Heiress in Love (23 page)

“Only me,” said a low voice. A furtive figure in a long white nightdress flitted down the stairs.

“Jane.” His chair scraped a discordant note on the tiled floor as he rose.

“Hush! Do you wish to wake the household?”

He feared she’d retreat, but she didn’t. She tilted her head to listen. After a frozen second or two she drifted forward, gathering her shawl tighter around her.

“Are you cold? Here.” He shrugged out of his dressing gown and moved forward to put it around her shoulders. Her long, unbound hair was trapped beneath the gown. Without thinking, he threaded his fingers through the curly mass and lifted it free.

Soft
 … His hand wanted to stroke through those heavy tresses until she purred like the kitchen cat. The scent of lilies filled his head. He had to force himself to stop there, to step back.

“What were you doing down here?” she asked.

“What? Oh.” He indicated the tray he’d been preparing. “A midnight feast.”

She took in his attire, and he was reminded that he still wore his evening kit, minus his coat. That his cravat must be disordered, his shirt points limp. “Have you been up all night?”

He nodded. “Wrestling with the accounts.”

“Oh.” She made a face. “Dull work.”

“Strangely, I find it’s not so tedious, after all,” he said, leaning against the table. With a gleam of humor, he added, “But don’t tell anyone I said that, will you? My credit would never survive.”

It was a good thing his mouth operated independently of his brain. He couldn’t seem to clear his senses. He still felt the soft brush of her curls against his fingertips, the delicate turn of her nape under his hand. The scent of lilies lingered in the mists of his brain.

Jane looked tousled and heavy-lidded, as if she’d risen from a troubled sleep. Outrageously feminine, a contrast with the mannish tailoring of his dressing gown.

“It suits you,” he said.

“Thank you.” Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to touch the silk, tracing her fingertip along the gold embroidery.

Constantine swallowed hard. For some reason, he felt her gesture on his own skin.

“You should keep it,” he said.

The candlelight was too dim for him to see her blush but he was certain she did. “Oh, no!” She laughed, gathering up all the excess folds of silk. “What would I do with it?”

Come to my bed in it,
he thought.
In that and nothing else.

Perhaps his thoughts showed in his face, for she stammered a little. “I c-came down for some warm milk.” She gave a hospitable wave of her hand. “Won’t you sit and continue with your meal?”

His voice rasped. “I find I’m … not hungry anymore.”

“Oh,” she said again. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. Desire slammed into him with the force of a stampede. He had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself reaching for her.

There was a quiet thump on the table. He looked down to see the cat poised above his plate, about to help herself to his meal. Laughing, he scooped up the feline and set her down on the floor. “Not so well-mannered, after all.”

Remembering his own manners, he indicated the tray. “Would you like some? Or shall we find you some milk?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m not hungry, either. And I don’t want milk.”

Their gazes locked. His heartbeat seemed to throb in his brain, reverberate through his body, pound in his cock. She moistened her lips—out of nervousness, he supposed—and his member gave a decided twitch.

She took a small step toward him, but in one last attempt at nobility, he held up a hand. “Restraint has never been my strong point, Jane. Go back to your bedchamber. Now.”

He heard the soft gasp she gave, watched her throat ripple as she swallowed. Slowly, she put up her hands to remove his dressing gown, presumably to give it back to him. But before the garment left her shoulders he was there, catching the warm, slippery silk, bunching it in his hands, pulling her toward him.

She made no resistance. As the heat of his body mingled with hers, she put her hand on his shoulder and that hand did not push him away.

Hungrily, he sought her mouth, and the sensation of her lips beneath his was beyond everything he’d dreamed, like a ribbon of warm satin, like cream. She tasted of tooth powder and innocence, her kisses shallow and fluttering, like butterflies’ wings. She responded as if she’d never been kissed by a man before.

Hot blood roared through him, and it took all of his will to deny his own needs while he explored and discovered hers.

He still held the dressing gown, not her, and their bodies never touched; he sensed he might frighten her if she knew the full power of his desire. Illogical, yes, given her widowhood, but his instincts overbore logic. He didn’t want to ruin it all by rushing this. When she was his wife, they’d have all the time in the world.

So he didn’t deepen the kiss, but instead let his lips drift along her cheek, whispered hot praise of her beauty into her ear that made her shiver and throw her head back. He kissed her throat where the pulse beat beneath his mouth and heard her wordless cry. He brushed that sensitive zone over and over, resisting the urge to mark the spot with his teeth.

Her hand moved restlessly along his shoulder to settle against his nape and press him closer. Her quiet, pleasured moans told him she was ready for more.

The silk dressing gown slipped from his grasp and hushed to the floor. One hand found her waist; the other drove through her hair to cradle her delicate skull. With his lips and tongue, he coaxed her mouth open and licked inside.

She stiffened for a moment, but he continued regardless, until she sighed and relaxed into it, tentatively stroking his tongue with hers.

That fleeting, hesitant touch set him ablaze. His arms tightened around her until her every curve molded to his, his burgeoning erection hard against her softness. Dimly, he realized his body was taking over from his brain, that in no time he’d have her flat on her back on the kitchen table, but he couldn’t seem to remember why he ought to stop.

Until Jane gave a choked, panicked cry. Her body twisted and strained; two small hands flattened against his chest, pushing him away.

Constantine let her go as if she’d burned him. He was breathing heavily, disoriented, aching, suddenly furious. He’d lost control when he’d been determined to keep it. He’d sensed the depth of Jane’s uncertainty, her physical reticence. He’d planned to seduce her in a slow, tantalizing slide into sin. Yet he’d mauled her like a goddamned animal.

He heard a sob and the skitter of slippers on the tile as she fled.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jane didn’t stop running until she flung herself onto her bed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something. She bunched her sheets in her hands and growled all her confusion and anguish into her pillow.

How could she have
done
that?

She’d offered herself to him, encouraged him. A rake like Constantine wouldn’t stop at kisses! She’d been stupid not to expect he’d take matters to their logical conclusion. And yet, the strength of his arms around her, the sensual mastery in his kiss—all of that led her to the point where she hadn’t been thinking anymore.

But she’d woken from that pleasure-ridden haze the instant he’d pressed himself against her. She remembered with vivid, horrible clarity the pain and humiliation that went along with an aroused male organ.

When she married him, she’d have to suffer that, wouldn’t she? Regardless of his need for an heir, Constantine Black was not the kind of man to accept a frigid wife with complacence. Even now, the heat and power of his sensuality made her body tremble with pleasured recollection. Why did all that lovely kissing have to culminate in such a disgusting, painful way?

Nights of clumsy fumblings in the dark flooded back, cramping her stomach. Frederick had been hasty, vigorous, and not at all gentle. Her first time had been so excruciating, she’d begged him to stop, the tears streaming down her face. He hadn’t even heard her; he’d simply kept pumping away until it was over, then left immediately afterward, oblivious to her devastation.

He could never understand why she’d still suffered pain after that first occasion. Though he’d never said it in so many words, she’d sensed he’d wished she’d simply cease complaining.
Lie back and think of something else,
he’d said.

Frederick had offered no solution to this awful problem. The only women Jane might have felt comfortable asking were all maidens. She tried her best to relax, as Frederick told her to do, but every time he paid her a conjugal visit, her insides went rigid with the fear of pain she knew would come.

When, finally, she’d barred Frederick from her bedchamber, Frederick had called a doctor to examine her. The experience had been mortifying, but she’d been willing to suffer it if some remedy could be found. No such happy event occurred, however. The doctor gave his opinion that her body simply wasn’t made the right way to endure Frederick’s attentions. Frederick had never visited her bedchamber again.

But he’d visited many, many other bedchambers, hadn’t he?

She buried her face in her pillow. The few moments when Constantine had pressed against her told her he was even larger than Frederick in that department. She shuddered at the thought of
that
impaling her on their wedding night.

But this time, she would simply have to suffer bedding without complaint. She owed that much to Constantine, after all.

*   *   *

Jane rode out alone the next morning, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and the humiliation of last night. The sun shone, fighting to convey its warmth through a chill, persistent wind.

Of course, there was no escape from the painful thoughts that chased one another around her head.

She hadn’t slept for thinking of Constantine. It had seemed as if three nights passed before the dawn finally arrived. With a click of her tongue, she spurred the mare forward, riding hard to block out the images that rose to her mind.

She was panting and more than a little thirsty by the time she reached sight of the stream beyond a high hedge that bordered the field.

“I suppose you’d like a drink, too, old girl?” She patted Sirralee’s neck, intending to dismount and find a way to push through the hedge.

Startled bleats of sheep rang out behind her. At the sound of hoofbeats, she turned her head to see a large white stallion with a dark figure astride it. Unreasoning panic rippled through her. She spurred Sirralee forward.

Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Jane saw Constantine was gaining faster than she’d have thought possible. Knowing what a risk she took, she urged her mount on, slowing to a steady pace toward the hedge. She held her breath and silently sent up a prayer as the mare gathered herself and launched them over the timber barrier, landing soundly on the other side. Miraculously, Jane kept her seat.

Laughing with relief, she hunched low over the saddle, like a jockey, and let Sirralee fly. In her bones, she knew this flight was hopeless, but the sick feeling of humiliation made her desperate to get away.

The white horse drew abreast of her before she even reached the stream.

“Draw rein!” She’d never heard such a note of command in Constantine’s voice before. A glance at his face told her he’d grown pale under his tan and his features were hard with fury.

Still, she rode on, wondering if Sirralee had it in her to clear the stream, but it was too foolhardy to attempt. She wheeled away from Constantine, urging her mount to run along the stream’s edge. In no time, with scarce a check, the big white stallion ranged between her and the water, herding her away from the slippery bank.

She couldn’t outrun or outsmart him. It was undignified to try. Panting, Jane threw Constantine a fulminating look and slowed her horse, then reined in.

She sat rigid in the saddle, feeling foolish and angry at herself.

Before she’d retrieved her dignity, he was at her side, reaching up. Large hands spanned her waist, lifting her down as if she weighed no more than a rag doll. His strength, the sheer size of him, made it even more imperative to get away.

“What the
hell
did you think you were doing?” he demanded, now gripping her shoulders and bending so he could glare into her face. His green eyes had lost every vestige of his usual cynical amusement. They drilled into hers.

“Well?”
Constantine never wanted to relive those heart-stopping moments when Jane had sailed over that hedge and he’d lost sight of her. The barrier had been too high for that mare to jump; Jane was certain to break her neck.

That she would risk such danger to get away from him horrified him. Later, when he’d realized she was well and unharmed, it had angered him, too. Granted, he’d crossed the line last night, but that didn’t make him a monster. Didn’t she know that?

He ought not to have given chase when he saw her riding away from him. He’d endangered her by doing so. After the miracle of seeing her alive on the other side of that towering hedge, he ought to have let her go.