Chapter 5
He lay in the bed as if he’d not moved, but he was scrubbed clean and smooth shaven. Naked to the hips, hair curling lazily on his shoulders, eyes steady on hers, he stole what breath remained.
Don’t faint! she commanded herself, and did get some control, but she was suddenly sure this was impossible.
With a quirk of his brow, he patted the bed.
Rosamunde sucked in a deep breath, summoned Lady Gillsett, and sauntered over to hitch herself up beside her lover. Still fully dressed.
Oh dear. Should she have stripped first?
Looking down, she saw her scuffed and sensible shoes on top of the bedcovers. No one could be seduced in their shoes! She hastily eased them off and tipped them over the edge of the bed, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Her stockinged toes felt shamefully naked.
Now, she supposed, she’d have to look at him.
Her eyes skittered sideways. Puzzled and surprised summed up his expression.
“My dear lady, if you want a merry tumble in payment for your care, I’ll give you that. But why don’t you tell me what you really want?”
Rosamunde turned fiery hot beneath the mask. Damn him for not being stupid.
It was tempting to tell him the truth, that she needed a child. But she daren’t. Too much hung in the balance here, and her virtue and reputation were the smallest part. The welfare of all the people attached to Wenscote rested on this moment.
“Why do you doubt what I want?”
“A remarkable lack of lust.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him—strong neck, broad shoulders, sculptured chest, and a soothing hint of plain soap….
“I lust,” she said, and it was true. It was an unfamiliar state, but she recognized it. A dizziness, as if her heart were not quite reliable. A strangeness on the skin, as if it might hurt to be touched.
Or not exactly hurt …
“Perhaps you do at that.” Taking her hand, her left hand, he fingered her ring. “If it wouldn’t offend, I’d like to know something of your husband.”
What?
Why?
Would this man ever do the expected? Was he typical of men, or had she just snared a very unusual one?
Since he seemed set on it, she gave him as much truth as she could, unsteadied by the brush of his fingers on hers. “My husband is a good man, a kind man. But old. He doesn’t …” That might ring alarm bells. “He rarely … er … claims his marital rights.”
He raised her hand and kissed it, kissed it—deliberately, she was sure—by her wedding ring. “And you want me, here, now?”
The brush of warm lips against fingers. Such a little thing to stir her so. “Yes,” she said, over a thudding heart. “I want you. Here. Now.”
It was true, but now it was more than lust.
She was driven by rampant curiosity.
She had always been curious about everything, and now she needed to know about this. She needed to know if she’d experienced all there was, or if—as instinct, rumor, and sizzling senses said—there was more.
Still playing with her fingers he asked, “Is it safe? Now?”
“Yes.”
He raised her hand again for a kiss, a slow and lingering kiss to her knuckles, and then his mouth slid to her pale inner wrist. She felt his tongue, wet on her skin. “Very well.”
Already breathless, she braced for something swirling, something as overwhelming as the mysterious longings seething deep inside her, but he merely turned her away. “Let’s get you out of your clothes.” He began to unhook the back of her gown with calm, confident fingers.
On their own, shocked by his prosaic tone, her hands jerked to her bodice, ready to resist. She made herself submit. But did it have to be so businesslike?
A dozen times in the next minutes, she nearly balked. In bed, in the night, in the dark, in her nightgown, she’d been prepared. But here she was, in daytime, being stripped by a naked stranger!
In the end, she did break free, scrambling off the bed to remove her own petticoat and stockings, leaving only her shift.
It was sensible cotton with a tie neckline and elbow-length sleeves trimmed with a plain ruffle.
It hung like a tent down to below her knees, but she felt nakedly, wickedly exposed.
She dared a glance to see what he was making of all this.
So much for stories of lust-driven men! Here she was, as good as naked in broad daylight, and he looked as interested, as excited as …
as a shepherd watching the sheep! Was it all nonsense?
No, she thought with a silent groan, the problem was that she kept forgetting to be Lady Gillsett. A willing lover wouldn’t act like this.
Again, she wanted to crawl under the bed.
She reminded herself grimly that it didn’t matter if she was ridiculous, or if he lusted after her. Only that she get with child.
And he’d promised.
As if coming to the same conclusion, he flipped back the sheets. She slid under them, wriggling her shift down neatly—
There she went again! In the night, she’d pulled up her nightgown and snuggled up to him. Now she lay stiffly, covered, and as far away as she could manage without falling off the edge of the bed.
Brand regarded his mysterious bed partner with concern. Neglected wives who sought out men to satisfy their needs were one thing. What was he to make of this?
What he had to make of it, he supposed, was a good experience for her.
He had no doubt that she had saved his life, and he remembered her gentle care of him in the night.
He owed her a debt and she had specified the payment, one he could afford.
It wasn’t for him to back away, even though he felt strangely uncomfortable and unsettled by her manner.
He remembered the fear he’d awoken with. Was that the problem? Terror had faded in daylight, but a taste of it lingered. Perhaps that and his missing memories were upsetting him.
Was this a trap?
Why?
Blackmail?
It was hard to imagine how.
An attempt to trap him into marriage?
Her husband could be imaginary, though her wedding ring had the look of one worn for years.
Or she could be a widow. Even so, how could she think to drag a man to the altar this way?
Would an outraged relative charge in at a crucial moment and demand marriage or a duel?
With regret, he’d fight, and if necessary, kill.
Or would the intruder stab him as he lay, claiming righteous provocation?
But who the devil would want to murder him?
The Malloren family had enemies in high places, but it was hard to imagine any of them coming after him in the rural north.
Besides, most of the enemies were owned, and handled, by his brother the marquess.
As estate manager, Brand wasn’t tangled in his brother’s political machinations.
No, these formless terrors were the product of whatever had felled him the day before, and nothing to do with this poor woman. He couldn’t let them get in the way of giving her the reward she wanted for her kindness, and giving generously.
He just wished he was sure he knew what she wanted.
Wryly, he decided that the only thing was to go slowly, so she could retreat if she changed her mind. That wouldn’t be hard. Sweet though she was in nature and body, it would take a while for him to summon any real enthusiasm, especially with that grotesque mask.
As a first step, he eased her into his arms. She stayed stiff for a moment, then relaxed, seeming almost to snuggle into him. That was better.
Once she seemed at ease with his touch, he settled to enjoying her, to stroking and tasting her smooth skin, starting with the less alarming places, then slowly trespassing under the modest shift.
She didn’t object.
He began to be very pleased about that. He always enjoyed the feel of a woman’s soft curves, the satin of her skin, the warm, earthy smells of her more private places.
The mask had only a narrow opening at the mouth, preventing kisses.
That was a shame, but perhaps in time she’d relax enough to put it off.
Or perhaps she’d worn it deliberately for just that reason. Some women felt kissing was more intimate than sex.
Soon any notion of effort melted. She was lovely to his senses, shapely, musky, soft and sensuous. Pleasantly plump yet firm, like perfect fruit, she was just as he liked a woman, and though she was passive, he could sense response in the very way she shifted her body against his.
What a shame that such a delightful creature was wasted on a man who didn’t appreciate her.
He eased a full breast free of her loosened neckline to nuzzle it, breathing deeply.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Rosamunde let him handle her like a rag doll, dazed and amazed. She didn’t know what she’d expected—something like Digby’s direct efforts, she supposed, but more vigorous since Mr. Malloren was so much younger. Not all this touching, stroking, licking.
But then she began to worry. When were they going to get to the important bit? His hands seemed to have been everywhere but where it mattered, and even there, hands wouldn’t do it.
Those clever hands were doing other things, however, things that made her want to shiver and twitch. In the end, she did, and he asked, “Like that?”
Like? She hadn’t been thinking in terms of liking. She wanted him to get on with it! She said, “Yes,” to encourage him, only realizing a moment later that it was true.
She liked it.
Oh my. Instead of waiting tensely for the dreadful deed, she let herself savor his touch. His whole body, warm-rough-rubbing, making her warm-soft-humming, liquid as lapping water, warmed by his warmth, dizzied by his smell….
Lord save her! This drifting, fevered feeling must be desire—the fire that inspired poets and rascals, and drove men and women into sin and disaster. This was the mystery she’d sensed, but never before experienced.
Here.
In her!
She looked at him, wanting to say something to express her wonderment, but was caught to silence by his rapt admiration of her breasts. She watched as he kissed one again and again, cradling it in his hand as if it were a fruit he desired to eat.
Her.
He cradled and hungered for her.