Lady Windermere's Lover (21 page)

“How does it make you feel?”

“They
all
make me feel like that thing we don’t say in Birmingham.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

He was snickering at her and she couldn’t let him get away with it. She spun around and gave a good push to his solid, very shapely chest. Taken by surprise, he landed on the hearthrug, knees apart and supported by his elbows. “I think I shall fuck
you
,” she said, and followed him to the floor, settling herself with a knee on either side of his thighs. Nice thighs. She tested one with her palm. Powerful.

“It would be my very great pleasure, Lady Windermere.”

Hands on his shoulders, she lowered herself until his stiff cock brushed her privates. “What is my sex part called?”

“Some men of a poetic bent have been moved to title it the ‘cradle of Venus.’ ”

“Very poetic and quite a mouthful.”

“A wonderful mouthful.”

“Is there anything shorter?”

“
Cunny
or
quim
are possibilities. The words are generally thought crude—”

“—and
cock
isn’t?” she interrupted with a snort, letting the cock stroke to and fro along her quim. “I understand. Not in front of Lady Ashfield.”

“Unless you wish to give her an apoplexy.”

Seeking a rhythm and not getting enough purchase, she took it in her fist and rubbed it where she was slick and wanting. It was like pleasuring herself, but better. A cock was more satisfying than her finger, not least because next—soon—it would fill her and deliver sensations she couldn’t achieve alone.

“I hope the good people at the Birmingham Academy for Young Ladies appreciated what a diligent student they had,” he said, breathing hard.

“Both my understanding and application,” she replied, positioning herself carefully and descending until his long, thick cock was firmly lodged in her quim, “were greatly appreciated.” A gusty sigh marked the satisfaction of feeling him fill her, echoed by his own groan of pleasure. Much better than a finger because it was part of Damian and they were joined together in a way that made her heart flutter like a mad thing, even though that particular organ wasn’t involved in the physical transaction.

He tilted his head back and his groin forward. “I think I must be the luckiest man in the world. Now,
fous-moi
.”

Chapter 22

S
he was, quite simply, extraordinary. Once she worked out what to do, she rode him like a golden angel with muscles of steel, coming twice before sending him over the top and wringing out every drop of seed he had in him. She sprawled on top of him on the floor of this shabby inn. The Swan at Egham would always hold a special place in his heart as the place where he had known he was in love.

When had it happened? When had his wife, Cynthia, become the most important thing in his world? He knew exactly the moment when he first wanted her: seated at dinner laughing at Julian, whom he then believed to be her lover. He did not know when desire turned to love, only that it had happened between then and now. She had all he would have chosen in a bride and thought he would never have when he married her: beauty, intelligence, and excellent French. But those qualities of the perfect diplomatic partner were admirable, not lovable. Humor, strength, generosity, and a deep-rooted kindness that he would never have had the sense to search for in a wife, those were what he loved. And something else that might take a lifetime to define. A lifetime of talking and painting and laughing and lovemaking. A lifetime for him to defend her against the depredations of other men and her own foolish generous impulses, like rescuing kittens in the snow.

Stroking her silken back, he found gooseflesh. “It’s growing cool. We should go to bed.”

“It’s barely afternoon,” she objected, all rosy and tousled.

“You need to lose this obsession with time. The right hour to do anything is when we say it is.”

“Is this the immensely correct Lord Windermere speaking? The doyen of the diplomatic service? What would the grand duchess think of such disregard for propriety?”

“She’d be envious,” he said. “Help me put away the miniatures and we’ll get under the covers.”

Bustling about, he found her nightgown and his shirt. He would have preferred to keep her naked and suspected she would have been happy to oblige him in the matter. But he had a faint recollection that she was susceptible to chills and wouldn’t risk her catching cold. How on earth had he been so lucky, undeserving bastard that he was? He’d managed to fall into a marriage that fulfilled every dream he might have conceived, had he ever dared aspire to such glory. Now he must see if there was a chance she could ever love him as he loved her.

He wasn’t above using her new sensual tastes to bind her to him. He drew up the covers slowly, worshipping her with his eyes as inch by inch her gorgeous flesh disappeared into her nightgown and beneath the blankets. His mind wandered to the science of improved heating, so that he could keep her naked all the time.

First he had to ensure their future. Even gripped by extreme lust, he had noticed her interest in the picture of one woman and two men. While he was ready to indulge any sensual desire she could think of, and doubtless many she could not, sharing her with another man was not on the table. Not Julian, or any other.

He got into bed beside her and sat upright. He wanted to be able to read her face as they talked. What he’d learned about Cynthia since his return from Persia would fill a litany of praise, but he wanted to know everything.

“Why did you choose to marry me?” he asked. “I was so bound up in my need to regain Beaulieu that I scarcely gave your feelings a second thought.”

“Choose? I wouldn’t say I chose the marriage, though I did consent to it. In theory I could have said no.”

So much for any slight hope that she had been attracted to him. “Why did you say yes?”

“My uncle would not let me stay in his household if I refused you. The alternatives were worse.”

“What were they?

“I could have become a governess, not a good prospect without a recommendation. Or I could have married Mr. Maxwell.”

“Your uncle’s business partner?”

“The man responsible for raping Aggie and others. Though I was not yet aware of his worst habits, I knew I would do anything to avoid him.”

So she preferred him only to a life of drudgery or marriage to a villain. And he had thought her lucky to get him. “Did you even care that I was an earl?” Surely he’d had something to offer her?

“I hardly knew what an earl was when you called on us in Birmingham at Old Square, and certainly never dreamed of wedding such an exalted creature. I had no notion of any future beyond remaining as my Aunt Lavinia’s companion.”

“I thought you were getting something from the marriage as I was. I got Beaulieu, you got a titled husband.” He couldn’t disguise his pique. “It seemed like a fair exchange, but now you say you gained nothing you wanted from our marriage.”

She patted his hand. “Not having to marry Maxwell was certainly something.”

“I suppose I should be flattered that I rated higher.”

“Much higher. If you had seemed a cruel man I would have defied my uncle and taken my chances as a governess. When you called on us you were kind to Aunt Lavinia.”

“Kind? I treated her with normal courtesy.” He remembered Mrs. Chorley as a nervous little woman, cowed by her domineering husband. “You forget that it is my job to put people at ease. What did you think of me?”

“I was completely overcome by your appearance. My aunt had chosen a new gown for me. While I didn’t know enough to realize that it was overtrimmed and lacked elegance, I knew it did not suit me. And her maid had set my curls with sugar water so my hair felt brittle and uncomfortable. I felt like a complete dowd compared to you, so handsome and debonair. And so unreadable.”

“Closed off was how you described it. I suppose I was. I think I have been for years. My training for the diplomatic service completed the process, but I shut down my feelings when I lost Beaulieu. I was bitter and angry and resented you because you were the only path back there. I didn’t want a wife.”

It was an uncomfortable admission but the truth, and one she must have realized by now. “I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his forehead. “I am making a sad hash of trying to persuade you to stay with me. I hoped you would forgive me, that we would forgive each other. I’ll willingly take the lion’s share of the blame.”

Her reaction surprised him. She sat bolt upright and shrank away as far from him as the narrow bed would allow. “Good,” she said, rejecting his effort to take her hand. “You deserve it.”

S
he had tried to put it behind her it and thought she had succeeded. She didn’t want to spoil their Swan Inn idyll with the painful subject. But when he spoke of them forgiving each other, Cynthia needed to explain exactly why she had behaved the way she had. And Damian needed to acknowledge that the lion’s share was more like an elephant’s.

“Last winter—” she began. Then broke off. She wanted to tell the whole story so that he’d understand. “Last year at Beaulieu, when you suddenly announced you were going to Persia for an unspecified length of time, possibly years, you left me instructions.” He had the grace to look abashed. “Quite a list of them, like improving my appearance and my French. You also told me the house needed refurbishment.” She remembered the way his gaze had swept over the threadbare upholstery and light-streaked curtains, then rested on her ugly, frilly, sage green gown. “You told me to stick with your mother’s original scheme and replace the materials exactly.”

“Did I?”

“Naturally I was sympathetic to such a sentimental request, until you spoiled it by implying that I hadn’t the taste to make my own choices.”

“Are you sure that’s what I meant?”

She fixed him with a beady eye. “I had no doubt.”

He capitulated without a fight. “I didn’t trust your taste and I showed no respect for your position as my wife. Even if our tastes didn’t match, you had the right as the mistress of the house to choose your surroundings. I am sorry.” He tried to take her hand again but she shook him off. “I freely admit that I was an unfeeling brute. Let me make it perfectly clear that you performed impeccably in my absence. You are the picture of elegance, a superb French speaker, and a brilliant manager of my household, both here and in the country. The steward at Beaulieu sings your praises by every post, and I have every faith that you will even be able to make Amblethorpe habitable. I also completely understand why you thought it amusing to introduce some very ugly pieces into the house. Please, my dear Cynthia, now you’ve had your revenge, can we get rid of the pink settee and the dead birds in the hall? Next time you commit fraud in a good cause, buy a Titian or a set of Hepplewhite chairs.”

“You find it amusing.”

“Don’t you? As revenge goes, it’s a witty one. That explains the furnishings, but it’s mere mischief. Nothing like taking up with Julian.” The humor faded from his eyes. “Now that I know you, it surprises me you’d even consider an affair. Not only are you the kindest and most forgiving lady in the world, you are a woman of principle.”

She swallowed hard. She had tried to forget the pain, to accept her erring husband back without further recriminations. She feared that if he made light of her feelings now he would be beyond pardon and there could be no happy future.

“For weeks I refused to have anything to do with Julian. I did my best to be a faithful and obedient wife.” Tears gathered, as they often did when she remembered the long awaited letter, responding to several of hers, happy ones during her pregnancy and the heartbroken conclusion. She got down from the bed to find a handkerchief.

Clutching the linen square like a lifeline, she stood in her nightgown and bare feet at the foot of the bed. Damian stared back at her with his blankest expression.

“I would never have encouraged Julian had it not been for your cruel indifference to losing our child.”

“You were with child?” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He jumped out of bed and took her by the elbows.

Her immediate thought was that he’d forgotten an event that meant so little to him. “Our marital duties were almost immediately rewarded,” she said.

“You said nothing of it.”

“I can assure you it wasn’t a secret. Do you expect me to believe half a dozen letters went astray?”

“It’s possible. Between the weather and the French, communications in the Mediterranean were troublesome last year.” He shook his head and his hands tightened to the brink of hurting her arms. “Didn’t you guess when I said nothing in response to your news?”

“But you did. You dismissed my miscarriage in two short sentences.” All her bitterness and grief welled up. “I remember the words. How could I forget them?
I am sorry to hear of your indisposition. You must be more careful of your health. Yours etc. Windermere.
”

His forehead creased as he appeared to search his memory. “You had a cold.” This time his grip did hurt her and she pulled away. “You were caught in the rain walking home from church. You told me you were susceptible to chills.” He spoke like a man in a daze. “I had forgotten, but now it comes back to me.”

The wet walk had happened soon after he sailed and the report of a minor chill had taken up a major portion of her first dutiful letter to her husband, because she couldn’t think of anything else to write. She hadn’t thought of it since.

“I never knew you were with child,” he said slowly, as though unable to assimilate the news. “You came to London to consult a doctor.”

“He didn’t make any difference. I lost the baby. I wanted the child so badly because I had nobody else.” She buried her face in her hands and felt scalding tears soak her fingers. “And all these months I’ve resented you for nothing,” she cried before being overcome by sobs.

He put his arms around her and let her weep out her misery and remorse. Especially the latter. The grief was an old story, still present but dulled by endurance and the passage of time. In the here and now she had to face the fact that she’d taken revenge and almost betrayed her vows in retaliation for an injury that had never existed. Worst of all, she might have lost the chance of winning her husband’s love.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing as the crying subsided. He continued to hold her, rubbing her back. “I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling away and retreating to the window. She saw the inn yard through a blur and wiped her eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you! What do
I
have to forgive? I may be innocent of this particular sin of callousness but there are plenty more. Let’s not speak of your fault. I am sorry that you went through the experience alone and without comfort. Was it very bad?”

Believing in his regret, she didn’t want to talk about it further. The details were painful and not such as a man could understand, or want to hear about. “I recovered,” she said, and started to look for her clothes. She felt cold and strange and uncertain of her feelings now that the lump of resentment she’d carried for months had dissolved. “Are we going back to town this afternoon?”

“Unless you want to stay here another night.”

“It’s a small inn and not very comfortable.”

“I like it here,” he said. “But the decision is yours. What about Castleton?”

“I was only going there because I was angry. They don’t expect me. I’d prefer to go back to town. I left without giving the servants their Christmas boxes.”

This raised a smile. “That’s my little philanthropist. I’ll summon your maid.”