Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels)

by Christina Brooke

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  * * *

  The afternoon had been unseasonably sultry, uneasy and tense, as if the atmosphere held its breath. With nightfall came the deluge, and a strong wind that swept up showers of rain and flung them against the windowpanes.

  Jane shivered, only partly with cold. Despite the clouds finding release in this downpour, her nerves felt thoroughly on edge. Constantine had not come down to dinner, calling for a tray in the muniments room as he labored on.

  She’d tried to calm her nerves by every means known to her. Warm milk that she left untouched, a novel that could not engage her, needlework that sat in her lap unheeded while her needle remained poised in midair.

  When all was quiet in the house, she rose and went to the communicating door between her bedchamber and Constantine’s. She pressed her ear to the panel but heard nothing within.

  Midnight, he’d said.

  Slowly, her fingers closed around the ornate key that held the door fast against his intrusion. With painstaking care, she eased the key around, and heard the tumblers unlock with a small click.

  Her heart gave a great thump at the sound. She glanced around her chamber. There was too much light. Snatching up the snuffer from the mantelpiece, she doused all of the candles but one. Sitting down at her dressing table, she set the lone candle upon it.

  A long look in the mirror told her she looked pale, her eyes hollow with apprehension; that her abundant, thick hair needed taming. She covered her face with shaking hands. Oh, God, how would she manage this? How could she have said yes to him?

  How could she have said no?

  Constantine Black compelled her, utterly. Even while she knew the risk she took, she still longed to go through with their midnight tryst. She thought of his hand on her thigh; his lips on the swell of her breast. She’d never felt so vital, so lacking in control of her body and her emotions as she had with him. Just thinking of it made her body thrum with excitement.

  And soon, very soon, he would be here.

  Now, Jane fully understood why that Miss Flockton had opened her bedchamber door to him, inviting her own ruin, all those years ago.

  Really, how laughable! She’d thought herself superior to that silly, innocent chit; too wise, too cynical about the ways of men, too cold-natured to be taken in.

  Yet, she was just as silly and malleable and hot-blooded as any other woman when it came to Constantine Black.

  Sillier. She stood in grave danger of losing her heart to him.

  A clap of lightning illuminated the room. For an instant, Jane saw the horror on her face reflected starkly in the mirror. Thunder rolled ominously above.

  For a few shocked moments, Jane couldn’t seem to draw a breath. She clutched the edge of her dressing table, and the ruched satin edging pressed into her palms.

  No. Denial crowded her mind, beat in her chest. She couldn’t possibly be so stupid as to fall in love with a handsome face.

  But it wasn’t just his magnificent form and features that held her captive, was it?

  He was charismatic, magnetic; he drew people to him, then set them firmly at a distance without them even knowing it. Some instinct within her wanted—needed—to bridge that gap, to annihilate it. Sometimes, she thought she had, and then he threw up some other defense, or distracted her by saying something obnoxious.

  She sensed that the more tightly their lives entwined together, the more he would fortify his defenses against her.

  Well, if Constantine could show her pleasure in the marriage bed, it would be a gift, indeed. Perhaps she ought not to ask for more. Supplication was not in her nature; if he did not want to let her get close to him, she would not beg. Begging, she suspected, would be the surest way to make him turn from her, in any case.

  The noise of a door opening and closing in Constantine’s bedchamber put an end to her reflections. Low, masculine voices reached her ear—Constantine and his valet.

  As she stared at her face in the looking glass, it occurred to her that she looked tragic, her eyes apprehensive, her mouth turned down a little at the edges. Not the most alluring prospect.

  Jane pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to lend them color. She instructed her facial muscles to smile, but they did a poor job of obeying her command.

  Apprehension tied knots in her stomach. The need to see Constantine warred with a plethora of fears. Fear of him, and of the act she was about to commit. But more than that, she feared herself, that if she gave herself to him, it would leave her weak. Defenseless as she hadn’t been since she was a little girl.

  She heard Constantine’s bedchamber door close a second time. His valet must have left. Her heart leaped into her throat. Now, he would come.

  Slowly, she picked up her silver-backed hairbrush and set it to her unbound locks with a hand that shook slightly. One hundred strokes, morning and night, her nurse had always said.

  She was up to twenty when the light tap at the door came. She jumped, and the shawl slipped from her shoulders. Without waiting for her answer, the communicating door opened and there he stood.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jane set down the brush and made as if to rise, but he said, “No, stay where you are.” She sank down again, unable to take her eyes from him.

  She’d expected he’d wear the same flamboyant dressing gown she’d already seen him in twice, but other than removing his coat and cravat, he hadn’t undressed.

  She wasn’t sure if she was reassured by that.

  He held a bottle of red wine in one hand and a glass in another. “I’m afraid we’ll have to share the glass,” he said, moving toward her. “I couldn’t think of a good reason to give for needing two.”

  A reminder that what they did now was illicit, forbidden; that he would be discreet.

  He paused at a small occasional table by the fireplace and set the wine and the glass down. Crouching before the hearth, he looked back at her over his shoulder. “I’ll build up the fire, shall I?”

  Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find her voice to answer. The need for more heat made her think of cool air on naked skin. A thrill shivered down her spine.

  Under his attentions, the dying fire flared to life, throwing a golden, flickering light around the chamber. She watched the broad lines of his back and the trim taper of his waist as he took a long paper spill from a china jar on the mantelpiece and touched it to the flame.

  Then he moved around the room, systematically lighting each and every candle that she’d so purposefully doused before he’d arrived.

  Again, she tried to speak, but what would she say?

  I don’t want you to see me.

  But Constantine Black had an intent look about him tonight. He wanted to set the stage for this seduction, and his demeanor made it clear to her that he would not be gainsaid.

  When he’d finished, he tossed the spill into the fire. He took the open bottle of wine and poured a glass. He’d rolled his sleeves up to tend the fire, and she admired the tensile strength in his forearm as he held the bottle, gave it an artful twist to avoid spilling a drop.

  He set the bottle down. Then he turned, held out his hand to her, and smiled.

  Jane made no move to join him. She felt as if she’d been cemented in place.

  One black eyebrow lifted. “Second thoughts?”

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  Again, he held out his hand. “Come, then. Sit here with me.”

  She forced herself to rise and go to him. Her legs were unsteady, her breathing erratic. She wished she could regain mastery over her body, but it was falling under his magician’s spell.

  On either side of the fireplace stood a wing-backed chair, with a deep-piled hearth rug spread between them. She moved to the chair opposite to where Constantine stood, but he caught her hand. “No, not there. With me.”

  He drew her down with him as he sat. On the chair he’d chosen, there was no room to do anything but sit on his lap. Stiffly, Jane obeyed, perching on h
im with a prim awkwardness that made him chuckle a little. She felt his muscled thighs beneath her, his heat surrounding her body. Her heart drummed in her chest.

  Disconcerted by his closeness, she kept her gaze fixed on the fire. She didn’t have the courage to look him in the face.

  “Jane.” His voice was huskier than usual. With his fingertips beneath her chin, he tilted her face upward and took her mouth.

  His kisses were slow and deep and intoxicating. Despite her nervousness, she gave herself up to him, helpless in the face of his skilled caresses, overpowered by her own longing. Gently, he touched her cheek and a rush of emotion rose up within her. She wanted this kiss to mean as much to him as it did to her, but the futility of that hope made her want to weep.

  She gave a sobbing gasp, and he stopped immediately, raising his head, then pressing his forehead to hers. “Forgive me, I’d meant to take things slowly tonight. Stop me if I go too fast.”

  He was breathing hard, his big chest rising and falling against her shoulder. She rejoiced to know that he was affected as much as she was, at least in the physical sense.

  The kiss had relaxed her body so that she now draped comfortably against him. She could feel the hard evidence of his arousal against her thigh but she was not panicked by it as she had been earlier that day.

  He would not force himself on her; of that, she was certain. However he might wound her heart, Constantine would never harm her body.

  He shifted beneath her to reach for the wine glass. “Here.” He lifted the glass until the rim touched her lower lip, his gaze intent on her face. Obediently, she sipped, letting the rich, smooth claret fill her mouth.

  Constantine drank deeply, then set the glass down. His firm lips glistened with ruby wetness, and she experienced the strangest and most pressing urge to taste that wine on her tongue. Instead, she licked her own lips.

  He tensed, the muscles in his thighs turning rock hard beneath her. “Jane.” His voice became husky. “Tell me about Harcourt.”

  “Harcourt?” she breathed. “Whatever for?”

  He pressed the corner of her mouth with one fingertip. “I thought it might be nice to get to know each other better.”

  He drew back and waited, his hand playing idly with her hair.

  “I…” She sighed as his knuckle brushed the sensitive skin at the side of her throat. I don’t remember. What was the question?

  “Harcourt,” he prompted. “You have happy memories of living there.”

  His hand skimmed down her side, settled at her waist. She laid her head against his shoulder and again stared into the fire. Her body’s arousal hadn’t abated, but with it grew a steady warmth. This must be what it was like to have a loving husband, this feeling of excitement, security, and contentment all bound up together. How wonderful.

  Resolutely, she banished the thought.

  “Harcourt…?” she said vaguely. I cannot think, much less talk, when you are touching me like this.

  With a soft laugh, he splayed his hand across her abdomen. There were no stays to impede his progress tonight. His hand moved a little higher, and her nipples hardened in anticipation, straining for his attention. How would it feel to be rid of all these clothes, touching him, skin to skin?

  She’d never experienced that kind of sensual longing before, didn’t know what to do with it.

  His thumb and forefinger moved up her torso to frame the underside of her breast. Again, as before, he stopped short of the place she needed him the most. She moved restlessly, making a dissatisfied sound at the back of her throat.

  “Tell me what you want,” whispered Constantine, his hot breath caressing her ear. “I’ll do anything. All you have to do is ask.”

  “You know what I want. Don’t … don’t make me say it.” She squirmed, desperate enough to beg, but she couldn’t formulate the words.

  His hand left her breast and settled in the deep V of her neckline, a brand against her bare skin.

  She longed for his hand to delve deeper, to give her more of that exquisite handling he’d given her in the grotto. She writhed in his arms, willing him to understand.

  As if in answer, his fingertips moved beneath her night rail, smoothing the lawn down, over her shoulder, baring one breast.

  He stilled. She opened her eyes to see him looking down at her with the expression of blatant hunger. She made a move to pull the night rail back into place, but his hand clasped her wrist.

  “No. No, you must not hide yourself. My God, Jane, you are exquisite.”

  Without taking his eyes from her, he moved from beneath her to kneel at her feet.

  Reverently, he peeled the other shoulder of her night rail down, to expose both breasts. She felt his gaze on her, as palpable as a caress. Liquid warmth pooled between her thighs.

  Then he put up his hands to touch her, circling the nipples slowly with fingertips slightly roughened from what labor she knew not. Her eyes wanted to close, but she kept them open, too fascinated by him and by his absorption to look away.

  Having stared his fill, he bent to her and fastened his lips on one nipple. The sensation was consuming; Jane moaned and threw her head back, gripping the arms of her chair. Ah, yes. Yes, this was what she’d wanted this afternoon. Instinctively, she’d known this would be sublime.

  She set her hand to the back of his head as he laved at her with the flat of his tongue, lapped and sucked with finely judged force. He made a meal of one breast while he fondled the other with his fingertips and palm. The sensation of heat and fullness in her breasts was unlike anything she’d experienced, and a strange ache settled low in her belly. At that moment, she would have done anything he asked of her, as long as he didn’t stop.

  She gasped his name, and that seemed to spur him to greater exertion. He moved his hands up and down her torso, making her night rail gather around her waist. Straightening, he shoved his hands through her hair to cradle her head while he kissed her mouth.

  She edged closer, desperate to kiss him back with all the passion he had stirred inside her. The smooth silk of his waistcoat rubbed against her nipples. She nearly slid from the edge of the chair in her eagerness to return his embrace.

  His hands at her waist steadied her. Then he bunched the bottom edge of her night rail in his hands, moving it upward as if to bare all.

  Alarm rocketed through her. He’d made her feel so beautiful, so sinfully desirable, but if he saw her uncovered he’d know how ugly she was. How wrong.

  She pushed at his hands. “No, don’t! Don’t…” she said desperately. “Don’t spoil it. I don’t want you to see me.”

  He froze, his large hands gripping her thighs. His gaze, stormy with passion, took a few moments to focus. Then he sat back on his heels and lifted his hand to cup her jaw.

  “You are beautiful,” he murmured, and despite her panic, she thrilled at the wonder in his voice. “Beautiful, amazingly responsive. But I desire you for what is in here”—he kissed her forehead—“and in here.” Bending to her, he lightly brushed his lips over the place above her heart. “That won’t change.”

  No, no, he didn’t really mean that. Everyone knew men prized beauty in a woman above all else. A rake like Constantine could have any woman he wanted.

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  “Jane,” he whispered. “Our bodies … all this, it’s just trappings. It’s nice to look at, but so is a piece of art, and a man doesn’t want to make love to a statue. What fires the soul and stirs the passions is something that comes from within.”

  Fine words, but she might suppose he said such things to all his conquests. He must be a master at persuading women out of their clothes.

  “I … It is difficult for me,” she said. “Impossible. I’m sorry.” She plucked at her night rail in an effort to find the edge of her bodice and pull it back into place.

  Lightly, he gripped her wrists. “Don’t. Come. See for yourself.”

  Sliding his hand to hers, he drew her to her feet and led her to th
e cheval glass in the corner.

  As they moved away from the fire, she shivered, but when he placed her before the looking glass, he stood so close behind her that his body warmed her again. She still clutched the night rail at her waist like a petticoat, but her breasts were scandalously bare.

  She rarely looked at her naked body in the mirror and she’d never before seen it as an object of desire. The intensity of Constantine’s regard left her in no doubt of that.

  Helpless, she watched their reflection as his dark head bent to her. He lifted her hair away from her nape and kissed the point where her neck met her shoulder, sending darts of pleasure to quiver in her loins. His lips drifted over the sensitive skin there, pressed against her pulse. Holding her gaze in the mirror, he touched his tongue to her earlobe, then gripped it lightly with his teeth.

  The sight of him doing these things to her sent her arousal to a higher pitch.

  She swayed, and he steadied her, his hands closing over her breasts. “Watch us, Jane,” he whispered into her ear. “Look how beautiful you are.”

  She gained an impression of the darker skin on the backs of his hands as they moved against the whiteness of her breasts, then her gaze took in her own flushed face, the glazed, drugged look in her eyes.

  “Look at me now, Jane,” he whispered. “Look how I worship you.”

  He was a wizard, after all, for his gaze captured her and she couldn’t look away, barely registered what he did when he tugged her night rail free of her grasp and let it fall at her feet.

  “Look at yourself, princess,” he breathed. “Think how desirable you are to me, how much I’d give to be inside you, right now.”

  He skimmed his lips down her jawline, while rubbing and tweaking gently at her nipples. “Are you wet for me, Jane?”

  The shock of his words made heat flare and race through her body. She sighed, but she couldn’t have answered him if her life depended on it. The confusion of emotion nearly sent her mad. She wanted him, she was wet for him—embarrassingly so—yet, still she couldn’t relax her guard. He’d called her beautiful; she’d hate it if he turned away in disgust.