Sweet Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  But he was eager to fornicate, and she was beautiful and willing and available. Why not proceed?

  He came up on his knees and tugged off his shirt. Then he wedged himself between her thighs and stretched out atop her again. As his bare chest connected with hers for the first time, they both hissed at the sensation being produced.

  "You’re so pretty, Grace."

  "You sweet-talker, you."

  "It’s your turn to promise me something."

  "What is it?"

  "Promise me that you’ll never regret this, no matter what happens in the future."

  "Are you having second thoughts?"

  "No. Are you?"

  "No."

  "I want you to always be glad."

  "I always will be."

  "I’m worried because you can’t really grasp what it’s like until it’s over."

  "I realize that fact. I’m not a green girl."

  "I know. I just…just…"

  "Jackson"—she sounded exasperated—"I’ll never regret it, and I’m glad I decided to let it be you. I’ve waited too long to try this."

  It was such a rational, deliberate comment. Obviously, she had very low expectations as to what it would be like, and it occurred to him that he probably wasn’t capable of making the event as special as it should be. He’d boasted of masculine prowess, but he was a corrupt fellow who wallowed with concubines and whores.

  She should have someone better, someone decent and kind. She deserved a wedding in a church, a fancy dress, her family and friends in the pews, an open recitation of vows that would lead to a quiet consummation later in the evening.

  What she didn’t deserve was a hasty deflowering by a man of bad character who had no good motives and even fewer honorable intentions toward her.

  She must have perceived his reservations because she rested a soothing palm on his cheek.

  "Don’t be afraid," she murmured.

  "I’m not afraid," he claimed, but he suspected he was.

  "You said it will be all right, and I’m sure it will be."

  "Yes, I’m sure it will be, too."

  "I want this. I want you to be the one."

  "I want it, too."

  He truly meant it, but as he studied her, he had to look away. She was such a powerful person, and she held such sway over him. The enormity of what they were about, the gravity of it, was weighing too heavily.

  It’s just sex, Jackson, he scolded. You’ve done it hundreds of times before. Get on with it!

  The chastisement worked, as well as her lifting her hips, the subtle shift bringing her directly where she needed to be. He was reminded of his purpose, of the goal, and instantly, he couldn’t remember why he was hesitating.

  He was still wearing his trousers, and he unbuttoned the flap and released his phallus. He wedged the tip into her sheath, and she tensed, providing stark evidence that she wasn’t quite as composed as she seemed.

  "Are you going to do it now?" she asked, frowning.

  "No, let’s enjoy ourselves a bit."

  The reassurance calmed her. He dipped to her breasts, laved and massaged them until she was writhing with delight.

  He continued to nuzzle and nibble, as his fingers drifted down her tummy to her woman’s hair, to the spot where all her carnal arousal was centered. He dabbed at it with his thumb, as her passion rose, her body growing taut. Finally, she was swept away.

  She arched up and cried out, and he clutched her thighs and thrust into her. He flexed once and again and again, and he was buried to the hilt.

  "Oh…my," was all she said.

  He kept himself very still, letting her acclimate to her new situation.

  "Are you all right?" he inquired.

  "Yes."

  "Did I hurt you?"

  "A little."

  "It will pass."

  "It already is." She smiled tremulously. "We’re not finished, are we?"

  "No, but almost."

  "Show me."

  He could feel her relaxing, the moment too precious for words, and he lost his control. He pushed into her twice, but that was all he could manage. Her virgin’s blood, coupled with her tight, hot sheath, drove him to the precipice.

  Madly, he withdrew and spilled his seed on her tummy. He pumped it out over and over until he’d spewed every last drop. His hips ground to a halt.

  He rolled onto his back, and they lay frozen, side by side, not speaking.

  He wasn’t sure what to say to her. It had been hurried and bumbling, as if he was a schoolboy with his first girl. He was embarrassed by his performance.

  What must she think?

  There was a nightstand by the bed, and it was stacked with washing cloths from when he’d been incapacitated. He grabbed one and wiped his seed from her belly. She watched him, her face blank, so she appeared composed and unruffled. It was difficult to believe she’d just been deflowered—and in such a rapid, clumsy way, too.

  "Well, my friend," he said, "what is your opinion?"

  "It was…interesting."

  "Interesting!" he huffed with mock outrage. "You’re supposed to gush and flatter me."

  "You know I’m not very good with compliments—especially when they rush to your head so fast."

  "You’re so mean to me," he pouted. "Stroke my ego—just this once."

  Looking shrewd and wise, she nodded. "It was very nice."

  "Yes, it was."

  "But different than I imagined it would be."

  "How so?"

  "It was very physical and very quick. From stories I’ve heard, I assumed it might last—"

  "Ah! You’re wounding my male sensibilities again." He swatted her on the bottom. "It was quick because you arouse me beyond my limit."

  "What a perfectly lovely thing to say." She leaned in and kissed him. "Can we do it again?"

  "In a minute, you little minx. Let me catch my breath."

  "You seem like such a burly fellow. Must you have a break in between?"

  He laughed and laughed. "Once I’m able to proceed, you are in for it."

  "Tough talk, Mr. Scott."

  "I’ll show you," he warned. "Just you wait and see."

  "I will wait. Take all the time you need, you old, decrepit dodger."

  He drew her nearer, so she was draped across his chest.

  "What happens next?" she asked.

  "We do this as often as we can—until we’re sick of each other." He glanced down and grinned. "How many times a day can we sneak away?"

  "Fifteen or twenty?"

  "At that rate, you’ll kill me, but what a way to go."

  They were quiet then, with her caressing a hand down his arm and thigh.

  "Would you rest now?" she said.

  "I’m not tired," he insisted, but he yawned.

  "I don’t think you’re as hale as you claim, and I don’t want you to have a relapse."

  "I won’t relapse."

  "You never know. Let’s not tempt fate."

  He thought they’d already tempted quite a lot of fate. They’d done precisely what they shouldn’t have. Where would it lead? Where would it end?

  He couldn’t begin to guess.

  "If I doze off"—he was wearier by the second—"will you stay in here with me?"

  "Yes."

  "You little liar. You promised you’d stay last time, but you didn’t."

  "I like you much better than before. I wouldn’t dream of leaving. Besides, I’m nursing you. I have to be close in case you need me."

  "Yes, and I’m positive I’ll need you constantly."

  Feeling sated and satisfied, he drifted off, but when he awakened several hours later, she was gone.

  He could smell her on his skin, on the sheets, and in the air. The aroma tantalized and frightened him.

  He wanted to jump up and race off to find her. He wanted to pine and drool and mope and fall in love, which he would never do. Love and commitment were for fools, for idiots.

  Instead, he rose, rang for a s
ervant, and ordered a bath and a shave.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jackson had just finished dressing when someone quietly knocked on the door to his suite. As far as the servants were concerned, he hadn’t rescinded his order that Grace was sleeping and they should stay away.

  "Enter," he called, but whoever it was didn’t comply.

  He went over and yanked open the door. A footman was nervously huddled.

  "Yes, what is it?" Jackson asked.

  "I’m sorry to bother you, sir."

  "It’s quite all right. Miss Bennett awakened and departed some time ago, so we needn’t worry about disturbing her."

  "Very good, sir."

  The man gulped with dismay, and Jackson asked again, "What is it? What’s happened?"

  "Your mother has arrived."

  "Beatrice is here?"

  "Yes, with the countess and the earl."

  At hearing the word earl, Jackson suffered a moment of delight. To him, the title belonged to his brother, and for a fleeting instant, he thought the man referred to Edward. Swiftly, he realized his mistake. Susan—the countess—had accompanied his mother, and Percival, the new earl, had come, too.

  Dozens of irksome questions flitted through his head. Why had Beatrice visited? Why hadn’t she waited for him to travel to London? Why bring Susan—the last female on earth he wished to see? He’d finally meet his nephew. What would his opinion be of the supposedly bumbling boy?

  Then, more troubling issues arose. Where was Michael? Had gossip reached town? Was Beatrice aware of Michael’s existence? Was that why she’d journeyed to the estate?

  The prospects for disaster were enormous, and he fumed with aggravation. After his romp with Grace, he’d planned to find her, to spend the day flirting and chatting, and hopefully, misbehaving again.

  There was no chance now. A furtive liaison was always risky, and with his mother in residence, it would be nearly impossible to implement.

  Beatrice hadn’t been on the premises for five minutes, and she was already controlling his life. He was thirty years old, wealthy and independent, yet he quailed at the notion of facing her.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, visibly relaxing, refusing to fall into his previous patterns before he’d even spoken to her.

  The footman said, "She demands that you convene with her in the library at your earliest convenience."

  She would, he bitterly mused.

  "Tell her I’ll be down shortly."

  "I will."

  The footman should have left, but they both hesitated, and Jackson realized they were fretting about the same thing.

  "Do you know where Michael is?" Jackson inquired.

  "I believe he’s playing in the park with the neighbor boys. He’s very popular and has developed quite a…following."

  "How about Grace Bennett?"

  "She ate breakfast, and I presume she returned to her bedchamber."

  "Would you…ah… deliver a note to her for me?"

  "Certainly."

  He wanted Grace out of the line of fire until he’d decided when and where introductions would be made. He went to his desk and penned a quick request that she stay out of sight until further notice.

  He would inform Beatrice about Grace, would warn Susan of the pending calamity, and then he would summon Grace. Whether and when Michael would be introduced to anyone was an entirely different matter.

  He sanded the note, folded and sealed it, then gave it to the footman.

  "Be sure to locate Miss Bennett immediately," Jackson instructed. "She should remain in her room until she hears from me."

  The fellow nodded and hurried off, and Jackson dawdled, bracing himself, calming himself. Then he started down.

  His last conversation with Beatrice had been the day before Edward’s wedding. Jackson had begged her to call it off, had implored and debased himself, but Beatrice had refused.

  Jackson was no longer a malleable child who would beg and supplicate, but the horrid words of that encounter still rang in his ears.

  He had no idea how they were supposed to get on, and he wasn’t looking forward to any interaction. He took another deep breath, assumed his most haughty, bored air, then entered the library.

  His mother was so predictable, and at seeing her, he almost laughed aloud. She was at the far end of the grand salon, sitting behind the desk—as she had when he was little and about to be chastised for some infraction. Susan and Percival were positioned over by the window.

  The fiasco had been staged, with Beatrice determined that he remember she’d always been in charge, that she still was.

  But she’d made her first mistake with him. The library was his domain, the spot where he completed correspondence and carried out estate business. He controlled the money and the property and the earl. She and Susan could do nothing, could have nothing, unless he allowed it.

  "Mother"—he stormed over—"it appears you’re in my seat. Move."

  "It’s good to have you home, Jackson." Her dour expression belied her remark. She hadn’t cared when he’d fled England, and she wasn’t happy that he was back. So much for a warm welcome after a decade’s absence.

  "Move," he said again.

  "Thank you for joining us." She gestured to the chair across.

  He marched around and physically lifted her. He guided her to the smaller chair on the other side of the desk, the one she’d intended him to use.

  Then he returned to the main chair and sat in his rightful place. He was being petty and spiteful, but he couldn’t help reveling in his pathetic revenge.

  He spun to his nephew.

  "Are you Percival?"

  "Yes."

  The poor boy was chubby and plain and miserable. His red hair—the hair that had spawned a thousand paternity rumors—shone like a candle. Had Percival been apprised of the gossip? Had he understood what it meant?

  Well, if he hadn’t heard it yet, he’d hear plenty when he was older.

  Jackson studied him, trying to find some indication of Edward in his features, but there were no similarities. When Michael was the spitting image of Edward, and Percival shared no common traits, who could argue with Michael’s claim?

  "May I call you Percy?" Jackson asked.

  "No one does, sir," he formally replied, "and I don’t believe Grandmother would like it."

  "I’ll call you Percy anyway"—Jackson winked as if they shared a secret—"and you may call me Uncle Jack."

  Percival glanced over at Beatrice, then at Susan, then at Jackson again.

  "I don’t know if I ought."

  "We’ll talk about it later—when we’re away from the ladies."

  Percival’s brows flew up. Apparently, it had never occurred to him that he could disobey his mother or grandmother. My, my, but didn’t Jackson have a few important lessons to teach!

  "As you wish, sir," Percival said.

  "Uncle Jack," Jackson reminded him, but Percival wouldn’t voice words of which Beatrice might disapprove.

  "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

  "Why don’t you head outside," Jackson suggested. "I need to speak with your grandmother, and you don’t have to stand here and be bored."

  "I don’t like to play."

  Jackson scowled, not positive how to respond. "Ah…how about if you go to your room then? You can make sure your bags are unpacked and that your things are placed precisely where you want them."

  "May I read while I am there?"

  "You may do whatever you like," Jackson advised.

  Percival nodded solemnly and trudged out. Jackson watched him leave, feeling oddly protective of the beleaguered child. No wonder Edward had named Jackson as Percival’s guardian! Between Beatrice and Susan, Percival was a trembling wreck.

  He’d felt guilty about his plan to send Percival to boarding school, but suddenly, it seemed like a great idea. He had to be freed from Beatrice’s destructive influence. Jackson had survived his upbringing, but Percival didn’t have the spine for her type o
f malevolence. He would have to be constantly guarded, and imposed distance would always be necessary.

  As the door closed behind him, Jackson turned to his sister-in-law.

  At age twenty-nine, she was as beautiful as he recalled: white-blond hair, big blue eyes, pouting lips, curvaceous figure. Yet she was no longer the blushing girl she’d been when he left. She was older, more plump, more cunning—as if she’d honed her aptitude for artifice and deceit.

  "Hello, Susan," he said. "Why are you here?"

  His abrupt question rattled her. "Why…this is my home. I have every right to be here."

  "Not when I’m in residence."

  She looked gravely wounded. "How can you act like that? I’ve been so excited to see you again."

  "I’m certain that’s not true. Now then, I would appreciate it if Beatrice and I could be alone. She and I must confer privately."

  Insulted, Susan fumed. "I should hear what you say to Beatrice. I’m Percival’s mother, after all."

  Beatrice was flustered by him, but she quickly regrouped, not eager to anger Jackson or make their dislike even more pointed.

  "Susan, you can leave us. If we discuss anything that affects you, I will inform you after we’ve finished."

  Susan pouted, and Jackson impatiently hurled, "Goodbye, Susan."

  "Will you…you…join us for supper?" she stammered to Jackson.

  "If Cook serves any dishes I feel like eating."

  "I’ve only just arrived, Jackson. You don’t have to be so horrid!"

  "If you don’t care to put up with me, you may head to London at once. I doubt the horses have been unhitched from the coach. I’m happy to summon the driver and have your bags reloaded."

  He knew she wouldn’t depart, not when Percival was in the house. She wouldn’t want Jackson to be too cozy with her son—not unless she was there to steer their relationship in the direction she yearned for it to go.

  "I don’t wish to return to town," she mulishly stated.

  "Fine. Stay if you’d rather, but I really must insist that you not annoy me."

  "Annoy you! I’ve done nothing!"

  "Your very presence is annoying to me."

  "Well!"

  She nearly pitched a fit, but Beatrice flashed a warning glower. Susan spun and stomped out.