Jo Beverley (33 page)

He leaned against her back, wrapping his eiderdown around them both, like fluffy angel wings. “Do you still feel like that?”

Mouth dry, she whispered, “I should. She's just an old woman. A cold one, but not worthy of hate.”

He rested his head against hers. Just rested it there. “I can't talk about it now, Meg, but I can't change either. Ever. It is your decision.”

Meg tested that moral outrage. It had gone, perhaps because of her encounter with the duchess, who was certainly not a kind woman. Perhaps simply through cold, fear, and need. “It doesn't matter,” she said.

He kissed her neck, startlingly warm against the chill there. “Oh, it matters, lovely one, but not in this.” He
pushed open the room and steered her in. “Your room?”

She nodded, seeing it with his eyes. The plain iron bed had only a white sheet over it since they'd taken the blanket and eiderdown. No carpet here. Just homemade knotted rugs. The wall mirror was marred by fly-specks.

“It's not very grand,” she said.

He turned to her, eyes sparkling in that way they had. “It's a rake's fantasy! To seduce a blushing maiden in her virginal bower.”

Meg felt as if the gates of hell were opening before her. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“What?”

“That it will feel sinful. In fact, it does. Anyway”—she found the strength to step away from him—“we need to talk about what to do.”

“Of course.” He didn't look at all daunted. He looked like a predatory rake on close trail of his quarry. “It has to be in bed, however, if we're to keep warm enough to think.”

She knew that almost certainly spelled defeat, and yet anything else would be idiocy. And desire was seething in her, fighting all the time with her well-honed conscience, and her floundering common sense.

You're married,
said desire.

Wait, wait,
cried conscience.

This isn't wise!
warned common sense.

She looked between her bed and her probable ravisher, dizzied by a sensation frightening close to the panicky weakness that came from the
sheelagh.

Magic.

Pagan magic.

Oh yes.

Pagan fire.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he queried. When she didn't explain the unexplainable, he said, “May I ask you to play servant? I have no idea how to get out of my boots without help.”

Everything fell back to earth. Desire didn't flee, but it was normal now. And he was just a man. A special man, but a man. A nobleman. A pampered,
self-indulgent nobleman who couldn't get out of his own boots. She was suddenly very, very fond of him.

“You, my lord earl, are as helpless as a babe without your devoted minions.” She put her hand on his chest and pushed. Obligingly, he fell into the chair behind him.

“I admit it. Except in one thing. There's one thing I always do for myself.”

Glossily confident. She remembered when that had seemed a fault. “We are getting into bed to keep
warm.
Once there, we are going to talk about my perilous situation.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

With a shake of her head, she shed her covers, raised his foot, and struggled with his boot. There was almost no ease around the ankle, and she could hardly move them. “Fashionable folly!” she gasped after a while. “You'll have to keep them on.”

“And you're only a countess, not a duchess.”

“What?” She knew it was something risqué, though. A wicked corner to his mouth told her so.

“I'll explain later, when you're not so innocent.”

Her face heated, but she met his eyes as she gathered her covers around herself again. “Talk, remember.”

It was a contest this, a hunt. She would put up a good fight, even if she expected to lose in the end. “How can you even think of such things when my neck might be in danger!”

“Imminent death tends to focus the mind on life's essentials.”

“Like food. My stomach's growling.”

“I'm hungry, too.”

Sax watched to see what she'd do with that hot chestnut, but the wise woman knew when to ignore temptation. He hoped she wasn't too good at it.

He stuck his foot out again, eyeing his intractable boot. “I assume you've never shared a bed with a man in boots.”

“I've never—”

“Quite. No offense intended. Nor have I, of course, but I imagine it will be dashed uncomfortable. I gather I'm a restless sleeper.”

“Then you'll have to sleep in another bed.” A gleam
in her eye showed that she recognized a powerful move in their game.

“We won't be able to share our warmth that way,” he countered, standing up. “We'll just have to hope you have tough shins, duchess.”

She put a hand on his chest to stop him. Did she recognize how easy she was about touching him? What it meant? “Explain this matter of duchesses to me.”

“Later.”

At that innocent word, her color rose.

Loving the feel of her hand, even through the eiderdown, he said, “I'll give you a hint. Duchess of Marlborough.”

She pondered it. “Blenheim and such?”

“Right. The famous duke, rushing home victorious from battle. I'll take you to Blenheim one day, and perhaps I'll duchess you there. If we ever progress beyond innocent.”

With a glare—but a laughing one—she shoved him back into his chair so hard that it teetered backward.

“How does your valet get your boots off?”

“He doesn't. I have a boot boy specifically for that task.”

“
That's
a full-time job?”

“I change them three or four times a day,” he said meekly. “And he cleans them.”

With a roll of the eyes, she asked, “So, how does he get them off?”

“He straddles my leg with his back to me. It seems to give a better angle.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but then shed her covers and swung her leg over his ankle. Raising his foot, she took a strong grip on the heel of his right boot. Her skirts were raised a bit, giving a glimpse of trim ankles and shapely calves. Her right stocking had a very neat darn above the heel.

Darns could be astonishingly erotic.

Her bottom seemed presented to him, emphasized by the fact that she was bent forward a little. Smiling, he raised his booted left foot and placed it there.

She dropped his foot and straightened, twisting to glare at him.

“I'm just bracing you. I always do that with Crab.”

“I warn you, Saxonhurst”—she actually waggled her finger at him like a stern governess—“when we get home, I'm going to interrogate your boot boy, and if his tale doesn't accord with yours, there will be dire consequences.”

“My dear countess, you make me regret that I'm telling the honest truth.”

“Oh, you're impossible!”

“Impossible to resist?”

“No.” She turned back, seized his ankle and began to force his boot off. When he returned his foot to her back, she only twitched.

Would she successfully resist? Devil take it, he hoped not. He was already hard and being delightfully stimulated by the sight of her bottom wriggling as she worked. Even the movements felt by his left foot as she pushed back against it seemed to travel up his leg like flames.

And to think he went through this sometimes four or five times a day, and found it only a bore. Crab, however, was a sinewy man in his forties, not a luscious lady who happened to be his virgin wife.

With a huff, she hauled off his boot and tossed it to the floor. Blowing a stray tendril of hair off her rosy face, she moved to straddle his left leg.

“You look wonderfully warm,” he remarked, putting his liberated stockinged foot on her back.

“Then if you're cold, you can do some energetic work.”

“But my dear, that's exactly what I have in mind.”

He knew she was rolling her eyes as she ferociously attacked his other boot.

For his part, he was almost purring at the more subtle feel of her through only wool and her layers of clothing. He curled his toes against the base of her spine and flexed his heel into the cleft that led down between her legs.

She wriggled in a way that had nothing to do with pulling off his boot. When she pulled up on his heel even more strongly, he let his leg rise between hers.

She stiffened and went still.

“Go on,” he said softly. It was a risky move with a
virgin, but he didn't think his countess was any ordinary sort of virgin.

Proving him right, she tugged on his heel as strongly as before, as if each tug didn't jerk his leg against her. When it was off, however, she would have moved away if he hadn't seized her waist and drawn her back onto his knees.

“We should get into bed,” she said breathlessly. Her cheeks were rosy red, with exertion he was sure, but with other things, too.

“Oh quite,” he murmured by her ear, “but you still have your shoes on. Hold the eiderdown.”

When she was clutching the cover down around them both, he raised her left leg in such a way that her skirts fell back, exposing the whole of her white stocking up to a racy garter worked in red and black. He wondered if she would resist that being seen, that small symbol of her inner wickedness, but she stayed passive in his hands.

Testing her, seeing what she would permit and when she would rebel, was the best amorous fun he could remember. Because she would rebel if she wanted to. He knew that. He loved that. He adored his unpredictable, strong-minded bride.

He untied her half boot, noting that the lace was frayed and that the boots were almost worn through.

“I'll have to give Susie a bonus.”

She didn't move. “Why?”

“Because everything about my wife delights me.”

She turned her head then. “Everything? I've turned your life into mayhem.”

“At this moment, I am as happy as I can ever remember being.”

She blushed. “I, on the other hand, am cold.”

He tugged off her flimsy boot, and rubbed her toes. “You're icy!”

“I try not to lie.”

That came close to significant issues, but he had no intention of getting into those until he'd dealt with other, more important matters. He let her leg lower, sliding it through his hands. It was tempting to run his hands on
up to her bare thigh, up to where they desperately wanted to be, but she
was
cold, and he wasn't a fool.

He raised her other leg and completed the process quickly, then stood, setting her on her feet. “Do you want to take off any other clothes?”

She flashed him a surprised glance—had she really thought he'd try to strip her?—then shed his groom's heavy jacket. “If I take off any more, it'll be under the covers.” She flung her blanket and eiderdown over the bed, then scrambled into it.

He thought for a moment of taking off his breeches, but then threw conventionality to the wind and rushed to join her, only stopping to spread his covers over, and roughly tuck them in.

The bed was cold.

“Who the devil did I think had run a bedwarmer through it?”

She chuckled, scuttling closer. “Fairies, perhaps? It will warm quickly with our own heat.”

He pulled her into his arms, as much to share warmth as from any other motive. After a tense moment, she settled there, head on his chest, arm around him. He was struck almost to tears by the perfection of the simple moment, here in a lumpy bed, fully dressed, and still chilly.

What on earth was happening to him?

“We've forgotten to extinguish the candle,” she said.

“Toss you for who gets out to deal with it.”

“No money, remember.”

“Perdition.” But it was all in teasing. “The candle's in a solid holder. It should be safe. And I like the light. I like to be able to see you.”

“If it wasn't for needing to breathe, there'd be none of me to see.” True. Only the top of her head stuck out. “That stub won't last for long, anyway.”

He had a taste for making love in the light, but he wouldn't rush for that reason. Meg would be just as sweet in the dark.

“Warmer?” he asked.

“A bit. My feet are still cold.”

He shifted slightly. “Put them between my thighs.”

“What?”

“It'll be nice and warm there.” It certainly felt it.

After a moment, she wriggled away slightly and brought her knees up. Then he felt her even through his
breeches. “Christ!” But he trapped her there with hand and thighs. “I hope ice can't do me permanent damage.”

She giggled, but still tried to escape.

“Stay. It's all right.” He rubbed her calves. When she seemed warmer, he circled an ankle and guided a foot out and along the swell of his erection. “Cold is supposed to soften a man's ardor. I now have scientific proof that cold feet do not have the same effect.”

Curious as to when, if, she would balk, he undid his buttons and slid her chilly toes inside. Through just the cotton of his drawers, he teased himself with her.

She had her head tucked down and he couldn't see her expression at all.

“Warmer?” he asked again.

“Yes, thank you.”

It was so demure, he wanted to eat her.

After a while, he worked her toes through the split in his drawers so she came at last against his flesh. Still slightly chilly. Fascinating.

Her breathing had changed. He registered that, and the fact that she still wasn't resisting.

He was.

He couldn't quite understand what was happening here, and he loved that. His life had become far too predictable. Now, he was hard and ready for a woman, but he wasn't quite ready yet for Meg. For his first time with Meg.

He realized with astonishment, and with a hint of disquiet, that he had never in his life lain with a woman whom he really cared about. Oh, he cared about his bedpartners in a general way. It seemed only courteous. He tried to make sure that they found in the encounter whatever they sought there.

He had never before felt this almost frightening need to have it be right, be perfect, for an unpredictable, vulnerable, inexperienced lover.

He slid her away from his skin, rubbing her toes. “Better?”

As if she knew how he was reacting, she straightened her legs and settled back against him.

“The bed is warmer, isn't it?” he said. Parts of him felt almost feverish.

“Yes. For the last little while, Rachel had been sleeping in here with Laura and me. For the warmth. And Richard in with Jeremy. I do want to thank you for rescuing us. I think you can see that we were in a bad way.”

He rubbed gently at her back. “I feel blessed to have been given the chance. Is that why you seem so relaxed to be here with me, because you're used to sleeping with your sisters?”

She tilted her head up at last, looking at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps it's just that I'm comfortable with you.”

“Even though I'm going to try to seduce you?”

She didn't balk. “Yes. Because you won't do anything I don't want.”

He kissed her for her honesty. And for her trust. He still wasn't ready for the momentous step, but he desperately wanted to kiss her. How rare it was, he realized almost with a groan, for him to kiss a woman simply because he wanted to honor and enjoy her.

He wanted to kiss Meg for a long, long time.

She moved into him, in subtle ways growing closer, and then her hand touched his nape, his hair, and he decided this lumpy bed in this frigid house was heaven.

In time, however, his restless hand on her body found a hard edge and he drew back. “I forgot your corset. You can't be comfortable like that.”

Her look showed that she thought it was a hunter's move, but she said, “I'd rather be out of it, but not at the cost of leaving this warm spot.”

“Let's see what we can do under the covers.”

He turned her, and she moved as he directed, trustingly. By feel, he undid the buttons down the back of her gown, finding her stay laces beneath. The knot alone would make her uncomfortable. “Do they hook at the front, or is there just the laces?”

“Just the laces, I'm afraid.”

He worked the double bow loose, astonished at how patient he felt, how content with the leisurely pace of this. Despite an almost painfully urgent lust, he was enjoying loosening his wife's stays, brushing against her relaxed body, and breathing her warm, simple smell.

He was quite familiar with the way a man's mind
could split itself between his cock and the rest of the universe, but he'd never before had the balance tilt so sharply the other way. For the moment at least, the sweet presence of Meg in the bed, the way her unkempt hair was escaping to straggle down her back, the feel of her spine behind the awkward laces, was enough to sate her appetite.

“Do you want to take your dress off?” he asked.

“No.”

No explanation, but he understood. It was part warmth, part armor. Perhaps it was even her hidden underwear. He remembered wanting to strip her slowly in the light of many candles, and to find every one of her secrets. He still did, but all the competitive edge had melted out of it.

So he undid the knot, and worked the laces very loose so that the bones would not dig at her. Her simple gown had a drawstring at the high waist, so he loosened that, too.

Then he couldn't resist sliding his hand under the stiff corset and forward over the cotton of her shift to cup a breast.

The soft weight and heat of a woman's breast. One of the most perfect objects in the world. He rested his head in the curve of her neck, in warm skin and ticklish hair, and surrendered to the wonder of his wife's left breast.

Eventually, she turned. Turned within his arms to look up at him. He wondered just what she saw. He didn't care.

“We have to talk,” she said. “But not yet.”

 

Then Meg almost wished her words unsaid. He looked so raw. No, that wasn't the right word. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

Wondrous.

More dangerous by far than the glossy, skillful hunter.

“I'm certainly incapable of being coherent,” he said. “Is it warm enough . . . ? No.”

“No what?”

“You don't want to take your gown off.”

And she didn't. She wasn't sure why, because the bed
was warming, and she'd be more comfortable. And she was under the covers. But she didn't.

“Will that make it difficult?”

“No, duchess.”

He wasn't that much changed, and getting glossier by the moment. “Tell me about the Duchess of Marlborough.”

“Later. I want my breeches off, though. Take them off for me?”

She could see that he expected her to refuse. Perhaps that was why she didn't. Surprised at how little embarrassment she felt, Meg worked her hands down his firm body until she found his buttons. They were undone, which reminded her of what he'd done before, and a touch of embarrassment did flare in her, along with a great deal of another kind of heat. Her hand brushed his manly parts. How extraordinarily hard he was.

She felt her own body twitch in recognition.

Clearly, bodies had their own knowledge, and, of course he'd taught her body some of what to expect.

She swallowed a temptation to beg him to be quicker about this, to take her sooner to that magical place.

Instead, head lowered so he couldn't see her expression, she unfastened the waistband and began to work his breeches down over his hips. He raised himself, but otherwise did nothing to help. Eventually, she couldn't reach any farther.

In a spirit of mischief, she plunged under the covers to wriggle them all the way down and off his feet. She'd played undercover games as a child, deep down under the covers in the mysterious world of bed. Though she was much bigger now and thus the bed seemed smaller, she felt the same kind of mystery. The same sense of being in another, dark and mysterious world.

The dark, mysterious world of Sax and sex and marriage.

She worked back up his muscular legs, beginning to gasp for lack of air, and unfastened his drawers.

His male part sprang free, brushing against her cheek.

She shot out from under the covers and sucked in fresh, icy air.

His eyes were bright with amusement and a hundred
other things. “Fun down there, is it?” he said, and dove under the covers.

Meg lay there, head in ice, body in fire, as he found her ankles then worked up—under her skirts!—to untie her garters.

Far too late she remembered that her garters were vividly embroidered. Then she couldn't think why it should matter.

He was pushing her skirts up higher.

Oh dear.

She felt his hands find the frilly edge of her wicked drawers. Was that a growl she heard? Despite the icy air, her cheeks were burning. A hand worked between her thighs, and a finger, one long finger, investigated the split between the two halves of her daring underwear. It slid in, and a jolt made her actually bounce in the bed.

A chuckle. That was definitely a chuckle.

Then he was back down and stripping off her stockings.

He struggled up and out, flushed, disheveled, bearing her old white stockings and her gaudy garters like battle trophies.

Without thinking, she dove down to mirror the performance on him, untying his garters, and peeling down his stockings of fine wool. On the way back up, she hesitated. . . .

Then she found the long hard shape—so very hard, yet smooth like silk velvet, and hot. Very hot.

It was close to her face, and before she'd had time to be logical, to even think of anything as absurd as propriety, she laid it against her cheek as she wanted to, sliding her skin up and down his, smelling a musty, spicy odor that was frighteningly personal and wickedly delicious.

A touch of moisture startled her. Hands grasped beneath her arms and hauled her up into the light.

“Not that I mind,” he said unsteadily, “but I was afraid you'd suffocate.”

She kissed him then because his darkened eyes called for it, dimly wondering just where sensible, staid Meg Gillingham had vanished to.

He was touching her between her thighs again, bringing that jolt. And more.

Mouth still blended with hers, he rolled over her, pushed up her skirts, and settled between her legs.

She spread them, but when their lips parted for air, she gasped, “My drawers?”

“Are wonderful.”

And she felt him part the soft cotton and slide between. Felt him against her. That hard shape. He stroked her with himself, and she felt moisture again.

Hers.

His.

She felt more.

She closed her eyes and lingered on wondrous sensations. His silky hardness stroking places where she seemed so very sensitive, so very wanting.

She was a good girl, a good woman. Except for the necessary brief touches of cleaning, she had obeyed instructions not to touch herself. She'd felt things, but had ignored them as improper.

Where had proper Meg Gillingham gone?

With a laugh, she remembered the
sheelagh,
and how it had made her feel. Like this, in a way. Tingling everywhere. Aching and throbbing, especially down where he touched.

He kissed an eyelid and she opened her eyes, startled.

“Like it?” he asked.

“Enormously.”

Delight flashed in his eyes. “Good.”

He let himself rest there, hard against her, and used one hand to work down her loosened bodice and stays to expose her breasts to the chilly air. She didn't mind. She was overheated anyway.

Sweet memories of the time he'd put his mouth to her breasts sent a little shiver through her.