“I climbed a tree. Often. I fell once, skinned my knee. I have a scar to prove it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The disadvantage to making love in the dark. Show it to me now.”
She glanced around. “No. Someone will see.”
“ ’Tis my lake. No one is around. Come along, Jayne. Show me your scar; otherwise, tonight I shall leave on all the lamps.”
She turned a brilliant hue of red. “One does not engage in . . . intimacy . . . with the lamps on.”
Scrutinizing her, he could see the truth of her words etched on her face. Had she and Walfort . . . never . . . except in the dark? He couldn’t envision it. He’d doused the lamps and extinguished the candles because he’d wanted to give her the freedom to pretend he was Walfort if she needed that pretense to allow the intimacy between them. But if she’d never—
He thought of last night when she loosened her nightdress and then clutched it close, changing her mind regarding how bold she might be. The light from the fire had been too much. He’d hoped she’d eventually become comfortable enough with him that the light wouldn’t bother her, but if she’d only ever made love in the darkness—he didn’t understand how Walfort could deny himself the pleasure of gazing on her with candlelight flickering over her skin.
His cousin and his actions baffled him. Walfort took so little from Jayne, gave so little to her. Yet even as Ainsley thought these things, he knew it was not his place to question, to analyze, to wonder. His place was to seduce her, over and over, until he got her with child.
He hefted the oar, then slid the narrow dry end along the bottom of the boat until it encountered the hem of her skirt. “Come along, Jayne, let me see the scar.”
She slapped at the oar. “No.”
“Then I shan’t believe you’ve been silly.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Then why tell me?”
She was looking around frantically as though seeking the answer. He lifted her skirt so her ankle was visible.
“Ainsley!”
She kicked out, he fell back, the boat rocked, she screeched and grabbed the sides of the boat as though she had the strength and power to calm its motions.
“You’re going to cause us to topple over,” she chastised.
“No, I won’t,” he insisted, slowly bringing himself upright and then kneeling. “That’s right. Just hold the boat steady.”
“What are you doing?”
“I simply want to see the scar.”
“Ains—”
“Shh.” He lifted her skirt up, up, until he could see her well-defined calves. “Which knee?”
“I shan’t tell you.”
“Then I shall be forced to examine them both.”
“The left.”
He grinned. How easily she capitulated. He ran his free hand over the one that led to the knee that bore the scar. Higher went the skirt, until he settled the hem on her thigh. Her knuckles were turning white. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes riveted on him. Slipping both hands along her thighs, he untied the ribbon holding her stocking and slowly, provocatively, rolled the silk down her leg until he could see the tiny bit of puckered flesh.
“If someone sees—”
“No one will see,” he interrupted. Even if someone saw, they didn’t know who she was, they’d never cross paths again, and he’d come too far to stop now.
“Did it hurt?” he asked.
“I don’t recall.” She was breathless, struggling to pull in air. He should take pity on her. But he wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her, so that when they returned to the house, they would immediately retire to the bedchamber. He’d draw the curtains if he had to in order to give her the darkness she sought. But he wanted her again with a fierceness that unsettled him. It was as though he couldn’t have enough of her.
“It must have,” he said. “To scar, it had to be deep. It would have bled.”
“Then yes, I suppose, yes, it hurt.”
He did not allow his gaze to waver from hers as he leaned down, pressed his lips to the pink flesh, trailed his tongue around it. Her eyes darkened, went limpid. Her mouth softened.
“I didn’t cry,” she rasped. “I was too stubborn to cry. My father had forbidden me to climb so he took a switch to my backside.”
His chest ached with that confession. If her father were still alive, the man might very shortly be feeling the strength in Ainsley’s fist as it slammed into his nose.
“Hmm. Then that lovely backside is in want of attention as well, and I shall have to kiss it later.”
She didn’t object. She simply watched him as though she weren’t quite sure what to make of him.
“Or I could do it now, I suppose. Hide beneath your skirt where no one would see me. Nibble my way up your thigh.”
“We would topple over.”
“Not if you stayed very still.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“I think you could.” He pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, just above her knee.
With a groan she dropped her head back. “I think this is an awful idea.”
“I disagree.”
He was halfway to where he wanted to be when the damned skies opened up. Cold rain slashed at the boat. She screamed, he cursed. He brought down her skirt. “Don’t forget where I was. I shall begin there later.”
Her laughter pleased him immensely. He scrambled back, grabbed the oars, and began rowing as though their lives depended on it. The last thing he wanted was for her to get ill or catch her death.
Smiling, shaking her head, she brought her stocking up and secured it. “You’re a very naughty duke.”
“I try.”
“If it hadn’t started raining, would you have really—”
Her words came to an abrupt halt, no doubt because his gaze provided the answer.
He really would have.
“The bank will be particularly muddy,” he said. “Stay in the boat when we hit shore. I’ll lift you out.”
“Ainsley, that’s not necessary.”
“Jayne, must you argue with me on everything?”
She smiled, then laughed. “You forget, Your Grace, that I have seen you standing at a bank, attempting to lift something from the water. Can you blame me for doubting your ability to deliver me safely to shore?”
As much as he loved her laughter, it arrived with a bit of a sting this time. He groused, “I was acting the buffoon for Walfort’s sake.”
Her humor fled. “Why would you deliberately make a fool of yourself?”
“To make him laugh, to make him feel that I was not so capable, to give him back a bit of his pride, perhaps.”
She scrutinized him as though she didn’t understand him. Not that he blamed her. Where she was concerned, he wasn’t quite certain he understood himself.
Craning her head back, she welcomed the rain pattering over her face. “We shall probably both catch our death.”
God, he hoped not. Not after only two nights. He wanted so many more with her. He wondered if she’d ever seriously consider taking a lover. Then dispensed with the notion. These few nights they would have together were for a purpose. That she had decided to embrace them did not necessarily mean she had decided to embrace him. She was working to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. It would behoove him to never forget that fact.
Drenched by the time the boat finally hit the shore, he leapt out, dragged it farther in, and lifted her out. He so enjoyed having her in his arms, even when she more closely resembled a drowned cat. Holding her close, he raced to the gazebo where its roof would protect them from the slashing rain. With regret, he lowered her feet to the flooring. Drawing her near, he enveloped her within his coat, striving to bring some warmth to stop her shivering. It seemed such a natural movement as she nestled back against him, her head fitting securely into the hollow of his shoulder.
“I can’t believe the rain caught us so unawares,” she said.
&
nbsp; “It happens like that here. Now that it’s started, it could go on all day. It could stop in a few moments. Unfortunately, I believe our best recourse is to make a dash for the cottage.”
“All right.”
Yet neither of them moved. He thought if he could get a fire started, he’d be content to remain here with her all day. Simply holding her. Listening to the harsh fall of the rain.
“When we arrive at the house, I’ll have a warm bath prepared for you,” he said.
“That sounds lovely.”
He nibbled on the nape of her neck, capturing the errant raindrops with his tongue. “Perhaps I’ll join you.”
If he hadn’t been holding her, he might have missed how still she became. Was she going to be comfortable, content with intimacy shared only within the shadows of midnight? Did she expect them to go about their business during the day as though they were strangers? Did the night before not show her what could be between them?
“I’m not certain you could behave,” she finally said, a slight tremor in her voice that he didn’t understand.
“I’m not here to behave. Your presence indicates you’re not expecting me to. Besides, the day has turned into one that is best spent in bed.”
She turned her head slightly, giving him a view of her profile, her creased brow. “Are you implying . . . during the day?”
He felt as though he’d been kicked by an angry mule. Surely she did not mean what he thought she did. “I’ve been determined not to mention Walfort while we’re here, but are you telling me that he’s never . . . that you’ve never spent a lazy afternoon . . . between the sheets?”
Her cheeks were flaming now and he knew it wasn’t from the cold. “It’s only proper at bedtime.”
Proper? He wanted to tell her that when a man desired a woman, there was no “proper” time. But if he told her the truth, she might begin to doubt Walfort’s affection and passion toward her. The very last thing he wanted was to undermine her relationship with her husband, to have her here thinking about Walfort.
“Well, all I can say to that is that my cousin showed remarkable restraint in the past. I seriously doubt I’ll be able to manage that.”
She twisted her head around and met his gaze. “You want me, even now, when I’m a shivering, sopping mess?”
“I want you every moment of every hour.” Realizing too late that he’d confessed more than he should have, he grabbed her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you to the house and warmed up.”
Then he would see how receptive she was to his joining her in the bath. Walfort may have only visited her bed in the dead of night, but Ainsley intended to spend the better part of the month there.
He had to keep his stride short so she could keep up. Removing his coat, he held it over her head, trying to offer her some protection from the onslaught of the storm. The rain was slashing them now. Roads would soon be impassable. He was half tempted to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the house.
By the time they entered the kitchen through the back door, they were both well and truly drenched.
“Your Grace,” the cook chastised. “You’re tracking in mud.”
“So we are. Start warming water. The servants are to prepare a bath for Lady Jayne.” He hung her cloak and his jacket on a peg by the door. “Not that it will stop us from dripping through the residence.”
As he guided her into the hallway, she said, “You should have a bath prepared for yourself as well.”
“Ah, Jayne, I thought we’d agreed we would bathe together.”
“Too scandalous by half.”
“Who’s to know?”
“Your servants.”
“I’ve told you. They are the souls of discretion.”
“Ainsley, you’re seeking to corrupt me.” Breaking free of him, laughing lightly, she backed into the entryway, “And I’ll not be corrupted.”
“Ainsley, whatever mischief are you up to now?” a familiar but unwanted voice asked.
Jerking his gaze from Jayne to the woman emerging through the parlor doorway, he could think only one thing.
Bloody hell. Disaster had arrived.
Chapter 12
After ushering Jayne upstairs to get dry and warm—and with the reassurance that he would take care of this situation—Ainsley joined his mother and Leo in the parlor. It didn’t help matters that he was wet and chilled. He poured himself a brandy and downed it, welcoming the warmth it spread through his body.
“You should get into dry clothes and then we’ll talk,” his mother said.
Easing over to the fireplace, he relished the heat provided by the burning logs. “We’ll talk now. What are you doing here?”
“I think the more pressing question is: what is Lady Walfort doing here?”
“She was invited. You were not.”
Standing before him, his mother arched a dark brow over remarkable brown eyes that never overlooked anything.
“And while she is here, she is known only as Lady Jayne,” he quickly pointed out.
“Why is she here, Ainsley?” she asked with such concern, such worry, that he could hardly stay angry at her.
“She required a bit of a holiday. You can well imagine that there is considerable tension in her current situation.”
“Does Walfort know she’s with you?”
“It was his idea.”
He’d never seen his mother appear quite so flummoxed. “I see.”
He hoped to God she didn’t. She’d never approve and she certainly didn’t need to know that Walfort’s child would be her grandchild. He’d not even considered how his mother would be denied knowing her own grandchild. Damnation.
“And your reason for being here?” he prodded, glancing at her and then at Leo, who stood slightly behind her, ever alert, ready to pounce to protect her if need be. He always appeared relaxed, as though nothing ever bothered him. He was easily underestimated. But Ainsley knew Leo would never let anyone harm the duchess.
“We were traveling north to see Lynnford when we got caught in the storm. The roads are presently atrocious so we thought to seek shelter here.” His mother studied him with an intensity that in his youth had always made him squirm and confess whatever truth he’d been attempting to hide from her. But he was no longer a callow lad, and he’d protect Jayne from all wagging tongues—even his mother’s.
The rain he’d been enjoying so much earlier was now a curse. As thunder rumbled, he realized he couldn’t send his mother out in it. The cottage contained six bedchambers. Unfortunately, it did not have wings and they all ran alongside the same hallway.
“I’ll have Manning see that two bedchambers are prepared for you. I would ask that you leave as soon as you are able.”
“We’d have not stopped at all if not for the weather. Lady Lynnford is failing. I suspect her end is near. I’m not sure how Lynnford will manage without her.”
Ainsley saw something flash over Leo’s face—something he couldn’t interpret. He wondered if the artist was wondering how long he would retain the duchess’s affections once Stephen’s father was a widower. Lynnford had been his mother’s lover in her youth—something he and his brothers only recently learned. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel to discover his father was not the man he’d always thought. Even as the repercussions crossed his mind, he realized he risked passing a similar burden on to his child. Was what he felt for Jayne enough to justify his actions? Was his guilt over what he’d done to Walfort reason for denying his child the truth about his father?
Damn the doubts that were suddenly plaguing him. He’d set on this course and wasn’t about to turn his back on Jayne now—not with the knowledge of how desperately she wanted this child.
“With any luck, perhaps the weather will clear off by late afternoon and you won’t need to stay the night,” he said.
“Oh, I’m certain we should stay the night.”
“Then if you’ll be kind enough to excuse me, I wish to change into dry clothing.”
The Duchess of Ainsley was here. Ainsley’s mother. Jayne had wanted to die of mortification when the woman stepped out of the parlor. No one of any influence or station was supposed to know she was spending this month with Ainsley. What would the duchess think? What conclusions would she draw?
Jayne was half tempted to remain in the bathwater until she shriveled up into nothing. How in God’s name was she going to face the woman? She knew what the duchess had to be thinking—that she was Ainsley’s latest paramour. Only she wasn’t.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She was, only it wasn’t because she desired him. She wanted a babe. What was she doing here? How unfair to him and her and quite possibly a child. Not to mention Walfort. Only he wanted this, so she was here because he wanted it.
Damn damn damn!
Opening her eyes, she saw the tiny scar on her upraised knee. She had yet to dip it below the water, to wash it, so it still held Ainsley’s kiss. She imagined she could still feel the softness of his lips, the heat of his mouth. She grew warm thinking about how far he might have taken things if the storm hadn’t arrived. The screen around the tub that kept the warmth from the fireplace contained so it didn’t spread into the room prevented her from seeing the bed, but she knew it was there. All neat and tidily made. And Ainsley had wanted to spend the afternoon rumpling it—rumpling her.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. She should have the fire put out. She was so hot that surely the water would begin to boil at any moment.
A rap of knuckles on the bedchamber door sent her heart into a frenzied gallop. Knowing Ainsley, he’d sent his mother away and was now intent on carrying out his promise of spending the remainder of the afternoon in bed. Was she actually anticipating it? Yes, she thought she was. They would draw the drapes, of course, inviting in the shadows.
“It’s His Grace, m’lady,” Lily said, startling Jayne from her wild musings.
“See what he wants.”
She heard the door open, followed by whispered murmurings. The door closed, and she released the breath she’d been holding. She waited for the tap of Lily’s shoes as she came to report the duke’s message, but all she heard was silence.
Waking Up With the Duke Page 13
