The Spinster Bride (34 page)

She laughed uncertainly.

“All right, then.” She lifted her chin as if agreeing to some business arrangement.

“Are you frightened?”

She looked startled for a moment. “No,” she said. “Should I be?”

Charles shrugged. “I have no idea.” He wiped a hand through his hair, making his once-tamed locks spring about.

“Let's find out together, shall we?”

He watched, desire growing with every movement, as Marjorie slipped off her silky robe and draped it over a nearby chair. What she wore underneath took his breath away. It was sheer, leaving very little to the imagination, her dusky nipples and the dark shadow at the apex of her legs clearly visible. He might have already seen her completely nude, but something about this flimsy bit of cloth was incredibly arousing. He grew hard instantly.

“My aunt,” she said, blushing again. “Can you imagine?”

“Your aunt wore this gown?” Charles asked.

Marjorie laughed. “No. She bought it for me.”

“I love your aunt.” As he looked at her, her nipples grew hard, making two obvious points though the fabric, and he groaned aloud. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to throw caution to the wind and ravish you rather more quickly than I'd planned.”

She bit her lips and he took two long steps, and putting one hand behind her head, drew her to him for a long, deep kiss that told her just how much he wanted her. His other hand went unerringly to one breast, his thumb grazing her hard nipple. When he pulled away long moments later, she could hardly catch her breath. Her cheeks were flushed, this time not from embarrassment, but from arousal.

“I can't believe I can have you now, anytime I want.”

“Any time?”

“Yes,” he said fervently, kissing her cheek and moving down to her sweet neck. She arched against him and he pushed his arousal against her, unable to stop himself.

“Even at the dinner table?”

He drew back and laughed. “If you insist. Though the servants might be a bit mortified.”

She drew her arms around his neck; he loved it when she did that. It was such a possessive thing for her to do. “Take my gown off,” she whispered against his lips before thrusting her tongue inside his mouth.

He was lost then. Lost to the silky softness of her, the small sounds she made, the heat from between her legs, the hard nipples pressing against his chest. He swept his hands down her body, then up again, this time gathering the material and pulling, slowly, over her head. Inch by creamy inch, she was laid bare to his hot gaze, until he was drawing it over her head. She was gloriously naked. He wore nothing beneath his robe, and his erection thrust through the opening, gaining her attention.

“Please,” he said. “It is yours to touch whenever you like.”

“At the breakfast table?” she asked, the little minx.

“Any—” he drew in his breath sharply as she wrapped her hand around him “—where you'd like.”

He lifted her up and she straddled him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her bum nestled against his arousal, and he walked her to her bed. Ignoring a sharp jab of pain in his leg, he slowly lowered her down, following her until he lay beside her.

“You're hur—”

“No. Nothing hurts,” he muttered, bringing his hand between her legs. She was always so hot and wet for him. It was enough to make a man think he could conquer the world. She held her breath when he touched her nub, then slowly, as if in extreme ecstasy, released it. He took one nipple in his mouth, suckling, loving the way she moved against his hand, the small sounds that escaped her beautiful mouth, as he worked to pleasure her.

“I want you,” she said. “I need you inside me. Please.”

He slowly, carefully, pressed his index finger inside her. She was so damned tight, and he closed his eyes against the thought of what it would feel like to press himself into her. He let out a groan as she lifted her hips in an almost desperate attempt to feel more.

“Please, Charles.” Her breathing was harsh as he continued to caress her, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. She moved her head back and forth, moved her hips faster, jerking little movements he'd already come to recognize as signs of her impending release. “Oh, please.” And then he felt her contract around his finger, and he nearly spent just watching her come.

Slowly, languidly, she came down, opening her eyes and smiling at him. “Why didn't you do as I asked?”

He chuckled and kissed her. “I'm about to, my lady.” He positioned himself between her legs, and she suddenly seemed shy and vulnerable. He stroked each inner thigh, urging her legs farther apart. “I'll try not to hurt you, my love.”

She nodded and braced herself, which only made him laugh again. “Please relax.” He stroked her and watched as her eyes drifted closed. Then he slowly pushed himself inside her, where she was hot and wet and so damned tight. He knew when he encountered her maidenhead and stopped, just for a breath, before thrusting all the way inside.

Oh, heaven.

She didn't let out a single sound. He looked at her, trying to see if she'd been hurt, but she just smiled. “I love you,” he said, the words seeming incredibly inadequate for what he felt for his wife. He pulled out slightly, watching her intently for signs he was hurting her, then pushed back in. “Wrap your legs around my . . . yes, like that.” He pushed in, then out, every nerve in his body centered on that one spot. When she responded, when he felt her slim legs pull him toward her, when she let out a small sound of pleasure, he could hold back no longer. He thrust, hard and fast, unable to use any of the finesse he'd thought he would. He had no control, his body needed release, demanded it. And so he gave her everything he had, let it go. And when release finally came, he buried his head in the pillow beside hers and let out a long groan of pure satisfaction.

As he slowly came to himself, he first became aware of her soft breath against his cheek, of her hand caressing his nape. “I'm glad we waited,” she whispered.

He carefully pulled away, then drew her against him, feeling happier and more content than he had in his entire life. “As am I. Even though it nearly killed me.” He laughed again, ignoring the deep twinge of pain in his leg. He could ignore anything unpleasant as long as she was in his arms.

“G
randmama, throw!”

Dorothea picked up the ball and tossed it to her grandson, now two and running about chasing every ball she threw like a small puppy. He had a pint-sized cricket bat and even at so young an age, could swing it fiercely and connect with the ball more times than not.

She had two grandchildren now, and another on the way. George's little girl was nearly two and Lilianne had announced just last week that they were expecting again and hoping for a boy.

Dorothea, finally, was coming into her own. She realized that the first two-thirds of her life had simply prepared her for the best part. For the first time in her life, Dorothea was happy. Purely content.

All those years of worry and fear and living a life she'd loathed had been worth this time, this moment, of watching her grandson, black curls bouncing, chase after that ball. It was the oddest thing, being a grandmother. One didn't worry so much about how things would turn out. That was Marjorie's job, and one she seemed to be doing quite well. Already, little Michael was an intelligent and polite lad, but full of the dickens and as charming as his father.

Dorothea liked Charles, perhaps even loved him. But she liked to keep the man on his toes. It wouldn't do to allow him to completely relax with her. It was wonderful to see her children so happy.

Sometimes, Dorothea would look back and think of the girl she'd been—what a sad little thing. Yet how could she regret anything when it had all turned out so very well?

“Don't wear out Grandmama, Michael,” Marjorie called.

Her grandson looked solemnly at her, his little blue eyes wide. “Are you worn out, Grandmama?”

She smiled. “Not yet.”

“Are you certain, Mother?” Marjorie asked.

“I'll let you know.”

Marjorie sat next to her on the garden bench and leaned her head on her shoulder. “I'm worn out and I haven't even done anything today,” she said.

Michael tossed the ball onto Dorothea's lap, then held out his hands to catch it. He didn't more often than not, but he never seemed to get bored trying. A tenacious little thing. Dorothea tossed the ball and it slipped between his legs and bounced down the gravel path.

Suddenly, a large manly shape shot past them, growling fiercely. Michael screeched in delight as his father scooped him up and held him high above his head, a Viking capturing his prize. Dorothea's heart stopped each time he did it, but Michael adored the flight.

Charles settled the boy in one arm. “He'll be playing for the All-England Eleven before you know it.”

Dorothea sniffed. “I hope he aspires to more than that,” she said. “The North Eleven, for instance.”

Charles looked horrified, and Dorothea laughed.

“Mother, don't torture poor Charles like that,” Marjorie said, rising up to give her son, then her husband a kiss on the cheek. “We have news.”

Dorothea knew already, or at least suspected.

“We're having another baby,” Marjorie said.

“Two down and two to go,” Charles said, giving Marjorie a kiss that lingered a bit too long for Dorothea's comfort.

Four grandchildren. Four. It ought to make her feel old. Instead, Dorothea experienced a lightness that made her feel like that young, hopeful girl she'd once been.

She wondered what she would say to that girl as she looked in the mirror at the hat shop. Would she warn her? Would she tell her that if only she could endure, she would finally be happy?

No, she wouldn't. Because this feeling she had right now could not have been reached without all the pain and sorrow. She would be a different woman and chances were, she wouldn't have this lightness and air in her heart just looking at her daughter with her little family.

Dorothea had never found love, but strangely enough, love had finally found her.

Read on for an excerpt from Jane Goodger's Lost Heiresses series, debuting this August!

H
is little shadow was back.

For two days, Mitch had noticed . . . someone. He wasn't quite sure whether it was male or female, but that didn't matter. Out here in the middle of nowhere, where a man could disappear and never be found, a man had to be careful. A man had to make certain his rifle was loaded, his canteen filled, and he listened to his gut. And right about now, his gut was telling him whoever had been watching him for two days was up to no good.

“You wait here, Millie.” Mitch patted his mule and tied her to a scraggly white pine. If Millie really got in a mind to escape, the sapling wouldn't do much to keep her in place, but he very much doubted Millie would take a notion to do more than nibble on some grass.

Mitch was no stranger to the mountains of Yosemite. He guessed he knew them better than most. He knew how to walk silently and he knew when to make a noise that might scare a grizzly away. That was one creature he wasn't ashamed to admit he didn't much care for. He'd seen the results of a bear attack and was quite certain he didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those razor-sharp claws. Other than grizzlies and men with guns, he wasn't afraid of much else. A man who'd seen and done what he had learned not to be afraid.

Whoever was trailing him was high up, likely taking little peeks over the rocks that jutted out above him like crooked teeth. He climbed silently, his boots pressing into the thick cushion of pine needles, until he was pretty sure he was above his prey. He scanned the area, Winchester in hand, fully loaded and ready to fire. Then he saw movement, a flash of hair.

“Well, damn,” he whispered, looking at the girl through his sights. At least he thought it must be a girl with that long, pale braid down her back. She was lying on her stomach, no doubt staring at Millie and wondering where the heck the man she'd been spying on had disappeared to. His eyes moved down, following the trail of her braid, until he reached the decidedly feminine curve of her backside. Definitely female.

Now, a man didn't like holding a rifle on a woman or a girl, but he'd learned the hard way that women and girls could be just as dangerous with a gun as a man, so he wasn't about to take chances. If any of his friends back home saw him, they'd probably punch him in the jaw. But this wasn't New York City and that girl was no debutante, so he held his gun on her real careful. She turned her head and he saw the delicate curve of her smooth cheek. Seeing that bit of feminine beauty in such an unlikely place did something odd to his stomach. It was like seeing the first crocus after a long and terrible winter. He eased his gun down. The girl didn't have a weapon that he could see, and he relaxed slightly.

“Looking for someone, darlin'?”

Jane Goodger
lives in Rhode Island with her husband and three children. Jane, a former journalist, has written and published numerous historical romances. When she isn't writing, she's reading, walking, playing with her kids, or anything else completely unrelated to cleaning a house. You can visit her website at
www.janegoodger.com
.