force in his life. As well as a scandalous influence. Ainsley’s father had left her well off. She could do as she pleased. What she pleased was to take young lovers.

  But now another was threatening to usurp his mother’s place as the most courageous woman he’d ever known. Jayne.

  If he were wise, he’d make excuses rather than an appearance at the ball tonight. No one would question his absence. They would assume he’d found a lovely lady to entertain privately.

  But as Ainsle
y’s valet settled the dark green swallow-tailed jacket onto his shoulders, he knew he would attend the ball and that he’d ask Jayne to dance.

  Once. He would hold her in his arms and sweep her over the dance floor. Even though doing so seemed cruel because it would remind her of what she’d lost: a husband with whom she could dance.

  But she already had reminders aplenty. What was one more?

  He’d thought he was well aware of what his night of debauchery with Walfort had cost her. He had failed to consider that she continued to pay the price for their poor judgment. He supposed Walfort lived with the reminder every day. It was no doubt the reason his friend asked of him what he had.

  He’d considered it a ludicrous request, was determined not to honor it. And then he’d walked back to the manor with Jayne. She began the journey with such purpose to her stride, but when the manor came into view, she slowed her step as though she dreaded facing what awaited her there. He wasn’t even certain she was aware of the change in her demeanor.

  For the first time he noticed her loneliness, the deep sadness. She’d been young, filled with hope and dreams and a child, when it was all snatched from her.

  What Walfort asked of him suddenly seemed a small price to pay to restore happiness to such a remarkable woman.

  She remained loyal to her husband, retained her feelings for him. She saw to his needs, asked nothing for herself. She did not whine or complain. She accepted what their foolishness had wrought; albeit grudgingly when it came to Ainsley. She poured all her anger and hatred into him rather than into her husband. He knew he was not deserving of all of it but understood that she needed someone to blame, and it was much easier to lay the fault at his feet—because at least he could still stand.

  Now, in the room he’d been assigned, he rubbed the small scar on his chin. He’d not change places with Walfort, not for the world. But he could not deny that he was partly responsible for the debacle that had led to such unhappiness.