Trust Me (5 page)

Her insides tensed.

It was that letter.
The gossip. He had seemed to be over it. But he wasn’t.

She put her head
down, laying her cheek against Tiberia’s head. A scent of sunshine, chilly air
and a hint of wood smoke hung about the animal’s coat. Jon stopped poking the fire
and all but tossed the poker to the side of the hearth. It clattered against
the rustic looking stones.

He sat on his
haunches before the hearth, staring into the flames. The tension in her
midsection grew into something closer to indigestion. She closed her eyes and
rubbed her cheek against Tiberia’s coarse fur.

What did a scandal in
London matter? They wouldn’t have to face it for months. Maybe it would die a
natural death.

Jon’s boots sounded
on the floor. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her eyes then lifted her head.
His expression was drawn. Her stomach began to ache in earnest.

“We must make an
appearance in Mayfair.” His tone was absolute.

Her heart began to
hammer and the chamber seemed to tilt on itself. A sick sort of dizziness had
taken hold of her.

“An appearance?” She
spoke the words dumbly, not truly comprehending them.

Not wanting to
comprehend them.

“Yes, we should spend
the remainder of the little season there.”

Her stomach
plummeted. An appearance in Mayfair. No, a
stay
in Mayfair to last the remainder of the little season. Crowded, overheated
ballrooms. Endless introductions, impossible expectations. Her own mind locking
up, making her witless, stupid. Mute. Her heart began to race and the chamber
tilted further.

Jon was watching her
intently. A lump developed in her throat, choking her. She swallowed hard and
attempted to maintain a calm expression. “You think an appearance in Mayfair is
really necessary?”

“It is absolutely
necessary, Anne. I will not have it said that I or my wife cowered in the face
of malicious gossip from someone like Cherry.”

“But wouldn’t it be
better to simply stay out of view of Society for a time?”

“I will not have
anyone say that either of us was ashamed of our marriage and that we sought to
hide ourselves away.”

Her hands had
tightened on the dog’s fur. She mustn’t let him see her fear.

The weak are never respected.

Never show your weakness.

Her old mantras were
always the most comforting. She couldn’t help being inadequate, inept. But she
could prevent others from knowing of her inner turmoil. Oh God, Mayfair!

Her mind sought for
something else to focus on besides her rising panic. To give herself time to
digest what he had said, to better know how to respond without revealing her
incompetence in coping.

She stiffened her
spine. “Well, I don’t care what people are saying in Mayfair.”

“Anne, we must care.”

“What’s wrong with
you? You never care what people say. I see no need for us to expose ourselves
to petty gossip.”

“This is different.
We are no longer merely Anne and Jon, we are the Earl and Countess of Ruel, and
for the sake of our future children we must become respectable.“

“Respectable,” she
repeated with an arch of her brow. This was the gentleman who had previously
wanted her as a long-term mistress.

He flashed his grin.
“Relatively respectable.” Then his expression sobered. “I will not attempt to
deceive you, it will be harder on you than I. Your behaviour will be
scrutinized at length.”

She knew what he
meant. To have a father who sometimes drank a bit too much or who fancied
interests besides his wife, well, that was one thing. But for a woman to
indulge too often in spirits or to flirt too openly in Society placed much
unsavoury speculation on her daughters.

“Anne, I am older. I
have had more experience, especially with regard to society. You must trust me
to know what is best.”

“But it is not
logical. If one is the object of too much speculation, then it would be better
to be discreet, not to parade oneself before Society.”

“That is exactly what
we must do. We must provide a fashionable front, the picture of a respectable
newly married couple.”

She scoffed. “I am
not—nor shall I ever be—anything resembling fashionable.”

“I shall help you.
You can and you will present a fashionable veneer to Society.”

“I am nothing but
awkward and too quiet.”

“If you cannot
overcome your shyness then you can pretend to be haughty; you’re a duke’s
daughter, after all. But you must learn to master your emotions and wear a mask
in Society.”

“It just seems so
provocative.”

“I understand that
you are afraid.”

“I have no friends
there, no family.”

“That’s not true.
There is your cousin, the young Duke of Saxby.”

“A very distant
cousin.”

“If he’s in town, he
can damn well extend his friendship to you.”

“I think he disdains Mama.
He has never extended the least friendship to me.”

He cut her a sharp
look. “He will not disrespect you. He will not shun you.”

But how could Jon
stop Saxby from shunning her if he chose to?

Tiberia had become
restless. Anne released her hold and the dog gimped away to settle by the fire.
“You can’t stop the new duke from shunning me if he will.”

“No one is going to
cut you. No one.”

His tone sounded so
resolute. She suppressed another nervous laugh. He really seemed to believe he
could control how Society treated her. But she’d had her own experience with
Mayfair. She wasn’t wanted there and had never, could never fit in. Her stomach
took a nauseating twist.

She didn’t want to
go.

She didn’t know how
she’d find the strength to make herself go. She’d been raised in seclusion on
an Irish horse farm, alone but for servants whilst her parents lived in
Mayfair.

Jon walked towards
her. With his coat removed, his lean, hard-muscled body was displayed to
perfection in a dark green waistcoat and nankeen breeches that were tucked into
polished black boots. He knelt in front of her and took her hand. “I know you
are timid of returning to Mayfair.”

His blue gaze seemed
to peer so intently into her. Her spine went even more rigid and she squared
her shoulders. “I am not afraid.”

The unintended
sharpness of her voice made her catch her breath. He had told her he would not
tolerate her prickliness. He had proved to it her as well with swift
punishment. She dropped her gaze and softened her tone. “I am not afraid. I am a
grown woman.”

He caressed her hand.
“Anne, it is all right, here alone with me, to admit you are afraid. If we
discuss your fears, then it will be easier for me to help you.”

“I just think it is
illogical to show ourselves at a time like this. So unnecessarily assertive.”

He cradled her hand
between both of his. “You remember when we negotiated the way we would live?”

Her heartbeat
quickened. Oh no, he was about to turn everything on its head— she had no
choice but to admit the truth. “Yes, I remember.”

“You said you wanted
me to guide you in matters relating to interaction with our peers.”

“I don’t remember
exactly how it was phrased. You said you would protect me in certain
uncomfortable situations.” She remembered intensely the two days they spent at
Eastwood Place, in particular the dark, carnal temptations that she’d had no
previous experience with.

“And this is an
uncomfortable situation that you are a bit lost in how to respond, is it not?”

A wan smile stretched
her lips. “I suppose it is.”

“Therefore it is my
responsibility to guide you and protect you as I see fit. I shall be with you,
always. I am not going to simply deposit you at Lloyd House and then disappear
to St. James’ Place.”

Warmth curled around
her heart and she couldn’t resist a small smile. “I should hope not.”

He squeezed her hand
and smiled.

“But there won’t even
be that many people in town.” She couldn’t help pointing out the obvious.

Jon shook his head.
“In light of the unfortunate events at Saint Peter’s Field, I think that
Parliament will be called to sit rather early this year.”

The massacre. When it
had all been transpiring, she and Ruel had been tucked away in isolation,
consumed only with each other.

Even when she came
back to Whitecross and read the London papers, the massacre had seemed so
distant, so unreal to her. Yet all the stories of other riots and mayhem
occurring in the weeks after had chilled her blood.

The people seemed set
to revolt everywhere.

A further chill
settled into her. There was no possible way to avoid London now. “Of course we
must go. If Parliament is to sit and weigh all of these grave issues, then you
must take your seat. You must take a pivotal part.”

Jon frowned. “I will
go and listen to the debates and vote.”

“But the earls of
Ruel have always been a bastion of Tory power. Leaders. It is your duty as a
peer of this realm to take a pivotal part in this debate.” The words escaped
her before she could think.

He sat back with his
long legs spread apart and he steepled his hands between his knees.

And he was so quiet!

She held her breath,
wondering if she had said too much. One did not tell a man like Jon what to do.

Finally, he exhaled.

“I am warrior, not a
politician.” His frown deepened. “I do not think speeches and talk will help
much with this situation. I would rather take action than sit around and talk
an issue to death.”

A new, stronger pang
of fear struck into her chest. “Action? Y-you mean increased
military
action? Against the people?”

Without looking away
from his hands, he slowly nodded. “If need be.”

Just like in France,
the revolt would build and build and… Oh God, would England really go through
everything that France had?

She took a deep
breath, trying to quell her racing thoughts. “Do you think there could be that
much continued unrest?”

He looked up and his
sober expression chilled her even more. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. But
outrage is sweeping the countryside. The troops attacked a peaceful gathering.
A damned lecture. Now eighteen people are dead. Hundreds injured. The government
needs to reprimand the military leadership who allowed things to get out of
hand. And at this time, it doesn’t appear that they will do that. Who knows
where this could end? God only knows.” He stood. “It is turning late.” His tone
held a final note. He had listened to her arguments and let her have her say.
Now, the subject was closed.

He reached a hand
down to her. “Come, let’s go to bed. We’ll need an early start on the morrow.”

Chapter Four

Anne gasped. The air was
so thin. She threw her hands out. They slammed against something solid. She ran
her palms over it. It felt like finely sanded, unpainted wood.

She pressed. It
wouldn’t budge. She pounded her fists against it. It still wouldn’t budge.

What was it… A lid
for a… casket.

Casket!

Her casket?

She began beating her
fists against the lid with all her might.

Oh God—she’d been
buried alive! Her lungs burned from the lack of air. She stopped beating
against the lid. It was futile. It wasn’t going to budge.

She fought to slow
her breathing.
Think logically
.
Surely Jon had missed her by now. He would come, he would find her. He’d never
fail her.

Crack!

Her heart stopped.
Her whole body froze. That sound—so familiar. The horse, kicking at the
carriage wall. No, kicking the lid of the coffin in which she lay trapped.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Light showed through
an opening in the top.

Air rushed into the
casket and she gulped it gratefully.

Whoosh!

There was a glint of
steel, a flash of white fetlock. The hoof was coming down again. That which had
liberated her was going to bring her death…

Anne awoke and sat
up, taking deep, gasping breaths. Her heart leapt in her throat, pounding
against her chest wall. She put her hand over it, as if she could contain it.
Sweat poured from her body, drenching her nightgown.

The bed curtains
whipped open. The fire backlit Jon’s tall, broad-shouldered frame dressed in
his dark green banyan. Orange lights glinted on his pale hair. She couldn’t see
his face.

“Anne.” Concern rang
in his voice.

“What?”

“You cried out.”

“Did I?”

He sat on the bed and
crawled across his side until he sat near her. “Yes, you did.”

She tried to laugh.
It came out as a choked sound. “I had a horrid dream. That’s all.”

“You dreamt of the
accident, the horses?”

She caught her
breath. She should have been over the accident long ago. He would be so
disappointed to know the truth.

She laughed softly,
nervously. “Goodness no. Just a frightening dream but not about the horses.”

“No?” His tone was a
silken seduction. Its tenderness pulled her heartstrings mightily; the urge to
confide in him rose within her breast, almost unbearably.

 
She shook her head, fighting off the urge to
tell him the truth. “Just a bad dream.”

He touched her
shoulders. “You’re trembling and sweating.”

“Yes, it was a very
bad dream.”

“But not about the
accident or the horses?”

She leant forward
into his large frame and buried her face against his velvet banyan, pressing
into his muscular chest.

Yesterday, storms had
battered at their carriage, rattling its frame, flashing lightning through the
cracks in the curtains.

She had been pale and
shaking with terror and Jon had held her in his arms, gently stroking her hair
and speaking softly to her, telling her stories from his days in the Dragoons.
Harmless, humorous stories about people and dogs. The types of stories a fond
uncle tells a young girl.

Was that how she
wanted her husband to view her?

“You can tell me,
Anne, you can tell me anything.” He caressed her back, stroked her hair.

Distant thunder
rumbled. The sound reverberated within her stomach and reminded her of the
day‘s trial to come. Dread and fear beat through her. She needed to act like a
woman. To be braver. But in the dark of night, it was hard.

His touch comforted
her but she wanted something more. She pulled away then laid back and held her
arms up to him.

Jon lay beside her
and grasped her wrists, holding them in one of his large hands. She closed her
eyes and lay passive. Her breathing and heart rate calmed. He put his leg over
both of hers, locking her in place. All of his masculine strength, his power,
wrapped about her.

Thunder rumbled
again.

“You see, I’ve got
you.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I’ll always have you.”

There would be time,
later today, to show him her brave side. For now, she would simply enjoy the
feeling of being completely protected. Peace washed over her and she let sleep
carry her off.

Anne awoke to the
sound of hot water being delivered. Sleepily, she watched Jon lay out his
shaving gear and pour some of the water into a basin.
 
“Aren’t you going to call for Toby?”

“I think we shall let
him sleep in, eh?” He looked at her in the mirror and smiled.

She shouldn’t be
surprised. Jon had not brought his valet along on their tryst at the cottage.
She had grown to adore watching him shave, lulled into a state of relaxation by
the regular, steady strokes as he scraped the thick lather off his face. It was
no different now.

It was an intimate
moment and one in which she felt a wife’s privilege most acutely. William had
never appeared before her less than cleanly shaven and wrapped in his banyan.
He certainly never had allowed her to witness his daily ablutions. Indeed, on
their wedding trip he had rented a separate chamber to complete that daily
ritual. That was also where he’d first been unfaithful to her with the very
first comely maid he’d encountered.

Surely, Jon would
spare her that sort of humiliation. At least, she hoped he would. He certainly
seemed inclined to remain close by her side, even at moments when he didn’t
have to be.

Light illuminated the
chamber as lightning flashed in a crack in the curtains. She jumped. Her heart
drummed in her ears and a queasy sensation twisted through her stomach. She
placed a hand over her belly and couldn’t help a little gasp that escaped her.

His razor clattered
as it fell to the washstand and he was at her side in an instant, kneeling
before her. He took her hands. “It’s going to be fine, Anne.”

She laughed. The sound
came out husky and halting. “Of course it will. Never mind my foolishness.”

He lifted her hands
to his lips and kissed them one after the other. “Shall we have a touch of
claret before breakfast?”

“Claret before
breakfast, oh my,” she replied, attempting to lighten her tone.

“It is still our
honeymoon, is it not?” He arose and went to the sideboard then returned with
glasses and a bottle of claret.

He spoke to her in
such a gentle tone. Beneath the lightness he so obviously attempted to inject
into his voice, she detected a note of concern.

He expected her to be
afraid again today.

He had even prepared
for it ahead of time, making sure to have claret on hand this morning. The
realization made her feel like a foolish girl, someone who must be cosseted. A
man would surely grow weary of such a wife.

She didn’t want him
to resent her.

Her stomach
tightened. She must try to be strong. But her hand trembled on the glass when
he gave it to her. And she took a deep drink. The rich fluid glided over her
tongue, burned her throat. He tipped his glass to her, then quaffed half its
contents in one swallow before returning to the washstand.

She slowly sipped as
she watched him place the blade to his cheek and make several careful strokes,
and listened to the rasp of the blade against his beard. She was almost
finished with her wine. The warmth of the spirits seeped through her blood and
her tension began to ease, replaced by a sense of relaxation.

 
He bent over the washbasin and splashed water
over his face. The sloshing sound echoed in the tiny chamber. He dried off with
several brisk rubs from the towel. He lifted a small amber bottle and wetted
his palms with the liquid it contained then dabbed his cheeks briefly.

The scent of spice
and woods wafted into the air. He turned to her and her attention was drawn
lower as he plucked the towel from his waist. His hard, well-defined midsection
was covered in a sprinkling of brownish hair, so much darker than the pale,
ash-blond locks on his head.

He tossed the towel
aside and approached her. She couldn’t stop staring at the sleek, sinewy lines
of his powerful body. His half-erect cock.

He touched the glass
she held. “Anne, let go.”

“What?”

He stroked her
knuckles with the backs of his fingers. “Let me take this.”

“Yes.”

“You have to let go
first.” Teasing warmed his voice. He pried on her fingers.

She realized that she
was gripping the glass. She looked up at him and then, caught in her fixation,
she felt her face flame. She let go the glass. He set it on the night table
then he came back to her.

He cupped her face.
His eyes were blazingly blue as they gazed into hers, intensifying on her as he
moved closer. Then closer. He put his lips to hers. Firm pressure. Warm. He
opened his mouth and traced her mouth with his tongue.

Desire tingled within
her, mingling with the fear borne of the lightning and the storm. The two
sensations merged. She opened her mouth and he thrust inside, his tongue
sweeping over hers, hot, wet and tasting of claret.

Hunger slammed into
her womb. Her cunt clenched.

He grasped her hips
and pulled her against himself. His erection was growing, throbbing. The
evidence of his need made her wet.

She moved her tongue
in his mouth teasingly.

He groaned then he
tore his mouth from hers.

She found herself
swept up into his arms then deposited on the bed.

He pushed her chemise
up so quickly, the lawn fabric burned a little. He dropped down on top of her.
“Anne.” He groaned her name against her ear. He cupped her breast and squeezed
with steady pressure. “Oh God, Anne.”

Heat against her
entrance. Sudden pressure made her gasp. He pushed inside her, thrusting all
the way inside so hastily that she gasped anew.

He grasped her hips
and rocked against her, the crown of his cock pressing against the mouth of her
womb. He bounced her and sent shocks of delighted anticipation quaking through
her body.

Everything was
happening so fast. So feverishly. She felt a little dizzy. It added a piquant
note to the moment.

A clap of thunder
shook through the bed, startling her. Her heart hammered and shocks of fear
shuddered along her spine, reverberating into her belly. The storm! She tensed
and cried out, clawing at the feather bed.

“Shh.” His hot breath
blew against her ear.

She lay beneath him
with her heart still pounding. How could he possibly want her when she was such
a frightened little ninny?

He lifted up,
partway, and pried her hands from the bed. Placed them above her head. “It’s
all right, my love, I’ve got you. I won’t let anything harm you.” He put his
lips to her temple and pressed her body with his own.

She hid her face in
the crook of his shoulder.

He transferred her
wrists to one hand then moved to cup her chin and urged her to look at him. “I
own you. Completely. You are my most precious possession. I will not let
anything happen to you, ever. I would die first.”

A sense of his utter
strength surrounded her. Warmth wound through her.

He relaxed his grip
on her chin and slid his hand to cup the side of her cheek “We have to make a
child. It is our duty.”

“Yes.”

“Sexual congress was
just for pleasure before. I didn’t ever think about it much beyond that.”

It was strange, to
lay here with his cock embedded within her, still so hard, throbbing against
her inner walls, and yet to converse so calmly.

“Do you think about
it, Anne? You and I making a child?” He stared down at her, his visage stripped
of all its mocking humour, stripped of all its world-weariness. Stripped down
to his soul. It was as if a different man were suddenly with her.

She had seen this Jon
a few times before. He frightened her a little, for he made her hope for things
she didn’t dare expect in this marriage. But his eyes were also the most
beautiful thing she had ever seen.

And hope was so
seductive.

“Yes,” she said
breathily. “I have thought about us. About our child.”

His gaze seemed to
caress her. “Even when I thought about laying with a woman for purposes of
procreation, I had thought before only of making an heir. But now my heir will
be
our
child.”

“Oh…” The word forced
itself up her throat. A sound full of longing, hope—he was saying everything
she had longed to hear. She could believe that he would be more than just a
nobleman sire to their child.