In the Arms of an Earl (16 page)

She hadn’t noticed her arms had locked around his waist until he stepped away, and she stumbled forward. They both laughed, and she hoped the twilight hid her blush. Her arms dangled at her sides, weak and languorous, as if she’d just come out of a hot bath after soaking for hours.

“Will you wait for me, Jane?”

“Yes, Frederick,” she replied, delighting in the sound of his name on her lips.

She clung to his arm as they walked down the lane to where she knew not, but it didn’t matter anymore, because he was beside her.

Chapter Fifteen

Jane jerked out of sleep and sat up in bed with a loud gasp. The bedclothes were tangled about her legs, and she struggled for a moment to pull free. She pressed her hand to her pounding heart. What had awakened her? Fog and mist had figured in her dreams, but it had not been a nightmare. A curious sort of trembling sensation rattled her nerves. She closed her eyes and flashes of the dream came back to her.

She could make out blurred images and sounds that seemed to come from far away, both familiar and foreign. She remembered a sensation of being touched and realized why. A blush seared her cheeks, warming her entire body despite the cool night. The colonel—Frederick—had been the object of her dreams.

Sinking back into her pillow, she clutched the quilt to her chest, desperate to remember. It had been a wonderful dream. His voice had mingled with music, haunting and comforting at the same time. She’d felt his hand on her cheek, and now pressed her palm to her face as if her flesh retained the heat of his skin. A tremor glided through her, igniting a flame as it went. She’d never had such a provocative dream like this before. She should be ashamed such a thought had entered her mind.

But she refused to give up the precious memory. Her sigh disturbed the night, and she basked in the warmth of his smile, even though it had been through the veil of a dream. She’d memorized every detail of his eyes—the way the corners crinkled when he laughed, which was often. His dark irises, which glittered when he looked at her.

His lips. What would it be like to kiss him? The tiny taste she’d had when he teased her about Jeremy’s kiss only made her hunger for more. She ought not to dwell on his mouth, even if it was the wellspring of all her fantasies. Hoping for more than friendship made her frantic with impatience. He clearly desired some kind of relationship, but to what extent, she had not yet discovered.

They’d spent three wonderful days together, with each moment bringing them closer than she’d ever hoped. She’d shown him Weston and around her family’s small estate. Music occupied their mornings, and she was never happier than when taking instruction, which was offered with his kind smile. Evenings were spent in her parents’ company. He read poetry he’d brought, his voice lulling Mrs. Brooke into a snoring stupor while Jane sat on a cushion at his feet, happiest only when she was beside him.

He hadn’t proposed marriage. He’d excused himself one day while she was talking with her mother, and she found him later, emerging from her father’s study. Papa had seemed in unusually fine spirits, and he’d given her a look of utter satisfaction. She longed to interrogate him but hadn’t had the opportunity. Still, she waited, happy just to be alone with Frederick.

Frederick
.

How perfectly wonderful to address him by his Christian name. She only did so on their private walks, and he still bowed to her and called her Miss Brooke with a sparkle in his eye when in her parents’ company. But once they were alone, she was his Jane, and he always found some excuse to hold her hand as they walked. Not that he needed one.

But what was he waiting for? She turned the question over in her mind, as she had since the moment she realized he was not visiting on Jeremy’s behalf. Perhaps he was waiting to propose at the end of his stay, to confirm her feelings, although she didn’t know how to reveal more than what was appropriate. She sought a more comfortable position in bed, but thinking about him prevented her from sleeping.

The floorboards creaked outside her door. Straining her ears, she tried to discern whose footsteps were traipsing about so late at night. None of the servants had any purpose to be awake before morning, and her parents were sound sleepers.

The footsteps were hesitant, as if their owner did not know his or her way around the unfamiliar house. Her heart thudded with the realization it was Frederick. The chamber door was the only thing separating them. She could very easily open it and…

And what?

Her imagination flew of its own accord into dreams of being lost in his embrace. She bit her lip to stop the images flowing through her mind. Her body still ached with a lazy, sweet fire from her earlier dream, and she fancied her hand still tingled from when he’d placed a good night kiss upon it.

Now wide awake, she faced the door, ears ringing at the invading silence. She longed to escape her room and go to him, but couldn’t. Such behavior might even usurp a proposal, if he thought her a flirt. Not to mention what her mother would say if she happened to catch her.

She sat upright in bed. Perhaps Frederick was not hovering outside her door for a chance to meet with her. He might be hungry or thirsty, and had lost his way to the kitchen. As a friendly hostess, she should assist him. There could be no harm in helping a guest navigate the house, and she could always do with a little bite of food, since she’d hardly eaten at all since his arrival.

After an interminable moment, the muffled footsteps padded down the stairs. She almost sighed with relief but was disappointed in an odd way. He was a clever man and could certainly find the kitchen in the dark.

Before her conscience forced her to remain within the sanctity of her chamber, she got out of bed and pulled on her wrapper. She eased open the door and peered out. A lamp burned in Frederick’s chamber.

She clutched the banister. Her father’s snore assured her of her parents’ oblivion, and Mamma would not awaken were a cannon to explode near the house.

Jane’s heartbeat echoed in her ears. She giggled nervously at a strange thought he was hiding in the darkness somewhere. She clapped her hand over her mouth. It was bad enough to creep through the house, but worse if she should awaken her parents with silly hysteria.

Just as she feared she’d imagined the footsteps, the faint strains of his symphony on her old pianoforte
reached her. Entranced, she didn’t realize she had moved until her foot touched the top of the stairs. The music drew her to him, and she walked without hesitation to the drawing room.

A candle flickered on the pianoforte, illuminating the player in a pale glow. He sat with his back to her. She tried not to make a sound in case she decided at the last minute to head upstairs, unseen and unheard. That they’d accidentally met after midnight at Everhill was one thing.

To purposely seek him out was quite another.

She pressed her hand to her heart, which still thudded. There was something forbidden yet heavily desirable in watching him, and she could not tear herself away, regardless of the consequences. She sensed he would not think badly of her. After all, he had emerged from the darkness at Everhill, instead of waiting hidden until she had gone.

Although he played with one hand, his left arm seemed to move in an invisible concert with the right, as if the missing fingers touched the keys. His body swayed, his head lolled slowly with the music. His left arm balanced over the instrument, and she wondered if he could feel the keys with his phantom appendage. Her eyes filled with tears. What had he been like before the war? How passionately he must have played before the thing he loved most was destroyed.

He finished with a release of breath, his index finger striking the last note. The sound wavered in the air, and he sat frozen, his arm extended, his chest heaving, as if he’d just endured a great trial.

She recalled the words he’d said to her the night they’d met in the Parkers’ parlor.

“Bravo,” she whispered.

He turned, a guilty smile on his face, rather like a schoolboy caught stealing a pie left to cool on the windowsill. He wore his waistcoat, but his cravat was gone, and the top buttons of his shirt were open. Perspiration glistened on his skin, even though the room was cool.

“I didn’t mean to wake up the house. I hope I have not disturbed your parents.”

She should probably say her mother was a light sleeper or her father regularly took a nightcap and would be downstairs shortly. But how to explain her own insomnia? She could not let him know his mere presence had rendered her sleepless.

“I thought you might be looking for something in the kitchen, and…and need some assistance.” The words sounded foolish spoken aloud.

“Thank you for your concern, Miss Brooke,” he said with a wink. “I do not require food or drink just now.” He slid over on the bench and patted the place beside him. “We seem to play better at night, you and I. May I borrow your left hand again, Jane? The piece sounds so much better when played properly. I have a few ideas for a new composition.”

She hesitated in the doorway, but it was because she wanted to burn the image of him into her mind. The night had transformed him. The respectable daytime gentleman who discussed poetry and Haydn with her was gone. In his place was a god from one of Lucinda’s books. His black hair lay in tousled waves about his shoulders, and the muscular column of his neck was bare. His gaze burned embers through her heart, dissolving the last semblance of platonic friendship she had struggled to portray.

Going to him now would be the consummation of all the tangled hopes and dreams she’d ever had about the man she would marry. That the man might be Frederick made it too perfect, too impossibly happy to believe.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Jane. I did not mean to presume. We can play in the morning, of course…”

She glided across the floor to him. She sat beside him, and he began speaking about music—of major and minor chords, of harmonies and melodies, but she only heard the sound of his voice and not the meaning of his words. Every inch of her skin tingled as if she were standing outside in a thunderstorm, with lightning about to strike.

He played his symphony again, and she took the lower octave. The music had grown in her heart, and she knew it so well she could play it blindfolded.

His body swayed into hers while he played. Trying to concentrate, she continued to steal glances at him from beneath her lashes, and, once or twice, caught him looking at her. The intimacy of the late hour heightened her awareness of him.

A log on the hearth collapsed with the muffled sound of rustling autumn leaves. He’d stoked the fire earlier, but it was almost out. She wondered if she should light a few lamps—perhaps all of them—and some candles, besides, but decided against it. A magical quality hovered in the air around them. Light would only disturb the moment.

“I have thought often of our first night at Everhill.” His quiet voice merged with the soft strains of his symphony.

Her throat had dried up. “So have I.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, then seemed to go silent, as if the inanimate room awaited his reply.

“Those few hours with you are all I’ve lived on since we parted.”

She wanted to say he was all she’d thought about but the words didn’t come. When she tried to speak, her voice choked. “Frederick,” was all she could say.

She took a deep breath as if she were preparing to swim across a lake. One of them should look away first, and quickly. Something was about to happen, and she didn’t know if she should try to stop it, or even how she could. Or if she wanted to.

He moved closer to her on the bench, heat emanating from his body until she felt his warmth through the layers of wrapper and night rail. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

The pressure of his mouth against her palm increased to a defined kiss. This was no repeated mockery of Jeremy’s attempt. Her breath was trapped in her lungs. He curved her fingers around his cheek, the rasp of his whiskers grazing her palm.

His eyelids lowered while his lips brushed her skin, caressing and tender, as if her hand were the most precious thing in the world.

Unable to bear the short distance between them, she slid her free hand up his arm, feeling the muscles contract until she reached his shoulder. He slipped his injured arm around her back and drew her close, releasing her hand in another instant to tilt her chin as his head dipped down.

She had never anticipated a kiss before, yet instinctively knew what to do. The tips of her fingers slipped between his shirt buttons so she felt his warm bare chest. His breath fanned her cheek while his heartbeat pounded against her palm.

The tips of their noses touched. The feathery brush of his mouth against hers sparked something deep inside her, and she murmured his name. That action parted her lips, and it was all he needed. His lips were gentle but firm, tasting and teasing her until she kissed him back, her head reeling with the rapid onslaught of sensations his kiss aroused.

He pulled her onto his lap before she had time to realize she was no longer on the bench. She was vaguely aware of his hand on her ribs, between her night rail and wrapper. Fearing and desiring more, she held her breath until she was dizzy, gasping into his mouth between kisses, a strange kind of pressure bubbling inside her and threatening to spill over. Never had she experienced such rampant desire, and she knew not how to control or contain it.

As her passion grew, so did her boldness. She skimmed her fingertips over his jaw and up to his ears, exploring the curves and valleys there until finally locking her hands behind his head. His lips moved from her mouth across her cheek to a sensitive spot just beneath her ear. She pressed against him and held him tighter, an almost desperate sense of longing taking over her conscious thought.