It was cozy and intimate. And very seductive.
The servants would bring in a course and leave, not even a footman remaining behind. She thought she should have been nervous, uncomfortable even, but he made no untoward advances.
“Your servants have this down to an art,” she said. “You must often bring ladies here.”
He poured more red wine into her goblet. “I’ve never brought a lady here.”
Her gaze clashed with his. She read the truth of his words in the clover green. “Why me?”
“The privacy. The seclusion. These servants are not likely to ever serve at the family estate or in London, so no one will ever identify exactly who you are.”
“Do you not give the same consideration to your . . . paramours?”
“I do.” He lifted his goblet, swirled the contents. “But my time with them usually involves only a brief interlude, which can be handled in various ways to ensure secrecy. And it’s in rather bad form for me to discuss other women. I’m not usually in the habit of doing so.”
“I asked, which I suppose was bad form on my part. I apologize. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”
“For one thing, stop thinking about what it is we’re doing here.”
“Much easier said than done.”
“Drink some more wine.”
“Do you want me snookered?”
“Not particularly, but I do want you more at ease.”
She sipped her wine, licked her lips, searched for a safe topic. “Do you fish in your lake?”
“I do. Have you ever gone fishing?”
“No.”
“I suspect you would be very good at it.”
“Why?”
“It requires patience.”
“Are you patient, then?”
“Usually.”
She heard in his voice the echo of the one time, the one night, he wasn’t. She didn’t want to travel there. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to carry through on her reason for being here.
“I heard that Westcliffe and his wife had another son.”
Ainsley’s smile was that of a proud uncle. “Yes, Rafe. As handsome as his father. Takes to crying a good deal of the time, though.”
“Your mother must be beside herself with so many grandchildren already.”
“I believe they make her feel old.”
“Perhaps that is the reason she has such a young lover.” Before he could respond, she held up her hand. “My apologies. I do not mean to sit in judgment—”
“My mother enjoys her notoriety. I doubt there is a single person in the aristocracy who doesn’t believe Leo is her lover.”
“Do her scandals embarrass you?”
“My mother is one of the strongest and most courageous women I’ve ever known. She’s entitled to live as she chooses. Besides, my brothers and I have had our share of scandals. Who are we to judge?”
“You love her.”
“Deeply. And Leo makes her happy. I can’t fault him for that.”
She supposed, considering his own reputation, that she shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d be so accepting of inappropriate behavior in others. In a way, it was a bit of a relief, for surely it meant he found no fault with her decision to be here.
But then what did she care what he thought of her? They were not true lovers. They didn’t even like each other. They would tolerate each other, make the best of this most uncomfortable and unusual situation.
Each time she emptied her goblet, he refilled it. She knew she should protest, but her muscles were loosening and a warm lethargy was spooling through her. She thought if she took enough sips, perhaps if she looked at him at just the right angle she might see Walfort, could pretend he was Walfort. While they carried similar blood, shared some of the same ancestors, they favored each other hardly at all. Ainsley was decidedly more handsome, his features more sharply defined.
His eyes were a mesmerizing green, and when he focused them on her, she could almost imagine that he found her beautiful, that he desired her.
But then he desired all women. She was nothing special. He would have her, then easily forget her. He was here out of obligation. A debt owed. A redemption sought.
She should never forget that. If he did manage to get her with child, how would she reconcile the revulsion she felt for him against the gratitude she’d feel? He was the absolute worst choice for this endeavor. She should call for her carriage now.
But she didn’t think she could stand the mortification of going to someone else, of asking for this favor. During the past week, she’d allowed herself to dream of holding a child to her breast. To turn back from the dream now when it might be so close to being fulfilled . . .
She drank down another glass of wine. It made everything seem not quite so sinful.
When they were finished eating, he escorted her to her bedchamber. She wondered if she should invite him in now, before the effects of the wine had any chance to fade.
“I’ll join you in a few moments,” he said quietly, taking the decision from her. “Remove your wedding ring before I do.”
Nodding, she slipped into the room and pressed her back to the closed door. Now the true nightmare would begin.
Unfortunately, she was suddenly far too sober.
Chapter 8
Lily had helped her change into the nightdress. Now, Jayne stood at the window, gazing out on the moon. Terrified. She should have drunk far more wine. She’d placed her wedding ring—which she had vowed never to remove—in a wooden heart-shaped box on the vanity. It was lined with velvet, and she wondered if Ainsley had set it there, specifically for the purpose of holding her ring. She was beginning to realize he was not a man who left much to chance.
The soft rap on her bedchamber door nearly had her flying through the window.
“Enter.” To her consternation, her voice mimicked the squeak of a dormouse.
She turned to face the door as it opened and Ainsley strode in. She’d expected him to be wearing a dressing gown. Instead, he wore a billowy white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and cuffs, and a pair of trousers. After closing the door behind him, he walked over to the vanity and blew out the flame in the lamp.
His steps were eerily silent, and she realized he was barefoot. He wandered over to the table beside the bed and with a brief breath extinguished the flame in that lamp. Two more lamps burned, one on the other side of the bed, one in the sitting area. She didn’t know why her maid had left so many burning, or why she hadn’t thought to put them out. Perhaps because she saw the darkness as a signal for going to bed.
His long predatory strides took him to one lamp and then the other. She didn’t want to acknowledge how graceful and sinewy his movements were. He was obviously in no hurry, completely comfortable in his surroundings. As the shadows followed him, and began to reach for her, she was grateful for the encroaching darkness. At the last lamp, he stilled, held her gaze, and waited—one heartbeat, then two—before sending the final flame to sleep.
Struggling for breath, she watched as his silhouette approached her. When he stepped into the moonlight, she wished she’d drawn the drapes because it was impossible to pretend he was anyone other than who he was. Small tremors cascaded through her and she wasn’t certain if they were the result of fear or anticipation.
He wrapped his hand—so warm, so large—around hers, and she was startled by the roughness of his palm.
“I’m almost as nervous as I was on my wedding night,” she whispered.
“No need to be.”
He was right, of course. She’d worried on her wedding night that she’d disappoint Walfort, but if Ainsley were disappointed . . . what did she care? She didn’t want to please him or hold his heart or care what he thought. She wanted everything between them to remain impersonal.
But as he pulled her away from the window and led her toward the bed, she didn’t know if it would be possible to not let any of this matter. Her legs were trembling so badly that she
didn’t think she’d have been able to climb onto the bed if he hadn’t lifted her onto it, sitting her on the edge. When she made a motion to scoot back, he halted her.
“Just stay there. Lie back.”
“But—”
“Your rules. I’m not going to get into bed with you.”
“Oh. I see.” He knew how to keep it impersonal. Of course. He had all the experience. He probably knew all sorts of things that she’d not even think to imagine. “All right.”
With her legs dangling over the edge of the bed, she lay back and squeezed her eyes shut. She only wanted his seed. Walfort wanted her to have this. It was a transaction. Wasn’t that what her husband had called it? Motions. She’d only go through the motions.
As she felt the slide of her hem up her calves, over her knees, she clutched the counterpane. She fought not to squeeze her legs together as her gown was eased up her thighs.
She heard a pop, like the sound of bones creaking when someone knelt. She felt his fingers skimming along the inside of her thighs, spreading—
Her breathing came in tiny gasps. She would do this. For Walfort. Because he wanted this child. She bit her lower lip, mentally preparing herself to receive Ainsley. She felt a slight breeze stirring her curls and then a stroke—
She sat up abruptly. “What are you doing?”
She could make out only the shadows, but it was enough for her to know that he was kneeling between her legs.
“I’m preparing you,” he said quietly.
“No. This is . . . this is—” Something Walfort had certainly never done. “It’s too intimate.”
“You’re not ready for me. It’s going to hurt and you’re likely to bleed. You’ve made it clear that you want as little intimacy between us as possible. This will hasten things along. Trust me, Jayne.”
She wasn’t quite certain she could trust herself. She nodded, not sure if he could see her motions, lay back down and dug her head into the mattress. “Make it quick,” she commanded, once again squeezing her eyes shut.
He began where he left off, with his tongue stroking her intimately. So intimately. Swirling and dipping, taunting and teasing. Pleasure rippled through her. She wanted to deny it but she couldn’t. It felt so marvelous. It had been so long, so very long since sensations had poured through her. She’d locked so much away. When he’d kissed her on the terrace, she discovered he possessed a magical key that would open locks best kept closed. It was the reason she’d forbidden him to kiss her ever again. It was the reason she’d made the rules. When his mouth had molded itself to hers, when it tasted and searched and conquered, she’d known that he was not a man who would settle for a woman remaining immune to his charms.
Now his touch was devastating. She knew she should order him to stop. Order him to cease—and she would. In a moment. Wicked girl that she was, she simply wanted to enjoy the sensations he was arousing for a bit longer. Only a bit.
But he worked his magic until she became completely lost in the sensuality, until it took over and controlled her. It was lovely, so lovely, the pleasure mounting almost beyond endurance.
His mouth continued to play naughty games, to suckle, to lick, to torment. Oh, he was masterful. He knew when to apply pressure, when to go gently. She’d never felt anything so absolutely wicked and incredible. She needed to give it up, she knew she did, but she couldn’t, didn’t want to let it go.
It had been so long, so long since pleasure had spiraled through her. But she couldn’t remember it ever being this intense, this spellbinding. She heard whimpers and cries, realizing too late that they came from her. She shoved her hand against her mouth to hold the sounds at bay. It seemed everything within her needed to be released or she’d die.
The cataclysm that ripped through her then shook her to the core, left her trembling and weak, left her barely coherent. She was vaguely aware of the pressure, then he was pushing into her with such force—
His groan echoed around her, his body jerked over her. She felt his heated seed pouring deeply into her. A last thrust, a low moan that sounded as though it had been ratcheted up from his soul. Breathing deeply, he shuddered above her. Stilled.
“I’d expected . . . a man of your reputation to last much longer.”
“Then you are blind to your own allure,” he rasped.
He shoved himself away from her, withdrew, and eased her nightdress back into place. Without another word he walked from the room, the door snicking softly back into place.
She crawled into the center of the bed, wrapped her arms around a pillow and wept.
He would never know where he found the strength to walk away from her. He’d wanted to climb onto the bed, take her into his arms and hold her near. Comfort her as she wept. He had no doubt that she would cry. All night she’d tried to appear so uncaring, so unaffected by what was to happen.
But now that it was over, it would hit her. She’d betrayed her vows, her husband, herself.
As Ainsley stood at the window in his bedchamber, sipping whiskey he’d known he would need, he could still smell the scent of her, taste her saltiness on his lips. He’d wanted to skim his fingers over every inch of her, wanted to leave no part of her unknown to his questing tongue, wanted to kiss—
He slammed his eyes closed. He thought he would go mad with wanting before his time with her was done. Yet neither would he give up a single moment that he would have with her.
He tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass, poured more. It would be some time before he’d be able to go to sleep.
And when he did, he knew he would dream of her.
Chapter 9
He felt like hell when he woke up. The sunlight streaming through the windows caused his eyes to burn and intensified the pounding in his head. He never drank to excess when in the company of a lady, but then, when he finally tumbled into bed, no lady had been present.
Rolling to a sitting position, he realized he’d slept in his clothes. He didn’t even remember crawling into bed. He scrubbed his hands up and down his face. He would have a full day with Jayne. A day of politeness, of ignoring their reason for being here—until night fell. Strangely, now that he was coming more fully awake, he was looking forward to being in her company, even if on the surface it would all be platonic.
He rang for his valet, then began stripping off his clothes. A bath was in order, followed by a shave. If he hurried, he could be down to breakfast before Jayne was finished enjoying the meal. It would almost be as though they were married.
Not quite, he thought with a chuckle. If they were married, he’d be greeting her in bed, not at the table. He glanced at the wall that separated their bedchambers. He wondered if she’d welcome a visit from him this morning. Probably not. She needed a bit more time to adjust to what had transpired between them last night. But tonight, well, he hoped she’d be a bit more relaxed with him.
Even with the aid of his valet, he found himself entering the dining room nearly an hour later. To his utter disappointment, the only ones to greet him were his servants.
“Manning, has Lady Jayne been down to breakfast already, then?” he asked his butler.
“No, Your Grace. Her girl took up a tray nearly a half hour ago.”
“I see.”
Ainsley strolled over to the sideboard. The offerings were plentiful, but his appetite seemed not to have arrived with him. No doubt the lingering effects of too much whiskey the night before. Nor was he pleased by Jayne’s avoiding him—which was her intent by sending down her maid.
Spinning on his heel, he headed for the door.
“Is something amiss with the selections, Your Grace?” Manning asked.
“I’m simply not hungry. Assure the cook that all is well.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ainsley made his way to the foyer, then ascended the stairs two at a time. His head threatened to return to its miserable aching state, but he endured it and kept up his pace until he reached the landing. His stride long and sure, he
crossed over to her door and swung it open without preamble.
Still in her nightdress, her feet curled beneath her, she was sitting in a chair by the window, gazing out. He had a brief glimpse of her looking forlorn before she popped out of the chair and slammed her hip against the window casing. Her hand was at her throat, her breathing rapid and heavy. On a nearby table was a tray of food that appeared untouched.
“What . . . what do you want?” she demanded, her gaze darting quickly to the bed before coming back to him.
That reaction certainly didn’t bode well for tonight. She was having regrets, more than he’d anticipated.
Damn you, Walfort, damn you to hell.
He relaxed his stance, realizing that barging into her room as he had wasn’t helping the situation. He was angry that she’d deliberately sought to avoid him at breakfast by having a tray brought to her, and he was angry by her reaction now. But in truth, while he’d hoped for a more pleasant welcome, her reaction was exactly what he’d expected.
“I wanted to make certain you were all right,” he said quietly, infusing his voice with a calmness he didn’t quite feel. The sight of her in her nightdress brought forth images of him lifting its hem and burying his face between her thighs. Her taste and scent were an aphrodisiac he was anxious to experience again. He was fairly certain she would object to that happening at this moment. He tilted his head toward the tray. “Manning informed me that you had a tray prepared.”
“I’m quite well. I simply . . . desired a bit of solitude this morning.”
He closed the door. “To deal with your sins?”
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Is it a sin if I’ve been given permission?”
Waking Up With the Duke Page 9
