An Inconvenient Wife (35 page)

Anne raised her head, her
gaze going instantly to him, and he smiled his approval and pleasure. She
flushed and smiled shyly, but there was no mistaking her delight.

“I had no idea of Anne’s
talent,” St. Clair said, joining Westcott in his corner whilst the other guests
ranged around Anne and began to sing as she played a popular ballad.

“I am ashamed to say I was
unaware of the extent of her ability. Our harpsichord is beyond hope,” Westcott
added at St. Clair’s look of inquiry, “so I’ve been told.” Remembering Anne’s
near vehemence at the neglect, Westcott smiled wryly. “Being the owner of a lute
has compensated for my negligence somewhat. I may venture into the attics to
see what other ratty old musical instruments might be hidden away.”

“And bring them, out-one-by
one, whenever Anne is annoyed with you? Not a bad idea, Nick, although you may
need a deal of them at the rate you are going.” St. Clair’s smile faded and he
indicated with a jerk of his head for Westcott to follow him into the drawing
room, where the servants were busy setting out a late supper. “What ails you,
Nick? You have a chance for some happiness with her and instead are doing
everything possible to avoid it. And hurting Anne in the process.”

Seeing the concern under the
anger, Westcott swallowed his ire, and the undeserved set-down on the tip of
his tongue.

“Anne knew how I wanted it
from the start,” Westcott said sharply, “and it isn’t my fault if she has
illusions about changing things. I can’t give her what she wants, Dev.” His
voice was bleak. “There is nothing left of me, and if I were to be betrayed
again I don’t think I could survive it.”

St. Clair’s face was stone
now, his thoughts hidden, but his words, as hard as his face, left no doubt of
his feelings. “There is nothing on God’s earth that would persuade Anne into
adultery or addiction, and you know it. A piss-poor excuse, Nick. You think you
are the only one to risk heartbreak? We all do it, every man of us, because to
do otherwise is to do without love. Is that how you want to live the rest of
your life?”

Juliette came up and laid a
hand on St. Clair’s arm. “You gentlemen are being much too serious,” she said
lightly, but worry darkened her eyes as she looked from one man to the other.

St. Clair patted her hand
and if his smile was forced, only Juliette and Westcott noticed. “It’s the
singing,” St. Clair said in a droll voice. “I had to keep Nick away lest he got
everyone off-key.”

Westcott pasted on a similar
expression. “That would be the least of it, as I can’t sing a note—although I
do an excellent imitation of crow.” The comment made her laugh, as he meant it
to, and the tension eased.

“Do you? Someday you must
tell me how that came about.”

“How what came about?” Anne
said as she joined them.

“Westcott can imitate
crows,” Juliette said brightly.

Anne looked at him, leaned
her head to one side, and said, “Do you find it a useful talent?” in a voice so
even, it took them a moment to catch her gentle jape.

St. Clair roared with
laughter and Westcott grinned. “At times, Madame, at times.”

Turning pink at their
reaction, Anne smiled; her second ‘for him only’ smile of the evening.
Bloody,
bloody hell.

~* * *~

Anne sent Clara to bed with
instructions to sleep in if she wished. It was very late, and Anne had been
unable to deter the maid from waiting up, so set was she on impressing Lynton
Hall’s servants, although the girl had to be exhausted. She, however, was too
keyed up to even lie down, let alone sleep. She had made up her mind to go to
Nicholas tonight, but now that the hour had come….

What if he rejected her?
Unsettled, Anne roamed the bedchamber.
How could it make things worse? He
brushes you off a dozen times a week. But this is different. Is it? Because
it’s more intimate? He doesn’t find you repugnant or he wouldn’t have come to
your bed at all. 
She stopped to study her reflection, surprised but not
displeased by her over-bright eyes and flushed complexion. Her hair was loose,
cascading over her shoulders, and was sure to be a tangled mess in the morning
if she left it thus.
This is about as seductive as you are going to get,
Anne. Go before you lose your nerve.

She blew out the candles and
clasped her hands together behind her they until they ceased trembling and her
eyes adjusted to the darkened room. A full moon, a traveler’s moon some called
it, cast enough light to see the door connecting her bedchamber to Westcott’s.
Although some guests had returned home, Anne was glad they had chosen to stay
overnight. Somehow it made it easier to approach Nicholas in someone else’s
house.
Oh, is that what you are doing? Approaching him?
The ridiculous
choice of words made her smile. She was
seducing
him.

Anne opened the door just
wide enough to slip through and halted. This room was darker, the drapes not
opened as wide as hers, but she had looked in the chamber earlier and knew
where the bed was located. Uncertain, her heart thudding almost painfully hard
in her breast, Anne crossed the room.

A shaft of light from the
window lay over the bed. He was asleep, one arm thrown above his head, as
relaxed as she had ever seen him. Would it be better or worse if he was awake
or asleep? Deciding instantly that asleep was better, she slipped the
nightdress from her shoulders. Clad only in her chemise, she pushed the
slippers from her feet and studied his face. All hard planes and angles in the
shadowed light, his firm jaw and well-defined eyebrows came together to form a
remarkable countenance. Not handsome, but something more—strong and solid,
dependable. And caring, however much he fought to keep it locked deep inside.

With sudden confidence, Anne
lifted the covers, eased in beside him, and placed her hand on his shoulder. He
was warm, and she felt a chill she hadn’t noticed seep away. Gently, slowly,
her hand moved to the open neck of his nightshirt. The hair on his chest
fascinated her. Springy, and long enough to curl around her fingers, she played
with it, enthralled with the way it clung to her.

Even half lost in a sensual
daze, she knew the moment he woke. She felt him tense, and her hand stilled,
her body stiff and braced for rejection. The silence lengthened until she felt
tears gathering in her eyes.

“Anne.”

The single word hung in the
night. Just her name, assured, no anger in it. Suddenly nerveless she melted
against him. His arm came around her and his hand touched her hair.

“I can’t give you what you
want.”

Her heart aching at the
bleak note in his voice, Anne traced the line of his jaw with her fingers. “You
can give me this,” she said softly and touched her mouth to his lips—warm and
firm, moving under hers, stealing her breath. Anne raised her head, gasping
when he rolled over, pinning her beneath him.

“I could.” He smoothed his
thumb over her mouth, his gaze intent, and she met his eyes with a calmness she
did not feel, the pulse in her throat racing.

“Anne, are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

He sat up long enough to
pull the nightshirt over his head, and Anne opened her arms in invitation,
reveling in the feel of his silky hair, the smooth texture of his back. She
wanted him, on any terms. She would
make
it enough, if need be. Now, now
she needed his hands on her, needed to touch him in return.

He kissed her, hard,
demanding a response. His tongue was lapping at her mouth, sliding inside,
tasting her, until she clung to him, beyond thought—only this man in her arms
existing.

“Nicholas, Nicholas.” His
hand covered her breast, thumb circling the swelling nub, and she stilled,
absorbing the sensation as liquid heat gathered inside her, and she couldn’t
breathe, waiting for the ribbons of her chemise to part, for his hand to slide
under the fabric.

Oh, dear heaven.
He
cupped her breast, capturing her sudden cry with his mouth, and her hands
roamed restlessly over his back and shoulders.

“You fit my hands so
perfectly,” he said. “Let me look at you.” He lifted her and pulled the chemise
over her head. “Much better.”

Anne shivered under his hot
gaze, willing him to touch her. An inarticulate cry escaped her, and his smile
was fit for the devil himself.

“Come here,” he said, laying
her over his legs, his arm under her neck, and laved her nipples, his breath
hot on her wet skin, until she felt she would perish. She strained toward him,
back bowed, and he laughed softly and lowered his mouth.

“Nicholas!” A wild surge of
pleasure flowed through her as he tasted each breast, his hand tracing paths of
fire over her stomach and hips, moving ever lower until those clever fingers
parted the soft hair to stroke her.

“You are so wet.”

He sounded pleased, and Anne
felt the heavy beats of his heart quicken but any curiosity was swept away by
the feel of his fingers inside her.
Sweet heaven.
Then she was on her
back, his manhood a thick force as he pushed into her and drew back, repeating
the motion until she wrapped her legs around his hips and met him thrust for
thrust. Nothing but this man and the fire in her blood mattered, now, at this
moment, joy sweeping away all else. Through her own euphoria she heard his
shout as he spilled into her, felt his weight settle over her, and his
sweat-slicked back quivering under her caresses.

“I am too heavy for you.”

“No.”

He rolled aside in spite of
her protest, far enough that no part of him touched her, and the chill of the
night air on her bare skin seeped into her heart.
You never expected this to
change everything. Be grateful he wanted you at all, and he did want you. Just
because it was the most marvelous experience in your life doesn’t mean it was
the same for him. Let it go, Anne.

Anne found the edge of the
sheet, and holding it against her like a shield, sat up and looked around for
her chemise, although she couldn’t imagine putting it on in front of Nicholas.

“It is almost dawn,” Anne
said finally, when it seemed he would not speak. She put her legs over the side
and slid from the bed, picked up her nightdress and managed, in spite of leaden
limbs, to get it on more or less correctly.

“Where are you going?” Cool
that tone, with no trace of emotion.

“
To
my bed
.
”
Did he care
?
Does he
w
ant you to stay? Fall
asleep in his arms?
Something
she
wanted—longed to do—but
he
had
to ask. She waited a heartbeat or two, standing rigid by the bed, before she
was able to walk away.

“Good night, Anne.”

She felt his gaze on her,
boring into her back through the dark, but stared straight ahead. If he
preferred it this way, so be it. She paused in the doorway, feeling perverse
enough to want the last word. “Good night, Nicholas. Oh and just so we are
clear…you have no idea what I want.”

~* * *~

The door closed behind her
with a quiet click.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Westcott
threw aside the quilts and got out of bed with a weary curse. He knew damn well
what she wanted. What
all
women wanted. Some impossibly perfect man to
declare his undying love and promise happily-ever-after like some fanciful
gothic novel. Furious at succumbing to his baser instincts, at Anne for putting
temptation in his way—at the whole
bloody
situation—Westcott found some
breeches, a shirt and jacket, and shoved his feet in his boots with a
satisfactory stomp. He had to get
out
. He was in no mood to idle away
the morning making small talk with a bunch of people who had nothing better to
do.

Early enough that few
servants were to be seen, Westcott let himself out. St. Clair would not object
to his borrowing a horse. Anne and the servants had the carriage to transport
them back to Westhorp.

“Send word up to the house
that I’ve gone home. One of my men will bring the horse back,” Westcott told
the groom as he swung into the saddle of a rangy gelding. Curbing the urge to
race over the fields, Westcott kept the horse to a steady pace and stayed on
the road. He wasn’t fool enough to gallop an unfamiliar horse in a misty
morning dawn. He’d have his own mount under him first.

Few stirred at Westhorp at
this hour, but the grooms were up, starting the day’s business, and he turned
the gelding over to one of them and gave orders to saddle Maximus. “Bring him
up to the house in fifteen minutes.” It was long enough to change his clothes
and pilfer some bread and cheese from the kitchen. Harman was at Lynton Hall,
but he was damned well capable of dressing himself.

Bill Fenton brought Max up,
and if he had intended to voice the disapproval Westcott saw on his face,
thought better of it. Both men knew riding out alone might give this mysterious
assailant another opportunity, but this was an impulse and chance was against
it.

“I will be back in a few
hours.” Ignoring the twinge of guilt at his brusque behavior, Westcott rode
off, faster than was wise, but he
needed
it, and Max knew the road well
and enjoyed a good run now and then.