The water was lapping at her breasts when Ainsley began to lift her hem.
“You said I could remain clothed,” she chastised him.
“I can’t see anything, and you’ll be more comfortable if you shed the weight.”
She didn’t argue. The shadows in the water did prevent him from getting a good look at how cumbersome she’d become. Once she was divested of her nightdress, he moved around behind her and began to gently knead her back.
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, settling her head into the crook of his shoulder.
“There’s something about the water that’s very healing.” Slowly, he turned her around and lowered his mouth to hers while his hands continued to roam over her.
Everywhere. Everywhere.
And she returned the favor, skimming her fingers over him, wrapping them around him.
He groaned low. “Oh, you wicked woman.”
“How is it that you make me so comfortable with all this?”
“Because nothing between us should be forbidden.”
Reaching up, she kissed him. She wanted him as she’d never wanted anything. She wanted—
“Oh. Oh.” She pressed a hand to her side while pain swept through her.
He backed away. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think . . . I think I should return to the house.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s time, Ainsley. The baby. I think it’s time.”
He grabbed her hand. “Jayne, marry me. Now. I’ll send for the clergyman.”
“Ainsley, I can’t. Not like this.”
He studied her for all of a heartbeat, and she felt something shift between them. Something unwanted. Regretfully, she realized that she finally accomplished what she had so long ago desired: to hurt him beyond imagining. But rather than solace, it yielded only pain.
He helped her out of the pool, but no warmth accompanied his touch. She found herself grieving once again.
Chapter 31
Every time Jayne screamed, Ainsley downed a glass of whiskey. It wasn’t fair that he had the means to dull his pain while she didn’t. What she’d felt in the pool was only the beginning. It took another day before her labor began in earnest. He’d immediately sent for the physician and his mother. He didn’t know why he thought she needed to be there. Leo now sat with him in the library to wait.
Ainsley wasn’t even certain why he remained. He’d given everything to Jayne. Everything. And it had not been enough.
Her screams sounded through the residence. Why did he have to feel them in the core of his being? Why couldn’t he just ignore them?
“Why is it taking so damned long?” he asked.
“It’s the way of it, my friend,” Leo replied. “I must confess to being extremely grateful that I don’t have to listen to your mother going through this.”
“She’s happy with you, Leo. I’m grateful for that. And that you made an honest woman of her.”
“I would have long ago, but . . . past loves, like mange, are sometimes hard to be rid of.”
In spite of the circumstances, Ainsley smiled.
“I’d have thought you’d be married to Jayne by now,” Leo said.
“It is not my choice that I’m not.” He wanted to claim this child as his with a furiousness that astounded him. But she wanted him to walk away, to honor a ridiculous agreement. He wanted the woman and the child—both as his. Openly, publicly. Mourning be damned. Etiquette be—
As her scream once more echoed through the hallways, Ainsley gripped the mantel in order to prevent himself from slamming his fist into it. What if he lost her?
Lost her? he thought. What a fool he was. He never possessed her.
“Something must be wrong,” he said, gazing at the open door. Why wasn’t his mother bringing him news? Didn’t she realize he’d sent for her so she would keep him informed?
Women died giving birth. He couldn’t imagine the world without Jayne in it. Even if she no longer resided here after the babe was born, at least she existed elsewhere. That would be enough. Just to know she was somewhere. Happy. Walking through fields with her child in tow. Surely a dark-haired child, with her blue eyes.
He heard the patter of running feet and was halfway across the library when Lily dashed through the doorway. She gave a quick curtsy. “Your Grace, her ladyship is calling for you.”
“What the deuce is wrong?” He was in the hallway before he’d finished asking the question, racing through the manor, up the stairs. He burst through the door into his bedchamber.
Jayne was still abed, a mound visible beneath the sheets. She was bathed in sweat, gasping. She held out her hand to him. “Ainsley, I’m so sorry.”
Rushing over, he took it, squeezed it, touched her brow. He would willingly die to take this suffering from her. “Jayne—”
“I was wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong. I hurt you. I know I did.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll stand by you and the child. Just get this matter, this birth, over with. Be done with it.”
“I will, but first marry me.”
Stunned by her words, the last he’d expected, he stared at her. “Pardon?”
“Marry me.”
“I believe I’m supposed to ask you.”
“You’ve already asked . . . and I said no. Such a silly thing to do. I fell in love with you at Blackmoor. I think Walfort knew. I struggled with the guilt. Then when he died, I thought I didn’t deserve happiness. I didn’t deserve you.”
“Jayne, sweetheart, I don’t know anyone who deserves happiness more than you.”
“Marry me then.”
“I will.” He smiled, brushed the hair off her brow. “As soon as—”
“Now. Before the babe is born.”
He glanced at her stomach, at the physician, at the midwife, at his mother, who merely nodded.
Releasing a strangled groan, Jayne squeezed his hand. “Please. I want him to carry your name. I want him to be yours. Or her. I don’t care if it’s a girl or a boy. I just want there to be no doubt that it’s yours. That I’m yours. That we’re yours.”
“Right. Mother, get Leo and send a servant for the clergyman. Hurry.”
“Yes, of course.” His mother dashed from the room with all the vigor of a woman a third her age.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, you’ll need a special license,” Dr. Roberts said.
“I have it.”
Jayne smiled at him then. “I knew you would. You never leave anything to chance.”
“Not when it comes to you, Jayne Seymour.” Kneeling beside the bed, Ainsley pressed a kiss to her hand. “Still, you couldn’t have decided this a bit sooner?”
“Guilt. It’s a bloody awful— Oh, oh, oh!” She gripped his hand so tightly that he almost yelled as well.
Leaning up, he brushed his lips over hers. “I love you, Jayne Seymour, future Duchess of Ainsley, with all my heart and soul.”
“Will I be enough for you?”
“You’ve been enough for me for a good ten months now, and a good part of that time was without all the benefits I shall enjoy as your husband. Fifty years should be no trouble at all.”
“Do I look too awful . . . for my wedding?”
Her face was damp, her hair plastered to her head. She appeared so incredibly tired. To say she looked awful would be a kindness, because it was much worse. “To me, you are always beautiful.”
A commotion at the door drew his attention. His mother, Leo, and the clergyman entered the room.
“You’d best make this quick,” the physician said. “The babe’s almost here.”
It was quick. They exchanged vows, and when it came time for a ring, his mother pressed one against his palm.
“Your father gave it to me on the day we married,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “It was always to be yours when you found your duchess.”
And she no longer had a need for it.
Ainsley slipped it onto Jayne’s fing
er. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
“I pronounce you man and wi—”
Jayne screamed.
“Out,” the physician ordered. “All the men are to leave this instant!”
The clergyman finished the words to the ceremony as he was scrambling for the door, Leo following quickly on his heels.
Only Ainsley stood his ground, still holding Jayne’s hand. “You’re stuck with me now.”
So he was there, by Jayne’s side, when his son made his entrance into the world, squalling at the top of his lungs, a thick thatch of black hair covering his head.
The tears scalded Ainsley’s eyes and he blinked them back. It was done. His heart hammered out an unsteady tattoo. He felt the same sort of exhilaration he experienced during a hunt—only it was grander, more humbling. He was swirling through a riot of emotions: joy, worry, the weight of burdens, the lightness of bliss.
His heir. He had his heir. More, he had his son. And Jayne. He had Jayne.
Leaning down, he kissed her brow. “Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
It would have tormented him to know that his child would not be entitled to his rightful legacy. Blood did matter, and this boy had Ainsley’s blood pumping through him. One day he would be the Duke of Ainsley. But for now, he was the Marquess of Bellehaven.
Jayne could see it was with a great deal of reluctance that Ainsley left so the physician could finish tending to her. The babe was bathed, then so was she. The bedding was changed. She slipped into a fresh nightdress. Then she sat in bed and held the baby. She’d been so weary that she thought she would immediately fall asleep and not wake up for days. But suddenly she had a burst of energy and excitement and she wondered if she’d ever sleep again.
As the door opened, she glanced over to see her husband prowling toward her. Her husband. Why had she ever resisted the inevitable? She loved him, knew beyond a doubt that he loved her. She could see the depth of his feelings in his eyes. His gaze warmed her. She’d been content with what she had, because she’d never known anything grander.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned in to kiss her. Not brief this time. They had no audience. His mouth moved over hers with a promise for passion, a vow for pleasure.
He drew back and she saw within the green depths of his eyes that even now he still found her desirable.
“I suppose we shall have to delay the wedding trip,” he said with a wicked smile.
“At least a month.”
“Decide where you want to go—”
“Blackmoor,” she answered without giving him time to finish.
“Blackmoor it shall be.”
His gaze shifted to their son then. Their son. She could not fathom what it would have cost him to give up the child, to not acknowledge it. His depth of love, even for a friend, knew no bounds. He was quite simply the most remarkable man she’d ever known. And he was hers. As was his child.
“He’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
“Almost as beautiful as his mother.”
She glanced up at him, wanting to judge his reaction to her next words. “I should like to call him Tristan. Tristan Augustus Seymour. If that’s all right with you.”
“I like it very much.”
She saw the honesty of his response in his eyes. He’d never be dishonest with her.
Tristan’s eyes blinked open and his little brow furrowed, his mouth puckered. Ainsley leaned in. “He has your eyes.” A deep, deep blue.
“For now. The color could change. It often does with babes.”
“Was it excruciatingly awful? It certainly sounded as though it was.”
“At the time, but the memory is already fading. And it was very much worth it to hold this little one in my arms. Thank you, Ainsley.”
“You’re welcome, my duchess.”
Reaching up, she skimmed her fingers over his unshaven jaw. “I did fall in love with you at Blackmoor,” she said. “I should have told you then, when I was stepping out of the carriage, but I feared it wasn’t real. I thought coming here would prove me right. But all it did was make me love you more.” She glanced down. “I fear he will suffer for our indiscretions.”
“He would have been the subject of gossip either way. But people have short memories, and more titillating gossip will shove us from minds. Soon, no one will remember that we weren’t married when he was conceived. All they will see is how very much I adore you.”
“And you don’t really give a fig what people think.”
“I don’t. Besides, his is a very powerful family.”
Jayne was in the nursery, putting Tristan back in the crib after a late night feeding, when Ainsley returned home from a journey to London. It had been six weeks since they were married, and she thought she would never grow tired of seeing him walk into a room. He strode over to her with purpose in every step.
When he was near enough, he drew her into his arms and kissed her as though his very life depended on it. Six weeks, and every kiss was accompanied by an urgency. Through all the nights when they could not yet make love, he had kissed her and held her and slept with her.
It was marvelous, so absolutely marvelous. He’d once told her that a kiss was simply what it was: a kiss. But with him it was everything. It need not start something more, and yet it was powerful enough to stand on its own.
It was only when they came up for air that she was finally able to ask, “Did all go well?”
“It did. There is no whisper of doubt that Tristan is my rightful heir. Unfortunately, you, however, are now as scandalous as my mother.”
“I’ve come to rather like scandal.”
He arched a brow. “There shall be no more of it.”
“Only in your bedchamber.” She rose up on her toes, nibbled on his wicked mouth. “Perhaps we should begin tonight.”
“Are you well enough?”
She gave him a saucy smile and nodded. “I saw the physician today. I may begin my wifely ‘duties.’ ”
“May you never consider it a duty.” As he lifted her into his arms, his green eyes held a predatory gleam that caused her to grow warm.
She snuggled into his shoulder as he strode from the room. “I thought it was so romantic the first time you carried me to bed.”
“Do you not think it romantic now?”
“I think it more so. Promise me that you’ll never grow tired of me.”
“I promise.”
He carried her into his bedchamber and she flattened her hands against his chest. “Ainsley, I want you to kiss me.”
He grinned. “With pleasure.”
“No. I mean, when we’re making love. I want you to kiss me and kiss me and kiss me. To make up for all the times when we didn’t before.”
“Ah, Jayne, here you are with rules again.”
“But don’t you like this one?”
“Let’s just see how it goes.”
How it went was wonderful.
He began by kissing her deeply and thoroughly. Slowly, provocatively. No rush, no hurry. As though they had all night. She supposed they did.
He curled one hand around her neck, holding her in place, while his mouth continued to plunder and the talented fingers of his other hand began to loosen the pearl buttons on her nightdress. She worked off his jacket and unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat.
He peeled back her nightdress and his burning mouth trailed down her throat, over her shoulder, along the swell of one breast and then the other. Wherever he went, he coated her skin in dew.
“I have missed the taste and feel of you,” he said, his voice raw with desire.
“You shall never have to do without again.”
Straightening, he grinned down on her. “What a vixen you have become.”
“I was taught by an exceedingly talented lover.”
“How fortunate for me.”
He returned his mouth to hers. She could not fathom that she had been so silly to deny them before the simple pleasure of a ki
ss. It increased the intimacy and stoked the fires of passion. He slid the gown off her shoulders completely and it slithered to the floor. He only removed his lips from hers when he needed to. Otherwise, he was there conquering what he had already won.
Then she was standing before him naked and proud. She saw the appreciation in his smoldering gaze. He bracketed her hips.
“Your hips are wider.”
“To accommodate the birth of your son.”
He went down on one knee and pressed a kiss just below her navel. “I do like the changes to your body.”
Unfolding his own, he took her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He shed the remainder of his clothes and stretched out beside her, once more his mouth blanketing hers.
She scraped her fingers up into his hair, holding him near, kissing him deeply. Her hands explored the familiar contours of his body. He was exactly as he’d been before. Still firm. Still sculpted. Lean and muscled. A great sinewy cat moving over her.
She would have him for the rest of her life.
His talented hands roamed over every dip, peak, and valley. His mouth left hers, to journey along her flesh, trailing across her neck, teasing the delicate underside of her chin. Lower, to her shoulders. A nip here. A love bite there. Lower still to her breasts, heavy in his palms. His tongue circled her nipple, his breath coating it in dew.
With her thighs, she squeezed his waist. With her fingers, she rubbed his shoulders. She felt the deep rumble in his chest vibrating against her stomach. There was no purpose in their coming together tonight, no pressure to get her with child.
Just like his kiss, their lovemaking owned itself. It was pleasure simply for the sake of pleasure. It was giving and receiving in equal measure. It was what it should have been all along, and she suspected that for him, it was what it had always been: a generous gifting of passion.
His mouth whispered a path to her other breast, giving it the same ministrations as it had the other. She lifted her hips, imploring him to hurry, but he would not be swayed from his quest to reexplore all that he’d once known.
Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers) Page 29
