A Woman Scorned (45 page)

Slowly, as if he had willed it, his dressing room door creaked open, and Cole watched, transfixed, as Jonet appeared in a flowing wrapper, which caressed her body in all the right places. The soft fabric almost shimmered as she moved across the room, and Cole knew instinctively that she was naked beneath. In one hand, she cradled two glasses, and dangling from her fingertips, she carried a loosely corked bottle of wine. A wicked smile curved her lips.

“I pilfered your cellar,” she blithely confessed, sauntering toward the edge of his bed.

Peering at her over his spectacles, Cole sighed, then closed his book and laid it to one side. “Why does that not surprise me, Jonet?”

With another faint smile, she leaned provocatively forward to put down her burdens on his night table, allowing her cloud of black hair to fall forward and her wrapper to slide open invitingly. “Really, Cole,” she said throatily, as she pulled away the bedcovers and sat down to face him, “you did not honestly expect that I would be able to resist this, did you?”

“I do not suppose,” he finally said, watching as she leaned gracefully forward and removed his spectacles, “that there is any point in telling you that you have no business whatsoever being alone with me in my bedchamber? Nor in warning you that we might be caught out?”

Jonet merely shook her head. “None whatsoever,” she agreed. “If you’re caught compromising my dubious virtue, you’ll just have to wed me. But I daresay we both locked our doors,
did we not?
” She looked at him knowingly, one fine black brow quirking up.

“Yes,” he confessed, his voice thick with sudden need.

“Very . . .
tightly
.”

His heart in his throat, Cole watched Jonet’s breasts shift and sway as she leaned over to fill the wineglasses. She made no secret of—nor any apologies for—what she wanted. And there was no doubt whatsoever that he wanted her. In fact, if he were completely honest, he would admit that his cock had been half hard since seeing her tumbling in the grass with Stuart this afternoon.

Inside, however, the memory of the last night he’d spent in Jonet’s arms was as tender as a new wound. Oh, she had wanted him then, too. But he had very much feared that it was only that, and nothing more. And yet, today on the long carriage ride from Loughton, Jonet had very nearly laid open her heart to him. She loved him, she had said. She wanted to marry him—and in her usual obstinate way, Jonet had simply thrown her pride to the wind and asked.

Cole still did not see how it could possibly work, when he had nothing whatsoever to offer her. But abruptly, he found himself sitting fully up in bed and leaning forward to kiss her, threading his fingers lightly into the soft hair at her temples, cradling her face in his big, rough hands, and pushing his lips gently against hers.

“
Oh!
” she said breathlessly, as if the tenderness of his gesture shocked her. And then she kissed him back. Once, twice. And a third time, with her lips softly parted, her tongue lightly seeking. And then, with a shudder, she eased him gently back into the heap of pillows. “Let us be patient for once,” she whispered hesitantly. “We have all night. I would have us learn about one another. May we do that, Cole?”

Ruthlessly, Cole stomped his fire down to a smolder and banked it. “As you wish,” he agreed, lowering his lashes as he captured her hand and dragged her inner wrist to his mouth.

“
Cole—!
” His name came out on a sigh. “If you run that wicked tongue of yours down my arm again,” she warned, “I shan’t be accountable for the noise.”

“Very well,” he reluctantly agreed, restoring her hand to her lap. At once, she leaned forward and took up the wine glasses, now full, and passed one to him. Then, cradling the bowl of the glass in her palm, she tucked her knees under her wrapper and wriggled herself a little closer, until her hip was nestled companionably next to his thigh and they faced one another.

Cole held her eyes and raised his glass, lightly tapping the rim of hers. “To you, my dear. Now, what dread secret would you have me confess?”

Jonet looked suddenly mischievous again, her fingers snaking forward to toy with the throat of his nightshirt. “Well . . . first of all, I should very much like to know if you always wear clothes to bed?” She wrinkled her nose ever so slightly.

Cole felt a faint warmth flush across his face. “Not always, Jonet. But a nightshirt hardly constitutes
clothing
.”

Deftly, Jonet slipped the single button loose and turned back the shirt facing to let her fingers play lightly down his chest. “That may be,” she agreed, her voice soft and throaty. “But be aware, sir, that if I can persuade you to marry me, I intend to cut them all up into dust cloths.”

Her hands felt like fire playing down his chest. “Jonet,” he rasped, watching in fascination as her fingertips stroked lightly across his left nipple. “I really don’t think we can have any meaningful conversation if you keep doing that.”

Jonet’s heated gaze came up to catch his. “Yes,” she admitted, her lips parting softly. “You are perfectly right. Whatever was I thinking?” And then slowly, she returned the wineglasses to the table and began to unfasten her wrapper. Cole watched in wordless anticipation as she pulled open the silky fabric, letting it slither off her shoulders to pool around her hips, revealing her high, full breasts and her softly rounded belly.

Boldly, with her catlike grace, Jonet shifted her weight to climb over him, leaving her wrapper behind, tangled in his sheets as she straddled his knees. Then, she bent elegantly forward to slide her hands beneath the fabric of his nightshirt, pushing it to his waist, leaving his bare skin trembling with anticipation. Jonet’s eyes never left his as her hands skimmed back down the jut of his heavy hipbones, then smoothed across the shivering plane of his stomach, and lower still, until she found what she wanted.

“
Umm
,” she said, the sound more of a moan than a spoken word.

“
Ah—!
” Cole sharply exhaled as Jonet took him, her strong, perfect fingers lacing tightly about the base of his rigid shaft, the other lightly cupping his testicles.

Cole had made love
to
a good many women, but in the whole of his thirty-four years, he could never recall having been made love to
by
a woman. However, despite the haze of sensual delirium which was rapidly possessing him, he realized that that was Jonet’s precise intention. Cole had no more strength with which to resist her. And so he simply gave himself up to the inevitable, reveling in the long strokes of her firm, strong hands, and savoring the heat of her womanhood across his legs. But when her hair swept down over his belly, and he felt her breasts brush his thighs, the haze abruptly cleared, and his hands came up to stay her shoulders. “
No, Jonet—!
” he heard himself rasp. “Not like
that!
”

“Why?” Her voice was tender, the question soft. “Why may I not love you, Cole—in every way I feel drawn to?”

Why not, indeed? Because it was something only whores did? Because it was something he himself had rarely experienced?
But Jonet’s breathless plea made the first reason seem blatantly wrong. And the second was just a feeble excuse, tendered in the faint hope of holding back a part of himself from this woman who already threatened to possess him body and soul.

His hesitation was answer enough. Jonet’s mouth was on him, drawing his shaft deep into her warmth as she caressed and stroked him up and down, slicking him with moisture, her tongue encircling and enticing him with ribbons of fire, her hand tight about his throbbing base. First enthralled, then wildly excited, Cole let his hands drift down to thread through her hair, resisting the impulse to both push her away, and to drag her nearer. She loved him greedily, wickedly, for long, timeless moments, until Cole hung suspended between exquisite pain and perfect pleasure. Until he was left straining upward with a desperate, visceral hunger, arching off the bed, and dragging her upward.

“Inside,” he rasped harshly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arm. Yet he was barely certain he had spoken the word aloud. Roughly—too roughly—he pulled at her shoulders, dragging her mouth from his pulsing cock. “I want inside you
now!
” he demanded, and this time Jonet’s head jerked up, her eyes wide and limpid, her lush mouth wet and gasping. Obediently, she slid up his length, straddling his shaft.

“
Now, Jonet!
” he begged, his tone softer, his hands instinctively sliding around to lift and part her buttocks. Balanced delicately atop him, Jonet nodded mutely, then tipped back her head and impaled herself downward in one long, perfect stroke.

“Oh, God,” Cole heard himself groan.

Jonet let out her breath in a whispery sigh, then lifted herself up and glided enticingly down again. Over and over she moved, until knowingly, his hands left the sweet weight of her hips and slid over her thighs. Settling one hand over the soft, damp curls of her mound, he let his fingers ease between her swollen folds, through the warm heat, and back again, to find what he knew would be her hard, eager nub. And it was.
Ah, yes!
It was.

He brushed it once, lightly, with the ball of his thumb, and Jonet began to pant wildly, her hair curling enticingly around rose-pink nipples that were hard and erect. She lifted herself high and slid down once more. After that, it was over very quickly. Jonet’s thighs worked feverishly as she rode him, her tight feminine sheath pulsing up his length as she came, rendering him powerless, sucking the very life from him.

“
Oh
. . .
oh
. . .
oh . . . !
” she gasped. His hips came up, forcing her weight fully off the bed as Cole strained, mindlessly pouring into her. And then, he felt the sheets, cool against his back, and Jonet’s weight falling forward to bear him deeper into the softness of the bed.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered tremulously, her lips somewhere near his earlobe.

And then, the room was plunged into a deep, restful silence. Through the open window, a light breeze stirred across the bed, carrying with it the soothing sounds of a country night. After years of often sleeping out of doors, Cole could not bear being shut in. Now, it felt good to be away from London, in his own home, in his own bed, with the woman who was—or perhaps
could be
—his as well.

“Jonet?” Cole said softly, after they had drowsed for a bit. “Why did you come here? Was it for this? Or did you really wish to talk?”

“
Umm,
” answered Jonet sleepily, bracing her hands on his shoulders and pushing herself up to look at him. “All of those things, I daresay,” she murmured absently, her eyes fixed upon his lips. Her mouth parted softly, and then she was kissing him again, pushing her lips against his and gently nibbling at one corner of his mouth.

“Have mercy, Jonet!” he muttered, urging her away. “I begin to fear you are insatiable.”

“No,” she said against his mouth, “you are irresistible.” But finally, with obvious reluctance, she rolled off and stretched languidly out beside him. “Do you want the truth?” she asked quietly, after a long moment had passed.

Cole’s experience at pillow talk was almost nonexistent, yet he knew instinctively that the answer was a resounding
no
. “Of course,” he bravely lied.

To delay the inevitable, Jonet reached down to pull up the covers, then settled her head on his shoulder. Good heavens, but he smelled wonderful. Warm and faintly spicy, and underneath it all, the subtle tang of male sweat and sated desire. She drew in the scent of him, skimming one hand down his chest to rub little circles over his belly. “I like the way you smell,” she murmured against his collarbone.

Swiftly, Cole’s hand snared hers and dragged it back to his chest, pressing it over his heart and covering it with his own. “Don’t change the subject, my dear,” he warned. “You started this.”

Jonet sighed and shifted a little away from him. “I just want to know about your life here at Elmwood. What were you like as a boy? What did you love? What did you dream?” she softly explained, staring up into the depths of the ceiling. “And I want to know if . . . ifyou slept here—in this bed—with Rachel, your wife. I want to know if you loved her. I want to know what she meant to you.”

Cole dragged in his breath harshly. The tension rising inside him was almost tangible. “I never slept in this bed with Rachel,” he said quietly, his gaze cutting toward the connecting door. “I always went to her room. May we let it go at that?”

“No,” she whispered, but despair and doubt were swelling like a tide in Jonet’s chest. She prayed she was not pushing this tenuous relationship too fast, and in the wrong direction.

Suddenly, Cole’s arm snaked around her shoulder. His mouth came down against her brow, and she could feel his lips moving lightly against her skin as he spoke. “I never loved her, Jonet,” he said softly. “Not in the way a husband ought. And what she meant to me was . . . hope.And a symbol of commitment to—to God, I suppose. I don’t even know any more.”

Jonet tucked her arm about his waist. “I think I understand,” she said softly. “Will you—will you tell me about her? How you met her? What she was like?”

And so, for the next hour or better, Cole found himself doing precisely that. It was hard at first, and yet he found himself telling Jonet things he had never shared with another human being; truths and dreams and fears he had hardly understood himself. And somewhere in the process, he could never remember precisely when, the talk turned to his childhood, to the death of his parents, and to the cold, barren years spent under the auspices of Lord James Rowland. Strangely, peace began to flood his soul.

At some point, Jonet sat up in bed and refilled their wineglasses. By one o’clock in the morning, the bottle was as depleted as Cole’s angst. By two, he had rolled Jonet onto her back and was thrusting deep inside her again; riding her hard and long, with no sense of her urgency or desperation, and no need to come again. Just slowly and quietly loving her, until she cried out softly, and rose up tight against him, tangling her fingers in his hair and curling her legs snugly above his hips.