“No, I—”
“I only want you to be happy. You always smiled so much when you danced. Please, Jayne, I’ve taken so much from you. Don’t let the list include your love of dancing.”
Blast Ainsley for putting her on the spot like this, more for being right, that she was punishing Walfort by denying herself the pleasures he could no longer enjoy.
“Oh, all right, then.” She forced a smile. “Your Grace, I would be honored to dance with you.”
As if on cue, the music faded away, quickly followed by the lilting strains of a waltz. As she rose to her feet and placed her hand on Ainsley’s arm, she didn’t wish to acknowledge the strength she felt there or the excitement that thrummed through her. She would not anticipate the next few moments. She would simply endure them.
“I do not appreciate the position in which you placed me,” she said cuttingly as they moved away from her husband. “You know I did not wish to dance.”
“If you truly didn’t wish to, you’d have never accepted.”
She eyed him sharply. “You do not know me well enough to know what I wish for.”
But when he took her in his arms and swept her over the dance floor, a thrill shot through her that she could not deny. She had so loved dancing: the graceful movements, the music inhabiting her soul in ways it could not when she was merely a spectator. And Ainsley, damn him, was particularly talented when it came to leading her. He held her the proper distance away from him, and yet it was as though they were one, without a misstep. His gaze never once strayed from her, as though she were the only one who mattered.
“Do not seek to charm me,” she uttered.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They circled the floor in silence, and she was aware of others watching them. She ignored them.
“Relax, Jayne,” he said quietly. “And smile. If not for me, then for Walfort. As I’ve said before, by not finding pleasure where you can, you punish him, cause him to suffer.”
“I suppose you think I should embrace that plan of his.”
“On the contrary, I’m having a difficult time understanding it. If you were mine, I would kill any man who touched you. Obviously, he loves you a great deal. So smile for him, sweetheart. Pretend he is holding you now.”
“You’re nothing at all like him.”
“Which is the reason I suggested you pretend. Close your eyes if you like.”
Only she didn’t want to close her eyes. She wanted to catch sight of the other couples dancing. She wanted to see the glitter of the chandeliers. She wanted to see the flames reflecting off his black hair. As sinful, as awful, as selfish as it was, she wanted to see the appreciation in his green eyes as he waltzed with her.
Perhaps he was pretending as well, but she didn’t care. For a few moments she felt young and carefree again. Hope for a bright future soared in her heart. Joy filled her. She wasn’t gossiping with the matrons. She wasn’t envying the young girls.
She despised the corner of her heart that embraced the prick of jealousy, that knew they had their entire lives filled with promise ahead of them, while she often felt that hers was over.
She was making too much of this, she told herself. It was simply a dance. She could have another if she wanted, yet she suspected that Ainsley had spoiled her for anyone else. Would the same occur if she embraced Walfort’s ridiculous plan? If she took Ainsley into her bed—for a single night—would he spoil her for future lovers, make her discontent for whomever she chose? A silly thought, as Walfort was correct: she would never take a lover, would never betray him. Just as, when he’d been able, he’d never betrayed her.
When the final strains of the violins echoed through the room, she bid them farewell with fond remembrance. She would not regret that they left her as so many dreams had.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“It was most assuredly my pleasure.”
She was aware of an odd ache in her jaw and realized that sometime during the waltz she had indeed begun smiling. It was very difficult now to erase the curve of her lips as Ainsley escorted her from the dance floor, back to the corner where they’d left Walfort. Only as they neared, she noticed that he was no longer there.
“He probably went to the game room to play cards,” Ainsley said.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He lifted her gloved hand, held her gaze, and pressed his lips against her knuckles. She could feel the warmth of his mouth through her kidskin gloves.
“Rest assured that I will not accept Walfort’s invitation to prolong my stay. I will depart in the morning.”
“He will be disappointed.”
“But you will not. And like your husband, it is only your happiness that concerns me.”
He left her there, and she was not willing to acknowledge the twinge of disappointment his parting brought.
It had been a mistake to dance with her. Standing in a darkened corner of the terrace, striving to cool his ardor, he’d known it would be. From the moment he saw her standing in the entry hallway, so beautiful, so poised, he’d known he should not approach her.
Yet he’d been unable to resist. He wanted to see her smile as he’d not seen her smile since his arrival, as he suspected she’d not smiled since the night he brought the news of the accident. But he’d remembered her smile on the night before she married, when she danced with Walfort. Not a single star in the heavens could outshine her eyes.
Tonight it had taken a while, but eventually she succumbed to the lure of the music and the motion of their bodies following where the rhythm led. He could have danced with her all night, but the one dance was scandalous enough.
He knew speculation abounded that she was the woman with whom he’d have a tryst while here. She was the only woman to whom he was giving attention. Quite honestly, no other woman interested him. That she did was unfortunate. For in spite of Walfort’s insistence that he get his wife with child, Ainsley knew she was too loyal to ever come to him willingly. And he did not take unwilling women to his bed.
He heard the sniffles, the evidence of tears, and realized he was not alone out here. Turning, he spied the shadowy silhouette and immediately recognized the slender form. Even the night couldn’t hide her from him. Her back was to him. He could leave with her none the wiser, grant her solitude and privacy, but he suspected she’d had a good deal too much of it over the years. He’d seen her smile wither when she realized that her husband was no longer waiting for her when the dance was over. She’d handled herself with such aplomb. If he’d not felt her fingers flinching on his arm, not seen the flush of pleasure retreat from her cheeks, he might not have known how truly devastated she’d been. So while he knew he should walk back toward the light, toward the doors where people ambled in and out to enjoy the coolness of the gardens, he strolled instead farther into the darkness. “Jayne?”
He heard the hitch in her breathing, a final sniff, before she said quietly, “Your Grace.”
“Such formality, Jayne.” He slipped his handkerchief into her hand.
“Thank you.”
She erased the evidence of her tears with such delicacy. “I shall have it washed and returned to you.”
“Keep it. You never know when you might have a need of it.”
He was surprised she didn’t ask him to leave, and so he contented himself with the opportunity to be near her again.
“It was a mistake to try to pretend that all is as it once was. I forget—no, I don’t forget, I just ignore all the things we no longer have.” She released a small, pitiful laugh. “I don’t mean to burden you. You should return to the festivities.”
“I have a reputation to maintain.”
She turned then, and somehow the moonlight through the trees managed to limn her face. He could see a trail of tears that she’d overlooked, and the sight of it cut into him with the ferocity of a well-handled rapier.
“Your reputation?” she repeated.
“I’m known for only dancing once and the
n leaving. If I were to return, what would people think?”
“That perhaps someone has struck your fancy.”
She had. But he couldn’t tell her that, because she might ask for more of an explanation, and he doubted she would be pleased to know that she fascinated him as no other woman ever had.
He gave her a secretive smile, and Jayne wondered what it meant. She should leave now. She didn’t wish to be intrigued by him. “Why have you never married?” she asked.
“My brothers, damn them. They are both madly in love with their wives. Observing them has made me not want to settle for less.”
“You are fortunate that your coffers are full and do not require that you marry in order to fill them.”
“Walfort would have married you regardless.”
She wasn’t quite so sure. “I suppose we shall never know.” She sighed. “I really should return to my guests.”
“You missed some tears.” His palm, so warm, cradled her face. She wondered when he’d removed his gloves. Slowly, his thumb stroked the curve of her cheek. “A woman such as you should never be brought to tears. I regret any of my actions that may have led to this moment.”
“I could list them for you, if you like, but what would be the point?”
“To punish me. It is what you desire, is it not?”
“I see no point in my desiring anything any longer.”
“Nothing at all? What of children?”
“They are not to be had. I will not even entertain Walfort’s ridiculous notion.”
“But surely there are other things you must desire? When was the last time you were kissed?”
She didn’t know why she answered him. Perhaps it was the lull of his voice, the stroke of his thumb, the shadows that offered secrecy. “The night of the accident, before Walfort went out.”
“And he’s not kissed you since?”
His voice carried a strange undertone—disbelief, anger—she couldn’t quite place it. She scoffed. “Why ever would he start what he cannot finish?”
“A kiss need not be the start of anything. It owns itself. It is simply what it is. His hands, his fingers, are not paralyzed. His lips, his tongue . . . are you telling me that in three years he’s never once given you so much as this?”
His mouth covered hers, and heat poured through her body. His arm came around her, so strong and sure, her breasts flattening against his solid chest. The hand that had cradled her face continued to stroke her cheek, only lower, near the corner of her mouth until the sensations became part of the kiss.
She knew she should shove him away, should slap him, but it had been so long, so desperately long since she had felt anything beyond the numbness that descended when she realized the full extent of Walfort’s injuries. She’d imprisoned her own yearnings as his body imprisoned him. And now those very yearnings were clamoring to escape. She didn’t want to acknowledge them.
They terrified her because she so desperately wanted to feel again. Pleasure, hope, possibilities, dreams, passion. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to her husband, it wasn’t fair to her.
But for the span of several heartbeats, she thought of nothing but the tantalizing touch of his tongue, the richness of his flavor—brandy. His scent filled her nostrils. His warmth wrapped around her. Tears scalded her eyes. It was all so simple, so complex. It awoke sensations that were better left sleeping.
He drew back. The moonlight revealed no mockery on his face. Instead it revealed something intense, something she could not decipher.
“Shame on him,” he said so softly that she almost didn’t hear it.
And shame on her, she thought, as she scurried across the terrace to the ballroom. Shame on her. Because she’d enjoyed it. She wanted him to kiss her again.
Chapter 6
The ball had come to an end near two. The ladies had withdrawn to their bedchambers. Most of the gentlemen as well, except for a few who continued to play cards or billiards. Walfort was one of the men who had yet to retire. Jayne knew because she was sitting on his bed awaiting his arrival.
Why hadn’t he kissed her? Why didn’t he simply hold her? He suffered, she knew he did, but what of her, and her needs? So many needs he could no longer fulfill. Yet he was thinking of what she desired when he’d suggested she take Ainsley to her bed. She’d scoffed, grown angry.
She didn’t want to betray him, but oh, to feel again. It was cruel and wonderful at the same time. With one kiss Ainsley awoke everything that had been dormant. It terrified her to think of what he could accomplish with more than a kiss.
The clock was near to striking three in the morning when the door to Walfort’s bedchamber finally opened and Randall pushed him into the room. Walfort’s eyes widened. “Jayne? What in God’s name—”
She slid off the bed. “It’s urgent that I speak with you.”
He’d been a damned fool to kiss her. What in God’s name had possessed him?
She’d tasted so remarkably sweet, had fairly melted against him. He’d been tempted to lift her into his arms and carry her to that tiny bed in that tiny bedchamber he was given and unleash every ounce of passion he possessed. Pleasure her until she set free all the damned yearnings she’d imprisoned.
Instead, he’d made his way to the library, grateful to find it absent of people, so he could indulge in the whiskey and strive to forget the feel, scent, and taste of her. Unfortunately, he was having very little luck there.
He should find a lady to distract him. Only he wanted no other woman. He wanted to gaze into blue eyes and run his fingers through black hair and touch the white streak that so mesmerized him.
He cursed Walfort for putting the notion of bedding his wife into his mind. He’d been able to think of little else since coming here. He would be glad to leave on the morrow.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. A little past three. “Today,” he muttered. “I’ll be leaving today.”
He finished off the whiskey in his glass, considered opening another bottle, but what was the point? Nothing was going to make him forget the pleasure of that kiss. He shoved himself to his feet just as the door opened.
Randall stepped through. “Your Grace, his lordship instructed me to find you. He wishes to have a word . . . in his bedchamber.”
Following the man through the residence that suddenly seemed so ominously quiet, Ainsley wondered why the summons at such an ungodly hour. Perhaps Jayne had confessed about the kiss. Since Walfort had indicated that Ainsley should do a great deal more with his wife, he hardly was in a position to be angry. Mayhap relieved. Mayhap hopeful that Jayne and Ainsley had decided to humor him.
No. Ainsley could not see Jayne agreeing to her husband’s plans for getting her with child.
So he was most surprised when he stepped into Walfort’s bedchamber and discovered Jayne sitting on a settee before the fireplace, wearing her nightdress and robe, her hair plaited. Walfort sat in a high-backed chair nearby, studying his wife as though afraid she might shatter. Why in the bloody hell wasn’t he sitting beside her?
The door closed quietly behind him. Walfort glanced over at him. “Ainsley, good, we wanted to talk with you . . . before either of us lost our nerve.”
He immediately sobered. This wasn’t good.
“Please join us,” Walfort continued.
Ainsley wondered if the vacant spot on the settee had been reserved for him. He strode across the room and stood beside the fireplace, resting his forearm against the mantel. The fire was high, blazing, yet Jayne seemed to be shivering. Her toes peeked out from beneath the nightdress, one foot crossed over the other. She appeared so damned vulnerable. Unlike her husband, she had yet to look at or acknowledge him. Her gaze was riveted on the flames.
“Jayne had a few questions,” Walfort began.
“About?” His voice sounded rough, raw. All the damned whiskey burning his throat for the past few hours.
“My plan for seeing that she gains the child she so desperately wants.”
Which, judging by the paleness in her features and the bright hue in Walfort’s, neither of them was completely comfortable with. “I don’t think—”
“Where?” she blurted. “Where would this assignation take place? Would you remain here?”
She was gripping her hands so tightly that the knuckles were turning white. He wanted to kneel before her and hold her, comfort her. He wanted to wrap his hands around hers and rub them until she relaxed. Why was Walfort keeping his distance? He knew that if he were to answer her question, he would reveal that he’d given considerable thought to how he would handle this matter—which would no doubt offend her—but he couldn’t leave her wallowing in doubt. He certainly couldn’t comfort her in front of her husband. He had no plans to do more than that with Walfort near.
“I have a cottage,” he said. “On a lake. To the north. I use it when I seek solitude. It”—is someplace I have shared with few and would welcome sharing with you—“would offer privacy.”
“I’ve been there, Jayne,” Walfort said quietly. “It would provide for a lovely month away.”
“A month?” She looked at her husband then, and Ainsley could see the disconcertedness in her gaze. Apparently Walfort had failed to provide her with details.
“Yes. From the time your next . . . menses . . . ends until it’s time for it to begin again. To be sure.”
“A month,” she whispered again, returning her gaze to the fire.
Silence stretched between them, the only sound in the room the crackling within the hearth. Ainsley met Walfort’s gaze. You should tell her, he thought. You should tell her all that you did that night. She would not hesitate if she knew everything. Yesterday, he’d thought the confession an awful notion, but tonight he knew it would send her running into his arms. God help him, he wanted her there.
Walfort must have known what Ainsley was thinking, because he gave a slight shake of his head and turned his attention back to his wife. “Jayne, I’ve long wanted to give you a child,” he said quietly. “It is not the way I had imagined it coming about, but it will bring me great joy to see your smile once again dancing in your eyes . . . as it did that afternoon when you told me I would be a father. I’ve never known such happiness. We can have that again.”
Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers) Page 7
