With a nod, he went through the door, shutting it firmly behind him.
Slightly breathless, Lenore eyed the door. Presumably, it led to his chamber. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. At least she would not have to endure a formal dinner, facing him over the length of a long polished board with doting servants hovering on their every word. But would that have put off his unnerving “later” for longer?
With a determined wriggle of her shoulders, Lenore shook aside her silly trepidations. She was hardly a missish deb, fresh from the schoolroom.
Crossing to the mantelpiece, she examined the delicately embroidered bell-pull. Then, with a determined tug, she rang for Trencher.
CHAPTER NINE
“YOU’D BEST COME OUT now, miss—I mean, Y’r Grace, or you’ll go all crinkly.”
Lazily, Lenore opened her eyes, squinting through the steam still rising off her bathwater. “In a moment.” Closing her eyes, she tried to recapture her dozy, carefree mood but Trencher’s words had been well chosen. With a resigned sigh, Lenore sat up.
Trencher hurried to tip the extra bucket, left to keep warm by the fire, over her as she stood, water coursing down her ivory limbs. Rinsed, she stepped from the large tub. Once she was dry, Lenore shrugged on the soft silk robe Trencher held out and headed through the door to her bedchamber. Trencher went to the bell-pull, summoning the menservants to empty the bath, then hurried through after her, shutting the connecting door firmly.
Relaxed, Lenore sat before her dressing-table to brush free the long strands of her hair, washed and towelled dry earlier. As she worked through the tangles, she watched Trencher, reflected in the mirror, laying out an ivory silk nightgown and peignoir on the bed. Ivory silk? Lenore turned. “Not that one, Trencher.”
Trencher cast her an anxious glance. “But Y’r Grace, His Grace asked that you wear it tonight.”
With an exasperated grimace, Lenore ceased her brushing. What now? Rebel and cause an embarrassing and potentially difficult scene? Or capitulate—just this once? The thought of trying to explain to Eversleigh why she had chosen not to humour him decided the matter.
“Very well.” Lenore resumed her brushing, relegating her choice of nightwear to the realms of the unimportant.
Relieved, Trencher hurried to help her with her hair. When the tresses were gleaming like polished gold, sleek and silky on her shoulders, Lenore stood and allowed Trencher to help her into the nightgown. With a distinctly jaundiced eye, she viewed the result in her glass. In Roman fashion, the gown featured a deeply plunging neckline, the two sides of the bodice meeting at the point below her breasts where the raised waistline was gathered in by a silken tie. Sleeveless, with its skirts falling to the floor, the nightgown was otherwise unremarkable. Until she moved. Then, the side slits, from high on her thighs all the way to the floor, became apparent. Studying the effect, Lenore shook her head.
Silently, she held out her hand for the peignoir. Of the flimsiest silk gauze, it hid nothing; rather, seen through its shimmering veil, her long bare limbs took on an even more alluring quality.
Catching sight of Trencher’s awed face in the mirror, Lenore reflected that, at least for her maid, the evening was living up to expectations. “Leave me now.” As an afterthought, she added, as nonchalantly as she could, “I’ll ring for you when I need you in the morning.”
Watching the door shut behind Trencher, Lenore shook her shoulders to dispel the panic hovering, waiting to pounce, if only she would let it into her mind.
Dinner, a deliciously delicate meal, had been served to her in the adjoining sitting-room; all that remained now was to wait. Trying not to think, she dispensed with the peignoir and climbed into bed, feeling the soft mattress settle under her, the silk sheets whispering against her skin. A long shiver shook her from her shoulders to her heels. After considering the possibilities, she plumped up the pillows and settled against them, a wary eye on the door to her husband’s room. In an effort to distract her mind, she dutifully studied all the pieces of furniture she could see from her perch, mentally cataloguing them, then went about the room again, doing the same with the ornaments. Finally, her eyes fastening on the clock on the mantelpiece, she realised she had no idea when “later” was.
And if she sat here for much longer, wondering, she would be a nervous wreck by the time her husband came in. With a disgusted grimace for her inner quaking, Lenore reached for the book on her bedside table.
There was nothing there.
Frustrated, she glanced about. Other items from the trunk which should have carried her current reading had also yet to appear. With a groan, Lenore fell back on her pillows. Condemned to wait in steadily growing nervousness for her husband.
Abruptly, she sat up. An instant later, she was out of bed, grimacing as she hauled on her totally inadequate peignoir. Looking around, she spotted the high-heeled slippers that went with the outfit, placed side by side just under the bed. Lenore looked hard at the heels, then left them where they were.
Easing open her door, she strained her ears but heard nothing. Fervently hoping all the servants were safely behind the green baize door, she tiptoed down the corridor and slowly descended the stairs. Feeling very like a wraith in her filmy garments, Lenore slipped along the corridors and through the unlighted rooms, heading unerringly for the library. Gaining the large room, she closed the door carefully behind her.
The fire had gone out but the curtains had not been drawn, allowing the moonlight to spill in through the large square-paned windows. It was no great feat to kindle a match and light the branch of candles left on the table by the fireplace. Feeling her tension ebb as she looked about her, Lenore started towards the nearest bookcase.
She had only meant to spend a moment selecting a suitable volume, but, as the wavering light of the candle revealed find after exciting find, Lenore ignored her freezing feet and the chill that had started to penetrate her thin gown. The thrill of discovery lured her from shelf to shelf. She was leaving one bookcase to pass to the next, when she walked straight into a large body.
Lenore screamed and recoiled, raising the candlestick high.
Simultaneously, Jason reached for the candlestick. As he took it from her slack grasp, hot wax fell on his hand. Swallowing a yelp, he swore beneath his breath. Glaring at his wife, he transferred the candles to his other hand but before he could tend to the wax, cooling rapidly, Lenore had caught his hand between hers and was brushing the wax away.
“What a silly thing to do!” She examined the small burn, then licked her finger and applied it to the spot. “I wouldn’t have burnt the books.”
“It wasn’t the books I was worried about.”
Jason’s tone jerked Lenore back to reality with a stomach-seizing thump. “Oh.” Carefully, she glanced up through her lashes. Her husband’s handsome face bore an expression of unflinching determination. Which was far from reassuring, especially when coupled with the silver gleam in his eyes.
Assuming that realisation of her shortcomings had tied her tongue, Jason hauled back on the reins of his temper. “Would you mind explaining, madam wife, just what you’re about?”
“I was looking for a book,” Lenore replied warily.
“Why?”
“Well…I usually read before I go to sleep. Trencher has yet to unpack my books so I thought I might borrow one from here.” As she tendered her perfectly reasonable explanation, Lenore noticed her husband was fully dressed, a handkerchief knotted about this throat as if he was going riding. Perhaps later was a great deal later. “But don’t let me disturb you,” she said, a touch of haughtiness creeping into her tone as she wrestled with unexpected disappointment. “I’m sure I can find my way back to my room.”
Jason shut his eyes. After a long moment, he opened them, fixed his errant wife with a steely stare and enunciated slowly, “First, as of today, all these books are yours—you don’t need to ‘borrow’ them. Second, you won’t need any bedtime reading—not for the foreseeable future. Third,
you have already disturbed me—greatly! And as for my letting you find your way back to your room alone—when pigs fly, my dear.”
Stunned, Lenore stared at him.
Reaching out, Jason wrapped his fingers about her wrist. Without more ado he headed for the door, dragging her along behind him. He had entered her room to find her gone. Vanished. Without trace. In the worst panic of his life, he had thrown on his clothes and rushed downstairs, straight out of the morning-room windows heading for the stables, convinced for some reason that she had bolted. In the heat of the moment, he had wondered if insisting she wear that outrageous nightgown had been one arrogant step too many. But, traversing the terrace that ran along the front of the house, he had passed the library windows. And seen the wavering candlelight flitting from bookshelf to bookshelf.
Pausing to thump the candlestick down on a table and snuff the candles with licked fingers, Jason realised he could hear the ring of his boot-heels on the flags but no sound at all from Lenore. Puzzled, he glanced down at her feet. “Where the devil are your slippers?”
His irritated tone penetrated Lenore’s shocked daze. Her chin rose. “I did not wish to attract the attention of the servants, my lord.”
“Jason. And why the hell not? They’re your servants.”
Lenore abandoned her attitude of superiority to glare at him. “I would not feel the least comfortable being sighted by the staff in my present state of dress.”
Jason glared back. “Your present dress was not designed to be worn in a library.” Her comment, however, focused his attention on what he had been trying not to notice—how very alluring his wife looked in diaphanous silk backlit by moonlight.
“Jason!” Lenore squealed as she felt herself hoisted into his arms. “My lord!” she hissed, as he strode purposefully towards the door. He paid no attention. “For God’s sake, Jason, put me down. What if the servants see us?”
“What if they do? I married you this morning, if you recall.”
He kicked the half-open door wide and strode through. Lenore clung to him, her arms about his neck. It was distinctly unnerving to be carried along so effortlessly.
As Jason passed the front door, he sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenwards. If he had not sighted the candleflame in the library, he would have roused the whole household to look for his wandering bride. The commiserating looks from his footmen would have driven him insane.
She was driving him insane.
Sensing that she had teased his temper to a degree where conciliation might prove wise, Lenore remained silent as she was carried up the stairs. But at the top, Jason turned to the left.
“My lord—er—Jason. My room—it’s the other way.” Assuming he had simply forgotten, she pointed out this fact without undue fuss.
“I know.”
Panic clutched her stomach. “Where are you taking me?” With bated breath, she awaited his answer.
Jason stopped and juggled her to open a door. “I rather thought I’d have you in my bed tonight.”
His conversational tone did not convince Lenore that his phrasing was anything other than intentional. But it was too late for panic. The door of his room clicked shut behind them.
And before her loomed the largest four-poster bed she had ever seen.
Jason strode across the thick carpet and, standing her briefly on her feet by the bed, divested her of her peignoir before depositing her on the silken coverlet.
Lenore made no sound—her throat had seized. She watched as Jason stalked to the other side of the bed, whipping off his neckerchief and flinging it aside. As he sat down on the bed to pull off his boots, curiosity got the better of trepidation. “Aren’t you going out?”
His second boot hit the floor. Jason turned and stared at her for a moment, then stood and pulled his shirt from his breeches. “I’m not dressed like this for visiting the neighbours. These are my wife-hunting clothes.”
The truth dawned on Lenore. She choked, panic and embarrassment laying siege to her tongue. She watched as he peeled off his shirt, dropping it on the floor. Her eyes stretched wide; her heart started to thud. When his hands fell to his waistband, she decided she had seen enough.
Hearing rustling, Jason glanced up to discover his twenty-four-year-old bride had disappeared beneath the bedclothes. “For God’s sake, Lenore! You’ve got three brothers.”
“You are not my brother,” came distinctly from the lump in the bed.
Jason’s sense of humour, sternly suppressed for the past ten minutes, very nearly got the better of him. Quickly, he finished undressing and slid into the bed beside her. She was wrapped in the coverlet, facing the other way. Propped on one elbow behind her, he considered his options.
Frozen, Lenore wondered, with what little mind was left to her, what he would do.
He pinched her bottom.
“Ow!” Incensed, she rounded on him.
And found herself in his arms. Panic flared, only to be submerged by an even more frightening anticipation as he drew her closer. Lenore strove to distract them both. “That hurt!” She tried to glare but, finding his eyes coming closer and closer, she had difficulty focusing.
“Perhaps I should soothe it with a kiss?” Jason murmured, his lips curving as they gently touched hers.
Lenore froze, her wide-eyed stare telling him more clearly than words how scandalous she found his suggestion.
Jason raised a brow. “No?” He sighed dramatically, then bent to feather another kiss across her lips. “Perhaps later.”
Later? Regardless of his prowess, Lenore did not think so. She tried to shake her head to deny it all—her feelings, his words, the excitement she could feel rising inside her—but one of his hands framed her jaw. He surged up, leaning over her. Then his lips settled firmly on hers.
Lenore’s lids fluttered shut, all thought suspended.
She had not known quite what to expect—more of the magic she had felt in the Lester Hall library, certainly—but was there anything that could surpass that for sheer delight?
In the long moments of her wedding-night, she learned that, indeed, there was.
To Jason, those same long moments were the culmination of an unusually long courtship—he had never waited for a woman so long. Nor, to his secret amazement, had he ever wanted a woman so much. Introducing his wife to the pleasures of the flesh was a prize he had promised himself, a prize he had actively sought, a prize he had every intention of savouring. To the full. He did not rush her, seeking instead her active participation at every stage along the course he had charted—the longest route he could find to fulfilment. When he slipped her nightgown from her, dropping it over the side of the bed, he was conscious of a sense of wonder, of awe, that all he saw was now his—not conquered but given—a prize beyond price.
She moved sensuously on the sheets, as if savouring the feel of the silk against her smooth skin. He reached his hands into her hair, spreading his fingers and drawing them free, letting the long tresses fall like spun gold across the pillows.
From under heavy lids, Lenore studied his face, recognising the desire and need etched in his shimmering eyes. The realisation fed the flame that burned steadily inside her. She arched lightly, pressing her breast to his wandering hand. He smiled and bent his head. Pleasure streaked through her, leaving her gasping. She heard him chuckle. Lacing her fingers into his hair, she tugged gently, until he looked up, then drew his lips to hers.
He taught her the ways of kissing, how to meet him halfway. He taught her to feel no shame in her wild response to his most explicit caress. His hands were like a conjuror’s, roaming her fevered skin, seeking out each secret spot and stroking it to life. His kisses reassured and excited, beckoning her forever onwards, down the path of her desire. She clung to him, seduced by the feel of hard muscle shifting beneath her small hands. And when, after what seemed like an eternity of travelling through a landscape of pleasure, he joined with her to climb the last passionate heights, she learned what it was to soar freer than
air, to blaze brighter than the sun before, consumed in the starburst of heightened pleasure, she became selfless, only aware of his heartbeat and hers, mingled, the essence of life.
Slowly, like a vessel refilling, her overloaded senses returned. Sated, sleepy, she returned his soft kisses, barely aware of his murmured praises. When he drew her against him, Lenore smiled to herself, an unconscious self-satisfied smile, then settled, fulfilled and content, by his side.
A CREAK WOKE Lenore. Puzzled, she blinked and tried to sit up, only to find a heavy weight across her waist. Struggling around, she gasped as her eyes met her husband’s sleepy gray gaze—and she remembered, simultaneously, where she was, who she was with, how she came to be there and what had happened. A strangled sound, half surprise, half embarrassment, escaped her.
“Hush!”
One large hand came to cradle her head, gently pressing her back to the pillows.
“Moggs—get out.”
For an instant, stunned silence greeted this order. Then Lenore heard the bedroom door click quietly shut.
Jason caught his wife’s gaze, and tried to keep his lips straight as he explained. “You’ll have to excuse Moggs. Doubtless he thought I was alone.”
“Oh.” That was all Lenore could manage. She did not have her nightgown on. And he did not have a nightshirt on either.
The effect of her discovery was written in her large eyes, palest peridot, bright and clear. Jason read the message, his lips curved in anticipation.
Some vague idea that this was now how things should be—that she should, by rights, have been in her own bed and he in his by dawn—drifted into Lenore’s mind. And then out, as his lips claimed hers and the memory of the night’s shared pleasures drew her into the sweet vortex again.
It was hours before she rang for Trencher.