Jo Beverley (17 page)

He smiled, apparently unshocked and unoffended. “I thought so.”

Oh dear. “I am normally very honest, Saxonhurst. I assure you.”

“I believe you.”

Meg had to turn to stare through the small-paned window at the bustling street before she could go on. “Tonight,” she whispered, even more quietly.

“Yes?” He leaned his head close to hers, as if he were having trouble hearing her.

She cleared her throat. “Tonight. It will be all right.” She flicked one glance at him, then stared away again. “Tonight.”

She felt him take her hand, and as he raised it to his lips, she met his eyes.

“My dear Lady Saxonhurst,” he said, “tonight it will assuredly be all right. I pledge my life on it.”

“What do you think—?”

Meg snatched her hand free and turned to Laura, just as Laura broke off her own words. Both she and the milliner were looking at them with bright-eyed interest.

Had they been overheard? Meg felt her face flame at that.

No. But probably the tone of their conversation had been noisily obvious.

Sax, unconcerned, strolled over to her sister and adjusted a saucy toque that seemed entirely composed of ribbons. “Laura, my dear, there should be a law against it. I think I shall put a bill before the House that all pretty young ladies be compelled to wear veils and wimples like nuns.”

Laura gurgled with laughter. “Then veils and wimples would be all the rage, for who'd want to rank themselves with the un-pretty?”

“And poor Mrs. Ribbleside would lose most of her custom. However, since I suspect we've stripped her stock for today, let us be on our way home to prepare for the evening.”

Meg, still standing by the window, felt a jolt at those words, but a moment later she knew they were mostly innocent. He'd planned a trip to a pantomime tonight.

As they left to return to the carriage, however, she knew by a look in his eye that they hadn't been entirely innocent. He had other plans, and though deeply nervous, quiveringly so, Meg couldn't wait to end up in this particular fox's jaws.

He wooed her. Slowly, over the remainder of the day, Meg was aware of her husband leading her toward the promised night.

In the carriage, despite Laura sitting opposite, he took her hand. It was no more than that, and they both wore gloves, but throughout the short journey to the house, she was aware of his fingers wrapped around hers.

Then, for the last few minutes of the journey, his thumb slid beneath the edge of her glove to rub against the skin of her inner wrist. She had never felt anything so dangerous in her life.

At the house he, not a servant, removed her cloak and bonnet, his ungloved hands whispering briefly against her neck. As they went toward the room where tea awaited them, his hand rested lightly against her back—so lightly and yet so unignorably.

They conversed. Jeremy was home and had things to say. Laura and the twins were keen to tell their brother all about their adventures. The earl made the occasional comment. Mr. Chancellor played his part, and so did she, she thought, though her mind was completely tangled in intimate matters.

He sat beside her, not touching, but almost seeming to. She felt like a piece of metal placed beside a powerful magnet, as if she could quite easily slide right up against him, locked there.

He served her, plying her with tea and cakes. Sometimes his fingers brushed hers. Occasionally, his eyes lingered on her lips like a phantom kiss.

Sipping at tea, she realized that this was seduction! This was what happened when a man like Sax singled out a woman and began to invite her to his bed. They were married, and yet she felt perched on the edge of wickedness, secretly being invited into sin.

She had to put down her cup before her unsteady hand created a spill.

Despite the fact that the others were still chattering and nibbling, he rose, holding out a hand. “If you've finished, my dear, let us go upstairs for a while.”

No excuse. No explanation, despite the sudden hush, and the interested looks. Mr. Chancellor suddenly picked up the conversation again.

Now?

She'd thought tonight.

She wasn't
ready
yet!

But she wouldn't dodge him again.

Her legs astonishing weak, she let him guide her up the stairs to her bedroom.

No! To his. She'd thought it would happen in hers, though it shouldn't make any difference.

Again his hand on her back gently guided her to her fate.

Once in the room, she looked around nervously, desperate for something to talk about. “Oh my!” she gasped, before she could stop herself.

Who would paint a camel figurine green, and then ornament it with orange spots? Who would purchase such an object? What kind of man gave it a prominent place on his mantelpiece? What man had as a clock a gilded face stuck in the belly of a fat white figure wearing a pink and gold wrap?

And what of the oval platter beside them? She had to go closer to be sure she wasn't mistaken. Indeed, the picture in the middle showed the starving poor breathing their last by the roadside.

“You admire that plate?” he asked.

Meg looked around, trying to conceal dismay. What a contrast to the rest of his elegant house! And yet this, and his bizarre paintings in the library, must be his true taste. And his dog, of course. And his bird.

Clearly Saxonhurst, despite appearances, was not entirely sane. Yet she was tied to him for life.

And he
was
being so very kind to them all.

She looked from him to the plate. “Is it supposed to create a guilty conscience, perhaps? To deter gluttony.”

“I have no idea. Do you not care for it?”

From a range of possible answers, Meg said, “It is not to my taste, no.”

She'd caught sight of another peculiarity—a stand of some sort composed of tortured bamboo painted bright pink but topped with green leaves. Apart from its other problems, it clashed horribly with the gold-papered walls.

She shuddered, wondering if she might eventually be allowed to throw these objects out and choose more suitable ones for the poor man. If she was to engage in all her marital intimacy here, it would be essential.

With sudden alarm, she wondered just what sort of clothes she'd let him choose for her. Her memory told her they would be in good taste, but now she wondered.

She glanced at him and saw that he was watching her, perhaps amused. “You haven't admired the painting over the bed yet.”

Meg had been deliberately ignoring the bed, but now she faced it, and stared. On the back, above the headboard, set among swags of golden brocade, was a huge and extraordinary picture of naked women. Astonishingly muscular naked women.

“Amazons, of course,” he said, coming closer. “You'll note the absence of the right breast.”

“It's hard to avoid.” Meg couldn't take her eyes off the outlandish painting. It wasn't the nakedness that disturbed her most, or the breastlessness, but the fact that the women hurtled shrieking in all directions, bearing blood-drenched swords and assorted severed body parts, and that all the corpses were men.

She feared he really must be mad to sleep under a thing like that.

With a forced smile, she turned to him. “You admire military subjects, my lord?”

“I admire strong women.” He was close, and came closer. “Like you.”

He took her hands, and her heart tried to race to a stop. “I don't feel at all strong just now,” she whispered.

“Of course not. Nature doesn't work that way.” He was drawing her into his arms. A protest trembled on her lips, a protest stimulated in part by his unbalanced decor, but she suppressed it. This was her duty, the payment she must make.

And beyond duty, she
wanted
it. She wouldn't lie about that.

Mad or not, the Earl of Saxonhurst stirred her wanton senses.

Pressed lightly against his body, held gently there by his arms, she steadied herself and turned her face up for a kiss.

His skin was not so smooth this close. She supposed no skin was. His honey lashes were long, however, and his eyes were yellow as trees are green, created by a
million shades. He smelled of a faint perfume, and also of something much more earthy that she knew was him.

Doubtless, she had her own smell. She hoped it was as pleasing.

“We are still going to wait for the night, Minerva,” he said, snaring her attention for his lips. “But I cannot wait that long to kiss you again.”

This was unlike his other kisses. Meg had not known there were so many types of kisses. His lips pressed upon hers, warmly, softly, playing there a little, but meaning—she was sure of it—more.

He angled his head and teased her with his tongue. “Open to me, Minerva. Explore me. . . .”

With a little noise that startled her, Meg obeyed, driven by the fact that he had turned passive. What she wanted, she would have to take.

She touched his teeth with her tongue, almost groaning at the shocking intimacy, then felt his tongue against hers, a gentle greeting, a welcome.

He sucked at her. At her tongue. She made another noise. It might have been a protest. He ignored it, drawing her in, pulling her close so she could tumble deep into his kiss.

Then he was carrying her. To the bed!

He seemed to settle her there, to settle beside her, without any interruption. His leg came over hers, his torso pressed her down as he captured her mouth and her soul. One hand caressed her breast, his gentle touch like fire despite layers of cloth and corset.

She'd thought they were going to wait, but had no real objection to doing it now if he was being carried away by his animal nature. She'd quite like to get the first time over with so she could stop worrying about it.

In case he needed encouragement, she raised a hand to the back of his neck and became enraptured by the sweet, potent feel of hair and skin against her fingers.

His leg settled between her thighs, pressing through layers of petticoats and skirts. She couldn't help but shift against him, and he raised his head to make a murmuring, approving sound, almost like a big cat purring.

He smiled, and she smiled back.

Meg remembered once—so long ago—yesterday—
thinking she knew about this sort of thing from the
sheelagh,
and that she was immune.

She'd been wrong.

And he'd known she'd been wrong.

There was a connection, yes, but one as frail as teased silken floss, disintegrating here in her hands.

Grasping her courage, she raised her head and kissed him on the lips. He laughed with a delight that could break hearts.

“You're going to change for the theater, aren't you?”

“The theater?” She blinked at him dazedly.

“Remember. We're not going to consummate our marriage now.”

Meg just stopped herself from saying, We're not?

Wailing it.

She was going to be the perfect, conformable wife. Whatever he wanted, she would do. Even control herself. “You want me to get ready for the theater? Now? I only have one silk gown. . . .”

“Begin to get ready. As in taking off the gown you have on.” He was already shifting, rolling her away from him. Undoing the buttons down the back of her dress, slowly, one by one.

She sprawled there, knowing she could stop him and he would obey. He demanded willingness of her, a willing surrender of prey to predator. He'd already won that battle, though. She was completely, bonelessly his.

Lips. Lips against her bare back above her corset. Playing there. Tracing circles and spirals, making her arch with simple pleasure and complex delights.

Then he pushed the gown forward, baring her shoulders, and kissed her there, too, all along the broad straps of her corset. A hand slid over and down, slowly following the strap down inside the sanctity of boned linen and buckram, to touch the top of her breast.

She reached up instinctively to protect herself from that significant invasion, but for a crucial moment her hands tangled in the cloth of her gown, and then she didn't want to stop him at all. He began to play with her, hand inside her corset, big body lying all along her back, thigh between her legs, breath hot against the side of her neck where he kissed and nibbled.

Meg arched again, hands limp now, and surrendered to the strange, stirring sensations so like and yet so unlike the magic she had feared.

When he slowly slid his hand free, she moved her hands, this time to stop him from stopping. But he turned her into his arms, kissed her parted lips, her neck, and the upper edge of her tingling breasts. “Tonight . . .”

And Meg said, “Not now?”

He grinned. “Not now. But your body will remember.”

“It would be impossible to forget.”

He stroked down her body as if she were a cat, his eyes sparkling like fireworks on a frosty night. “Wonderful, isn't it?”