In the Widow’s Bed (3 page)

A trilling laugh grated over Phoebe’s senses as her stepson entered the ballroom with Lady Jocelyn Clifford hanging on his arm. Wonderful. Warminster could parade his future wife on his arm openly before his friends, yet she couldn’t attempt to engage in a clandestine tryst herself without him alerting his oldest friend.

When Warminster became detained in conversation with a somewhat dull-witted acquaintance, Lady Jocelyn approached her, all shy smiles and clinging hands.
 

“Lady Warminster,” Lady Jocelyn gushed. “You are positively radiant tonight.”

“You are too, my dear. Peach brings out the blue of your eyes.”

Lady Jocelyn bounced on her toes. “Mamma said it was perfect for this evening, and I do agree with her. Yet I wondered if my blue silk might have pleased Lord Warminster more. Did I make the correct choice? I do think you will have the right of it.”

Phoebe recoiled from the girl’s simpering. Would her stepson really tie himself to this brainless, indecisive chit?

Luckily, Warminster’s approach saved her from further conversation.

“Ah, Lady Warminster,” her stepson began, “how are you enjoying the evening?”

“Very well, Warminster. I am amply entertained.” Phoebe glanced about the ballroom. Despite her irritation with him for inflicting Lady Jocelyn on her daily, and sending his friend to spy on her behavior, she would not cause a scene. She had to play along with his charade of worthless fop until the last guest departed. But that moment couldn’t come soon enough. “The evening has been a delight. You must be proud that all your efforts have borne fruit.”

“Yes, my party is an unqualified success.” Warminster chuckled, glancing down at Lady Jocelyn with a smile. Then he leaned closer. “People shall talk of this house party for many years to come. And not because of some petulant, tawdry affair either.”
 

At the superior glance Warminster cast at her, Phoebe decided she
would
open her bedchamber door to whatever gentleman Selwood sent her tonight. Yet she affected a laugh as if she agreed with her stepson.

“Have you seen Selwood?”
 

Given that both Warminster and Lady Jocelyn asked the same question at once, Phoebe felt certain she could be forgiven for gaping. She glanced between them and noticed discomfort on both sides. “I’m unsure. He left the ballroom a short time ago.”

Warminster smiled at the news.
 

A frown creased Lady Jocelyn’s brow. She sidled up to Warminster. “Is he avoiding me?” she whispered.
 

“Of course he isn’t, my dear.” Warminster captured her arm. “I’m sure he’s simply been detained by conversation elsewhere.”
 

Lady Jocelyn glanced about, a hopeful expression lighting her features. Why would she be so keen to become better acquainted with Lord Selwood when she had Warminster dangling on her arm?

Phoebe stood between the pair for sometime while they remained silent. Quite discomforted by the lack of conversation, she excused herself. Yet she couldn’t shake the idea that Lady Jocelyn had designs on Selwood too. She already had Warminster eating from the palm of her dainty hand. If she set her sights on Lord Selwood, they could be at each other’s throats.

The two men—now both twenty-two—had been great friends since childhood.

A woman shouldn’t come between them.

When Phoebe eventually retired, she was a bundle of nervous energy. She changed for bed, dismissed the maid then turned to extinguish the candles. But her hands shook as she snuffed each flame until she stood in the weak illumination from the fire.

She stared at the glowing embers a long time before picking up her pitcher of water to douse them. If she saw who came to her bed tonight, she feared she’d never go through with the endeavor. Selwood appeared to be correct: she’d be uncomfortable seeing her lover’s face. Darkness definitely appealed.

Once the room harbored nothing but shadows Phoebe stumbled to the bed, slipped from her nightgown, and settled against the carved headboard to wait. After a few minutes, her door creaked open. A spill of light brightened the chamber briefly, and she caught sight of a tall form entering her room. The floorboards groaned as the man came closer, fabric slithered in the dark, and then the foot of the bed dipped.

“Enchantée, ma belle.”

A Frenchman? Phoebe wracked her brain for his identity. There had been none on Warminster’s list that she could remember. Phoebe inched up the bed.

“Do not be afraid,
S’il vous plait
. Your Lord Selwood ‘as sent me for your pleasure.”

 
Although surprised Selwood had sent a Frenchman to her bed, the stranger’s cultured accent reassured her. Phoebe relaxed and moved her legs from the sitting position she was in towards her midnight guest.
 

After a brief slither of sound, he captured one foot. “You ‘ave such délicat toes. Perfection.”

The stranger pressed a kiss to the tip of her big toe. Then another, and another. When he surrounded her toe with the warmth of his mouth and sucked, Phoebe gasped. No one had ever touched her feet before with such reverence. To her surprise, she liked her mysterious Frenchman so far. When he released her toe, he did not stop kissing. He bathed her whole foot in soft kisses. Some—like the ones pressed into the arch with more pressure—made her squirm. When he released her right foot altogether it was so he could turn his attention to her left.
 

The Frenchman’s hot breath rasped over her senses and when he was done he raised her leg. Phoebe gasped as he perched her calf on his hot, bare shoulder. Shocked that her lover might be completely naked already, Phoebe wriggled higher up the bed.

“‘Ave you ‘ad a change of ‘eart, ma belle?” Her Frenchman stilled, but his churning breath rang loud in the room.

“No,” she whispered. “Not at all. I like this very much.”

“Dieu merci!”
 

The fervent exclamation drove a laugh from her lips. She didn’t want this french stranger to go, she’d just been surprised to find him as naked as she. At least her first foray into scandalous pleasure would be quick.
 

The skin under her leg shifted as he continued to kiss a path up her inner thigh. “If only I could see you, ma belle.”
 

Given the way the Frenchman had her arranged, Phoebe was grateful for the blanketing darkness. She couldn’t have borne this pose in the light.
 

Her Frenchman shifted again, dragging her other leg onto his other shoulder so her feet rested on his back, her knees open wide. A breath of air brushed her curls. Phoebe tensed, anticipation lifting her hips restlessly. The Frenchman dragged in a deep, loud breath, and then his lips touched her inner thigh, high up where her leg joined her body. That kiss wasn’t where she’d expected it to be. She’d expected he’d go straight to her nub first, but he took his time, pressing light kisses around her lower lips, teasing but not fulfilling her wish for more.

Phoebe crossed her ankles behind his head and nudged him forward.

Her reward—resistance and a deep laugh. “We ‘ave all night, ma belle. I want to feast on you the way you deserve. Slowly—” he pressed a kiss low down, next to the entrance to her body—“and with reverence. You deserve nothing less.”

Phoebe shuddered, her body rippling with pleasure at the slow loving her Frenchman lavished on her. She was in the hands of a master of seduction. His words set her body aflame. As the urge to beg for him to finish filled her mouth, she pressed her head harder against the pillow, determined to control her impatience.

As if sensing her capitulation, the Frenchman slid a warm hand under her bottom and tilted her hips. His waiting, hot mouth dragged a long moan from her lungs at the brief touch against her skin and she buried her hands in the sheets to rein in her need for more.

Warmth flooded her senses, and then the unmistakable brush of a wet tongue. The Frenchman parted her lips with his talented mouth, sliding upwards to briefly touch her nub before retreating. Phoebe would die. He did it again, repeating that soft touch so often that she growled aloud at the incompleteness she felt. Another chuckle, and then he applied firmer pressure.

To her relief, he moved higher to her nub. At the sensation of suction, Phoebe curled up from the mattress to hold her lover’s head firmly in place. The soft, silky hair threaded through her fingers was long enough to grip. Phoebe tightened her hold as he ate at her greedily, laving with his tongue, sucking hard on the nub then biting gently on her lower lips.
 

The furious assault on her senses pushed her dangerously close to the edge. She clutched his hair tight, pulling his face harder against her need. The edge loomed. She was going to come right now. Any moment. She burst to—

The Frenchman removed his lips, and pushed her knees apart. “Non. Do not rush, mon amour. We ‘ave all night for pleasure.”

Phoebe panted. “No!” She’d been so close.

Her lover wriggled from her clutching hands and turned her to her side, wedging his thigh between hers as he slid in behind. He captured her restless hands. In this position Phoebe couldn’t even clench her thighs together to finish what he’d started.
 

Frustrated by his dominance, by the withheld release just moments away, Phoebe ground her backside into his lap. The hard ridge of his erection burned her skin, and a warning growl rumbled behind her.

“I never would ‘ave imagined you so impatient.”

Soft kisses caressed the apple of her shoulder, hands smoothed over her thigh as Phoebe struggled to get her breathing under control. She glanced over her shoulder but, given how dark she’d made her own chamber, she couldn’t discern who held her. “Bossy Frenchman.”

Lips pressed to her turned cheek and then another growl rumbled through her lover. The Frenchman dragged Phoebe to her hands and knees then moved in close behind. Something heavy, hot and eager settled into the crease of her bottom. Phoebe eagerly widened her stance and tilted her hips to better receive him.

But as before, her lover wouldn’t rush. Her hips were grasped gently, thumbs kneading her lower back in slow circles, as he rubbed his erection into the crease. Blast it all, this man would torture her forever. She needed more than torture. She needed release. Phoebe shifted her weight to one hand and moved the other between her legs to build her desire once more.

The Frenchman caught on quickly and covered her moving fingers with his own. The dual attention excited her unbearably and she moaned as her lover nudged into her body and then thrust deep.

“Merci! Tu es magnifique!” he whispered against her shoulder.

While she adjusted to his surprising girth, his fingers slipped and slid with hers, working to build her passion higher. When he thrust, then pulled out completely before sinking deep into her body, Phoebe moaned.

Sensations built swiftly while her lover used all his skill to coax her legs wider, to help her accept more of him. The thick length of him invaded her body, battering her senses into submission. Phoebe moaned at the joy of surrender.
 

A heavy rising tension gripped her as his sure hard thrusts claimed her completely. She opened to him, letting him use her as he saw fit.
 

Behind her, the Frenchman grunted, his hand clutched her hip tight. “Together we will come, mon amour,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, oh God, yes.”

Phoebe rubbed harder against her nub while behind her, the Frenchman thrust deep then ground their hips together in a tight circle. Phoebe’s body clenched and then shook violently, dragging a loud wail from her lungs at the intensity.

The Frenchman shuddered, and then thrust hard three times as he pumped his seed into her body. His heavy weight fell over her, cocooning her in blistering heat. Phoebe hung her head as she struggled for breath. Never. Not once had her husband affected her senses like this. What she’d thought she wanted, and what she’d gotten, surpassed her every desire.

She’d have to remember to thank Lord Selwood the next time she saw him.

CHAPTER THREE

Jonathan sipped his coffee behind the days’ newssheet while the houseguests clattered and chattered over breakfast. He supposed he was being rude by not conversing with them, but he needed the dry analytical content of the paper to control his raging arousal.

Lady Jocelyn sat across from him, daintily eating her breakfast and sipping her tea. But she had stretched out her leg and was currently running her toe up and down his trouser in a brazen flirtation.

However, what aroused Jonathan was Lady Warminster’s presence across the room, fixing herself a heaped plate of food. He could usually bear the sight of her without reaction, but today her smile tortured him. She looked smugly happy, content and, given the way her lips lifted for no obvious reason, he wondered if she was thinking of last night.

Jonathan tucked his legs under his chair, turned the page, and tried to concentrate on the goings on in parliament that he’d missed during the recent sessions. But the paper couldn’t hold his interest. He lowered a corner as Lady Warminster sank into a chair at his side.

 
“Lord Selwood, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the day.” She reached for her silver.