Chapter 38
The first thing the earl saw upon his return was the Raversford carriage outside his home in the driveway, the coachmen chatting as they waited for Lindley.
Every fiber in his being went tight at the sight.
He handed Nicole to Molly and stepped down, then dismissed his driver, following the maid and his daughter inside.
Molly took Nicole upstairs while the earl stood frozen in the foyer. He could hear the tinkle of Jane’s laughter drifting through the hallway. Happy laughter. The kind of laughter he did not hear in his own presence. He turned grimly to Thomas. “How long has Lindley been here?”
“Since just after you left, my lord,” Thomas said with a sniff of obvious disapproval.
He felt the surging anger. “You told him I had just left and would not return for an hour?”
“He wanted to see the lady Jane, my lord,” Thomas said.
The anger increased. And with it, jealousy and suspicion.
So Lindley had come to see Jane, had he?
It was damn convenient that Raversford had shown up while he was out.
Had Lindley waited to see that he had left before coming?
He pushed the rude thought away, telling himself to get a grip on his wayward suspicions.
But damn if he’d be cuckolded in his own home by his own best friend!
He strode into the morning room.
They were seated on the same sofa, of course, about a foot apart.
Lindley was telling a merry tale and Jane was all smiles.
It was quite cozy, quite familiar. At his entrance, Lindley froze in midsentence, and Jane’s smiles abruptly ceased.
Glad to see him, were they? The earl bared his teeth. “Hello, Lindley.”
Raversford stood. “Hullo, Shelton.” He didn’t smile either.
“This is a surprise,” the earl drawled sarcastically, his glance sweeping from Lindley to Jane. She was impossibly fetching in a pale-pink morning gown with her hair delicately put up, loose strands floating around her face. She was flushed too. From his kisses?
“Would you like some tea?” Jane asked politely.
“I’m afraid to interrupt,” he said bitingly, pinning Lindley now with his regard. “I am interrupting, aren’t I?”
Lindley shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re not interrupting, Nick,” he said quietly.
“No? Funny, but this tête-à-tête seemed just that, made for two.” His eyes flashed silver.
“Don’t be a fool,” Jane flared, standing. “Your best friend came to pay his respects. I am your wife, and you were out. Should I have turned him away?”
“Should you have, Jane?” the earl demanded.
Lindley looked uncomfortable. “I think I’d best be going.”
Good idea, the earl wanted to shout furiously, but he did not. His gaze skewered him. “Suddenly in a rush? Please, stay. My wife seems to enjoy your company.” He mocked.
“I have several appointments,” Lindley said. He bowed over Jane’s hand. Fortunately, for his sake, he did not kiss it. He nodded uncertainly—guiltily?—at Nick, then left.
Jane clenched her fists, cheeks pinker now. “You were unbearably rude!”
“Rude? I invited him to stay longer.”
“You chased him away!”
“Did I upset your plans?” he asked dangerously.
“Plans? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“No? Why are you so angry—because Lindley left? Or because I returned?”
“You boor! I am angry because you’ve treated your good friend despicably. Because your behavior was unspeakably rude!” Jane cried.
“And why do you care how I behave?” He wanted her to reply that she did care about his behavior—because he was her husband. But he was disappointed.
“Why do I care? Because Lindley is our friend —and a guest in our home!”
“So Lindley is your friend too, Jane? Ah, how could I forget, he was dancing attendance on you before we wed. How could I forget? He knew where you were, and would not tell me. Knew of Nicole, and kept it from me. So intimate, weren’t we?
Or is it aren’t we? And for how long has he been your friend? ”
She gasped, recoiling. “You are disgusting!”
He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her. “How long has he been your friend, Jane?”
She clamped her mouth hard together, eyes blazing, chin high, and stared him down.
“I will not be cuckolded in my own home,” he said through gritted teeth, gripping her by the shoulders.
She wrenched free, panting. “Don’t touch me!”
“But he can touch you? You let him touch you! And what else have you allowed?”
She slapped him, a whiplash across his face.
He was shocked, motionless, as stunned as she was. An absolute silence knifed between them.
Then Jane gasped, her lips trembling, and she backed away. “I-I’m sorry.”
He smiled, a menacing curve of his lips. “Too late,” he said, and he grabbed her.
Her cry of protest was cut off by his mouth.
He anchored her in an ungiving embrace of steel, jamming one rock-hard thigh between hers, his mouth forcing hers open, his teeth cutting hers, his tongue raping her.
She could not even whimper beneath his onslaught.
He clasped one buttock and hauled her even harder against the steel ridge of his erection.
He heard her choke in protest even as his grip loosened and one hand slid down her back, stroking.
His mouth softened. She softened. He felt her lips open, felt her tongue touch his tentatively.
With a groan he pulled her into his mouth, sucking her, devouring her.
She pressed fiercely against him, her lips locked to his.
His palm, rubbing her buttock, eased beneath it, caressing her and urging her to ride his muscular thigh.
He had no thoughts, no coherent ones, that is.
His mouth still merged with Jane’s, he dropped to his knees, bringing her down with him onto the floor.
She went unresisting, her small hands clutching his broad shoulders.
And when he pushed her onto her back, her thighs opened wide, letting him settle himself against her as he pleased.
It was unbearable. He was going to explode now, soon.
“Jane!” he cried, burying his face in her taut neck and reaching, trembling, for her skirts.
Her panting was harsh and arrhythmic in his ear.
When his hand touched her bare knee she gasped.
When he slid his palm up her thigh on the inside she whimpered, thrashing, spreading her legs more and arching her pelvis wildly.
He cupped the mound of her femininity boldly and found her drawers soaked. Soaked for him. It was his undoing.
“Jane, Jane,” he heard himself chanting, slipping his fingers beneath the silk, touching her.
She cried out, clinging to him, arching convulsively, shaking with need.
He could not wait. He reached for his breeches, yanking them open, and heard her, clearly. “Nicholas! Nicholas!” It was sobbed, a plea.
He found her mouth as he freed his rigid organ, and then he was thrusting home. It was excruciating, unbearable, hot, tight, as tight as the first time, and he knew he was lost.
“No,” he cried, plunging into her. “No, no, I don’t want to come, not yet …” And then he came, spewing into her, pumping, pumping endlessly. And through the haze of his ecstasy he heard her cry his name and felt her contract violently around him, again and again.