To Covet a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  Phoebe went warm—in her face, in her belly, and between her legs. Unable to bear the power of his stare, she looked away, cheeks hot, reaching to absentmindedly stroke the back of her hair up off her neck, but the arrangement was too fresh to have started to fall. “Good morning, husband.”

  He returned his attention to reading. Her heart thumping away madly, she settled at the table with a plate unceremoniously piled with an assortment of warm breads and rolls, which she proceeded to slather with butter and preserves. There were no two ways about it. Sating one appetite had roused another.

  Not that Phoebe would have considered herself sated where it came to Max. The mere proximity of him overpowered every singing fiber of her being—tempting and seducing her to crave new heights of wickedness. The temporary measures of this morning were already fading into memory. New wants and needs stirred in her blood.

  Which a mouthful of sweet, chewy bread piled with raspberry jam did little to assuage.

  She washed the bite down with a mouthful of a particularly grassy blend of tea. “I thought you had something that would take you away this morning.”

  Max kept reading. “I changed my mind.”

  This was their first morning together as husband and wife. It was gratifying that he’d remained here to share breakfast with her. Did it signify that he was happier with the union than he’d expected to be?

  There was no undoing what had been done. And Phoebe, for one, did not wish to change the decision they’d…well, if not made, then blackmailed each other into.

  But it was certainly likely that he might harbor worries aplenty. Was there anything she might do to nudge away any lingering regrets?

  She dabbed any extraneous crumbs that might have been upon her lips. “I had a pleasant morning.”

  His eyes clamped upon her, and his brow rose a fraction of an inch. “Did you now?”

  There was an awareness about him that bespoke his sense that she was baiting him—and his wariness against being trapped. He brought his teacup to his lips.

  She nodded. They were completely alone.

  Then again, with servants ever about, one never knew. Another person might always be nearby and within earshot. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “Did you know it’s possible to come several times in quick succession?”

  Max choked, coughing and sputtering. His newspaper fell to the floor as he grabbed at his throat. His face went red, and he gasped for breath.

  Phoebe pressed her lips together to stifle a hearty burst of laughter.

  “What did you say?” His voice came out in a strangled croak.

  How pleasing. Yes. This was precisely what she wanted.

  She leaned back to politely and demurely sip her own tea, her warm cheeks no doubt pink with pleasure. “I don’t think there is anything the matter with your hearing, my lord.”

  …

  This woman was going to be the death of him. His cock was hard and high and pounding with determination to have its rightful satisfaction. Ever since Phoebe had strode into the breakfast room, her head high, her eyes alive with mischief, he’d been unable to purge the lurid images from his mind.

  He yearned to strip her free of her morning gown and explore the wonders of her body all over again. To kiss her. To open her legs and—

  His stomach clenched.

  If he had any sense, he wouldn’t have allowed himself to remain this morning. Phoebe held too much power over him. He was little more than an abjectly base and untamed creature of the flesh.

  But he couldn’t stay away forever. She was his wife. He had to relearn the meaning of restraint if he had any hope of remaining true to his principles.

  Thankfully, they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant. Which one, he couldn’t see. He grabbed his newspaper from the floor and buried his nose back between the pages. He didn’t dare look up for fear the lascivious thoughts would show on his face. He wasn’t master of himself—not just yet. Phoebe affected him far too powerfully.

  He was going to have to do something about it. And soon. It was too early in the day to retire to bed, and more’s the pity. There had to be another way. They couldn’t have been the only couple who didn’t want to go about exploring their new physical life together in a less than utterly staid and polite manner.

  The servant left. Abruptly, Max stood. At the door, he turned back to Phoebe and tugged his waistcoat down. “There are some things I should like to discuss with you in the library. See me there in a quarter of an hour?”

  The smile she gave him would have made a monk fall to his knees and beg for sin. When she replied, her voice was a rustle of silk. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ten minutes later, Max kept back to the shadows, one foot inside the library, one foot outside, hand on the smooth wooden doorframe. Down at the other end of the corridor, Phoebe was exclaiming over the bouquet that had been delivered. The varieties of the flowers were impossible to tell at this distance, but the sender knew her well enough to have ordered yellow as the dominant color.

  Phoebe let out a delighted squeal of explanation to the patient footman standing nearby. “From my sister and her husband!” The boy caught her infectious smile. They were all going to be slaving over her hand and foot, these servants, and not because she would be a cruel, demanding mistress. Because she would charm them into being eager to do her every bidding.

  He wandered back inside the library. Only two minutes had passed. Three more until she arrived. If she arrived on time.

  Three minutes.

  Had the mantel clock not been properly wound? Minutes had never been so excruciatingly long before. Had they? No, indeed. They usually ticked away rather briskly.

  He went back to the desk. Picked up a letter from his steward. Opened it. Skimmed. Something about the new clergyman at Sutterton Grange.

  Still three minutes.

  Max picked another letter from the morning post off the pile. A note from an intermittent correspondent about his time in Bath and a request to borrow a few pounds.

  Two minutes.

  Max sucked his teeth and went to the window. It was an absurdly ordinary day. Overcast. English in every way. The gray sky might offer up a little rain, or it might not, subject to its whim. Green shoots in the newly planted kitchen garden were beginning to appear.

  “You wanted to see me, Max?”

  His insides jumped to alert.

  He turned. For a moment, all he could do was behold her. His wife.

  “Max?”

  “Shut the door and turn the key.”

  Without a hint of scruple, she followed his directive.

  The lock clicked.

  His cock leaped. She wore a pale morning dress that made her skin look like freshly poured cream. Those eyes of hers, those rich, dark, knowing eyes—they were so big. So intent upon him.

  There was something to be said for marriage on one previously unconsidered count. With the right woman, it made sense. A man could be as alone with his wife, for as long as he pleased, and nobody would lift so much as one well-sculpted brow.

  Well, they might. But nobody’s reputation was at stake.

  He cleared his throat. “I believe you were telling me about some discoveries you made this morning.” His balls tightened. His lungs squeezed in anticipation.

  The sight of the smile that crossed her face fired a previously unknown depth of wickedness in his soul. Well, well. The vixen who was his wife did want to play this game.

  “Yes, I made some discoveries this morning…some very interesting discoveries, indeed. Three to be exact.”

  Oh, hell. This was good. This was damn good.

  “Not just a wanton, but a greedy wanton.”

  “And to think”—she spoke breezily, a glint in her eye that promised trouble in all the best ways—“I wanted more.”

  His cock jerked in ebullient appreciation. “Come here, Wife.”

  Phoebe stayed still. “And by t
hat I might infer that you’re making an overture toward certain marital engagements—and right here in your library, in broad daylight, no less?”

  “I can do as I please. Besides, the best time and place is always here and now.”

  “Not precisely.”

  He detected playfulness in her tone and responded accordingly. “No?”

  “No. You can do what you please, but on some measures you must restrict yourself to me when you seek to satisfy yourself.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re speaking of menu planning, are you?”

  “Well, I think these things are to be sorted out for themselves as we work together toward a mutually agreeable cohabitation.”

  And this was the woman he’d taken to wife. If ever there was cause for rejoicing that he’d broken his vow never to marry, this was the time.

  She approached him slowly, eyes glistening with heat.

  Max took her into his arms. He kissed her slowly. Oh, heaven. She was so sweet. So soft. So passionate. A woman who could have held the floor in Parliament or commanded ships, if only the world worked in such ways.

  And he had the privilege of calling himself her husband.

  By the grace of God, he would keep her.

  That didn’t matter now. Her lips mattered. And his. And how they fit together, so well, when they brought their mouths against each other. Their bodies, too. Phoebe was neither small nor fragile. She suited him perfectly. He could never overwhelm her. He would never have to hold himself back.

  “Come here.” Max took a seat in one of the large blue chairs, and she put her arms around his neck as he pulled her sideways into his lap. Nuzzling the curve above her shoulder, he slid his hand up her skirts, inching up the inside of her thigh toward that place he longed to be. “I think you were going to tell me something about this morning.”

  “After a night wracked with strange and vivid dreams—”

  “Skip to the part where you taught yourself to come.”

  There was a fichu in her bodice that rendered the low-cut dress suitably modest for daytime. He tugged it away, letting it fall to the floor like a weary ghost.

  She swatted at him teasingly. “I shall be the one to decide what I say, and you will listen appreciatively.”

  Max moaned and buried his nose in her cleavage. His hand kept creeping up her thigh.

  Phoebe ran her fingers through his hair. “I woke to find myself alone in bed without my husband.”

  Because said husband had caught himself snared in the danger of kissing his wife awake to break the last vow—the one which could not be broken.

  As he kissed her neck again and again, she continued. “I was naked.”

  Reaching that secret patch of hidden hair, he moaned again. “Yes. Yes, go on.”

  She rocked against him—just once. Almost experimentally. Except with a certain awareness of exactly what it was her bottom was up against. “I stretched, and how wonderful it felt.”

  “You’re teasing me, wench.”

  “I’m not a wench, I’m your wife. Do you want me to go on, or not?”

  His lips in a grim line, he gave a single nod.

  “Very well.” She cleared her throat. “I wanted to explore myself, and I wanted to explore you. But you weren’t there.”

  “So you had only one option.”

  She pulled back and gave him a look that could have put the strictest governess to shame. Oh, what it did to him. “I’m telling this story, husband.”

  “Then tell it. Please, tell it.” He nudged his fingers into her flesh and found her already wet. He drew lazy circles around the hard clitoris.

  She squirmed with impatience, angling herself against him, inviting him further. But two could play at teasing. “I went to my own chamber and took to my bed.”

  “Naked.” He slid his middle finger into the slick heat.

  “Yes. Naked.”

  “Oh, you’re so wicked.”

  “I felt wicked, too.”

  He nipped at the edge of her bodice. “And then what?”

  “I opened my legs and began to touch myself.”

  Max pushed his finger into her snug passage. “Do you think you could come for me again?”

  Rocking against his hand, she gently bit the top of his ear. “I’d like to. I’d like to very much.”

  With his finger lodged deeply, he pressed his palm against the top of her cunny so she could use the pressure to pleasure herself.

  Her breathing came harder. Faster. Deeper. Her hips moved accordingly. Her color was high and there was a hint of perspiration on her brow. Her inside passage clenched around him as she began to call to God for her salvation.

  Max would die of ecstasy were his prick enclosed within that snug space.

  She came. Spasming and trembling and calling out, her head back, her mouth open, her fingers digging so deeply into him, it was almost painful.

  Spent, she collapsed against him.

  Carefully, he removed his finger and drew it back and forth over the skin of his lips, inhaling the lingering delicacy of the perfume.

  “You’re so beautiful, my sweet.”

  Her skirts were in disarray about her legs, revealing a creamy strip of skin between the place her stockings ended and the rumpled floral print muslin began. Phoebe nestled into his arms and gave a contented sigh. “I wish I’d known sooner I was capable of such a thing.”

  Pride welled in him at the thought of the role he’d played in leading her to the awakening—and at all she had yet to learn.

  Such as what she might enjoy doing for him.

  “Max?”

  “Yes?”

  Against his neck, she sighed, her breath warm on his skin. “What might I do to reciprocate?”

  “Oh, my sweet.” He kissed her temple.

  “Don’t say ‘nothing’, because you’ve done so much for me—”

  “You’ve done more for me than you know. Men and women…well, they’re quite differently, er, motivated.”

  “How so?”

  “Men are easier.”

  She reached to stroke her hand down the hard ridge prominent under his falls. “Show me.”

  He undid the buttons. Opening the panel, her eyes widened. “Everything you wanted?”

  “I hardly knew what I wanted. Except…” She raised her eyes to his, brows going up. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  With the utmost care, she trailed her fingers up the length. When his cock jumped, she jumped—and let out a startled cry.

  Then burst into peals of laughter.

  Max chuckled, but quickly brought her hand back, lest he lose his erection. Which, despite the moment’s mirth, wasn’t especially likely, given how excited this interlude had made him.

  Phoebe went serious. “Oh, Max. Why can’t we—”

  “Shh. Let’s not think about that now.”

  Keeping himself from taking her fully was going to be excruciatingly difficult. Much more so than anticipated. But he had a vow to keep, and keep it he would.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A week later in Max’s mother’s drawing room, Phoebe stood by, hands clasped before her, while her husband knelt and opened his arms to an exuberant fair-haired boy who ran toward him. Max’s face glowed with happiness. The sight drew a lump in Phoebe’s throat, which she swallowed away.

  If only Max could see what a father he’d make.

  What had his father done to him? It must have been terrible, for it had penetrated so deeply into his psyche, scarred his mind, and forever altered his character.

  Was there any hope? Was it too late? What if they never…never had children. Then again, there were no guarantees, even if they did truly share their beds.

  With those questions in mind, she searched her heart for any hint of regret. There was one. She wasn’t satisfied with what he’d been able to give of himself. He was still holding back, allowing himself to remain a prisoner of fear.

  She was wholly in this marriage. Complete
ly dedicated, as if their union had been written in the stars at the beginning of time.

  Somewhere lurking under the murky waters hiding this man’s soul hid something beautiful. Something precious that Phoebe wanted to hold and keep and clutch against her breast. If only she could help Max see its value.

  Across from Phoebe, Max’s mother also watched the scene, her eyes misting as her son picked up Thomas and whirled the boy in his arms. She caught Phoebe looking and turned away, biting the knuckle of her first finger.

  Phoebe came to her mother-in-law’s side and touched her arm. “My lady…”

  The other woman showed a brave face and forced a smile, though her chin wavered. “Oh do call me Harriet, my dear. You’ve earned it.”

  Uncertain if that was true, Phoebe nodded graciously. “Thank you. Harriet. You know, I was just thinking. We’ll be setting out for Sutterton Grange in a few weeks—”

  “Oh, but I thought you’d be taking a bridal tour.”

  “We’ve decided to put that off for a while.” They’d both agreed they wanted to see Thomas well settled into his new life with them before they upset his routine any further. His nanny, Miss Cooke, would be accompanying them to help transition the boy. “You know, we want what’s best for him.”

  “I know, dear, I know.” Harriet took Phoebe’s hand over her arm and patted it, her powdery skin cool upon Phoebe’s.

  “He needs as many members of his family as possible surrounding him to love him.”

  “I quite agree.”

  Phoebe was tiptoeing carefully. Her question was intended to position her mother-in-law just right, but one question too far, and the whole scheme could collapse in a rubbish heap. “I’ve always thought children deserved all the love they could possibly soak up.”

  “And more, if possible.”

  Phoebe paused, tilting her head to one side as Max hoisted Thomas up on his hip so the boy could whisper something in his ear. Then she leaned closer to Harriet, approaching her ultimate designation from a slightly different angle. “Do you think you might be able to offer me any guidance on the running of Sutterton Grange?”

  “Oh, my dear, you flatter me, but it’s been so many years…”