“Spare me your tiresome droning. Travel’s discomforts are surpassed only by its inconveniences. And you are swiftly becoming one of the latter.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew on their journey from Oxford to London.
Harrison’s wife had not spoken a single word in over three hours. And she was on her seventh sigh. They sat beside one another in his coach, traveling the Great North Road for Blackmore Hall in Yorkshire. Although Harrison often preferred silence, hers was broken only by the turning of pages, the rumble of carriage wheels, and that incessant sighing.
He glared down at her short, round nose where it failed to properly hold her small, round spectacles in place. She pushed them up in a now-familiar gesture. Inexplicably, it sparked a flare of heat inside him. Perhaps irritation. Perhaps something more.
Strictly speaking, Jane was everything plain and drab and ignorable—her hair was brown and straight, her eyes brown and wide, her nose too short, her skin more milk than cream, and her figure too plump to be considered beauteous. His eyes dropped to her generously rounded breasts, lovingly outlined by the bodice of her emerald-green traveling gown. Upon further consideration, that trait does have its advantages, he thought.
She sighed again, a subtle grin playing about her lips, which were neither too thin nor too full, too narrow nor too wide. They were simply a set of lips—quite fine, with a slight bow along the upper, but hardly worth noting. Why their slightest quirk or lift or moue should be so bloody riveting, he had no idea.
The carriage jostled through a deep hole, causing them both to sway. Her right hand braced on the wall beside the window frame, then almost immediately returned to grasp her book. Her left hand delicately turned the page, her fingers sliding lovingly over its surface then rising to nudge the edge of her spectacles—again. His mother’s ring winked and flashed in the late-afternoon light.
But that was not what caught his attention. It was her hand—or rather both of her hands. They were exquisite: small, silky, delicate, white. She had removed her gloves because, as she had explained shortly after their departure from Berne House, she preferred to feel the slide of paper beneath her fingertips.
He had nearly groaned. The mere thought of her hands made him restless. Imagining what else she might savor and stroke with those naked hands turned him hard as stone.
Again, the sheer inappropriateness of his thoughts alarmed him. Lust was for mistresses, not wives. He had dismissed Marguerite, his mistress of three years, before he had offered for Jane. Perhaps that had been unwise. He was a man of strong appetites, which Marguerite had previously tended discreetly, regularly, and enthusiastically. After six weeks of abstinence, it only made sense that his hunger might drive him to fixate upon his new wife.
Still, he mustn’t allow the aberrant thoughts to continue. Wives should be shown the utmost care and consideration for their delicate sensibilities. Jane was an innocent. His task would be to introduce her to the marital bed gently and with great restraint.
Certainly, he could not demand that she stroke his cock with those white hands, then take him between her unremarkable lips and deep into her saucy mouth. Nor that she later cup her full, luscious breasts so that he could suckle them until she was soaked between those fleshy thighs.
He gritted his teeth and gripped the leather strap above the window, turning his gaze out to the green, rolling fields of the countryside. The whisper of a turning page followed by her eighth sigh drew him back to her like a lodestone.
“If you desire a more pleasurable amusement than admiring the farmland of Hertfordshire, your grace, I will gladly lend you one of my books,” Jane said without glancing up from her novel. She must have sensed his focus upon her. Perhaps it had caused her discomfort. God knew it had done so for him.
“Fiction, I presume,” he said, his voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Finally, she raised her head to meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“No,” he answered gruffly. “I do not care for novels.”
“Perhaps poetry would be more to your liking.”
“Frivolous nonsense. An utter waste of time.”
Her mouth quirked. “Well, your grace, seeing as you have an overabundance of time to waste at present, perhaps you will gain a new appreciation for fiction. It is a fine distraction, if nothing else.”
He had no answer to her very salient point, and simply glared down at her. Taking his lack of response as agreement, she set her book on the seat next to her, braced a hand on the window frame, and pushed herself up into a stooped position.
What the blazes was she doing?
Turning until her backside faced him, she bent forward and tugged at a basket that apparently had been tucked beneath her feet. “I have just the thing,” she muttered, her round, lush backside bobbing mere inches from his face. “Wordsworth is far too lyrical. What you need is something with vigorous action. Something to get the blood pumping.”
That was it. She was torturing him intentionally.
Her rump bounced and swayed enchantingly as she dug through the basket. He swallowed, unable to turn away, though he knew it was wrong … so very wrong to imagine grasping her hips, raising her emerald-green skirts and showing her just what vigorous action—
“Ah-ha! I knew it was here!” Her left hand stretched out triumphantly, clutching a trio of volumes tied together with a bit of twine. He could make out the word “Waverley” along the faded spine.
Suddenly, the carriage lurched hard, the wheels groaning as they hit one of the deeper craters in the road, throwing Jane off-balance and sending her sprawling backward.
Right into his lap.
She squeaked in alarm. He groaned in surprise.
The instant she fell, his arms automatically wrapped around her waist and across the upper swell of her breasts. Now she was pressed tight, cradled inside the curve of his body. His head lowered against his will until his lips hovered an inch from her milky-white neck. She was all softness. Every. Damn. Inch.
Gritting his teeth and taking a deeper-than-necessary breath, he fought against the agonizing pleasure of her wriggling bottom caressing his cock. This close, her scent filled his lungs, fresh and sweet and warm like the buttered apple tart he remembered from Blackmore Hall’s previous cook.
His mouth watered.
“Oh, dear me. I—I do beg your … oh …” Her breathless rasp sent yet more blood rushing from his head to the highly appreciative part of him celebrating her proximity with unseemly glee.
The carriage rocked again as it trudged through another hole. Fortunately, the abrupt motion jarred him out of his lustful fog long enough for reason to take hold. Clenching his jaw tight, he slid his hands to grip her waist just above her hips, lifted her and set her down next to him, back in her proper place.
“Oh!” she squeaked, her hands brushing over his as he withdrew.
Past all patience, he growled, “Reading does not interest me. Kindly keep your books and your seat.”
“I am sorry, your grace,” she began, straightening her spectacles above flushed cheeks. “It was not my intention to—”
“Regardless, such mishaps are the natural result of improper behavior, a lesson you should be well versed in by now.”
Her face went from blushing to bright red. “I shall bear that in mind.”
“Please do. Now, I would like to sleep. Pray, allow me the courtesy of an hour’s peace and quiet.” With that, he could no longer look at her. Even breathing near her was painful, as her scent still filled his head with its inebriating vapor. He was reeling with it, his senses caught and flailing like a bit of linen on a line, battered by a fierce wind. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, his head lowering in a pretense of sleep, his hand discreetly draping the tails of his coat over his lap. Likely she was too innocent to understand what had been prodding her backside insistently. Even so, he did not wish to answer questions about it.
Although she did not respond to his rebuke immediately, he soon heard the swish and snap of a page turning, along with an under-the-breath retort that sounded suspiciously like, “Try a tomb. Plenty of peace and quiet there, you insufferable …” Her voice trailed off on a fuming sigh, followed by the silence he had requested.
If only this untimely, unsuitable, utterly disastrous desire to leap upon his new wife’s lush body like a ravening wolf could be ended so easily.
*~*~*
Jane attempted mightily to disappear into her book, but it was little use. She had read the same sentence five times and scarcely a word of it resembled English.
Blast. It was that man. Her husband.
She slanted him a narrow-eyed glance. He was hunched away from her, pretending to sleep. His hair glinted in the fading light, light brown at the roots, burnished gold at the tips. It was slightly darker and more ashen than Victoria’s, but perhaps that was because it was cropped short. Had he grown it long, likely the gold would take precedence. She let her eyes slide down over his jaw. It was like a blade, so crisp and hard. He was, in fact, hard everywhere. His shoulders. His chest. His thighs. Those, especially. When one viewed him from a distance, he appeared lean and elegant. But when one drew close, he was a good bit larger and more imposing, broader of shoulder, thicker of arm.
How could such a beautiful man hide such a frigid and rigid soul?
It had been utterly unnecessary to react so harshly to her overture and subsequent tumble. She’d been trying to do the man a favor, as he had been alternately gazing out the window and then down at her for nearly three hours. Clearly, he had been languishing in boredom if he’d been attempting to read her book over her shoulder. That must have been what he’d been about, because she could not fathom any other motivation for his palpable staring. Finally, the heated chills of his gaze grew unbearable, so she had offered him a book of his own.
A simple courtesy. Any polite person would do the same. But did he see it as such? Certainly not! The Ice King could not sully his pristine mind with the low romanticism of novels. Perish the thought! Aside from his literary snobbery, he had blown her little tumble entirely out of proportion. How was she to know that patch of road would be full of holes and ruts?
She turned another page, just so he would not suspect she was fuming. In need of an outlet for her outrage, she began planning a letter to his sister, who was woefully misguided when it came to the duke’s character: Dearest Victoria, she would write. I fear you are woefully misguided as to your brother’s character. Permit me to enlighten you: Far from kind, he is both curmudgeonly and rude. Lady Wallingham is kinder. The proprietor of Norton’s Bookshop is kinder. I suspect even Monsieur Bonaparte is kinder. When I offered him a book to pass the time on this interminable journey, his response was to shout me into silence.
She paused, reconsidering her description.
Well, in fairness, perhaps “shout” is overstating it slightly. Blackmore never shouts, does he? That, too, is an annoyance. He is ever cold and quiet and cutting.
Shaking her head, she attempted to resume her original point.
That is a complaint for another day. This day, I shall demonstrate his penchant for rigidity. When I tumbled into his arms—
Oh, dear. That did not sound right.
—quite by accident, mind you—
There, that was better.
—do you know what he did? After holding me rather firmly for a good while, he set me back onto my seat as effortlessly as he would transfer a basket of turnips! Can you imagine? Lift and plop, as though I were an infant, not a full-grown woman a trifle over-fond of cream and sugar.
She paused, recalling the feel of his muscled arms around her, his hard chest behind her, and his hard, hard thighs beneath her. He had wrapped her up, tucked her into himself, his warm breath on her neck. She had scarcely dared breathe—in fact had not for several seconds—as the most peculiar sensations had washed over her.
The feeling of his arms about me was extraordinary, I must say, she continued. Rather like standing beneath the ripe sun of late summer, watching a hundred swans suddenly take flight from a golden field. It rushes over your skin, both spark and tingle. A springle, if you will.
She snickered a bit at her newly invented word then eyed Blackmore cautiously. He remained oblivious. So much the better.
Quite unlike anything I have ever known. And then, to transfer my not-insubstantial person without so much as a breath of exertion! He is freakishly strong, your brother. I find it both disturbing and intriguing. What is wrong with me, Victoria?
Shifting in her seat, she swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit parched. A tad overheated. A trifle nostalgic for an open carriage where a cool breeze could usher away her sudden flush. Perhaps she would revise the letter before posting it. Yes, a fair and thorough analysis of Blackmore’s character required much closer examination. For accuracy’s sake, of course.
*~*~*