The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (31 page)

“Shocking,” he said, reaching down to clasp her hand. “I thought the bride looked a little wild,” he added. “I know it was bad of me, but during the entire ceremony, all I could think of was getting her in my bed.”

“I had my eye on the groom myself.”

“Did you?” He led her toward the bed, his manhood flagrantly erect. “Why was that?”

“I burn for him,” she whispered, her eyes lifting to his face.

“Is that right?”

“Don't tell anyone though,” she said. “A decent woman probably shouldn't burn for a man during breakfast.”

He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled her snugly into his lap with her legs straddling him. The head of his shaft pressed against her belly, and his hard thighs supported her bare bottom. “I'm rather drawn to indecency myself.”

“Do you mind explaining that remark?”

He rolled her across his chest and spilled her down onto the blue silk coverlet. “Perhaps I ought to show you. This sort of thing calls for a detailed explanation.”

She laughed, hiding her face in the crook of his arm. She thought of the days and afternoons and nights they would share. Of the wedding vows they'd exchanged before God and family. And, yes, she had done it properly, perfectly, this time.

“Grayson—”

“Don't interrupt me, darling. Demonstrating indecency is serious work.”

His fingers brushed feathery strokes over her full breasts, down to the dip of her navel, before disappearing into the damp curls of her sex. With unerring finesse his thumb found her hidden nub of flesh, arousing the sensitive nerves with slow, exquisite strokes.

“Oh,” she breathed, rising up on her elbows only to subside as he spread her open, exposing her to him. She felt moisture seeping from the depths of her body. She shifted her hips, locking one leg around his thigh.

With his silky blond hair lying upon his broad shoulders, his smoky blue eyes full of seductive promise, he was the wicked lover of a woman's dreams. And he was her husband.

She strained upward. “Grayson, please—”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Don't tell me about virtue at a time like this. I
want
you.”

He slid backward onto the floor, clamping his hands around her waist to position her on the edge of the bed. Standing, his legs planted wide apart, he parted her thighs to open her fully to him. Her flesh glistened, pink and swollen.

The tip of his shaft slid between her damp folds and sank into her sheath. Bliss. Heat. Wet female flesh pulsing against him until the blood in his groin began to boil and his body tightened. He ground his hips against her, positioning each thrust to intensify her pleasure. Deep plunges into her fertile core, slow withdrawals in a steady rhythm that left her gritting her teeth with frustration.

“More,” she whispered. “Harder.”

Moving on pure instinct, he brought her tantalizingly close to the peak only to pull back at the very last second. A minute later she arched, trembling in climax, and he followed, savoring the fulfillment he knew only in her love.

A half hour later they still had not moved from where they had collapsed, the late afternoon sun casting its warmth from the window onto their bridal bed. Jane lay snuggled against his muscular torso, listening to the interesting echoes that drifted from below.

“Oh, dear,” she said, trying to sit up and disentangle herself from bare limbs and bedsheets, “those voices are rather disturbing. I cannot tell if they're coming from the doorstep or the street. Do you think—”

“Ssh.” He gathered her back against his chest. “Emma and Heath can take care of whatever it is. Celebrate with me, my love. Let us concentrate on each other.”

She closed her eyes, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. A glow of gratitude warmed her heart and stole over her. This was what she had yearned for, this closeness and acceptance, the prize for which she had sacrificed her reputation. How well worth it had been the risk, her unwillingness to accept what others believed was best for her. Perhaps her methods could have been more refined, but no one dared question the reward, all her fears of an empty life replaced with Grayson's love.

How could she have known that her scheming would end in such undeserved sweetness? Who would have guessed that a rogue would be the most devoted of mates, the man to teach her the true meaning of love?

“What I wish,” she murmured, “is that every one of them could find the contentment that we have. I couldn't help thinking that Emma and Chloe looked a trifle sad today. And Drake with those women, well, what can I say?”

Grayson gave a deep chuckle. “Scarcely is she done with one scheme than she hatches another. My marchioness is already matchmaking. Do you suppose we could put off plotting for a few hours at least?”

“Do you have something else in mind?”

“Now that you ask . . .”

She half turned, touching his face, the proud bones, with her fingertips. “It
was
the perfect wedding.”

He held her and felt his heart brim over with happiness and tender possession. His wife, mistress, and clever strategist. His partner in devious pleasures, the woman who had helped him find his place when he was floundering. “I do love you, Jane.”

“I have always loved you, scoundrel.”

There was laughter from below, doors slamming, a shout that might have been a challenge or a cheer. The sounds of family and friends joined together to celebrate two hearts brought home.

“What do you want?” she whispered, holding her breath.

“To further your education.” He bent his head down to hers, his blond hair brushing her cheek. “Since there are obvious deficits, I shall take a moment to provide you with the experience lacking in your background.”

“What a gentlemanly thing to do.”

“There's no need to thank me,” he said, his eyes flickering over her like a spark.

She felt the heat of his gaze burn to her bones. “I'm sure this isn't . . . wise.”

He ran his forefinger down the side of her jaw, raising shivers on her skin. “There is a time to be wise and a time to be wicked. Which do you suppose this is?”

His heavy-lidded blue eyes made her feel weak, made her heart quicken. “I think . . . I . . .”

A wanton flame kindled in the depths of his eyes. For the life of her she could not break away from his gaze. His silken voice lulled her. “Be a little wicked just once, Jane. Just for a moment.”

Read on for a sneak peek at
The Love Affair of an English Lord
the second novel in
Jillian Hunter's Boscastle Trilogy!

England
1814

The late Dominic Breckland, Viscount Stratfield, was returning to life in a sea of women's underwear. From ear to ankle he fought a sensual undertow of lacy shifts and white silk stockings, his muscular arms tangled in the ties and tapes of lavender-scented buckram stays, his heavy thighs wrapped in a pair of dainty French percale pantalettes. Like a wounded beast of the night he had eluded capture and taken refuge in the last place his pursuer would think to look.

Summoning a primitive instinct for survival, he had climbed the sturdy oak tree outside the manor house and hauled his bruised and bleeding six-foot frame over the windowsill. Hopeful he had outwitted the man who chased him, he had then collapsed—into an open trunk stuffed with personal female attire and frivolous accessories. He was not too exhausted to appreciate the irony of the situation.

For now, at least, he had managed to escape the man who was hunting for him. Yet moment by moment his life blood was saturating an unknown woman's muslin petticoats and blush-pink stockings. Pain seared his upper body. Gritting his teeth, he unraveled from his elbow a flimsy lawn chemise embroidered with blue silk forget-me-nots. His gaze unfocused and brimming with deviltry, he examined it in the moonlight.

If he was going to die, for the second time in a month, he might as well go out on a rousing sexual fantasy. “Well,” he murmured, “what sort of woman are you anyway? Fast or merely fashionable? Do I have a choice? Then give me fast.”

Unfortunately the maidenly garment failed to inspire a potent sexual image in his mind. The owner did appear to possess a decent pair of breasts, although Dominic was admittedly not capable of objective appraisal in his current condition.

God help them both—the poor woman would suffer a heart seizure when she found his carcass buried in her drawers. It seemed to him that he had once owned this creaky old manor house, at some time in the murky past, and he tried to remember who had bought it from him. To his frustration his brain refused to focus, images flitting elusively behind his eyes like moths in the shadows.

A retired sea captain, wasn't it? Sir Hickory or Humpty Something, his wife and daughter. Their names escaped Dominic at the moment. Bleeding to death, he hoped he would be forgiven the lapse in manners.

“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” he muttered. “But who the devil was his wife?” If he was wallowing in the woman's underclothes, he ought to at least know her name.

Many would remark that Dominic being found dead in a trunk of petticoats was not surprising for a former English scoundrel who had thumbed his nose at Society. His closest friends might even have chosen to bury him in a shroud of female underclothing as a loving tribute to their past sins.

Except that Dominic had been officially “buried” a month ago, mourned by a few, cursed by many. Aside from the persistent rumors of his ghost popping up in the oddest places and doing the naughtiest things, no one really expected to see him again.

Not his servants or scattered acquaintances.

He trusted only one person. The man who had helped him arrange his own funeral.

The late evening silence of the country estate was marred by thumping footsteps, the sound of a bucket being kicked over, and an irate male voice from the front of the house.

“Somebody open the bloody gate!” the gardener shouted from the driveway below. “The carriage is coming over the bridge!”

“The bloody gate has been open for an hour!” the groom shouted back.

“Company,” Dominic said with a mordant sigh, tossing the embroidered chemise over his shoulder. “I suppose I ought to tidy myself up—if I'm expected to entertain.”

He looked like a nightmare cast up from hell, and he knew it. His lanky frame had lost flesh. The hollows of his cheekbones gave his masculine face a dangerous gauntness. The lugubrious pattern of surgeon's stitches that crisscrossed his chest and left shoulder had been torn during his tree-climbing escapade. Taking a breath that burrowed into his lungs like talons, he felt with his uninjured arm for the windowsill and hoisted himself upright for a few moments of enlightening agony.

His gray eyes widened in approval as he took stock of his surroundings.

“Well, isn't this convenient?” he said, clenching his teeth against a wave of pain. “A room with a view.”

His own estate lay across the swathe of moonlit road on a wooded rise. Warm beams of candlelight glowed from the bedroom window, where he had been brutally stabbed to “death” three weeks ago. His uncle, Colonel Sir Edgar Williams, had already taken possession of the house, and if Dominic had access to a spyglass, he could have identified the shadowy figure behind the curtains.

The taunting silhouette belonged to a woman, he thought in cynical detachment. Of that he had no doubt. But whether she was the same lady who had shared his bed while he was callously being stabbed, he could not say. Nor did it matter now. That love affair belonged to a past life and had died along with his previous identity. He feelings for his former mistress were as dead as she believed him to be.

The clip-clop of approaching horses, the churning of carriage wheels on the road, interrupted his troubled reflections. Pray God whoever owned this trunk would not decide to explore her dressing closet tonight. For if he was any judge of women's underwear, and it so happened that he was, then the delicately proportioned owner of these garments would quite indelicately scream her head off when she discovered a ghost in her intimate garments.