Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “You are beautiful to me, Jane. And that’s all that matters.”

  He continued to tease her until he felt her trembling on the brink of orgasm. Then, he moved over her, taking the weight on his arms. “Now, I’m going to enter you…and it will hurt some.”

  She slipped her arms around him as he lowered his body onto hers. Parting her legs, she lifted her hips to make it easier for him, suggesting she wasn’t as reluctant as he’d feared.

  He posted himself at her entrance and took a breath. His arousal was almost painful and he wished for the first time in his life that he wasn’t so big. However gently he too her, she would feel the pain of his entry.

  “Forgive me, Jane, for what I’m about to do…but be assured it won’t be quite so unbearable once you get used to me.”

  “I won’t find it unbearable, Matthew,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

  That was all he needed to hear. He pressed slowly into her. As he’d expected, she was snug—a condition much less pleasant for her than for him. She moaned, but he couldn’t determine if it was from pleasure or pain.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “Only a little. But it’s a good kind of pain. Like loving someone so much your heart aches for them every moment.”

  He eased himself deeper. “Do you love me like that, Jane?”

  “Yes, Matthew.”

  “I feel the same way about you. And fear I won’t be able to bear our separation.”

  “I fear that, too. But it will be easier for me to endure now that we’re engaged.”

  “I would marry you now, if I could, my darling. I want you to know that.”

  Her smile let him know his words had had the desired effect. He was glad, because he meant them. He pressed on until he met her maidenhead. He broke through with one ardent thrust, and fully seated himself within her. The cry she released tore at his heart.

  “Forgive me, darling,” he said, “but there’s no other way.”

  “I’m all right.” The feeble smile she gave him did little to ease his conscience. “It just took me by surprise.”

  He laughed, found her mouth, and kissed her before saying, against her lips, “You surprise me constantly.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yes, Jane. That’s very, very good.”

  Raising himself on his arms, he drew back to the brink of separation, and then sank into her again as far as her body would allow. He did this again and again, keeping the pace of his penetration slow and steady. She was taut, but also wonderfully responsive. Her small hands clutched at his back as her hips rose up to meet each thrust.

  As waves of pleasure rolled through his body, the comingled scents of beeswax, lavender, and linseed oil danced around his head. Gradually, he picked up speed and momentum, listening hard for any noises of protest or distress from her. The only sounds he could hear, to his delight, were his heavy breathing, her gentle moans, and the slap of their bodies each time they came together.

  When the moment of crisis arrived, he pulled out, docked his sex against her pubic mound, and spilled himself across her belly.

  When the euphoria cleared, he looked down at her and smiled. She looked remarkably content, all things considered. “Now that I’ve ruined you, I’m afraid you have no choice but to marry me.”

  A dreamy smile played on her lips. “I haven’t the slightest intention of doing otherwise.”

  More seriously, he asked, “Was it too terrible for you?”

  “No.” She lifted her hands to his face and tucked his sweat-dampened hair behind his ears. “It was wonderful.”

  He lowered himself and gave her a kiss. “I apologize if I was too hard on you. I meant to be gentle, but...”

  “Tosh.” She tapped the tip of his nose with her forefinger. “You were absolutely perfect.”

  He rolled off her, onto his side, and took her hand in his. “Did I please you?”

  “Some,” she said. “Did I please you?”

  “Couldn’t you tell?” He grinned down at her.

  “I could,” she said. “And liked seeing you in the throes of ecstasy.”

  “I hope to see you in a similar state before the night is over. Perhaps in a few hours, we can try again. But only if you feel up to it. No, strike that. Only if you sincerely desire having another go—not for my sake but solely for your own. Do you understand me?”

  Dear, sweet Jane. Always sacrificing her wants and needs in deference to others. Her mother and her sister back home. Her thoughtless pupils. Her unfeeling employers. Well, he wouldn’t have her suffer to please him. He wanted to make her happy, not subservient.

  “I take your full meaning, Matthew.” He caught a flash of teeth as she smiled. “And I’m grateful for your care and concern.”

  She turned on her side to face him and ran her fingers through his hair. The tenderness of that small gesture made him ache inside. She was so lovely in the soft golden light cast by the candles. So lovely, so gentle, and so giving.

  He drew her against his chest. “You deserve a little care and concern for a change, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Resting his cheek atop the pile of curls on her head, something Charlotte had expressed long ago came back to him. When one does not complain, and when one wants to master oneself with a tyrant’s grip—one’s faculties rise in revolt—and one pays for outward calm with an almost unbearable inner struggle.

  He wanted to spare Jane that struggle, by encouraging her to speak her mind and be herself, not who she thought he wanted her to be. Because he loved her just as she was, imperfections and all.

  Come morning, they would go their separate ways with no idea of when they might come together again. He would miss her fiercely, pine for her grievously, and worry himself sick over her well-being and safety.

  He kissed her tenderly. “Do you still want to hear the poem that inspired my painting of you?”

  “I do indeed.” She snuggled against him. “Very much.”

  He smiled, feeling more comforted and content than he’d ever felt before. “Be forewarned, it’s not the most uplifting of verses.”

  “I expected no less,” she said against his chest, “as cheerful verses rarely inspire poignant paintings.”

  Poignant. What a wonderful word. He cleared his throat and began the oration.

  “With blackest moss the flower-pots

  Were thickly crusted, one and all:

  The rusted nails fell from the knots

  That held the pear to the gable-wall.

  The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:

  Unlifted was the clinking latch;

  Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

  Upon the lonely moated grange.

  She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

  He cometh not,’ she said;

  She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

  I would that I were dead!’

  Onward marched the grim stanzas while Mariana continued to despair over the lover who’d abandoned her. By the time Matthew completed the recitation, Jane lay so still and silent against him he thought sure his voice had lulled her to sleep.

  After several moments, she stirred and burrowed more deeply into his embrace. When he felt moisture on his chest, he realized she was crying.

  “What’s wrong, Jane. Please tell me.”

  “Promise me you’ll come for me,” she said softly, “and not leave me waiting and aweary like the poor creature in the poem. When my father left, he promised to come back to visit me and Mary, but he never did. He never even wrote us.”

  “I will, Jane. I promise.” He tightened his hold on her and pressed his cheek against the top of her disheveled curls. “Come what may, I shall not forsake you. On that, you have my solemn pledge.”

  * * *

  Jane awoke feeling mild discomfort—and not just because of the rawness between her legs. Her chest felt heavy—with guilt about her mother as well as what she and Matthew had done. Yes, they were betrothed, but not yet husband and wife. In
the eyes of God and the Church of England, therefore, they’d still committed the sin of fornication.

  She felt other things, too. More positive things. Hope, joy, love, satisfaction. Matthew’s arms were about her and she was snuggled against all that hard-muscled beauty that was his naked body. The evenness of his breathing told her he was still asleep. She wriggled her bottom against him to determine if he was aroused.

  Disappointment twinged within her when she found he wasn’t. She wriggled against him again, hoping he might stir—in more ways than one. Perhaps God, in his mercy, would forgive her this tiny transgression. Matthew was, after all, her fiancé, and would someday be her husband.

  She was only dimly aware of the slight graying of dawn outside the glass doors leading into the garden—the beautiful love garden that had cast its spell over them.

  As she gazed out at the shadowy hedges, she changed her mind. She didn’t want to wake him. For the sooner he awoke, the sooner they would part with no idea when they might meet again. Now, she only wanted to relish the moment and his presence before both slipped away like a pleasant dream from which she’d awakened too soon.

  She closed her eyes and thought back on the night just ending. She wanted to remember every detail—every word, expression, and glorious sensation. He had gazed upon her petite form with longing. He had joined his body to hers and found pleasure there. No, not just pleasure, but ecstasy. The look on his face when he achieved his climax was priceless. He hadn’t been repelled by her lack of curves and swells. He had worshipped her body with his, and he’d held her in his arms all night. He held her still, naked flesh to naked flesh.

  A thrill snaked through her. She squeezed her eyelids together more tightly and willed herself to go back to sleep, or at least to lie here, savoring the sweet frosting of being cherished. But comfort grew more and more elusive, and finally, she could no longer ignore her bodily needs.

  With considerable regret, she slipped out of his arms and the bed, being careful not to wake him. Retrieving her chemise, which lay on the floor, she looked around for a chamber pot in the dim light of dawn, stubbing her toes more than once. The stone floor was cold and she was shivering. If her bladder wasn’t so full, she would have given up the search and returned to the warmth of his arms.

  She found the elusive commode at last, behind a screen she’d thought purely decorative. As she relieved herself, she felt the sharp burn of her sin. Returning to the daybed, she stood there a moment looking down at Matthew. He was still asleep and looked so peaceful—and so unbearably handsome. His hair was disheveled and the shadow of whiskers darkened the lower half of his face, but those things only made him more real. As she studied him, her heart swelled with overpowering affection and longing.

  Would they ever meet again? Would they marry one day? She saw herself in her mother’s farmhouse, alone and miserable. Years older, still single and waiting, with nothing but Matthew’s portrait and the memories of last night to comfort her.

  She only said, “My life is dreary,

  He cometh not,” she said;

  She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

  I would that I were dead!”

  No! She mustn’t entertain such defeating thoughts. She would get back into bed and enjoy being here with him while recalling all the lovely things he’d said to her. Oh, Jane, my beautiful, sweet, clever girl. I feel so blessed to have found you it almost induces me to believe there is a God.

  She felt equally blessed, but also afraid. What if the Lord punished her for what they’d done last night by taking him away from her?

  Could God really be that cruel? Of course, he could. He seemed determined to call her mother home, leaving her with only Mary, who’d have a husband to look after and little time for her sister.

  Please, God, don’t take either from me. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but, since I’ve asked for so little before now, perhaps you’ll not think me too demanding…

  Climbing back into bed, Jane nestled against her beloved. He spooned against her and draped an arm over her side. As he nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear, pleasure spread out from her core like ripples on a pond.

  “Is it morning yet?” he asked groggily.

  “I’m afraid it is—or nearly so.”

  “You are wearing your chemise.” He rubbed against her, letting her know he’d come awake in more ways than one. “Is that so I won’t bother you again?”

  In her haste to get back into bed with him, she’d forgotten to disrobe. “Not at all. I had to get up to use the chamber pot, and felt a little chilled.”

  “Are you warmer now?”

  “Yes. I’m very comfortable.”

  “Are you still sore?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Too sore to…” Rather than finish the question, he bumped his erection against her buttocks to communicate his meaning.

  Already desirous, she pushed back against him. “I might be able to manage it, if you promise to be gentle.”

  “I shall be as gentle as a lamb.” He brushed his lips along the rim of her ear.

  His morning stubble was as rough as coarse sandpaper and his breath was worse for the night they’d passed together, but she didn’t mind. For a time, he kneaded the breast in his hand, plucking that sweet harp string again.

  Her arousal mounted, encouraged by the gentle burnishing of his cockstand against her backside. Then, his hand left her breast and moved down her body. As he hiked up the hem of her chemise, he caressed her nape with his lips, making her tingle all over.

  His hand came between her legs and with a gentle fingertip, he circled her pearl of pleasure. Meanwhile, he positioned himself at her entrance.

  “I was rougher than I meant to be last night,” he said apologetically.

  “I enjoyed every minute.” She could scarcely believe her boldness, but, for the first time in her life, she felt she could own her true feelings without fear of reprisal.

  “But you might not this morning.”

  “On the contrary, I believe I shall.”

  Her desire had become a burning ache. She was ready for him. Ready to soar over the cliff whose edge she’d only reached the night before. “Just please don’t stop what you’re doing with your other hand.”

  “Should I take that to mean you’re enjoying my caresses?”

  “I am.” A surge of pleasure verified her claim. “More than I should confess.”

  “You must stop me if I hurt you,” he said. “Promise me you won’t simply tolerate the pain the way you tolerate so much else.”

  “I promise.”

  As he eased into her, she realized just how ready she was. He slid in effortlessly, seating himself deep. His entrance burned some, but mostly felt amazing. She tightened her muscles around him and rolled her hips. His penis pulsed inside her, which she took as a sign of approval.

  “Jane,” he whispered, “are you all right?”

  “Oh, Matthew,” she said. “I’m so much more than all right.”

  He withdrew to the point of disconnecting, hovered there for a few breathless moments, and then sank into her again. He repeated this sequence over and over, all the while circling her pearl with that miraculous finger of his. Only a few more moments, and she’d have her cymbal crash. Unless he reached the finale again before she did.

  Oh, please let this sweet duet end on the same rhapsodic chord!

  “Jane,” he whispered, “have you ever climaxed before?”

  She stiffened against him, fearing he might pass judgment on her if she confessed the sin of masturbation. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a saint if you haven’t—or a martyr.”

  “I’m neither.”

  The laugh he released blew a blast of hot breath across her ear. “Are you getting close?—because I want you to get there before I do.”

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll get there in no time.”

  He did keep up what he was doing (Lord bless him) a
nd she did get there first—in a rapturous, shuddering, triple-time dénouement that left her breathless and trembling. Within seconds, he jerked himself out of her and spilled across her back while grunting like an animal. Far from put off by his noises, she found them exciting.

  As he calmed, he clutched her to him with a sudden violence that took her breath away. “Oh, Jane,” he cried into her hair. “My sweet, darling girl. How shall I ever do without you?”

  She had no answer to give him—and no idea how she would endure their separation, either.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Heartsick, Jane said her good-byes to Matthew before returning to Vouvray. She slipped in through the gallery door as quietly as she could, praying her absence had gone unnoticed. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain where she’d spent the night and with whom. For she could hardly expect a good letter of recommendation from Lord Brousseau if he learned she’d spent the night at Cœur Brisé.

  Yes, they were engaged, but she doubted that would make a difference to her employer, who, like the Masseys, seemed to thrive on finding fault with her. But at least the viscount hadn’t made unwelcome advances toward her the way Mr. Massey had.

  Come on, you little vixen. Don’t play the modest maid with me. I can clearly see you want a good rogering as much as I want to give it to you.

  Jane shivered. When the odious man wasn’t dressing her down, he was trying to undress her! She pushed the unpleasant memory away as she mounted the stairs. Upon reaching her bedchamber unseen, she breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door very quietly behind her. She then changed into one of her somber day frocks, tidied her quarters while double-checking that she’d packed everything, and kissed the miniature portrait of Matthew with tears in her eyes.

  When all that was done and she’d regained her composure, she set off to find Madame DuBois. Much as she hated to be a bother, she needed the coachman to carry down her trunk and drive her to Tours, where she’d board the public coach to Le Havre. She just prayed her mother would hold on until she reached Somerset sometime tomorrow.