by Jane Lark
“I do not mean to upset her. I did not think it mattered.” She seemed smaller, her voice shrinking, and she still looked past him.
“It matters,” he answered impatiently.
“Then I’ll stay.” Her chin lifted in a little show of defiance as her eyes came back to his. “But do not bully me.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. Me, bullying her? Bloody hell. “I do not recall hitting you, Jane. I am not Sutton. I am not bullying you. It is you who are playing the damn tormentor. I swear, you enjoy torturing me.”
“Robert!”
They both turned as Edward called from a distance away, beckoning Robert to come and take the bat.
Without another word, Robert walked away then snatched the bat from Edward’s hands.
When he took his place before the wicket, he still felt stiff with anger.
Forth, a friend of his, bowled, and Robert swung all his frustration into the strike. He hit the ball hard, and it went flying with a sharp crack.
“Six!” someone shouted, meaning he’d no need to run.
He heard groans ring from the fielding team who had to fetch it in the heat. Then he leisurely swapped ends with Edward, passing his brother midfield.
When he glanced at Jane, he caught her watching, but, immediately, she looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the women’s conversation.
She did not smile at him any more.
He was certain the fear which had haunted him over the last few days had come to pass. His Jane, whom he’d sheltered and entertained in his home for the past weeks, had gone again. His chance to win her was over. She would leave him the day after tomorrow, and he would have to let her go.
He hadn’t a clue what he’d do then. Stay here, he supposed.
On Robert’s next bat, the hard ball whizzed past him and crashed into the wickets, sending the rods and pins askew. The opposing team mocked him good-humouredly while Edward accused Robert of deliberately not lifting his bat so he could get out.
Robert handed the bat to his cousin, Rupert, and strolled away from the game.
He’d bury himself in the damned country. That’s what he’d do. If running to the continent had not worked, he hardly thought any distance would make him forget, but at least he would not have to look at her. He would not have to see the grace with which she moved. Nor the frown which formed a line between her brows when she thought, as it did when she played chess with John. Nor the lost-in-love look which always came over her when she picked little Robbie up. Nor would he have to hear her girlish laugh erupt, as it did when she played her games with Mary-Rose.
A constriction gripped about his heart, a pain that hardly let him breath.
How the hell could he let her go? But he had to. He’d promised her he would.
Chapter Fourteen
If he’d been brooding in the morning, by the evening, Robert was in despair.
All togged up in their finery, the women decided they wished to dance. So Ellen played the pianoforte, and Edward sat beside his wife, turning the music. All the other men expressed a preference to dance with their wives. It left Robert to offer to partner Jane.
He thought about retreating from it, but then he remembered how much she liked to dance and couldn’t bring himself to leave her out, though he was surprised when she accepted. His eyes had barely left her all evening, and she’d not looked at him once.
Lovesick fool that he was, his heart lurched merely at the pressure of her hand in his. It was then Ellen struck up a waltz. Robert glanced at his sister-in-law. Of course, she and Edward must have seen it all turning sour. They weren’t blind. But what could they do? No more than him. Jane was slipping through Robert’s fingers, and there was nothing to be done.
“You are quiet tonight?” she said.
His eyes turned to her face.
“You’re still angry?”
He forced a smile. “Not at you, not really.” Just bleeding to bloody death for the love of a woman who does not want me. It was himself he was angry at, for idiotically creating false and flawed expectations in his head, and his heart.
He supposed, when Jane returned to London and told her friend, Violet would think it justice.
Jane was studying him, following the steps he led. She felt so good in his arms.
He should have had Ellen play before, one evening when they were alone, but then it would have been foolish, just the two of them dancing. Yet even now, he could feel the magic working between them. It always did when they were close. Her body moved nearer and he leaned to smell her hair, his cheek brushing against her ebony curls.
Her head then rested on his shoulder, and they were dancing as they’d done weeks ago in a dark London garden.
No one noticed. No one cared. The married couples forming the rest of the party all danced closer than was standard.
He felt her sigh, and her hand slid from his shoulder to his neck. “Do you want to walk in the garden?” he whispered into her hair.
She nodded against his chest, then pulled back. He was unwilling to risk her coming to her senses and swiftly gripped her upper arm, then paced across the room with her in tow and out through the open French doors. He did not stop on the terrace, but drew her on through the garden, his grip shifting from her arm to hold her hand. He walked quickly, knowing she was taking two paces to his one.
She did not try to pull free. Instead, her hand gripped his just as tightly as his held hers.
It was as if they’d found something to cling to amidst this madness which possessed them. Or that was how he felt, and he hoped she felt the same.
When they reached the circular rose garden his mother had planted, an arbour hidden far away from the house, he stopped, tugged her back into his arms, and held her, physically willing her to stay.
His chin rested on her crown as she melted against him, and her arms wrapped about his waist.
A physical need gripped inside him. He was a man after all. He needed sex. But he wanted her more, and he would not risk losing her company tonight just because he’d overstepped her boundaries. This could be the last night he had it.
“Why?” she asked against his chest.
He smiled, knowing exactly what she meant without asking. “Who knows?” he whispered, stirring her hair. “There is magnetism between us. I can neither explain nor understand it either, Jane. We are just drawn to each other whether we will it or not.”
She lifted her head away from his chest and met his gaze. “Kiss me,” she beckoned in a siren call, her eyes bright with bodily lust.
This was madness. He ought to keep a cool head. She would regret it minutes later. “No, Jane, not this time, sweetheart. I’ve learned my lesson. You do not really want to. Tomorrow, it will be me you paint as the one in the wrong. No. Go back to London on Monday, Jane, and let us leave things as they are.”
She did not move, did not pull away, just looked at him, her eyes implying he was a fool.
He was.
He laughed, a choking, cracked sound. “What? Don’t tell me you’re surprised I am able to say no?”
She smiled.
It broke his damned heart.
“I am thinking I shall not accept no for an answer actually. Take me out on the lake, Robert.”
“The lake?” His voice was virtually a whisper. What was she saying? They had both admitted in London they remembered that night. It was the night he’d made up his mind to marry her. There would be no repetition of that.
“Yes, please?” Her hands still gripping his waist, her smile turned cajoling.
What is this?
She let him go, slipping from his grip. “Come then,” she whispered before running off along the path heading towards the ornamental lake.
What the hell is she up to? His heart pounded. Perhaps he would wake up in a moment and this would be a dream. He followed regardless. If it was a dream, he was going to relish it, confound his instinct for self-preservation. He let his good intentions sail away like dandelion see
ds blown on the wind. If she’d be gone after tomorrow, he’d take what she offered tonight and hang on to the memory for the rest of his life. It would help him endure the parched years to follow, without Jane.
She stopped at the edge of the arbour and held out her hand.
He took it again, clutching it tightly.
In minutes, they were at the edge of the lake. The wide expanse of water stretched out before them.
His grandfather had added the ornamental lake. It was only shallow, hence, they’d always used punts on it. Plus, the flat-bottomed boats were more conducive to comfort.
Jane climbed in as he held her steady.
His servants had clearly guessed the boats may be used during the house party because they were laden with freshly aired cushions.
He did not speak as he untied it and climbed in.
Nor did she.
Everything about it took him back to the night years before when they’d crept away from the house after dark.
Water swilled about the hull as he dipped the pole in and pushed them out. It lapped gently against the wood as the shallow boat slid across the lake, sitting low in the calm water. An owl called from somewhere in the trees at the edge. Another answered it.
Jane sat on the cushions, her arms wrapped about her knees, holding them to her chest, and her stocking-clad toes peeked from beneath the hem of her gown.
They’d both left their shoes in the boathouse.
“Stop now,” she whispered when they were in the middle. “Sit with me.”
His pulse thundered through his veins, his blood as thick and heavy as molten lead, and a weight of need hung in his groin. He sunk the pole into the mud on the bed of the lake and tied the punt to it.
She moved the cushions while he did so, spreading them along the hull so they could lie across them.
When he joined her, she wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder.
Barely able to breath, he asked, “Jane, what is happening here?”
She lifted her face, but he couldn’t see it in the shadow of the silver moonlight which etched all else about them clearly. She was in black again, colourless and wreathed in mystery, as she’d been the first night in London. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just know I do not want to leave you.”
A pain pierced his chest. “You don’t?”
“No, but I don’t know what to do. This is the only place which has ever felt like home to me, and yet, it is not my home.”
Sighing, he closed his eyes. The holding back was unbearable, and yet, going forth, only to have her stop him again, was worse. “So, it is my house you want, not me?”
“It isn’t the house. It is you. It was you in London only, and I felt it then too … I … ” She paused, catching her breath. “It would not feel like home if you were not here.”
“I was not the one who said you should leave.” He was very aware she could see his face while he could not see hers.
“I know, but I cannot stay forever, can I?”
“Why not?”
She did not respond. Instead, her slender, elegant fingers slid up his neck and delved into his hair.
“Stop talking and just kiss me. Please?”
He gave in. He couldn’t not. His mouth touched hers and felt her lips part. Then his tongue slid into her warm mouth. She tasted of red wine.
Her body arched to his, just as it had done up on the hill.
She was so needy when he got her going, but he could not bear for it to stop again. If she let him take more from her tonight, she would have to let him take it all.
He offered her nothing beyond his lips, ignoring the insistent pressure of her hip against his.
“Robert,” she said, just as she’d done the other day, begging him for more, for some form of release from the desire raging between them.
Heaven knows, he was not a selfish lover, but he wanted something from this. His hand reached to the skirt of her flimsy muslin gown, and his fingers began working it up.
In anticipation, her fingers gripped his shoulders, but he sensed there was a fear in her grip, too.
Pray God, she did not force him away tonight. He was hard for her again, and his desire felt like a bloody battering ram, waiting to be unleashed.
When he touched the bare skin above her stocking, her body jolted, and as he slid his fingers across her inner thigh, he felt her breath catch against his mouth. Then her hand lifted from his shoulder for a minute, and he thought she would stop him, but instead, she began trying to release the buttons of his coat.
When she could not, a frustrated sound came from her throat.
He moved, shifting back on to his knees.
He could see her then, and watched silver moonlight play across her face as he stripped off both his evening coat and his waistcoat and left them in the rear of the hull.
She smiled, giving him that feminine come-hither look.
It sent a dagger of aching awareness to his very tip.
She sat up a little and half-heartedly tugged the end of his cravat, her hair already falling from its pins.
He took off his neckcloth and left it in the hull.
When he leaned forward again, her fingers began pulling his shirt from his waistband. Then they touched skin beneath it.
There was just something so uncertain and hesitant in her touch. It felt different to being touched by any other woman he’d known.
He pulled his shirt off and threw it aside, too.
Immediately, her fingers ran across the contours of his chest.
He was unwilling to be the only one in a state of undress though, and so, gripping her arms and interrupting her indulgence, he drew her up and reached for the buttons at her back.
Once they were free, he slid her dress from her shoulders and helped her free it from her arms. It was too awkward in the boat to take it right off. But he helped her work off her chemise, too, until she was bare to her waist.
She was shaking. It was not from cold; the air was hot.
When they lay down on the cushions again, the soft flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest, and she groaned into his mouth.
He drew the sound into his lungs. He wanted to be a part of her. Oh God, he wanted to be in her, but not yet, not until he was certain she would not say no.
His hand reached between their bodies.
She was aroused, hot and damp.
His index and middle finger slipped into the heat, and his thumb pressed and caressed. He would drive her so mad with want she would be incapable of saying no.
“Jane?” he whispered to her ear.
“Yes.” Her voice was breathless.
“Do you want this? Are you sure? You will not make me stop this time.”
“Oh God!” Her hips pressed to his palm, and her fingers cradled his scalp.
“Do you want this?” he asked again, needing to be sure.
“Yes! Yes! I want this!”
“But do you want me?” he pushed, determined to be certain.
“Robert, I want you! Yes! Just!” Her hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, her fingernails cutting into his flesh. “Please!” she cried out hard. He felt the wave of ecstasy hit her as her pelvis bucked against his hand.
“I want to be inside you now. Yes?” He spoke cautiously, still fearing the answer might be no as his fingers left their moist haven and moved to undo the flap of his breeches.
“Yes.” She nodded, but as the silver light caught her eyes, he saw a sudden element of fear.
What did she think? That he would hurt her? Had someone else hurt her?
Once he was free, he did not rush, remembering that night in the garden. Lifting her hand from his shoulder, he pressed a kiss into her palm. She was beautiful. He wanted her to be sure. He lowered her hand.
Her breath caught as he closed her hand about him.
Her touch was tentative and uncertain.
He supposed because it was him, because they’d waited years for
this. If it happened? He was still not convinced it would. He dared not hope.
“I’ll not hurt you, Jane, sweetheart. I promise,” he whispered as she grew more confident with his tuition.
Her legs had fallen slack.
He let her hand go and touched her, trailing his fingers over her thighs and lifting her skirt up over her bare stomach.
Her leg lifted and lay over his hip, her body clearly craving to be closer, while her hand worked harder.
He gripped her luscious, pert bottom.
He longed to be within her. But not yet. He was not sure enough to try it yet. Just a moment more.
God, he felt like a green youth, afraid to take the final step, and he disliked this unsure man.
His hand suddenly moved to stop the movement of hers. “Now?” he whispered to her lips.
She stilled instantly, and it felt as though every one of her muscles solidified.
He lifted a little, met her gaze, and held it as he moved over her, covering her.
She had not said no, but she was silent, and her breathing was short and sharp, and her body lay still, but not relaxed.
It felt like worship to him. This would always be the most precious moment of his life.
“It should have always been like this,” she whispered as her palms pressed against his cheeks.
He lifted his hips.
She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.
He held his breath, watching her face, then plunged quickly. Her warmth overwhelmed him, flooding through his body as time slowed a dozen times, and then he felt a sudden sharp pressure and her body jolt. It burst instantly and let him through.
He was motionless suddenly, but seated deep inside her.
Extreme cold washed over him as understanding dawned.
The uncertainty in her touch, which he’d sensed on that first night, and again now, had not been like a virgin’s. She had been a virgin.
She had been a virgin! The animal roar rose inside him.
