The roundabout began to slow. He wanted to shout at the men that he’d pay them handsomely to keep running. But it was too late. She opened her eyes, her smile retreated, the discomfort between them reemerged. She slid off the lion, not waiting for his assistance. As the contraption creaked and groaned into stillness, they stood facing each other, separated by an absurd-looking creature.
“Time to grow up again,” she said quietly.
When she turned and strolled off the platform and onto the ground, as much as he didn’t want to, he followed.
Chapter 10
Her inability to breathe as she stood at the window in her bedchamber had nothing to do with anticipation, for she was not eagerly awaiting his arrival. She was quite simply anxious to get the night done with so she could sleep.
The music had become more lively, the crowd more boisterous, as they’d taken their leave of the fair, and she halfway wished they had remained long enough for a dance. But their nights were to be devoted to other things.
Besides, a light rain had begun to fall just as they arrived at the cottage. The dancing and merrymaking had no doubt come to an abrupt end as people sought shelter. Now, the moon was hiding behind dark clouds and she was lulled by the gentle patter against the window as the moments slowly ticked by.
Where the deuce was he?
She’d bathed before dinner, but tonight they barely spoke a word during the meal. When she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel his gaze homing in on her, studying her. Why were things suddenly more awkward?
The worst was over—their first encounter. It should all be easier now. She knew what to expect of him. Yet as she waited, she wondered if she understood anything at all.
The only light in the room was provided by the lazy fire on the hearth. She wouldn’t have to watch him prowling, extinguishing flames. He could come straight to her, lead her to the bed—
Or should she be there already, waiting?
Her nipples tingled with the thought of him kneeling before her, slowly skimming the hem of her nightdress up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs. So leisurely, as though he could see in the dark, could see the tiny scar on her knee—the result of falling from the tree she was forbidden to climb when she was a child.
But at the age of seven, she’d been lured by the forbidden. Now it terrified her.
Suddenly, unbearably warm, she pressed her cheek to the cool glass. Waiting was torment. What was taking him so very long?
It was a mistake to spend the day with her. He’d wanted to stay past nightfall, wanted to stroll through the anonymity offered by the darkness, wanted to dance with her—not the polite, civilized steps in a ballroom, but the gregarious, jolly movements of madness in which the villagers reveled.
He’d found it difficult enough last night to pretend impartiality. Tonight he would descend one step further into hell, not experiencing the pleasure of her touch, knowing she wanted as little contact as possible.
He downed another whiskey and slammed the tumbler on the table beside the window in his bedchamber. The damned rain had stolen the moonlight. He wouldn’t see it glistening off her skin, wouldn’t have forbidden sights. He would have only the darkness, yet still he knew he’d see the shape of her long, slender legs in his mind, would imagine them wrapped around his waist, urging him on.
Imagination could be a powerful aphrodisiac. Pity he wanted more. Damning the cottage for not having a door between the bedchambers, he crossed the room and went into the hallway. Her door was closed as tightly as her thighs. Could she not open it even a crack in invitation?
Rapping his knuckles once against the wood in warning, he strode in and was hit with her jasmine fragrance. He wondered if it would remain after she left. She was hovering by the damned window again, as though distance would alter the outcome.
At least pretend you want me, he almost shouted.
He should have provided his own list of rules. But then the reality smacked into him. If this was the only way he could have her—he’d take it. At least tonight he had no lamps to douse. The banked fire hardly illuminated the room, but bless the moon, if it didn’t choose that moment to peer out from behind the clouds and reveal her wrapped in moonlight.
Her hair was down, loose, and he wanted desperately to comb his fingers through it, bury his face in its softness. He wanted to trail his hand over the strip of white and apologize for his role in creating it, even if he thought it the most beautiful shade he’d ever seen. He wanted to place his palms on either side of her face and plant a kiss on those lush lips that would have her melting into his arms. He didn’t want to lead her to the bed. He wanted to carry her. He wanted to lift her hem over her shoulders, over her head. He didn’t want to stop the journey at her thighs. He wanted her bared before him.
He wanted her breasts nestled against his palms. He wanted his tongue toying with her nipples, wanted to feel them pearling in his mouth. He wanted the taste of her on his lips.
His errant thoughts had his body in such a state that he could barely cross over to her. No smile greeted him. If at all possible, she was more wary tonight.
He knew he should have been content with taking her hand, with keeping things as impersonal as he had during their first encounter, but surely his patience warranted a little more. Skimming his fingers along her arm, he felt the heat penetrating the gossamer silk, heard her breath hitch, saw her eyes darken. Perhaps she wasn’t as immune to him as he’d thought.
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how much he adored her smile, how desperately he wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to confess that he’d do anything to ensure her happiness. But just as he had last night, he kept the words locked deeply inside, where they could not be mocked, could not bring pain to either of them.
Intertwining their fingers, he led her to the bed, lifted her up, placed her on its edge. She needed no instruction tonight. She simply lay back, offering herself to him.
But he wanted more. Just a small bit more.
Jayne watched as he went down to one knee. The moonlight that had entered the room when he did receded, the clouds no doubt thickening as the rain pounded harder against the panes—as hard as her heart beat within her chest. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She felt his hands—slender fingers, rough palms, heated skin—wrap around her ankles and glide up her legs, carrying the hem of her nightdress with his journey.
Closing her eyes, she relished the touch she should have abhorred. Wicked of him to give her a little more intimacy, naughty of her not to chastise him for it. Then his mouth followed where his hands had gone and she thought she would melt into the bed coverings. He hadn’t shaved before he came to her, and she could feel the tiniest rasp of bristle. She wanted to lock her legs around him, hold him tight. But she had her rules: no pleasure, no pleasure, no pleasure.
She would take none. And yet he was giving it, using his fingers and his tongue, touching her so deeply. She’d thought of this while she waited, hoped for it, knew she was more than ready for him. He had to be aware, and yet he didn’t cease his ministrations. He simply carried her higher, higher—
She pressed her fist to her mouth, muffling the cry emerging from her throat as her body erupted with unbridled pleasure. She jerked, spasmed, felt the tears of release trickle from the corners of her eyes. She wanted to be immune, but it all felt so wonderful. She returned from the haven of sensations with the realization that he had yet to penetrate her. She could see his shadow. He was standing. Why wasn’t he—
The truth hit her with the force of a battering ram. The reason he’d come to fruition so quickly last night. She was giving nothing. She was simply taking. He was giving everything, all the pleasure, even to himself, so she wouldn’t have to endure his nearness any longer than necessary.
Pain ratcheted through her. Did he think she was so selfish?
Lifting up, she reached for him. “Ainsley—”
She’d barely touched him before the hot seed poured over her hand
.
“Damnation,” he growled. Stepping back, he released more profanity as though he himself were a storm cloud raining down.
“I’m sor—” she began.
“Don’t. Simply stay as you are.”
He was gone before she could respond. She heard him bump into something, release another harsh curse—under any other circumstances she might have laughed.
He returned to her before she had time to wonder what he might be doing. His trousers were done back up, his billowy shirt gaping open where the buttons were freed. With a damp cloth, he wiped her hands.
“I can see to it—” she began.
“I’ve got it.” When her hands were clean, he said, “I’ll need a few moments before . . . we can resume.”
With that, he left her. Twisting around on the bed, she watched his shadowy form hurl the cloth into a corner. The fire in the hearth outlined him dropping onto the sofa and burying his face in his hands.
She wondered if he was weeping. She certainly wanted to.
Bloody damned hell!
He hadn’t lost control like that since he was sixteen years old and one of the upstairs maids had been toying with him. If he hadn’t been fantasizing about Jayne touching him, about her enfolding that soft, warm hand around him . . . If he hadn’t been imagining her mouth pressed to his chest, lapping at his skin, trailing over his throat—
Hearing the creak of the bed followed by the padding of bare feet over the floor and carpet, he stiffened. Peering through his fingers, he watched her sit in the stuffed chair beside the fireplace, pull her feet onto the cushion and wrap her arms around her drawn up legs. Legs he’d skimmed his hands along. She wasn’t tall, but she was still mostly leg. The flickering firelight danced over her, and he imagined his mouth following the same trails.
With that thought he was rapidly returning back to form.
“You needn’t be embarrassed,” she said quietly.
“I’m not.” He was. Mortified. His curt words came out harsher than he’d intended, two quick slaps that judging by the jerk of her head she’d actually felt. “I simply wasn’t expecting . . . I wasn’t prepared . . .”
“For my touch. Yes, I know. I figured it out . . . that you were not only . . . pleasuring me.” She averted her gaze, stared into the fire. “This is absolutely bloody awful, isn’t it?”
Amused by her uncharacteristic use of profanity, he lowered his hands. “As far as bloody awful things go, it’s one of the best I’ve experienced.”
She released a sound, possibly a laugh, or perhaps a strangled sob, before covering her mouth. She stared at him for the longest time. “Why are you doing this?”
Her voice was rough, and he realized it had cost her something to ask, and so she deserved at least an inkling of the truth. “Nothing is more important to me than your happiness.”
“Why?”
Because I adore you. “I admire you.”
“But it’s costing you, isn’t it?”
“Jayne—”
“Ainsley, women adore you. They fawn over you. They want to be in your bed. And here I am with all my silly rules, and still you destroyed me last night with so little effort.”
Her confession pounded painfully into him. “Christ, Jayne, that was not my intent.”
“I know.” She shook her head brusquely. “I know. But still it happened. It had been so long, so very long . . . I didn’t want to be reminded of what I was missing. And I wasn’t. Instead I discovered what I’d never had. Not like that. Not with that intensity.”
What the hell was he to say to that heartfelt admission?
“It’s as you say,” he told her. “It’s because it’s been so long.”
“I don’t think so. Not entirely. You’ve obviously earned your reputation.”
Yet there was no woman he wanted to please more than he wanted to please her. He was not a selfish lover. He knew that. He cared for his paramours, wanted to ensure their enjoyment in his bed because it added to his physical satisfaction. But for Jayne he’d forgo his own pleasure—if he could do it and still get her with child.
“Do you know when I knew this was a terrible notion?” she asked.
“When Walfort first mentioned it, I suspect.”
“No. I thought it was a terrible idea at that point. I knew it was a terrible idea when you added your condition. You’re giving me your child and I’m selfish enough to want to take it.”
“I can think of no one I’d rather be the mother of my child.”
“But I’ve treated you so shabbily. I never considered how unfair all this was to you. Walfort’s request, my rules—”
“For God’s sake, Jayne, you’re the one who has had to live with the unfairness of it all. I wish to God I’d not taken the reins that night. I wish we’d have had three fewer drinks, although I’m not at all sure why I believe that’s the magic number that would have changed the outcome. I wish I’d convinced him to stay where we were and sleep it off until morning—but he wanted to return to you. Not a single day goes by that I don’t relive that night and see all the missteps. If I could unravel the tapestry of events that destroyed dreams, I would. I’d sell my soul to the devil to have everything put back to rights.”
She rested her chin on her upraised knees as though she could better see him from that perch—or perhaps see inside him, to the very core of his being, to the secret part of his heart that beat for her.
“I didn’t think you suffered,” she whispered, so softly that he almost didn’t hear the words. “I thought you just went on your merry way. Is being with me punishment?”
Every man should be so fortunate as to have nights with her as punishment. But he held his thoughts, certain she wouldn’t appreciate them. Besides, in truth it was punishment. To have only a sampling of her but not the whole. But then, he didn’t deserve the whole. He didn’t deserve even a sampling.
“It is, isn’t it? And you’re too kind to say. I wanted you to suffer, you know. I wanted you in agony, but what is to be gained by it?” He saw tears well in her eyes. “I do want a child, Ainsley, more than I’ve ever wanted anything—other than for Walfort to be whole again.”
“You can’t have the latter, Jayne, but I’ll do all in my power to give you the former.”
She gnawed on the lower lip that he wanted to nibble on. “Why did you react as you did? Earlier. So forcefully, so quickly. When I touched you?”
Could she be that damned naïve? “Because I’d been in your company all day. Because I wanted nothing more than for you to touch me. I was imagining it, and then it was real . . . and so much better than what I imagined.”
“I think that a child will be like that. That no matter how much I imagine it, the reality of that small body nestled within my arms will be the greatest joy I shall ever know. And if I want it that badly, then I can’t be selfish in acquiring it.”
As well as he knew women’s bodies, he still sometimes found their minds, their thoughts, their rationales, difficult to decipher, completely baffling. He didn’t know what she was rambling on about.
Releasing a deep, shuddering breath, she unfolded her lithe body and stood. Holding his gaze as the firelight waltzed with the shadows surrounding her, she untied the ribbon at her throat and then slowly gave freedom to the buttons of her nightdress.
The breath backed up painfully in his lungs with his knowledge of where she was going with this. He should stop her. It would be pure torment to have her willingly—and then to have to let her go. But he was in hell anyway. Might as well let the fire burn hotter.
She slipped the gown off her shoulders, and he watched, mesmerized, as it began to slither along her body. Abruptly, her boldness deserted her, and she quickly gathered the silk tightly into a ball at her breasts, stopping the progress of the unveiling as soon as the upper swells were visible. Still his blood boiled.
She held out her hand in invitation. With her actions, she was breaking her own rules. She would find pleasure in his bed. But then
they were her rules to break, his to honor, even if he’d had a hand in getting her to break this one.
With his mouth suddenly dry, he reminded himself that she’d not fallen under his spell. She was simply playing the same game as he, making it easier for them both to travel the path they’d set upon. At the end of their time together, she would return to Walfort, hopefully with fewer regrets. But for now, for this moment, she was his.
Pushing himself to his feet, he approached her cautiously. He’d never doubted her courage or her strength, but he suspected she was in uncharted waters. She was not accustomed to playing the role of vixen, even though he thought her well suited to it. She could entice him with nothing more than a smile.
When he reached her, he combed his fingers into her hair and gave them leave to slide through the silken strands.
“I’m sorry I’m so cowardly,” she said quietly.
He grazed his knuckles over her cheek. “That is the very last word I’d ever use when describing you.” Lifting her into his arms, he began walking toward the bed. “Beautiful, lovely, courageous. Those suit.”
Burying her face in the nook of his shoulder, she wound one arm around his neck while her other hand clung tenaciously to her gown. He regretted that they were moving into the shadows of the bed where the fire was too weak to provide him with the light he desired. He would let her have the darkness tonight, but eventually he would have her in the light. He wanted to know every shade of every color that comprised her.
He laid her on the bed with gentleness, as though she were as fragile as hand-blown glass. Aware of her gaze on him, of her hand still clutching the opening to her nightdress, he drew his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. He stretched out beside her, careful not to startle her, not to give her a reason to retreat now. He skimmed his fingers up and down the bare portion of her arm, above the elbow, before pressing his mouth to her shoulder. Against his lips, she shivered.
“I can’t see you, you know,” he said in a low whisper.
Waking Up With the Duke Page 11
