"Hmm?"
That hmm was a hum inside her mouth that seemed to spread throughout her body. And it didn't seem to require an answer. Not that she could have answered him, anyway. Not when he was stroking her inside, and her body was responding by clinging to his finger. His thumb found a spot so sweet she feared she might scream from sheer excitement. He rubbed that spot as he thrust his finger deeper and kissed her at the same time, his tongue exploring her mouth with movements that matched what he was doing below.
She'd never felt anything like it. She'd never even imagined anything like it. Her heart raced, and little spurts of pleasure sprinted all over her body. Tremors shimmered through her, the sweet torture continuing until she thought one more velvet stroke might be her undoing. But she wanted something more. Needed something more.
She wasn't sure what, but she suspected it was him.
"Now," she whispered, tearing her mouth from his. "Come inside me now."
A low groan escaped his throat. He moved over her and fit himself between her legs, and she felt him there, poised to enter her, felt him trembling as he tried to hold back. He finally pushed inside, but only a little. Just enough so where their bodies were joined there was a feeling so urgent it made her whimper with anticipation.
"Now," she repeated.
"I don't want to hurt—"
"Now!" She shoved her hips against him, taking him in.
Then froze, still as the stone figure of the river god in the center of their circular drive.
"I'm sorry," he grated out, staying still with her.
"No. It doesn't hurt." It had hurt, but only for a moment. Now she was immobilized by sheer wonder. He was large, but he fit, and he felt incredible filling her.
He was throbbing inside her.
She shifted, raising her knees a little. He sucked in a breath. Her own breath caught as well, because she'd felt him move within her body, creating a cresting wave of heat.
"You're supposed to move," she informed him.
He released a strangled laugh, pulling out of her a bit. "I suppose Griffin told you that?"
"Forget Griffin," she said and lifted herself to meet his thrust.
The sensation was exquisite. The sheer beauty of it made something tighten in her chest. "Dear God," she whispered. "I hadn't the slightest idea."
"This is only the beginning," he said and moved again.
It seemed awkward at first, but she soon learned how to move with him, gasping when he pulled out and sighing as he settled back in. Gradually their motions gained speed, until she was lost in the rhythm, awash in pure pleasure. The pleasure built and built, and built some more, until, quite suddenly, her body erupted. She arched against him, holding on for dear life as wave after wave swept through her, the sensations so intense they stole her very breath. The sheer release of it was stunning, and became even more so when she felt him shudder within her and heard his low groan of surrender.
He collapsed against her, but his was a warm, welcome weight. It seemed a long time before she managed to come to her senses, to breathe a languid sigh.
"I feel very sorry for Griffin," she said at last.
She felt Tris smile against her neck. "Why?"
"He said it would feel good. Can you imagine describing that as good?"
"No," he said with an exhausted chuckle as he eased off her. "That strikes me as a very insufficient word."
"It was glorious. No, that isn't strong enough to describe it. I don't think the right words exist." Feeling drained and yet somehow better than she ever had before, she snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder.
He pressed a slow, warm kiss to her brow.
"I love you," she whispered.
He squeezed her close and kissed her forehead again much harder, but he didn't respond in kind.
It didn't signify, she decided, ignoring the stab of disappointment. He'd shown her how he felt with his body, with his hands, with his cherishing kisses. His experiences in the past had left him reluctant to trust love, and she was sure he wasn't the first man who found it hard to say those three words. She'd just keep telling him, assuring him, and he'd respond in time. Soon.
This marriage may have been precipitated by scandal, but everything was going to work out fine…especially after they cleared his name.
In the meantime, she'd content herself with the wonder—the pure pleasure—of simply lying here, skin to skin. She'd never felt another sensation so sublime…except perhaps the events of the past hour.
As she drifted off to sleep, she replayed every exquisite moment in her head.
She never had worn Juliana's nightgown. And she'd forgotten to kiss his bruises.
THIRTY-FOUR
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of butter rubbed in very fine, two ounces of ginger beat fine, a large nutmeg grated then take a pound of treacle, a quarter of a pint of cream, make them warm together, and make up the bread stiff. Wait a while and then make round balls like nuts and bake them on tin-plates in a slack oven.
These are reminiscent of home, and excellent with a good gossip.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1783
ALEXANDRA WOKE first and watched Tris sleep in the dim early light. His lashes lay dark against his cheeks, making him look young and sweet and vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his breath drifting in and out between slightly parted lips.
She breathed along with him. She wanted to do everything with him, but for now, breathing would have to do.
When he opened his eyes, she smiled. "Good morning."
He closed the inches between them and kissed her. A long, sleepy kiss. "A good morning indeed." His seductive smile didn't look young, sweet, or vulnerable in the least. He raised his head to peek at the clock on the oak mantel. "Do you always wake before six? I thought ladies all slept until noon."
"I had a house to run for my brother. And now a house to run for you."
"For us," he corrected, making her heart turn over in her chest. He reached for her.
"Wait," she said. "I owe you something."
He only raised a brow. Then laughed when she threw back the covers and began kissing each of his bruises, slowly, one by one.
His skin tasted divine, tinged with a hint of salt and the faint, musky scent of last night's coupling. When her lips brushed a fading mark that sat above his heart, she could hear it beating wildly in a rhythm to match her own. By the time she was finished, they were both short of breath.
"Better?" she asked, her voice thick and unsteady.
"Immensely," he assured her, gathering her close.
Then he kissed her again, his body against hers still overwarm from sleep. He skimmed a hand down her naked back, over her bottom, between her legs, where she was already slick and aching. But he took his time, matching lazy kisses with gentle caresses. When he finally slid into her, she sighed with relief and let him carry them both to bliss.
She'd never slept nude, but she thought she could get used to it. She'd always risen immediately upon awakening—but she thought she could get used to lingering, too.
He rang for Vincent and Peggy, and by seven they were both dressed and in the dining room.
Alexandra smiled at him across the breakfast table. "I cannot believe how happy I am."
"I'm glad." His smile more tentative than hers, Tris sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.
"What shall we do today?" She lifted the pretty little jam pot that matched the crested breakfast service, hoping for marmalade but setting it down when she saw the contents were red.
"I believe those are cherry preserves. I asked Vincent to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries."
"Oh!" She dipped her knife and happily coated her toast. "Would you care for some?"
"I cannot abide anything sweet in the morning." He spread butter on his own toast, then speared a bite of eggs. "In answer to your earlier question, I'll need to make a circuit o
f the estate today, having been away for a while. There are matters that will require my attention. And I must spend some time at the new gasworks; I've left the builders long without my supervision. Would you care to accompany me?"
Alexandra hesitated, suddenly realizing that what happened in the bedroom was the easy part of marriage. Finding the rhythm of their days was going to be more difficult. She had no right to expect a honeymoon following such a hasty wedding, and she suspected Tris would rather not be distracted as he went about his business. Although she wanted to see everything at Hawkridge, this house was her domain.
"If you wouldn't mind," she finally said, "I'd prefer to stay here. I have much to learn to run this household."
"You have Mrs. Oliver for that."
"It's still my responsibility to oversee everything properly." She set down her teacup.
She had another matter to broach, and there was no sense putting it off.
But as he bit into his toast, she found herself putting it off anyway and looking about the room instead. "How unusual to see wood gilded in a mosaic pattern like that," she said inanely, referring to the walls.
"It's not wood." He set down the toast and lifted his cup. "It's gold-stamped leather."
"Is it? I've never seen anything like it."
He sipped and gave her a wry smile. "It was all the rage a hundred and fifty years ago. I'm told it's supposed to absorb the smells of food, but it doesn't seem to me that it works."
"Well, thank goodness for that. A century and a half of accumulated food scents would be a bit much, don't you think?"
He chuckled, and she drew a deep breath. "How long will you be gone today?"
"I'm not certain. It depends upon what I encounter. Perhaps a few hours, perhaps until evening." He sipped again, watching her over the cup's rim. "My offer is still open for you to come along."
Although it sounded like a sincere invitation, he didn't look like he particularly wanted her to accept it. "I think I should stay here," she repeated and squared her shoulders. "But when you return later, perhaps we can discuss strategy."
"For removing scents from the walls?"
"For mounting a new search for your uncle's murderer."
His cup clattered back to its saucer. "No."
The bruises on his face were fading, but it seemed nothing else had changed. "We must clear your name, Tris," she said carefully. "For my sisters' sakes if not your own."
His gray gaze was resolute. "I told you before, I have no wish to reopen that coil of a case. There can be no good outcome. Either my uncle died in his sleep, in which case there's nothing to find, or…"
His voice trailed off.
The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. "You cannot think the only other alternative is that you killed him."
But clearly he did think that. "Just leave this alone, Alexandra."
She swallowed hard. She had to make him understand. "Does my happiness mean so little to you?"
"Not ten minutes ago, you told me you were happy beyond belief. Have your feelings changed that quickly?"
"For myself, I'm happy. But there are others involved."
"You had alternate offers," he reminded her. "Perhaps you should have accepted Lord Shelton or Roger St. Quentin."
A lump rose in her throat. The thought of marriage to either of those men made her breakfast sour in her stomach, but had she doomed her sisters as a result of her selfishness?
"I apologize," he said stiffly, watching her. "That was unfair."
"No, you're right. I wanted you," she said, suddenly fearing she'd made a terrible mistake. "But I also want your name cleared. And, Tris…you're not responsible for your uncle's death. There's no reason not to investigate."
His jaw tense, he sat silent a long moment. "I must be off," he finally said in a neutral tone. "We shall continue this discussion tonight."
After giving her a perfunctory kiss, he left.
She sat stunned for a while, her wonderful mood from the morning shattered. She tried to finish her tea, but she couldn't swallow past her tight throat. Finally she rose, fed the rest of her toast to Rex, and went upstairs to grab her family's cookbook.
Then, as she often did when she was upset, she headed for the kitchen.
Unfortunately, she had no idea where it was—Tris's tour last night hadn't included anything as mundane as the servants' quarters. But this morning she'd noticed a back passageway off the great hall, so she decided to try there first.
No sooner had she wandered into the gray-painted corridor than she bumped into a housemaid hurrying the other direction. "Pardon, my lady!" The girl's cheeks turned bright pink.
"Goodness, it was my fault entirely." Alexandra wracked her brain for the girl's name. "I wonder, Anne, if you could direct me to the kitchen?"
Anne beamed. "Right this way, my lady." Carrying a mop, broom, and bucket, she led Alexandra down another chilly corridor to a staircase. "It's in the basement. Shall I show you?"
"I'm certain I can find it. Thank you, Anne."
"Thank you, my lady." Still smiling and holding everything, Anne gave an awkward curtsy and walked off while Alexandra went down the stairs.
A row of leather buckets hung overhead, pointing the way to the kitchen—always the biggest fire hazard in any house. Busy plucking a chicken, Mrs. Pawley looked up when Alexandra entered her domain.
"Good morning, my lady! I wasn't expecting you to 'invade my kitchen' quite so soon." She wiped her hands on her wide, white apron. "Did you enjoy your breakfast?"
"Very much." The room was a hive of activity: kitchen maids chopping and slicing while scullery maids scurried here and there, hauling pans and implements off to be washed. A small boy stood turning a spit. Alexandra sighed. "I thought to perhaps make some gingerbread, but—"
"Come in, come in." Mrs. Pawley shooed two kitchen maids away from the large central table. "Show me your book."
Alexandra handed it over. "It's been in my family for well over a century."
The cook flipped several pages. "This sounds delicious. And this." She looked up. "Are all the recipes for sweets?"
"The Chases do all share a sweet tooth." Despite her blue mood, Alexandra smiled as she reclaimed the old book. "Each lady in the family adds a recipe every Christmas. I'll have to return it to Cainewood, where it belongs. I've only borrowed it to copy my favorites, as Lord Hawkridge and I were married, ah…"
"In a hurry?" Mrs. Pawley's blue eyes danced.
"You could put it that way, yes. Have you flour and sugar?"
Beneath her starched white cap, the blond bun at the nape of the cook's neck bounced as she nodded. "We have everything you need, my lady. You've only to give me your list."
Half an hour later, they stood companionably side by side, their hands coated in flour, forming small balls out of the gingerbread dough. Mrs. Pawley, as it turned out, wasn't only an accomplished cook, but also an unrepentant gossip. "I did notice where your ancestor claimed these cakes are excellent with a good gossip," she said with a laugh.
"I expect she meant eating them, not making them." Alexandra sneaked a taste of the sweet-spicy dough. "Though I do confess some curiosity about the past happenings here at Hawkridge."
"I remember when your husband first arrived here from Jamaica. The man was in a bad way, he was, his father dead and not a penny to his name. The last Lord Hawkridge took him under his wing, but he weren't in a good way, either."
"Yes, I've heard that. He was ill, wasn't he?" Alexandra scooped more dough. "Do you remember the morning the last Lord Hawkridge was found dead?"
"Oh, most vividly." Having filled the first pan, the cook dusted flour on another. "We all loved the last Lord Hawkridge. Not that we don't feel the same toward your new husband. Do you know, it was he who suggested Lord Hawkridge send me to France for training. Saved my position here, he did. And he couldn't have been more than fifteen at the time; even as a boy, he knew the way of things. Your husband has a business head on those wide should
ers."
A vision of herself gripping those wide shoulders made Alexandra's blood heat, but she wasn't sure she wanted her servants taking notice of Tris's anatomy. "When the last Lord Hawkridge was discovered dead, was poison suspected immediately?"
"Good heavens, no! Who would poison a fine man like the last Lord Hawkridge?" Mrs. Pawley plopped another ball on the pan. "He died of a broken heart, I tell you. We all know that here. No matter what the outsiders say."
Alexandra was relieved to hear that Tris's staff didn't suspect him. "Were there any outsiders here at the time? Anyone suspicious?"
"No one at all. Lord Hawkridge was in the dismals—he weren't taking visitors. Excepting your husband, of course. The house was still draped in black—"
"No one? A concerned neighbor? A salesman or tradesman?"
"Not that I remember." Rolling dough between her plump hands, the cook eyed Alexandra speculatively. "Why all the questions, my lady?"
Alexandra made another ball before she answered. She knew Tris wouldn't be happy she was asking questions. But did she have a choice? His fear that he'd killed his uncle was completely unfounded, and her sisters' happiness was at stake.
She set the ball on the pan. "I'm hoping to clear my husband's name, Mrs. Pawley. If I can prove someone else killed his uncle, he'll be welcomed back into society."
The cook nodded as if she'd thought as much. "I'd like to see Lord Hawkridge's name cleared as well. But there's no one here thinks the last Lord Hawkridge was poisoned. He died in his sleep, plain and simple."
"Do you find it upsetting to answer questions?"
"I suppose not. I didn't see anything that night to help you, though. 'Course, I'm stuck down here in the basement; I'm not aware of all that goes on upstairs." She reached over to pat Alexandra's hand, puffing flour into the air in the process. "If it's that important to you, perhaps you should ask the others."
Exactly what Alexandra wanted to do. Perhaps she'd be risking her husband's anger, but she couldn't see where either of them would be happy with this cloud hanging over their heads. And it wasn't as though she'd be combing the countryside for clues—she'd only be talking to her own staff. People she should be getting to know anyway.
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 22
