He swiped his face. “I don’t want to listen to any more.”
They stared at each other.
He eventually blurted, “Tell me.”
“He would want me to walk around naked for him whilst he pleasured himself. I don’t even like walking around naked for myself. I don’t even like to sleep naked or look at myself naked in the mirror. But he wouldn’t leave me alone until I did it. He nagged and nagged me for a whole week. And we hadn’t even been married for two!”
He swiped his face again. “I don’t want you comparing me to a man who obviously had no understanding outside of his own needs. It’s insulting.”
“I’m sorry. I’m merely trying to explain why I’m so nervous about us stepping beyond our friendship. I don’t want you to be disappointed into thinking that I’m more than I am. Because I’m not about to walk around naked for you. It’s not who I am.”
He glared. “Do you honestly think that I would judge you based upon your inability to walk around naked for me? What sort of man do you take me for? Hell, I doubt I’ll ever be able to walk around naked for you! Do you have any idea how long it took me to even kiss a woman, yet alone bed one? I was two and twenty, Jane. Two and twenty! Whilst Christopher kissed his first girl when he was six.”
She bit back a startled laugh at hearing him say it. Now she didn’t feel quite so bashful.
He glared again. “Are you laughing at me?”
She tried to erase her amusement. “No. I’m not.”
He pointed rigidly. “Yes, you are. And I don’t appreciate it. Unlike my brother and every man in London, I have a modesty to me. One I cannot erase, and I am not about to apologize for it. Especially to you. Because I have damn well been apologizing for myself to my father all my life. All my life! And I’m done with that. Do you understand? I’m done!”
Her throat tightened. Her Martin, her beloved Martin, had at long last found respect for himself. A respect that neither she, nor anyone else, could have taught him. A respect he could have only taught himself. It meant that he was, indeed, a man. And she was proud of him. Incredibly proud of him.
“Never apologize for who you are.” Trying to soften his annoyance, she pointed to the note he lingered by. “Read it.”
“Read what?”
“My missive.”
“Your missive?” He paused at seeing it. He snatched it up and unfolded it. Whilst reading it, a breath escaped him. Holding her gaze for a long moment, he slowly brought it to his lips and kissed it. Not once, but twice.
She tried to throttle the dizzying reality that he was kissing it as if it were her.
Still watching her, he folded it and tucked it into his inner waistcoat pocket.
She fingered her gown. “I take it you are pleased by my admission.”
“Beyond.” Rounding the desk, he came to a halt before her chair and put his hand down toward her. “Stand for me, please.”
She edged back into the seat, knowing if she stood, he would be kissing her next. And she wasn’t ready. Not yet. “I would rather sit.”
He blew out a breath and leaned down, setting both hands on the armrests, blocking her in. “Jane.”
She edged back even more, unable to breathe. His legs were buried in her bundled skirts and his face was a hand away. The opera singer in her crawled below stage.
“Look at me and remember who it is you are looking at. It isn’t Philip, or Mister X, but me. Me. Martin. Your friend. First and foremost, always your friend. Lover last.”
Tears pricked her eyes at those unexpected words. It was something she desperately needed to hear. Too many men had tried to make love to her. But none had ever tried to be a friend to her. The way he had always been. Her eyes lifted, tracing his ivory embroidered waistcoat and up to his throat. Her eyes drifted even farther up to his square jaw, which had already darkened with small black stubble. She met his gaze.
He leaned in closer still, his face and the expanse of his body mere inches away.
Her chest tightened and she could no longer breathe against his heated scent.
He held her gaze and said, “I am going to kiss you. Then you can decide if we ought to pursue this. Will you agree to that?”
He wasn’t telling her to kiss him—he was asking to kiss her. “Yes. I will agree to that.”
His husky features softened as that rugged face drew closer and closer. “Are you ready?” he whispered, his hot breath caressing her cheek.
She nodded but didn’t dare move. Not that she could, given she was pinned to the chair by him and his arms.
His dark eyes lingered on her lips as his hand lifted and tenderly cupped her chin. His fingers skimmed the outline of her face.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
He leaned all the way in and covered her mouth with his.
His hand slipped behind her neck, gripping it.
Her mind blanked and her eyes fluttered closed against the sensation of knowing she was kissing Martin. Martin. Her Martin.
His hot tongue gently traced her lips as she slipped into a hazy bliss. He parted her lips with his and softly pressed his mouth against hers.
A moan she wanted to withhold escaped her. She couldn’t believe that he wanted her in the same way she wanted him.
Taking the encouragement, his mouth pressed harder against hers and widened, demanding she slip her tongue into the wetness of his mouth.
She needed no more persuasion. She slipped her tongue between his teeth and moved it against his cognac-flavored tongue. At first, she tongued him very, very slowly, for she desperately wanted to savor him and this moment. But like a fever spreading through her soul, everything exploded and she couldn’t contain herself. She feverishly pushed her mouth against his as he feverishly pushed his mouth against hers.
They kissed and kissed and kissed as if they had been waiting for years to do so. And in many ways, she knew they had.
Gone was any nervousness. All she wanted was this and him. To feel love like this. To feel passion like this. To feel friendship like this. To feel that she could trust like this. But above all, to know it was real and laced with genuine respect.
Her hands jumped up to his neck as she pulled him down and onto her. His large body completely shifted onto her and the chair. The searing heat of his broad frame became her own as his hands fiercely dragged down her exposed throat to the top of her evening gown.
She moaned as he cupped both of her breasts, pushing them out of her gown. He rubbed each breast tauntingly with thumbs through the satin bodice and dug his hips into her, forcing her against the chair. His thick arousal pushed and pushed into her lower thigh and she knew there was no going back.
He broke off their kiss and lifted himself up as best he could on one arm.
Her eyes fluttered open, her heart still hammering. That kiss had gone beyond anything she had ever known. It was as romantic as it had been erotic. “I do love you, Martin,” she whispered, unable to keep it in a breath more. “I always have. Surely you know that. Friend, lover, it matters not. As long as you never leave me like the way you once did.”
He searched her face. “I will never leave you,” he rasped. “Never again.” His chest heaved as he continued to hold himself over her on one muscled arm that strained his linen shirtsleeve. His jaw was taut and his face flushed as his steady black gaze bore into her in silent and pleading expectation.
He was waiting for her to agree to more.
The undeniable magnetism she felt for him exploded. He wasn’t demanding she bed him, as Philip always had; he was silently begging she bed him. As only Martin would.
“Yes,” she hoarsely whispered, the wild building ache growing within. “Make me yours.” She slid her hands over his shoulders, enjoying the hard feel of his warmth.
He leaned in and kissed her again, more forcefully, and scrambled against her to toss off his waistcoat and cravat. Breaking their kiss, he whipped off his linen shirt, mussing his dark hair into his eyes and exposed a broad
, muscled chest that made her breath hitch.
He knelt before her, holding her gaze, and dragged his hands up her silk-stockinged legs, pushing her skirts up, up, with those gripping fingers.
Her chest rose and fell as his hands drifted farther up, tugging down her bloomers and casting them aside, leaving her naked beneath her gown.
She almost fainted as he nudged her legs apart and skimmed his warm fingers up toward the inside of her thigh. Spreading her wet folds, he leaned in and dragged his finger against her nub and flicked. Dragged then flicked.
All the while, he heatedly watched her from where he knelt, daring her to look away from what he was doing to her body.
She let her hips rhythmically sway against his fingers, muted moans escaping her. As his finger circled and rubbed and flicked her slick passage, sabotaging all thoughts, she gripped the arms of the chair and gasped for air, trying desperately not to break their gaze. She gasped again, feeling herself near climax.
As if knowing she was about to spiral, he withdrew his fingers and pulled her up onto her feet with the hook of his arm around her waist.
She draped herself against him, breaths escaping her unevenly as he reached between them and unbuttoned his trousers and drew out the rigid length buried beneath. “I want a family, Jane,” he confessed in a low tone.
“As do I,” she breathed back.
Gathering up her skirts to her waist, he turned them and seated himself in the chair, positioning her knees around his thighs. “I want four children,” he softly said, holding her gaze.
She set her forehead against his. “And I want five or six.”
“You do?”
“I do.” He was reminding her of the beauty and magnificence behind intimacy. It denoted love. It denoted children. It denoted family. Not the parading of mere lust. She had at long last found her twin flame and only wished she hadn’t been so blind to see he had been hers all along.
…
Holy day.
Martin thought he’d experienced every feeling and emotion in his life. But never this. He couldn’t breathe. He was afraid that one breath would push her away.
With those beautiful, shapely, stockinged legs on display as she straddled him, and her blond hair cascading in ringlets around her beautiful, flushed face, she already looked as if she had rolled out of his bed after a long night of lovemaking.
He firmly pressed his hands to the sides of her silken face and whispered, “I love you.”
A small smile curved her lips. “I know,” she whispered back.
The heat from her body and the words from her tender mouth melted away every barrier he had ever put up. He lifted his mouth to hers and forced her mouth open, urgently searching for that hot, satin tongue. As he traced the inside of that soft mouth, his body turned into a blazing fury.
His arms circled her tighter as he traced her back with both hands, traveling down, down the coolness of the gown that draped her body.
As he rubbed his exposed cock against her naked thigh, he continued to devour her mouth by letting his tongue probe her tongue. Letting his hands drift back up to her shoulders and hair, he blindly traced the soft outline of her smooth face with both hands and gently trailed his fingers alongside its surface, wishing he could melt into her skin.
If only he’d known it would end like this, he would have never touched a single woman. Dragging his fingers into the sides of her thick blond hair that smelled of lavender, he immersed himself in the maddening sensation of touching her in the way he had always wanted to touch her since she first came into his life.
Breaking their kiss, he looked up at her soft, sultry features one last time, assuring himself that she wanted this as much as he did before he guided his shaft into her. “Would you rather we wait until after we are wed?”
“We have waited long enough.”
His breath hitched as he positioned himself to enter her softness.
Gripping his shoulders, she slowly pushed down onto him and rolled.
He groaned in disbelief as he slid deep into her hot wetness. “Jane. Oh, God. Jane.” Her name, which he murmured during any intimacy he had ever indulged in, now became shockingly real. Although his body demanded he continue to thrust up and into her, he could only brush a trembling hand over her hair as she continued to hover above him and the chair. He still couldn’t believe this was happening and that she was real.
She slipped her hands across the expanse of his bare chest before gripping his shoulders with hot hands again. She slowly pushed down onto his full length again and again, setting the pace.
He gasped at the explosive downpour of sensations she brought against his throbbing cock. “Jane,” he groaned, letting all of her softness soothe his hardness.
He thrust his hips up into her again and again, letting more savage sensations ravage his body. Thrusting faster and deeper, until the chair kept skidding beneath him, he watched as she moaned and swayed above him. He didn’t want to close his eyes. Not for a moment. Lest he miss a breath of it.
Gnashing his teeth, he thrust up and into her harder, jarring the chair each time. Watching her in mindless ecstasy made him want to release. “Are you close?” he rasped.
“Very.”
Gripping her waist hard, until he felt his pulse within his own hands, he powered in and out of her until they both trembled with an urgency to explode.
She cried out and stilled above him, pins falling out of her hair and causing a curtain of silky blond hair to fall between them.
Reaching that heart-pounding peak himself, he exploded. Pleasure rippled through him, shaking him as his seed poured into her. For the first time in his life he kissed stars.
Exhausted, he fell back against the chair completely.
Even long after his heart returned to a slow beat, he continued to cling to her, wanting her closeness to last longer than any climax could. Embracing her completely, he cradled her blond head against his chest.
He traced her smooth cheek with his thumb. “Merry Christmas, my duchess.”
“Merry Christmas, my duke.”
“Stay the night,” he whispered.
She nuzzled against his chest. “When we are married, I will. In fact, when we are husband and wife, I will move into this house and stay every night.”
He bit back a smile. “Is that a promise?”
“It most certainly is.”
He kissed the top of her head, squeezing her tighter against himself, knowing that Jane was his. All his. All because of an old portrait hidden in the attic. A portrait that led him to an endearing great aunt, who opened the door to a past that turned into his future.
Epilogue
Ever Yours,
—Mister X
Twelfth Night, two years later
The Somerset Estate
To the world, Duchess Jane Margaret Somerset was the epitome of savoir faire. To herself, she was merely an ordinary woman who considered herself extraordinarily blessed to have followed not only her head but her heart. Neither had ever led her astray. Not ever. Not once. In fact, both had led her to this very pivotal moment of knowing that she, Jane, was celebrating her first Twelfth Night as a mother of not only eight-month-old twins Ernastine and Catherine but another babe that no one knew was on the way. Not even her husband, Martin.
The ornate ballroom and all of its guests who danced and conversed beneath glimmering crystal chandeliers draped with holly made her feel exquisite and alive. The violins and the floating harmony of playful flutes and the stomping of feet and clapping of hands engulfed her and made her blissfully sway from side to side.
She had everything she had ever wanted. Her father, old Mrs. Granger, Christopher, and his wife were all seated in the same corner, laughing in unison as if watching people dance was ridiculously funny.
The eggnog must have had more than the usual brandy.
Martin sidled up to her. “Hello, Jane.”
“Hello, Martin.” Jane continued to sway to the music.
She stilled and glanced toward her husband, feeling as if she had repeated this night once before. “Are you warning me of something?”
Dark eyes heatedly held hers. “Strange things happen on Twelfth Night. When a wife doesn’t dance or drink any eggnog, a husband notices.”
She bit back a grin. He knew. “I was going to tell you.”
He lifted a brow. “When?”
“At midnight.”
He pulled out his pocket watch and eyed the time before tucking it back into his waistcoat. He set his shoulders. “In fifteen minutes, I’ll pretend I’m incredibly surprised.”
She let out a laugh. “You do that.”
Grabbing her face, he leaned in and kissed her hard.
Grabbing his face, she kissed him back.
He nipped at her cheek.
She nipped at his.
Someone cleared his throat. Twice.
She and Martin paused.
Christopher eyed them. “This is a respectable gathering.”
Martin jumped toward him and mussed his brother’s hair. “Then why the devil are you here?”
Christopher sauntered back with a gruff laugh and smoothed back his hair. “I will leave you two alone.”
Martin pointed at him. “I’m going to be a father. Again. Which means you are going to be an uncle. Again.”
Christopher’s brows rose. “Were twins not enough?”
Jane laughed. “So much for our congratulations, Martin. Toss him out into the snow where he belongs.”
Christopher peddled back and grinned. “Congratulations. And I mean it!”
She inclined her head as Martin tugged her close.
Christopher thumbed toward his own wife. “I’ll be sure not to tell Evelyn, lest she feel I’m not trying hard enough to fill the nursery.” With that, he left.
Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Page 9
