Waking Up With the Duke (11 page)

“Let’s make it two, shall we? Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep at night.”

Jayne stared at Ainsley while Mrs. Weatherly tittered about and produced a ledger. Ainsley wrote the item and the amount before applying his signature.

“Have it brought around tomorrow. My man will see that you’re paid.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Have a lovely day.”

The same scenario played out in each booth where they stopped. Ainsley would find an item—a necklace for his sister-by-marriage Claire, lace for his sister-by-marriage Mercy, a pipe for Westcliffe, leather gloves for Stephen—ask the price, then double it.

As they were walking away from the booth where he’d purchased a beaver hat for Leo—who had been his mother’s lover for some time now, if rumors were to be believed—Jayne said, “You do know that when you haggle over prices, you are supposed to whittle down the amount.”

“For some of these people, what they earn today will get them through the winter. I can afford to be generous.”

“Walfort never could.” She wanted to bite her tongue, but felt compelled to add, “He had nothing before my dowry. While it was substantial, we certainly couldn’t be extravagant. Fortune seems to have smiled on you in many areas.”

“Do you expect me to feel guilty because of it?”

She peered up at him. “No. I don’t know what I expect. I don’t even know why I’m prattling on about it.”

“He didn’t marry you for your dowry.”

She averted her gaze. How had he known it was an area of insecurity for her? “It influenced him.”

“I doubt it. I know at least two other ladies to whom marriage would have put far more into his coffers. He gave them nary a look. I suspect it was your eyes that offered him the riches he sought.”

She felt a blush warming her cheeks. “You’re far kinder than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

“Nothing kind about speaking the truth.” As though needing to turn the direction away from him, he added, “I’m famished. Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

He purchased a blanket, a wicker basket, and food from different vendors. Before Jayne realized it, she was sitting near a tree enjoying a meat pie. Across from her, Ainsley—stretched out on his side, lifted up on his elbow—was munching on an apple. His gaze took in his surroundings rather than settling on her. She was grateful for that. It was so much easier to relax and think when she didn’t have his undivided attention.

He was at home here. She could see it in the ease of his movements, his unhurried manner, as though they had the entire day to lollygag about.

“Do you have work to see to here?” she asked.

His gaze darted to her before wandering off again. “Not really. The land the cottage sits on was not designed to bring in an income. I have no tenants. It’s simply a place where I come when I want to escape my responsibilities.”

“Do you come here often, then?”

“Once a year, perhaps.” He sat up and slung the apple core into the wooded area behind them.

Other people were reclining about, but none looked as noble as he. Some gave the appearance of being upper class, but most seemed to be somewhere between wealthy and poor. In the distance, she saw a roundabout. A menagerie of carved wooden animals hung down from the canopy. Two men, running alongside it, pushed it around. Children laughed and screamed with wild abandon.

She didn’t like the hope that fluttered in her chest, a hope that someday soon her child might enjoy a journey on such a contraption. She hadn’t wanted to think about what her being here with Ainsley truly signified. A ray of hope in what had become such a desolate life. Perhaps that was the reason she’d been less than kind to him. It was so difficult to think of him giving her what Walfort could not. Yet neither could she deny how desperately she wanted a child. She would sit a boy upon the lion because he would be fearless. A girl she would place upon the rabbit. No, no. Upon the tiger. Or perhaps the lion as well for she, too, would need to be fearless to endure the whisperings that would surely ensue. Regardless of Walfort’s claim that no one knew the full extent of his injuries, they would not be spared gossip and speculation. She would be the lioness to protect her child. She suspected even Ainsley would provide a shield. His influence could not be disregarded.

“Have you ever taken a turn on a roundabout?” Ainsley asked, intruding on her thoughts. Thank goodness. She didn’t like the direction they were traveling.

“Not since I was a child.”

“Well, then, shall we give it a go?”

Shoving himself to his feet, he waved someone over, slipped a coin into the young lady’s hand with instructions for seeing that the items were gathered up and delivered to his cottage. Then he was extending a hand toward Jayne. Neither of them had put on their gloves after eating. She didn’t want to feel the spark that the touch of his bare skin could ignite. He caused her to feel things with so little effort. Walfort’s touch had never affected her so. His was pleasant. Ainsley’s was so much more. His was dangerous.

“Come on, Jayne. Before the clouds in the distance catch up to us.”

Looking over her shoulder, she saw the darkening skies, suddenly aware of the cooling breeze. It was simply a ride on a roundabout. Ainsley could assist her to her feet and then release his hold. If she were quick, the touch would last no more than a heartbeat. She slipped her hand into his, felt his fingers close around hers, was aware of his other arm anchoring around her waist, bringing her up with so little effort.

Only he didn’t release his hold. Instead, he urged her forward with haste, and they were soon tripping lightly across the field.

“Ainsley, we can’t run.” Even as she protested, she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, pumping her legs.

“Of course we can. We’re doing it.”

“It’s undignified.”

“Who of any importance is here to see? Who cares? Pretend we’re young again.” The devil was in his eyes and his smile, both challenging her, silently calling her a coward if she didn’t keep up.

Blast him! Her hat went flying. He laughed. She realized he’d never put his hat back on. Had this been his plan all along?

Suddenly she didn’t care. The wind was in her face, and for this short span of time all that mattered was getting to the roundabout before it started spinning again. She could see the wide-eyed stares of the children, waiting for the motion that would carry away their cares.

Breathless, she didn’t know where she found the strength to step onto the platform. If she’d had any air in her lungs, she might have screeched when Ainsley lifted her up onto the lion. The lion. Had she not just been thinking about it? She grabbed the pole that kept it suspended off the flooring.

Ainsley moved around to stand beside her, one of his hands above hers, the other resting on the back of the animal, as though he thought he needed to be ready in case she were to slip. Then two men, one on either side of the roundabout, grabbed hold of a horizontal spoke and began running. It was spinning around as the scenery around them became blurred.

“Close your eyes,” Ainsley ordered. “Let all your troubles go.”

If only it were that simple. Still, she lowered her lashes, pretended all was right with the world.

H
e could watch her now as he’d not been able to since the moment he placed her on the horse outside the stables. Her long dark lashes feathered lightly over cheeks flushed with the effort of her running. His gaze followed the line of her throat, an ivory smoothness he desperately wanted to press his lips against.

Her hair was in danger of spilling over her back. He was tempted to help it along, to reach up and remove the last bastion of pins. How stubbornly they held on. Just like her. Determined to keep a distance between them.

He’d brought her here hoping to bring her some joy. Instead, she’d been constantly, warily, looking around as though fearful that she’d spy someone she knew, that someone would see her with him—and then how the deuce would she explain that?

She didn’t want his laughter, his conversation, or his presence. She wanted only his seed, and even that she accepted with reluctance.

He’d never before felt so damned alone and lonely when he was with a woman. He wanted more between them, wanted what he couldn’t have, what he had no right to desire. He wanted her to
want
to be with him.

He would spend the month in purgatory if he had nothing more than traipsing into her bedchamber in the dark of night to deposit the fruit of his loins like some lecher who thought of nothing beyond his own release.

But for this moment he had a bit more. He had her slight smile, the wind toying with her hair. He could savor the memory for a few days, and perhaps find a way to obtain another one. He couldn’t be business-only with her. That she could be so with him spoke of her dislike of him. He’d known it was there, of course, but now feared he’d underestimated the true extent of it. Would she hold onto it so tightly if he told her everything about that night? And the nights that had come before it?

Could he betray Walfort for his own personal gain? What would be the cost to him then? To them all? She’d no doubt despise him even more if she knew the truth. She would take no pity on the messenger.

The roundabout began to slow. He wanted to shout at the men that he’d pay them handsomely to keep running. But it was too late. She opened her eyes, her smile retreated, the discomfort between them reemerged. She slid off the lion, not waiting for his assistance. As the contraption creaked and groaned into stillness, they stood facing each other, separated by an absurd-looking creature.

“Time to grow up again,” she said quietly.

When she turned and strolled off the platform and onto the ground, as much as he didn’t want to, he followed.

Chapter 10

H
er inability to breathe as she stood at the window in her bedchamber had nothing to do with anticipation, for she was not eagerly awaiting his arrival. She was quite simply anxious to get the night done with so she could sleep.

The music had become more lively, the crowd more boisterous, as they’d taken their leave of the fair, and she halfway wished they had remained long enough for a dance. But their nights were to be devoted to other things.

Besides, a light rain had begun to fall just as they arrived at the cottage. The dancing and merrymaking had no doubt come to an abrupt end as people sought shelter. Now, the moon was hiding behind dark clouds and she was lulled by the gentle patter against the window as the moments slowly ticked by.

Where the deuce was he?

She’d bathed before dinner, but tonight they barely spoke a word during the meal. When she wasn’t looking at him, she could feel his gaze homing in on her, studying her. Why were things suddenly more awkward?

The worst was over—their first encounter. It should all be easier now. She knew what to expect of him. Yet as she waited, she wondered if she understood anything at all.

The only light in the room was provided by the lazy fire on the hearth. She wouldn’t have to watch him prowling, extinguishing flames. He could come straight to her, lead her to the bed—

Or should she be there already, waiting?

Her nipples tingled with the thought of him kneeling before her, slowly skimming the hem of her nightdress up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs. So leisurely, as though he could see in the dark, could see the tiny scar on her knee—the result of falling from the tree she was forbidden to climb when she was a child.

But at the age of seven, she’d been lured by the forbidden. Now it terrified her.

Suddenly, unbearably warm, she pressed her cheek to the cool glass. Waiting was torment. What was taking him so very long?

I
t was a mistake to spend the day with her. He’d wanted to stay past nightfall, wanted to stroll through the anonymity offered by the darkness, wanted to dance with her—not the polite, civilized steps in a ballroom, but the gregarious, jolly movements of madness in which the villagers reveled.

He’d found it difficult enough last night to pretend impartiality. Tonight he would descend one step further into hell, not experiencing the pleasure of her touch, knowing she wanted as little contact as possible.

He downed another whiskey and slammed the tumbler on the table beside the window in his bedchamber. The damned rain had stolen the moonlight. He wouldn’t see it glistening off her skin, wouldn’t have forbidden sights. He would have only the darkness, yet still he knew he’d see the shape of her long, slender legs in his mind, would imagine them wrapped around his waist, urging him on.

Imagination could be a powerful aphrodisiac. Pity he wanted more. Damning the cottage for not having a door between the bedchambers, he crossed the room and went into the hallway. Her door was closed as tightly as her thighs. Could she not open it even a crack in invitation?

Rapping his knuckles once against the wood in warning, he strode in and was hit with her jasmine fragrance. He wondered if it would remain after she left. She was hovering by the damned window again, as though distance would alter the outcome.

At least pretend you want me,
he almost shouted.

He should have provided his own list of rules. But then the reality smacked into him. If this was the only way he could have her—he’d take it. At least tonight he had no lamps to douse. The banked fire hardly illuminated the room, but bless the moon, if it didn’t choose that moment to peer out from behind the clouds and reveal her wrapped in moonlight.

Her hair was down, loose, and he wanted desperately to comb his fingers through it, bury his face in its softness. He wanted to trail his hand over the strip of white and apologize for his role in creating it, even if he thought it the most beautiful shade he’d ever seen. He wanted to place his palms on either side of her face and plant a kiss on those lush lips that would have her melting into his arms. He didn’t want to lead her to the bed. He wanted to carry her. He wanted to lift her hem over her shoulders, over her head. He didn’t want to stop the journey at her thighs. He wanted her bared before him.

He wanted her breasts nestled against his palms. He wanted his tongue toying with her nipples, wanted to feel them pearling in his mouth. He wanted the taste of her on his lips.

His errant thoughts had his body in such a state that he could barely cross over to her. No smile greeted him. If at all possible, she was more wary tonight.

He knew he should have been content with taking her hand, with keeping things as impersonal as he had during their first encounter, but surely his patience warranted a little more. Skimming his fingers along her arm, he felt the heat penetrating the gossamer silk, heard her breath hitch, saw her eyes darken. Perhaps she wasn’t as immune to him as he’d thought.

He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how much he adored her smile, how desperately he wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to confess that he’d do anything to ensure her happiness. But just as he had last night, he kept the words locked deeply inside, where they could not be mocked, could not bring pain to either of them.

Intertwining their fingers, he led her to the bed, lifted her up, placed her on its edge. She needed no instruction tonight. She simply lay back, offering herself to him.

But he wanted more. Just a small bit more.

J
ayne watched as he went down to one knee. The moonlight that had entered the room when he did receded, the clouds no doubt thickening as the rain pounded harder against the panes—as hard as her heart beat within her chest. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She felt his hands—slender fingers, rough palms, heated skin—wrap around her ankles and glide up her legs, carrying the hem of her nightdress with his journey.

Closing her eyes, she relished the touch she should have abhorred. Wicked of him to give her a little more intimacy, naughty of her not to chastise him for it. Then his mouth followed where his hands had gone and she thought she would melt into the bed coverings. He hadn’t shaved before he came to her, and she could feel the tiniest rasp of bristle. She wanted to lock her legs around him, hold him tight. But she had her rules: no pleasure, no pleasure, no pleasure.

She would take none. And yet he was giving it, using his fingers and his tongue, touching her so deeply. She’d thought of this while she waited, hoped for it, knew she was more than ready for him. He had to be aware, and yet he didn’t cease his ministrations. He simply carried her higher, higher—

She pressed her fist to her mouth, muffling the cry emerging from her throat as her body erupted with unbridled pleasure. She jerked, spasmed, felt the tears of release trickle from the corners of her eyes. She wanted to be immune, but it all felt so wonderful. She returned from the haven of sensations with the realization that he had yet to penetrate her. She could see his shadow. He was standing. Why wasn’t he—

The truth hit her with the force of a battering ram. The reason he’d come to fruition so quickly last night. She was giving nothing. She was simply taking. He was giving everything, all the pleasure, even to himself, so she wouldn’t have to endure his nearness any longer than necessary.

Pain ratcheted through her. Did he think she was so selfish?

Lifting up, she reached for him. “Ainsley—”

She’d barely touched him before the hot seed poured over her hand.

“Damnation,” he growled. Stepping back, he released more profanity as though he himself were a storm cloud raining down.

“I’m sor—” she began.

“Don’t. Simply stay as you are.”

He was gone before she could respond. She heard him bump into something, release another harsh curse—under any other circumstances she might have laughed.

He returned to her before she had time to wonder what he might be doing. His trousers were done back up, his billowy shirt gaping open where the buttons were freed. With a damp cloth, he wiped her hands.

“I can see to it—” she began.

“I’ve got it.” When her hands were clean, he said, “I’ll need a few moments before . . . we can resume.”

With that, he left her. Twisting around on the bed, she watched his shadowy form hurl the cloth into a corner. The fire in the hearth outlined him dropping onto the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

She wondered if he was weeping. She certainly wanted to.

B
loody damned hell!

He hadn’t lost control like that since he was sixteen years old and one of the upstairs maids had been toying with him. If he hadn’t been fantasizing about Jayne touching him, about her enfolding that soft, warm hand around him . . . If he hadn’t been imagining her mouth pressed to his chest, lapping at his skin, trailing over his throat—

Hearing the creak of the bed followed by the padding of bare feet over the floor and carpet, he stiffened. Peering through his fingers, he watched her sit in the stuffed chair beside the fireplace, pull her feet onto the cushion and wrap her arms around her drawn up legs. Legs he’d skimmed his hands along. She wasn’t tall, but she was still mostly leg. The flickering firelight danced over her, and he imagined his mouth following the same trails.

With that thought he was rapidly returning back to form.

“You needn’t be embarrassed,” she said quietly.

“I’m not.” He was. Mortified. His curt words came out harsher than he’d intended, two quick slaps that judging by the jerk of her head she’d actually felt. “I simply wasn’t expecting . . . I wasn’t prepared . . .”

“For my touch. Yes, I know. I figured it out . . . that you were not only . . . pleasuring me.” She averted her gaze, stared into the fire. “This is absolutely bloody awful, isn’t it?”

Amused by her uncharacteristic use of profanity, he lowered his hands. “As far as bloody awful things go, it’s one of the best I’ve experienced.”

She released a sound, possibly a laugh, or perhaps a strangled sob, before covering her mouth. She stared at him for the longest time. “Why are you doing this?”

Her voice was rough, and he realized it had cost her something to ask, and so she deserved at least an inkling of the truth. “Nothing is more important to me than your happiness.”

“Why?”

Because I adore you.
“I admire you.”

“But it’s costing you, isn’t it?”

“Jayne—”

“Ainsley, women adore you. They fawn over you. They want to be in your bed. And here I am with all my silly rules, and still you destroyed me last night with so little effort.”

Her confession pounded painfully into him. “Christ, Jayne, that was not my intent.”

“I know.” She shook her head brusquely. “I know. But still it happened. It had been so long,
so
very long . . . I didn’t want to be reminded of what I was missing. And I wasn’t. Instead I discovered what I’d never had. Not like that. Not with that intensity.”

What the hell was he to say to that heartfelt admission?

“It’s as you say,” he told her. “It’s because it’s been so long.”

“I don’t think so. Not entirely. You’ve obviously earned your reputation.”

Yet there was no woman he wanted to please more than he wanted to please her. He was not a selfish lover. He knew that. He cared for his paramours, wanted to ensure their enjoyment in his bed because it added to his physical satisfaction. But for Jayne he’d forgo his own pleasure—if he could do it and still get her with child.

“Do you know when I knew this was a terrible notion?” she asked.

“When Walfort first mentioned it, I suspect.”

“No. I thought it was a terrible idea at that point. I
knew
it was a terrible idea when you added your condition. You’re giving me your child and I’m selfish enough to want to take it.”

“I can think of no one I’d rather be the mother of my child.”

“But I’ve treated you so shabbily. I never considered how unfair all this was to you. Walfort’s request, my rules—”

“For God’s sake, Jayne, you’re the one who has had to live with the unfairness of it all. I wish to God I’d not taken the reins that night. I wish we’d have had three fewer drinks, although I’m not at all sure why I believe that’s the magic number that would have changed the outcome. I wish I’d convinced him to stay where we were and sleep it off until morning—but he wanted to return to you. Not a single day goes by that I don’t relive that night and see all the missteps. If I could unravel the tapestry of events that destroyed dreams, I would. I’d sell my soul to the devil to have everything put back to rights.”

She rested her chin on her upraised knees as though she could better see him from that perch—or perhaps see inside him, to the very core of his being, to the secret part of his heart that beat for her.

“I didn’t think you suffered,” she whispered, so softly that he almost didn’t hear the words. “I thought you just went on your merry way. Is being with me punishment?”