The Devilish Montague (33 page)

What he was doing to her certainly wasn’t in schoolbooks or she would have studied her lessons more willingly. Jocelyn fought the urge to arch closer. Her husband’s handsome—bare—chest was temptingly out of her reach, but his hips pressed hers into the downy mattress. She ached where they met. “I hate it when men know more than me,” she muttered, foolishly, since he knew so much more that it frightened her. And made her feel safe at the same time.

“I have a notion that you’ll learn this lesson so fast that I’ll come to regret it later.” Finally, he pressed his mouth to hers.

As always, she was lost once Blake began kissing her. His kisses turned her inside out and reduced her to mindless rubble. She knew she should be strong and resist, but she wasn’t strong and she didn’t want to resist. She wanted her husband with a desire so deep she couldn’t deny it.

She wanted the freedom to be herself, to claim what
she
wanted, and Blake was giving her that chance. When he finally released her wrists, she wrapped her arms around his neck, arched upward, and flung herself fully into the thrill of kissing.

He groaned and propped himself on an elbow to circle one breast with a big hand. His thumb playing against her nipples caused her to writhe against the confinement of the linen separating them. She parted her legs and curved her hips upward, desperately wanting what he’d given on their wedding day.

Blake lifted his solid weight enough to peel off the sheet and apply his kisses to her bare breasts. Jocelyn fought a scream of desire and grabbed his muscled arms while he turned her into molten jelly. His thumb pressed into her belly, until he slid his hand over her hip, then lower, digging his strong fingers into her buttocks until she rose helplessly upward to offer him the access he sought.

“For now, let us repeat lesson one,” he murmured, carrying his kisses downward, lifting her legs to rest on his shoulders.

Cool air flowed over heated moisture, and she jerked involuntarily, but he held her safe.

He was kneeling between her bare legs.

He bent his head, and his mouth covered the place between her thighs.

Jocelyn bit back a shriek as his tongue lapped at oversensitive tissues. She couldn’t think, so she had to trust him. And because she trusted her educated, experienced husband, she took what she wanted for a change, and surrendered to the feelings to which he had introduced her. She stuffed a corner of her pillow in her mouth to quiet her cries as the pressure built inside her until she thought she’d surely burst.

Just when she thought she must grab his hair and scream from sensations she could not control, Blake inserted his fingers, and she came apart, crying and quaking and reaching to pull him back, to hold her, while her whole world erupted in joy.

He obliged, taking her in his arms and kissing her tears and her cheeks, and, before long, she was kissing him back, kissing him so thoroughly that the giddy pressure was building all over again.

“Now,” he whispered, “you do the same for me.”

 

With pleasure, Blake let his daring wife take charge and explore at her own pace. He had the willpower to fight his animal urge to possess and plunder, aided by his primitive instinct to protect what was his. And Jocelyn was
his
, he knew with pride and no small degree of wonder.

Rationally, he knew he did not own her, but instincts weren’t rational. He’d never owned more than his horse and his books, but in some fashion, he owned his wife. And she owned him. With her glorious, flaxen hair brushing his chest as she pressed exploratory kisses down his throat, he figured he could adapt to being possessed by this wanton, gorgeous creature.

Jocelyn was not shy. Given permission to do as she wished, she kissed him in places he hadn’t known needed attention, giving far more than he’d ever received, introducing him to a voluptuous sensuality he could get used to quickly. She imitated his earlier caresses, sucking at his nipples until he thought he’d have to roll her over and take what he wanted.

He dug his fingers into the sheets and lost all power of thought the moment she finished unfastening his trousers. Just the anticipation of her warm, soft hands cupped around him had him on the verge of losing control. When she traced a tentative finger down his erection, he had to fight to lie still and not frighten her by spreading her flat against the bed.

No babies,
she’d said. He had an expensive condom, but sheep guts weren’t perfect. He’d promised her security. He would give it to her, even if he must die in the process.

When her mouth covered his cock, Blake came very close to dying.

Before he could explode with bliss and joy, he pulled out and spilled his seed across the sheets. Shaken by a lust for his wife so strong that he couldn’t last longer than a schoolboy, he hauled her into his arms and squeezed her to show his appreciation and relief.

It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a beginning. The firm mounds of her breasts pressing into his side would stimulate him into readiness again in a few minutes. In her bed, he could easily become a rutting bull.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. “Thank you for trusting me. I will try very hard to justify your trust.”

She snuggled against his chest, and he thought he felt her tears wetting his skin.

“I want all the rest,” she cried. “I want the lovemaking and the babies, but I just
can’t
.”

“I understand,” he said, even though he really didn’t. Blake stroked her hair and settled her more comfortably against his shoulder. “I cannot make promises, so neither should you. It’s all right. We’ll muddle through.”

He wasn’t entirely certain how. He knew better than she that once they started down this path, there was no turning back unless they slept in separate beds. And those wretched instincts of his didn’t want to let her out of his sight, much less out of his bed.

But Blake couldn’t do that. Saving England from the French was more important than making love to his wife.

He needed to solve the damned code before he could move forward.

Blake scowled at the note from Nick waiting for him at the breakfast table the next day. Judging from the missive’s contents, Jocelyn was right. Taking a stout stick to her brother would make everyone feel better. He was still scowling when she sailed into the room, dressed for an outing.

She hesitated, then, pushing back her bonnet, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Your lessons last night were very . . . memorable,” she whispered. “You should not rise so early.”

He immediately grew hard and lost track of his thoughts, until the paper in his hand crumpled. He waved it under her nose. “Your brother is conspiring with Ogilvie.”

“I told you that yesterday. It is the reason I’m going to Lady Bell’s today.” She removed Nick’s note to peruse it.

Blake tugged her onto his lap, encompassing her slender waist with his arm and kissing the hollow at the base of her throat as she read. He’d had to get up early so as not to tup his eager wife too soon. He needed a plan of action and couldn’t think with all her luscious curves within easy reach.

“Richard and I will spend the day trying to determine why your brother, a duke, and a Frenchman want those wretched parrots,” he said when she returned Nick’s note to the table.

“Money,” she said succinctly. “Money will be at the bottom of it. You are crumpling my gown, sir. You had your chance this morning. It is too late now,” she said pertly.

He kissed her throat until she was kissing him back.

“Africa laid an egg,” Richard announced, entering the room with his idea of mealtime chatter. He strode immediately for the sideboard dishes without regard to what was happening at the table.

“An egg,” Blake echoed, choking as Jocelyn laughed and slid from his grasp.

“I’m pretty certain Harold doesn’t want an egg,” she said, pulling up her bonnet. “But if you two will set the snare, Lady Bell and I shall bait the trap, and with any luck, prove to all the world that Viscount Pig is the dimwit in this family.”

 

Lady Bell had apparently emptied her attics into the parlor before Jocelyn arrived. Enormous French silk gowns from a prior century spilled over the sofa. Powdered wigs left drifts of white flakes across the polished floor. An elaborate bejeweled raja’s costume decorated a wing chair. And Lady Bell was holding up a harem gown of fine, nearly translucent silk embroidered in gold thread.

“What do you think? Am I too old for this?” she asked as Jocelyn entered.

“Certainly not, my lady. Men would be wallowing at your feet should you wear such a creation,” Jocelyn told her. “Only—such a gown lends no air of mystery, and this time of year, you’ll freeze, raising ugly goose flesh. Besides, the pink doesn’t flatter you. You want reds or blacks or blues with your dramatic coloring.”

Jocelyn rummaged among the gowns strewn about until she found a stunning ice blue silk and a black velvet, spreading them both out on the carpet. “Wear the black with a red lined cloak and dripping with diamonds and come as a countess of Transylvania. Is that not where the vampire monsters are reported to live?” She lifted the gorgeous velvet and spread the wide skirt out to sweep about the room.

“The blue has all the lovely lace, though,” her hostess said wistfully. “Can I not just go as myself in a prior era?”

“You weren’t even a gleam in your mother’s eye when this was worn.” Jocelyn set aside the black and lifted the blue. “Wherever did you find this? You could go as Anne Boleyn.”

Lady Bell laughed. “The Belden ladies never threw out good fabric. These gowns have probably been wrapped in linens for a hundred years. I don’t fancy being a victim like Lady Anne, though. That color is gorgeous with your ice blond hair. You could be an ice queen.”

Jocelyn swept the gown about her, admiring the yards of silk. “Blake says we must go as monks in homespun and ropes. That may suit him, but . . .”

“You belong in silk,” Lady Belden said firmly. “I will wear rubies with the black, and you must wear the diamonds.”

“But ice queens aren’t real.”

“Masquerades aren’t real,” Lady Belden said, adjusting the gown’s bodice to Jocelyn’s waistline. “Our purpose is to prove the rumors aren’t true, that you and your husband are blissfully happy and well set for funds. Diamonds are perfect.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would conspire and spread lies to harm us.” Jocelyn fretted at a worn bit of lace while thinking of the note Blake had received that morning. “I have written the duke about his parrot to say we will pay him for it with my next allowance, which should satisfy Ogilvie. What purpose does lying serve?”

Lady Bell patted her shoulder. “If money would help, I could give you the price of the bays I’m about to acquire from Lord Quentin. Just the pleasure of winning is worth every penny.”

“But if you gave me money, I’d have to buy Blake’s colors,” Jocelyn objected, willing to be distracted from Horrid Harold. She already knew the details of her friend’s wager. “And then you’d lose. Although I must say, Lord Quentin’s half of the bet is very murky. If I give Blake
all he wants
by spring? Who is to judge what he wants?”

Her hostess laughed. “Oh, I mean to bring out his sister no matter what the outcome. She’s a Hoyt, after all, and deserves the benefit of my late husband’s wealth. It’s merely the winning that counts. Quent is much too sure of himself.”

“I’m inclined to agree if Lord Quentin’s wager means that he believes Blake can talk me into buying colors and sending him off to be shot at. It’s the honorable thing to do, I know, but no one has ever claimed that I am honorable. I can’t help hoping there are other means of accomplishing what he wants.”

Especially if she could keep him home so they could continue what they’d shared last night! She blushed every time she thought of where Blake’s hands and mouth—and her own—had been, so she tried not to think too much.

“We’ll never get him into the Foreign Office if Ogilvie and Carrington persist in their slanders,” Lady Bell said fretfully. “I don’t know why that would be their intent, but your husband already has a curmudgeonly reputation that works against him.”

The marchioness tapped her chin in thought. “If we are to overcome the slanders, it might be best to arrange an exclusive entertainment, so exclusive that it requires traveling outside of the city to Chelsea.”

“I’m not sure Carrington House”—or her family—“is ready for a masquerade,” Jocelyn said worriedly. She had vaguely hoped Lady Bell would offer to host it.

“Our purpose is to show the proper people in Whitehall that Mr. Montague could be valuable to their goals, is it not? Can you think of a better way of discrediting Carrington and his lies than by opening your home with an elegant entertainment to prove you have nothing to hide?”

“An entertainment that does not include Viscount Pig in the home he claims is still his own,” Jocelyn said. “The perfect bait to snare a conniving rat.”

 

“The women are scheming,” Quent said with unconcern, watching Blake tack an alphanumeric frequency analysis chart on the carriage house wall. “You’re about to lose me my bays, aren’t you?”

“Your cattle are scarcely my concern,” Blake reminded him. “But if the women are scheming, it’s over Carrion.” He hung an analysis of the coded message beside the larger chart.

Quentin glanced at the charts and dismissed them. “I’m more concerned with what the ladies are about.”

Blake gave up on work. “The invitation list is inside. Do you wish to see it?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Quent rose from the desk chair and brushed straw dust off his hat. “I don’t suppose you care to explain why you work in a carriage house instead of in your study like a civilized man?”

“You’ll see.” Blake backed down the ladder stairs to the barn, where he’d installed his father’s cabriolet and carriage horse while his father was out of town, thus saving stable rent. Living out here had several advantages it seemed.