Yankee Earl (36 page)

      
Jason's first impulse was to tell the man to go to hell, but he quickly reined in his temper. No sense creating a scene everyone on the floor would overhear. He jerked open the door so quickly that the valet practically fell inside. “I will not require your services tonight, thank you, Gentry,” he said, taking a second swallow of brandy.

      
“But, m'lord, you'll require that I see to brushing and pressing of such superb kerseymere. We wouldn't want to ruin your wedding finery. Now, m'lord,” the little man said, reaching for the brandy glass with the practiced air of an upper servant, “if you'll permit me, I'll have you properly prepared to perform your marital duties in short order.”

      
Jason snatched back the glass and drained it defiantly, then affixed Gentry with a look that had made hardened tars quiver like a bowl of blood pudding. “For your information, I have been dressing and undressing myself since I was a stripling. I have even managed to accomplish the feat aboard ships pitching sharply on stormy seas.”

      
“But, m'lord, you were not the earl then,” Gentry replied, only slightly daunted.

      
“If memory serves me, I still remove my britches one leg at a time, title or no title, dammit!” Jason snapped.

      
“But—but—”

      
“I will see to my own needs. Is that clear, Gentry?” He bit off each word in a quiet, deadly voice that finally penetrated the valet's huffy indignation. As he spoke, Jason backed him toward the door, towering over the diminutive servant, who fumbled behind him for the knob and with a sputtering apology quit the room.

      
“Marvelous. Just bloody, buggering wonderful,” Jason muttered, draining the glass. Tomorrow he would have to soothe Gentry's ruffled feathers. He had no right to take out his frustrations on an elderly servant.

      
Tugging at his cravat, he let his eyes stray in the direction of Rachel's room. Had she overheard the petty outburst? Would she know that she was the cause of it?

      
Probably so, he concluded glumly as he tossed his shirt onto the growing pile of clothing strewn across the floor. Briefly he considered pouring a third brandy, then dismissed the idea. The morning would come early enough, and they had to ride to Falconridge. It would serve him ill to have a pounding headache to match the evil throbbing in his nether parts.

      
Doggedly he took a seat on a chair and tugged off his boots and stockings. Barefoot, he padded about the room with the brass candle snuffer. When the last little flame was doused, he threw himself disconsolately across the bed and stared at the canopy overhead. A bright shaft of moonlight trickled in from a slit in the draperies, striking his face. Jason did not notice. With eyes closed or open, all he could see was Rachel as she had looked that morning walking down the aisle toward him, as she had looked at the wedding breakfast with her arm entwined with his, as she had looked when they waltzed that evening at the ball.

      
He could not have said how long he had lain staring fitfully when a soft tapping issued from the inner door connecting his room with that of his countess. Startled, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up in one swift motion, causing a slight dizziness that reminded him of how quickly he had downed two generous brandies. If ever in his life he required a clear head, it was now.

      
He walked over and pulled open the door. Rachel stood limned by the golden glow of a lone candle. She was clad in the sheer cream silk confection she had worn that day at the modiste's when he had spied on her. She clutched a pitcher in both hands. He was speechless.

      
Rachel forced herself to look into his dark blue eyes as she blurted out her well-rehearsed fabrication. “Mistress Adair forgot to fill my water pitcher in all the confusion this evening.” In fact, she'd poured the contents into the potted palm by her bedroom window. She pressed on, “I'm thirsty, but I hate to ring for her now that she's asleep. All the servants have been frightfully overworked because of the wedding…but could I trouble you to share some of your…water.”

      
He groaned inwardly.
Sweet Jesus! Water shall truly be my downfall.

      
Her mouth was so dry that the lie must be convincing. Still he made no reply. She thrust the pitcher toward him and he took it but did not move. He was bare chested and barefoot but still wore his trousers. She'd hoped to find him in bed, drowsing, calling out for whoever it was to enter. He did not look sleepy at all. In fact, he looked fiercely wide awake. “I…I could not sleep—for thirst,” she added quickly. Now she was blathering. “I'm terribly sorry to disturb you.” Rachel turned away, humiliated beyond imagining.

      
But before she could beat a cowardly retreat and close the door, he had shoved the pitcher on a table and seized her by her wrist, pulling her around and into his arms. “You have disturbed me from the first moment I met you, Countess,” he said harshly as his mouth descended to hers.

      
He tasted of brandy and sex. Hot and hungry, his tongue plunged deeply, twining with hers. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him in despair…and in joy as his lips continued the onslaught to her senses. Rachel kissed him back with all the fervor her untutored lips and tongue could muster, remembering the other times when his kisses had taught her what to do.

      
She must be doing it well because as he pressed her closer against his body, she could feel his heart slamming beneath the thick muscles of his chest, and that male part of him grow hard and demanding. When he buried his fist in her hair and pulled it, she let her head tilt back, giving him access to the slender column of her throat. He bent her supple spine, raining kisses over her jaw and down to the pulse at the base of her throat.

      
Without knowing she did so, Rachel raised one leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh against the outside of his. He muttered a muffled oath as his mouth followed the heavy folds of lace down the deeply plunging neckline of her night rail, pressing fierce, wet kisses to the tender skin exposed until he reached the vale between her breasts. When he nuzzled there, she moaned and raised her knee higher.

      
His every instinct urged him to sink to the floor with her as they had almost done in her room at Harleigh Hall.
No, do this in a bed, properly
, some voice deep in his head commanded firmly. He swept her up into his arms and carried her into his room. The pale moonlight from the window combined with the flickering of the candle through the open doorway, bathing her in silver-gilt as he laid her on the bed.

      
Her hair spread around her, like a heavy dark cloud on the white pillows. The sheer silk of her night rail molded to the slim curves of her hips and those deliciously long legs. Her breasts were accented by the thick ruffles around the neckline. Rose nipples peeked through the lace. He placed one knee on the mattress and stared down at her, letting his hand caress her arm, running his fingers skittering over her collarbone.

      
Then he paused just short of touching her breast. Marshaling his thoughts, he swallowed and said hoarsely, “If we don't stop now…I won't be able to stop, Rachel.”

      
“We have both wanted this for a very long time, I think…” She raised her arms in entreaty, welcoming him.

      
That was all the invitation he required. There would be no further thought, or self-recrimination about what they were doing…at least not tonight, not while his brandy lubricated brain and body thrummed with desperation to have her to the exclusion of all else. His grandfather and the vast inheritance of Cargrave, the old man's scheming manipulations, even his belief in his and Rachel's utter incompatibility—all evaporated in the passion of the moment.

      
Jason swung his other leg over her and lowered his body on top of hers, supporting his weight on his elbows. He buried his hands in her hair and cradled her head, positioning it for his kisses, raining them across her eyelids, brow, temples, then on to each ear, using the tip of his tongue to graze the small curves until she shivered with delight. His lips moved over her high cheekbones, past the hollows below to the strong lines of her jaw, nibbling small, swift kisses around the edges of her mouth.

      
To Rachel, it felt like butterfly wings, soft, warm, moist, brushing and teasing, delighting her yet leaving her hungry—no, starving. She framed his face with her palms, guiding his lips back to hers, opening her mouth for that sweet invasion. Eagerly he devoured her just as she wished, moaning low into her mouth as she arched up against him and let her tongue answer his.

      
His arms and back were corded with hard muscles that bunched and flexed as he moved over her, slanting his mouth to kiss her even more intensely. She ran her hands over his naked upper body, exploring it as she had wanted to ever since the first time she'd seen him with his shirt hanging indecently open. Her fingers curved around his biceps and then glided over the smooth, heavy muscles of his shoulders. She used the tips of her fingers to touch his spine.

      
Rachel could not get enough of his powerful male body. She could feel the tickle of his chest hair as it brushed the tender skin bared by her low-cut night rail. Her breasts ached, the nipples distended and tingling beneath their cocoon of silk and lace. He tugged on the neckline and freed one milky globe, teasing the nubby tip until she cried out with startled pleasure.

      
Then his tongue traced keen little circles around the aureole before taking the nipple deep into his mouth and suckling on it. She dug her fingers into his hair and urged him on, whimpering when he released his prize, moaning deeply when he pulled the other one free and repeated the process. Rachel clung to him, arching her head backward to raise her breasts for his feasting. She had never imagined anything like this, she who had watched hundreds of foals and calves nurse at their mother's teats.

      
Jason had never tasted anything so sweet. He felt like a starving man brought to a banquet table. Her skin was like silk, her flesh firm and smooth as he loosed the tie of the night rail and peeled it open. He lowered his mouth from her breast and traced a wet pattern with his tongue down to her navel, letting the tip dip into the tiny depression as she writhed beneath him.

      
When his large warm palm flattened against her lower abdomen, Rachel gasped with a wanting so intense that it robbed her of breath. She ached in her woman's place, feeling the pounding of her blood as it pooled low in her belly. The bodice of her night rail was open and the long silk skirt had ridden up high on her thighs. Unable to stop herself, she arched her hips against him, opening her legs and entwining them with his, only dimly aware that they still had the impediment of clothing separating them from the final culmination of their desires.

      
He raised himself up on straight arms and looked down at her, studying the lush curves of her breasts with their rose-brown nipples, the slim indentation of her waist and sleek flair of her hips, which now undulated in unschooled, unconscious invitation. His own body was heavy with wanting, his blood pounding, his breathing harsh as he pulled away from her to remove his trousers.

      
She cried out at the loss of his weight, his heat when he moved. But then she could see that he was unbuttoning his fly. It was quite unseemly of her to watch, but Rachel was far past being aware of propriety. Her eyes fastened on the huge bulge in his breeches as he released the last button and began to peel the tight pants down long, hard legs. When he straightened up and stood before her, she had the first unimpeded view of his naked body.

      
This time he made no attempt to turn away from her curious and hungry eyes. He let her observe the jutting proof of his desire. His heated gaze swept over her as she sat up on the bed, letting the lacy night rail fall free of her shoulders and bunch around her hips. Rachel studied him as boldly as he did her, noting the pattern of black hair that ran from his chest and narrowed as it descended over his flat, hard belly to bloom once again around his thick staff.

      
Wanting to let her hands travel the same course as her eyes, she knelt up and buried her fingers in the hair of his chest. His breath caught sharply when she ran a nail over a tight male nipple. Experimentally she used her other hand to do the same, then ran them together and let them move lower. When she had almost reached her final destination, courage suddenly deserted her, until he spoke in a broken whisper.

      
“Touch me, Rachel.”

Chapter Nineteen

      
Rachel did as he commanded—no, more as he pleaded. She could hear the catch in his voice, the roughness of his entreaty, and a part of her gloried in the fact that he desired her with such desperate hunger. But desire was a double-edged sword. The instant her hand encircled his shaft, the heat of it scalded her. She almost pulled back but could not bear to lose contact with the male essence of him.

      
Jason drew in a deep, shuddering breath and knew that she could feel him trembling, but he was powerless to stop his hips from rocking forward, showing her the motion his body craved. Her smooth hand glided down the slick, hard length, then back up. Excitement inspired inventiveness as her other hand found his sac and cupped it tenderly. His breathing accelerated.