“Unfortunately, we are not permitted to choose who shares our bloodline. If we were, this would be infinitely easier.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, during a discussion of her nephew’s unsuitability to inherit the title of Marquess of Wallingham.
Jane hugged herself and paced inside the lovely green confines of the duchess’s chamber. Glancing at the ormolu clock on the marble mantel, she noted that it had been over an hour since Harrison had stalked away, his demeanor darker and more thunderous than she had yet witnessed.
After Colin had appeared by the river, her husband had ordered her to remain on the blanket while he strode up the incline to meet his brother. They’d exchanged a few sentences—none of which she could hear—and before she could gather her wits to approach, Colin had turned his horse and headed for Blackmore Hall.
When Harrison had returned to her side, he’d immediately begun repacking the basket, his expression hard and remote. To her numerous questions, he’d said only, “We shall discuss it later, Jane.”
On their return trek to the house, his jaw had been locked, his strides swift and long. She’d been forced to trot to keep up. Every so often, he had glanced back at her and slowed, but his thoughts were obviously tangled by Colin’s sudden appearance. By the time they had climbed the steps of the rear terrace and entered the south hall, both Jane’s breath and Harrison’s patience had fled, and he’d taken only a moment to bark in her direction, “Wait for me in your bedchamber. I will join you there within an hour.”
Now, left with little choice but to comply, she had paced here in her room, waiting as he had asked. Or, rather, demanded. She had composed at least three letters to Victoria in her mind, but nothing had eased her fretfulness.
“I must find him,” she murmured to herself. After all, who knew what might have happened? Harrison could have killed Colin by now. A trill of alarm tripped down her spine. He was a very controlled man, but she had never seen him quite like this.
Spurred by a growing urgency, she hurried to the chamber door and threw it open. She gasped and stumbled back.
He was there. On the other side of the door. Looming, frowning, his hand raised to grasp the knob. “Where are you off to, wife? I believe I told you to wait for me here.”
Huffing indignantly, she planted her hands on her hips. “You are late.”
He crowded close, forcing her to back into the room, and shut the door behind him. “Colin and I had much to discuss.”
His face was solemn and weary, his mouth flat. But he smelled the same, like fresh air and sunlight. His nearness weakened her bones. As he brushed past her to sink tiredly into an ivory cushioned chair, she breathed to clear her senses. “And?”
“He will stay here tonight. After that, I have asked him to leave.”
“Why would you do that?”
His brows lowered further. “You wish me to turn him out immediately?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot, Jane, even for you.”
“For me? No. I am asking why he should not stay longer.”
Sharpening and solidifying like ice forming on a lake, his eyes locked on her as thick silence bloomed between them. Her statement had transformed him. She did not understand it. But she felt it, as cold and raging as a howler from the North Sea. “He tried to ruin you,” he said, his voice silken and hushed.
Her skin prickled with a primitive urge to back away. She remained still, instead saying truthfully, “He deceived me, but equally, I deceived myself. The final choice was mine, not his.”
Pushing himself from the chair, causing the wood to creak, Harrison rose to his full height. He came toward her, a volatile presence with the eyes of a stranger. “Why do you defend him?”
“It is not a defense. It is what happened.”
“He lured you to Milton’s house where he and his blackguard friends lay in wait.”
“Yes, I remem—”
“He subjected you to their jeers and their insults. He allowed them to surround you like a pack of feral dogs. It wasn’t only your reputation at risk that night, Jane.”
She swallowed, feeling the blood flee from her face. “I know. I was there.”
“Do you know what he stood to gain from that little farce?”
She shook her head.
“A thousand pounds.”
It was an obscene amount. Most did not see such a sum in an entire year.
“To him, that constituted a fair trade for placing you and your reputation in very real danger. This is the man you consider worthy of your loyalty.”
“You do not need to remind me of what occurred that night. I recall very well. And you are right—I do not owe him loyalty, nor am I excusing his deplorable actions.”
With each statement, her husband had advanced toward her, step by slow step. But at this, he paused. The ice encasing him seemed to thaw just a bit at her reassurance. Perhaps it had been her admission that he was right. That tactic had always disarmed Genie during her tantrums.
Taking care not to allow her irritation to show, she continued evenly, “Harrison, like it or not, he is your brother. The fact that he came here, knowing how he would be received, indicates his situation is quite desperate.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, his nose flaring. Suddenly, he turned away from her, his hands clasping behind his back, and paced to the opposite end of the room and back again. “He needs funds,” he said flatly.
She frowned. “More than a thousand pounds?”
Without looking at her, he replied, “The wager did not produce the full amount.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The reason is not important—”
“Then it should not be difficult to explain.”
She could see he did not want to tell her. He continued to pace, making her dizzy. Finally, he halted in front of her and squared his shoulders. “Those who participated in the wager have been persuaded to repent of their actions. Many have denied the events of that night took place at all.”
Slowly, she approached him. His eyes tracked her cautiously until she halted within inches, tilting her head back to get a better look. As she examined her husband’s hardened features, she realized what he had just told her was, in fact, a confession—one he had not wanted to give. The truth of what he had done for her caused her heart to squeeze painfully. “That is why the gossip waned so quickly, is it not? You threatened them, and they recanted.”
“I could scarcely allow those vermin to revel in your destruction, much less to profit from it.”
He stood stiffly, his chin raised as if he fully expected her to castigate him.
But she had no such intention. Without warning, she slid her arms beneath his coat and locked them around his waist. She laid her cheek over the linen of his cravat, closed her eyes against the sudden threat of tears, and held him as tightly as she could.
At first, he did not react, standing still as stone. Then, she felt his arms come around her, gently cradling her against him.
Victoria had been right. He was easily the most honorable man she had ever known, his kindness not the easy sort, but rather the most profound. Harrison—her Harrison—had protected a woman he barely knew, shielded her not only with his name, but with every weapon at his disposal. Before he’d had any cause to feel the slightest affection for her, he had placed himself between her and the consequences of her stupidity.
Gripping him tighter, fisting the silken cloth of his waistcoat at the small of his back, she fought the ache rising from her chest into her throat. When she spoke, her voice was a muffled rasp. “Thank you.” In her mind, she finished the thought, though she could not yet speak it. Thank you, my love.
His arms tightened, his strong hand stroking her back, then sliding down to curve over her bottom, his long fingers pressing the cloth of her skirts high against the juncture of her thighs, where she was already beginning to weep for him. His other hand rose to draw tiny circles on her nape with his nimble, hypnotic fingers. “Gratitude is not what I need from you, wife.”
Gracious, he was potent. Her breath quickened, her thighs squeezing. She lifted her eyes. “What do you need?”
In answer to her throaty question, he pulled her mouth up to meet his. His tongue immediately slid inside, deliberately pulsing against hers in a rhythm familiar yet more aggressive than before, as though he needed to stake a claim. The hand at her nape moved between them to cup and squeeze her breast, lightly pinching her nipple through layers of fabric, sending shockwaves of pleasure arcing through her. The rich ache around her heart transformed and melted, softening for him, heating her from the inside out.
“I need you,” he panted, pulling away only long enough to answer before plunging back in to continue ravishing her mouth. Using his grip on her buttocks, he lifted her until one of her knees came up along his hip. He bent his knees so he could grind his rock-hard staff against her.
Meanwhile, she desperately gripped his head, tore at his cravat, moaned her desire into his mouth. If he needed her, it could not possibly be more than she needed him—his naked skin against hers, his cock filling her emptiness. She wanted to melt completely and become part of him. She wanted to absorb him into her so they could never be separated.
By the time both of them were naked, the dark-blue silk of her dress was hopelessly mangled on the floor. They barely made it to the bed. He carried her only as far as the foot of it, laying her flat with her hips positioned at its edge. The coverlet was cool against her back, but she didn’t feel it.
She couldn’t. There was only him.
Immediately, he dropped to his knees, his lean, delicious hands sliding along the outside of her thighs, gripping them and hooking her legs over his shoulders. Then, he began to feast. His tongue parted her slick, weeping folds with a single swipe, circling around the small, sensitive nubbin at the center of her pleasure. She writhed at the building strain of so many sensations coalescing in one small place—the warm, slick tongue dancing against her, pleasuring and stroking, then delving inside her needy sheath before returning to its center to tease and torment.
Hard hands gripped her hips to hold her still.
She clawed at his head, begging for more.
Instead, he pulled away.
Too soon. It was too soon. “Harrison, please,” she whimpered.
His answer was to rise, letting her legs fall to flank his waist. He forced them to splay wide, looking like the golden god she had once dubbed him. His eyes dropped to the wet, dark-veiled core of her, flaring with lust, then slid upward over her swollen breasts with their achingly hard nipples.
“I want to see your hands, Jane.” His command was raw, his eyes fierce in the firelight. “Touch your nipples with those beautiful hands while I take what is mine.”
The words made her moan and arch her back, gripping the blanket beneath her and squeezing with her legs.
Gently, he clasped first one wrist then the other, lifting her arms and laying her hands on her breasts. “Go on,” he said. “Show me your pleasure.”
Uncertain at first, she nevertheless obeyed, cupping her breasts and slowly running her fingers over her feverishly tight nipples. The sensations were not as pleasing as when he suckled them, but as she witnessed the ferocious satisfaction in his eyes, she grew bolder, squeezing her nipples between her fingers, surprising herself when the sensations intensified exponentially.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Just like that.”
He leaned over her, hooking her legs on his hips, wrapping them tightly around him, and slid his hard, thick cock deep inside its home. They both groaned at the rightness of it, the feeling of fullness and completion. Then he began to move, driving inside her with fierce, almost violent thrusts that rocked and jostled her body. Automatically, her hands squeezed her breasts, trying to appease them as they ached and pouted for his mouth.
But he was not giving her his mouth. He was giving her his cock—deep and hard, pushing her knees higher so he could pound into her core unfettered. The heat of their joining grew unbearable, her sheath clenching and seizing with every thrust, almost unable to keep up with the relentless rhythm.
Without warning, the fiery coil let loose, causing her to arch and sob his name as the unraveling ecstasy took her in its grip with wild, unexpected force and flung her upon the crest of wave after wave after wave. She seized upon him, her body milking and demanding as it spasmed again and again. In the next breath, he plunged thrice more and followed her into the same deep waters, growling her name, his body shaking uncontrollably and collapsing upon her with its precious weight.
She clung to his neck, her heart pounding, her throat closing with the beauty of it.
She loved him.
That was all she knew.
She loved him. And its power left her quaking like the last leaf of autumn.
*~*~*
Hours later, Jane lay in her bed, her husband fitted around her body like a glove over her hand. One strong, muscled arm was hooked beneath her head and across the front of her shoulders; the other banded her waist, pulling her hips back into his. His thigh rode high between hers, his cock nestled along the crease of her backside, quiescent for now. His breath stirred across her cheek, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her back as comforting as a lullaby.
She adored sleeping naked with Harrison.
But tonight, she could not sleep. Could scarcely breathe.
What had she done? The answer came quickly: You fell in love with your husband, you ninny.
How could she be so daft? That answer was not forthcoming.
Carefully, she untangled herself from his grasp, moving slowly so as not to awaken him. She left the bed, pausing long enough to don her spectacles, then her nightdress, dressing gown, and slippers. Padding to the door, she glanced back at her husband, his big, long body a silvery outline in the moonlight. Her eyes lingered over his face—the patrician brow that often pulled into a frown of consternation; the beauteous cheekbones and refined nose; the crisp jaw that was home to his proud chin and clever mouth. She sighed, overwhelmed by an emotion she had never before experienced: a head-spinning blend of pure adoration and intense longing.
Before she could give in to it and run back to his arms, she turned the knob she’d been gripping and slipped out into the corridor. Thankfully, the servants had left a taper or two burning, so she easily found her way to the stairs. Perhaps a good book would distract her long enough for her mind to settle.
Three faint, forlorn notes of music drifted up to meet her as she descended. She stopped midway down, listening. They came again. She headed for the music room.
That was where she found him—seated at the pianoforte, plucking at the keys. A lantern’s light played over his golden curls and loose linen shirt.
“Colin.”
He froze, the minor chord hanging in the air between them. Then he faced her.
She gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “You look dreadful.”
A grin that was more akin to a grimace twisted his gaunt features. “Never did mince words, did you, Lady Jane?” He closed his eyes for a moment then blinked them open again. “Your grace. It is your grace, now. Forgive me.”
“What happened to you?”
His face was sunken and weathered, his eyes dull and defeated. “I shall save that tale of woe for someone I have not wronged so grievously.” He turned back to the keys and stared down as if he did not remember how to play.
“Colin,” she said softly. “Am I not deserving of the truth?”
“Of course you are. You deserve much better than anything I could ever give you.”
It was an echo of the old Colin. The friend she remembered. “Then tell me what happened.”
His shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath, his hand rubbing at his forehead. “I brought it all down upon myself. A disaster. I am a bloody disaster.”
She moved closer to him, hugging herself against a sudden chill. “Stop. Just explain what happened.”
“A girl fell in love with me. But I did not love her in return. How could I? My entire life, I have loved only myself.”
She waited as he wrestled with the confession, his hands clenching on the edge of the pianoforte.
“I ignored her pleas. Burned her letters. She was … fragile.” His voice deepened, twisting at the pain of the next few words. “She took her own life. And that of the child in her belly. My child.”
Jane felt sick. Victoria had hinted that Colin had done something unforgivable, but she hadn’t gone into detail.
“The girl’s brother believed Harrison was her lover. He accused him of it, of abandoning her. Harrison had no idea what the man was talking about, and said as much. They fought a duel. Harrison killed him.”
Jane breathed out slowly with the revelation. Everyone knew about the duel from two years ago, though few spoke of it, and none knew why it had occurred. “Atherbourne.”
“Yes. I was the reason for her death. I was the reason Atherbourne challenged my brother. I was the one who kept silent while Harrison was forced to defend his honor.”
She groaned and swiped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, good heavens. Victoria.”
He barked a mirthless laugh. “She suffered, too, because of me. Lucien Wyatt used her to take revenge for his brother’s death. It is only by sheer good fortune that she and the new Viscount Atherbourne came to have affection for one another. Of course, I have not precisely been invited for Christmas pudding, but Harrison tells me they are happy in their marriage. For that, I am thankful.”
Shaking her head, she clarified, “All of this occurred over a year ago.”
He nodded. “That was when Harrison cut off my funds.”
Ahh. Yes. Now they were getting somewhere.
His voice grew tired, his words sliding together a bit. “Could no longer afford brandy, or much else, for that matter. The drinking ceased by necessity. But I had nothing to live on. I had always been a hand at the tables, and for a while, gaming sustained me.”
“Until it didn’t,” she said.
“Precisely.”
“So, you have gaming debts.”
He laughed silently, his shoulders shaking. “Let it suffice to say I owe a great deal of money to a very dangerous man. And he does not accept less than full payment.”
Eyeing her husband’s brother, she noted his shirt was stained and torn, his body thin and weakened. He looked frayed to the point of breaking. “How long have you been running, Colin?”
“What month is it?”
“July.”
“Two months. God, two bloody months.”
She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “This man to whom you owe the debt, why would he pursue you to such a degree? Certainly, he will collect nothing if you are dead. Why would he not accept a partial payment?”
He winced visibly, turning on the bench and leaning his elbow on the keys, sending forth a discordant noise. Again, he rubbed his head and ended by cradling it in his hand. “You misunderstand. He will not kill me, at least not straight away.”
Her scalp prickled in forewarning. “Then, what?”
“He will keep me for a while, cutting off bits here and there to send to Harrison, who will be forced to pay my debt, along with a substantial fee for the trouble involved.”
She felt her gorge rise. Truly, she feared she would vomit right then and there.
“Oh, bloody hell, Jane, I’m sorry. I should never have told you that.”
Putting up a hand to halt his stumbling apology, she swallowed down the nausea, breathing deeply and evenly to force it to abate. “This—” She swallowed again. “This is why you needed the wager. Why you deceived me.”
A long silence greeted her question. Then, he answered, “What I did to you … I shall regret it for the rest of my ill-begotten existence. I would beg your forgiveness, but I do not deserve it.”
Dropping her gaze to the floor, she wrestled with the memories of Colin before the betrayal. His warm regard, his humor and ease with her. He had been her friend. Until he wasn’t. “Did you …?” She took a deep breath and started over in a small voice. “Was any of it real, Colin?”
He sighed deeply. “I liked you very much. Too much. At the beginning, when I approached you in the bookshop, the wager was harmless enough: a stroll in the park with Jane Huxley. Simple. My plan was to complete the terms within the week and collect enough to keep me at the tables. Once I conversed with you, I began to regret involving you in such a devious enterprise, and so I delayed. By the time I realized how dire was the threat from the man holding my marker, the wager had grown in size and complexity.”
“And it became your way out.”
His smile was filled with self-loathing. “To my utter shame, yes. I excused it by convincing myself that no one ever need know, that you might feel a bit embarrassed by the adventure, and certainly betrayed, but the men involved would maintain secrecy so as not to be associated with such a reprehensible wager.”
She raised a brow. “You presumed this about Lord Milton and Sir Christopher Flatmouth and—”
“Yes, it was daft. My thoughts were quite muddled by panic, I’m afraid. Additionally, that was before they insisted on being present to witness the deed at Milton’s house. By then, I had nothing to pay them should I fail in my task. And if I reneged, they would complain loudly about it, which would expose you to ridicule.”
“So, instead, you exposed me to ruination. Or worse.”
He looked away from her, staring across at the shadows on the other side of the room. “Apart from my role in Marissa Wyatt’s death, that night is my greatest regret, Jane. I swear this to you.”
Sighing, she moved to stand next to him at the pianoforte, lightly picking at the keys on the upper end of the scale. “Have you ever met my brother John, by chance?”
He turned to look at her hands, but would not meet her eyes. “We were at school together. Eton.”
“One summer, John thought it would be great fun to drive our neighbor’s phaeton. He piled three of us girls in the vehicle with him, and off we went, squealing and laughing. The problem was John had never before driven a phaeton. As the carriage moved faster and faster, we began to fret. John panicked, losing control and veering into a hedgerow. We were thrown when the phaeton overturned. Fortunately, no one was injured.” She paused. “Well, Maureen’s wrist was sore, and John’s nose bloodied a bit. In any event, when we confessed to Papa, do you know what he said?”
“Bloody hell?”
She chuckled. “No. He said experience has a way of teaching us lessons that no admonition can ever duplicate.”
“Hmm. At what point did he unveil the rod?”
Shaking her head, she grinned at him, her fingers absently plucking at the keys as he began harmonizing on the opposite end of the board. “Papa does not believe in such punishments. And, as it happens, he was right. John waited years before driving a phaeton again, determined to be in full command of himself before doing so.”
“A delightful story. I am fond of happy endings.”
She snorted and swatted his shoulder. “I have not yet come to my point.”
Nodding, he waved a hand. “Proceed.”
“John was twelve when this occurred. He was a boy playing at being a man. He endangered those he loved because he misjudged the risks of his own actions.”
Colin’s fingers froze.
Likewise, she let the tinkling notes she’d been playing dissipate into silence. “But he learned from it, Colin. He grew up. He made better choices.”
“This is hardly a spill from a phaeton, Jane. And I am a good deal older than twelve.”
“You and John have something important in common—you regret what you have done, hurting those you care for. That is the beginning. You must recognize your mistakes and work to do better.”
“It is too late,” he said, his voice a whisper in the now-quiet room.
“You can but try. You must try.” For her husband’s sake, Colin must change. Jane could not bear for Harrison to suffer the consequences of his brother’s selfishness any longer.
From behind her, she heard the creak of the wooden floor.
“You are wasting your breath, wife,” Harrison said, his voice an icy lash.
*~*~*