Heiress in Love (31 page)

The trust in her silvery eyes humbled him. He would make everything perfect for her or die in the attempt.

Jane put out her hand to caress his chest, running her fingertips lightly through the hair there. She flattened her palm and trailed it down the bumps of his rib cage and across his abdomen, making his stomach muscles jump. His skin burned where she touched it; he couldn’t stand too much of this.

Capturing her wrist, he pinned it lightly back against the cushions beside her and bent to kiss each breast in turn. He teased her with light sweeps of his tongue around each heavenly aureole, made her writhe as he lightly kissed the hardened tips.

He sensed the restlessness in her body, the yearning for more. While he drew out her need with gentle kisses and licks, he released her wrist and trailed his palm down her side to the crease where her hip joined her stomach.

Her belly tightened at his touch; she froze.

Constantine clamped his lips over her nipple and drew on it firmly, flicking the peak with his tongue.

Jane cried out, her back arching with tortured pleasure. He took his chance and stroked between her legs to the hot, moist flesh, never relenting in his torment of her breast.

She let him caress her freely this time, and the feel of her was miraculous. She was searing hot and abundantly wet. He longed to put his mouth on her, but Jane wasn’t ready for that yet.

He found the small knot of sensitive flesh and rubbed gently with his thumb. She gasped out a plea, lifting her hips. He obliged with a firmer touch.

Her breath came in sobs. She was close to her crisis; he sensed it waiting for her like an approaching storm. Without breaking his thumb’s circular rhythm, he eased one finger inside her. She whimpered, perhaps in alarm, but she didn’t push him away. Her internal muscles clamped down as if they resented the intrusion, but he introduced a second finger after the first and pushed them in further, seeking the perfect, blissful spot in that tight, wet sheath.

By now, his body was as primed and ready to explode as hers was. His cock throbbed painfully against the falls of his breeches. His teeth ground together with the effort of holding back his own climax.

Jane’s whimpering cries escalated and he knew it was time. He pressed with his fingers and stroked with his thumb and sucked at her breast, and she came in great pulsing waves that convulsed her body and made her shriek out his name.

With one last, voluptuous lick of her distended nipple, Constantine lifted his head to watch Jane ride the crest of her pleasure, sightless and scarlet-cheeked and gasping for air. He reveled in her sensual abandon, scarcely believing he’d once dubbed her the Ice Maiden. Tonight, she was pure fire.

Before she could regain her senses, he pulled his member free of his breeches and settled between her legs. He reached down to moisten the head of his penis in her juices, deliberately rubbing against her sensitive bud, making her body quiver again and again.

Hot pleasure surged through him in a dizzying rush. Gasping with the effort of holding his climax at bay, he pushed into her entrance the smallest way.

At once, her body stilled; he thought her breathing suspended. She wasn’t nearly as abandoned to passion as he’d wanted her to be.

His jaw ached from clenching it; his entire body was strung tight with need. Instinct urged him to thrust into her, hard and fast, but that was the opposite of what he must do.

“All right?” he gritted out. Oh, hell, he hoped so.

“Yes.” The word was what he wanted to hear, but it came out as a fearful squeak.

Jane didn’t push him away. She didn’t clamp her legs together as she had last night, but she didn’t crave him inside her, either. She
braced
herself for him.

Constantine hesitated, poised above her, his muscles straining, his cock pounding, begging for release. He wasn’t fully master of himself, he admitted that. If he wrecked this for her, he wouldn’t get a second chance. Jane trusted him, but oh,
Christ,
he didn’t trust himself to be as gentle and patient as he needed to be.

He tried to tell himself that this was just another woman, that he could last all night with others, that he’d never, ever lost command over his body. Not since he was a randy youth.

It didn’t work. He made the decision and rolled away from her, wrapping his hand around his turgid cock. After a couple of quick pulls, he came hard, his seed spurting in hot jets over the cushions.

He was aching and far from sated and utterly, comprehensively furious with himself. What a hellish, unmitigated disaster.

After a few moments of fulminating silence, he made himself turn back to face Jane. He must try to salvage something from the wreck he’d made of this night.

He drew her into his arms, and when he kissed her cheek, he tasted tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for a brute and a fool.

“Jane, Jane, I’m sorry—” But she pressed her fingertips to his lips, halting his apology.

“No, no,” she said. “I want to thank you.” Raising herself on her elbow, she smiled down at him.

“What?” Why the devil would she
thank
him? He’d failed her. Constantine searched her face but found no hint of irony in her expression.

“You might not think it, but you have given me a great gift tonight.”

She must have read bafflement in his eyes, for she smiled again. Leaning over, she brushed her lips against his in a soft, tender kiss. “Constantine, don’t you see? You have given me hope.”

*   *   *

In the end, Montford elected to accompany deVere to the Cotswolds. He’d been toying with the idea, but the letter from Jane requesting his presence decided the matter. Better to be on hand to direct matters—subtly, of course—than to be obliged to mediate a raging battle of wills later.

Lady Arden was not the type of woman to cower at a display of deVere’s temper. The Blacks and the deVeres could never deal well together; his lordship was spoiling for a fight, and Lady Arden would be all too willing to give him one.

Montford certainly hadn’t undertaken the journey out of a desire to rush to Lady Arden’s rescue.

Nor was it to ensure deVere did not take advantage of the lady in an amorous sense. No, Lady Arden could take care of herself. It was one of the things he admired in her the most.

He’d elected to ride, because hours on end shut up with deVere in a carriage was more than he could stomach. Besides, the baron was a little like a child: exercise him well, and you took the edge off his tantrums.

Instead of going directly to Lazenby Hall, Montford decided to put up at deVere’s nephew’s house. He could keep an eye on things well enough from there.

Montford had some acquaintance with the nephew, Adam Trent. He was a presentable young fellow, and from all appearances, as good a candidate as any for Lady Roxdale’s hand. Trent had the added advantage that Jane knew and liked the man. Then, too, if she lived at Trent Manor, she’d see young Lucas Black as often as she wished.

An alliance to further strengthen the ties between the deVeres and the Westruthers was also an excellent piece of strategy. Particularly if Rosamund balked at the final hurdle and refused to marry Griffin deVere, Earl of Tregarth.

Montford and Lord deVere had put off their traveling clothes and adjourned, at Trent’s suggestion, to the billiards room, a well-appointed apartment on the ground floor.

Montford surveyed his host as Trent racked up the billiard balls on the table. One point further in Trent’s favor—no one had heard anything ill of the man’s morals. His honor, unlike Constantine Black’s, was entirely intact. He was also a most talented swordsman, as Montford had discovered on previous visits to Lazenby.

A vast pity the gentleman was such an ass.

“Your Grace, you do me great, great honor by visiting me here. I trust you will let me know if there’s any way I might serve you.”

Make that a sycophantic ass.

“Not at all,” the duke replied. “I trust my intrusion won’t cause you any undue inconvenience.”

He interrupted Trent’s assurance that he was delighted, honored, more than happy … “To be sure.” Montford smiled. “The sooner we get the matter of Lady Roxdale’s marriage settled, the sooner I may be on my way.”

With a grunt, deVere made his shot, scattering balls over the baize-covered slate. “Ha!” He prowled around the table, and sank two more balls before he missed one and gave up his place.

Montford took his cue and leaned over the table, lining up his shot. He paused. “DeVere tells me you have an interest in the lady, Trent.”

Trent looked from deVere to Montford and back again. “Well, I…”

“Aye, he has an interest,” growled deVere. “I’ll not let That Woman get the drop on me again.”

Montford potted his ball with an elegant carom off the side of the table, then looked up. “And what does Mr. Trent say to that?”

Trent reddened. “As to that, Your Grace, my interest was fixed well before my lord deVere had anything to say in the matter.”

“Ah, so yours is a long-standing regard?”

Trent turned white, clearly realizing the trap into which he’d fallen. “No!” He licked his lips. “Well, of course, Frederick was my greatest friend. I wouldn’t have dreamed … I mean, I’ve always held Lady Roxdale in high esteem. Of course!”

“Oh, of course.” Montford raised his brows. “You have no need to explain yourself. I understand you quite well, you know.”

DeVere was impatient. “What the hell does it matter, all this talk of regard? Trent will marry her because he’s my candidate and because I say so, and there’s an end to it!”

A frown creased Trent’s noble brow.

Montford said gently, “You don’t think it will be that simple, do you, deVere?”

DeVere stabbed a finger in Montford’s direction. “It
will
be that simple because
you
will make it so! And you!” He turned on his hapless nephew. “What have you been doing to fix your interest with her, hmm? Bit of slap and tickle never goes astray in a case like this.”

In freezing accents, Montford said, “Might I remind you, you are speaking of a lady?”

“I haven’t even seen her, much less touched her,” muttered Trent. Explosively, he said, “That blackguard Roxdale has her bewitched! I tried to tell her what he was like but she wouldn’t listen. She won’t even see me.”

Startled, Montford repeated, “Bewitched?”
Jane?

DeVere grounded the end of his cue stick and regarded his nephew in disgust. “Turned tattletale, did you, you spineless whelp! I’m not surprised she has nothing to say to you.

“Women,” deVere growled, “like a man who shows her he’ll brook none of her nonsense. A man who takes just a bit more than she’s willing to give.”

Trent looked uncertain, then glanced at Montford, but the duke merely shrugged. Let Trent dig his own grave, and deVere hand him the shovel. He didn’t believe ham-handed tactics would work with Lady Roxdale, but it was early days. Perhaps Jane needed to be shaken out of her cool complacency.

Somehow, he doubted that Trent was the man to do it.

However, they would see.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lady Arden fingered the curtain of Jane’s sitting room aside. “I hear Montford has arrived at Trent Manor,” she said. The words were idle, uncaring, but tension showed in the lady’s slim shoulders.

Jane stared at her, disconcerted. The duke? Why hadn’t he written to warn her? When she and Constantine had become engaged, she’d written and asked him to come so that she could break the news of her betrothal in person, yet she felt totally unprepared to deal with him now.

Lady Arden turned. “My dear, is something the matter? I trust you’re not fretting over whether Montford will approve the match. I daresay he might not have chosen Constantine for you, but he will soon be obliged to admit himself in the wrong. From what I’ve seen, Constantine is taking his new duties very seriously. He told me he will take his seat in Parliament when all is settled here.”

“Parliament,” murmured Jane. That meant London. A wave of apprehension swept over her.

“Ah. Here they are.” Unhurriedly, Lady Arden moved away from the window. “The drawing room, I think. Come along, my dear.”

What Jane really wanted to do was hide under the covers in her bedchamber like a child and wait for the storm to pass.

She wished Constantine were here. Or no, perhaps she didn’t wish it. He and Montford were sure to lock horns over her.

In the drawing room, she and Lady Arden sat pretending to embroider while they waited for the gentlemen to be announced.

“My dear, it will be best if you allow me to raise the subject of your betrothal,” said Lady Arden, setting her work aside. “There will be a to-do, I don’t deny it; certainly now that Lord deVere has seen fit to meddle, there is likely to be a little heat in our exchange.” The lady’s eyes kindled. “But you must not concern yourself.
I
shall prevail.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” A craven impulse made her blurt out, “Perhaps it might be best to say nothing about the betrothal at this juncture.”