Trust Me (12 page)

Madame Dubois
appeared in the doorway.

Anne tore her gaze
away from Jon and focused on the older woman. How embarrassing to be caught
ogling a gentleman. Especially when that gentleman was her own husband. Jon
wanted her to be fashionable. There was nothing fashionable about being
cow-eyed over one’s own husband. Especially for a countess.

“My lord?” The
dressmaker said in her heavy accent.

Jon half turned, his
features stern, expressionless. He did not bother to turn fully. Did not bother
to look Anne in the face. “Tell her, my dear.”

She inhaled deeply,
trying to control her hitching breathing. “I shall have the crimson velvet with
the… g-gold lace.”

“And?” Jon’s tone was
relentless.

She knew what he
meant. Oh God, she couldn’t possibly. But it was what he wanted. A long,
shuddering sigh racked the whole of her. Pure surrender. She could deny him
nothing. “And the also the gown of gold cloth.”

Jon turned and caught
her gaze. His eyes blazed with triumph.

And promise.

A wicked bolt of
desire flashed through Anne, so intensely it weakened her legs and she was glad
to be seated.

He turned back to the
mantua maker. “My wife also requires a gown of black velvet, with a sheer black
lace overdress and gold lace trim. And jets on the bodice.”

Anne suppressed a
moan and tried to look slightly bored under the curious gaze of the dressmaker.

“You may leave us.”
Jon’s cold, cultured tone held an undercurrent of authority. No one could have
disobeyed him and Madame Dubois certainly didn’t.

Her heavy skirts
swished as she left the room and pulled the curtains shut.

Instinctively, Anne
kept her eyes downcast as Jon approached. Part of her cringed at this level of
submission. After giving in so completely to something that was an anathema to
her, she should show some resistance or… do
something
.
Reassert her own will. He would become bored, surely. But she couldn’t help it.
Her blood sang in her veins. She revelled in her surrender to his will.

In his ability to
overpower her.

Staring straight
ahead, she met the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Lift your skirts,”
he whispered.

“What?” she whispered
back.

“Don’t question me.
Obey.”

The hard edge in his
voice told her he’d brook no refusal. Part of her wondered if he would really
turn her over on his lap and spank her in a Mayfair dressmaker’s. Part of her
was terrified to find out. God, if anyone should ever guess at the depth of
their games…

She’d have to comply.

She glanced at the
curtain. Fear and arousal pounded through her in a rush so powerful the chamber
seemed to tilt and turn. Her hands began to shake. “I can’t move.”

“You can do whatever
you set your mind to.”

Slowly, jerkily, she
slid her hands down to the dark purple velvet. Wetness gushed between her legs.
She inched her skirts up slowly.

When her garters came
into view, she stopped and met his eyes.

“All the way up.” His
tone was implacable.

Her hands shook all
the harder. From apprehension or arousal, she didn’t know which was stronger.
She continued lifting her skirts, inch by inch. Cool air touched her loins and
belly. She gripped her skirts in her fists, her palms sweating profusely.

God. She had bared
herself for him, totally. Here where they could be discovered at any moment.
She glanced at his face but his attention was fixed on that part of herself he
had commanded her to show him.

An eternity seemed to
pass whilst he studied her. Fluid continued to flow from her, increasing with
every moment. He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. Then he met her eyes.
“Touch yourself.”

“Here?”

“Need I repeat
myself, Nan?”

“I can’t do…
that
—not here.”

“You’ll be a good
girl and do as you’re bid.”

She opened her mouth
to protest again then better sense prevailed and she clamped it shut. She
really had no choice. Her nether lips swelled and her inner walls clenched. She
dragged her hand over her mons, her fingers brushed her nub. Couldn’t avoid
brushing it. The little nub was so erect, so prominent. Her body jerked at the
sensation.

“Yes, like that.
Stroke yourself.”

She stroked her
fingers over the firm little nub. It pulsed against her touch. Sparks of fire
flashed through her. Her hips arched up, her body seeking more. At the feeling
of losing control of her own body, she cried out softly then bit her lip to
silence herself. Hunger swelled deep in her pelvis. Compulsively, she quickened
her strokes. Heated chills of anticipation flickered in her sex.

A moan escaped her.

“You can come but be
sure not to scream.” His quiet, slightly amused tone penetrated the trance-like
state that had fallen over her.

She became aware of
her surroundings again. But she couldn’t stop. Her internal muscles began
drawing. She worked herself faster, wishing they were alone, wishing she could
cry out and beg him to fuck her.

Her pleasure detonated.

Her cunt contracted
over and over. Hard.

She came back to
herself, feeling the wetness of tears on her face. Tears from the tremendous
effort to keep quiet, to hold back the sounds of satisfaction.

She glanced at him.

The stern mask had
fallen from his face.

He dropped to his
knees, kissed her then pulled away and retrieved his handkerchief from his
pocket.

“Here, my love.” He
dabbed at her mouth. He looked tender, almost contrite.

She stared up at him,
confused.

“You have bitten your
lip, you are bleeding.” An urgent look came over him, and he dropped the
handkerchief and cupped her face with shaking hands. “God, you are
magnificent.”

He brought his mouth
to hers. Crushed it with a kiss.

Sharp, sore pain
stabbed her lips like shards of glass. She winced.

He broke the kiss and
softly caressed the bitten places with his tongue. The tang of her own blood
mixed with the familiar taste of his salty-sweet saliva.

Voices and soft laugher echoed
from beyond the curtain. He lifted his head then jerked her skirts into place.
He stood and offered her his hand.

His blue eyes shone with such
emotion that her heart stalled a moment. He took her hand and squeezed it.
“Come, we need to hurry.”

Chapter Seven

“Goodness, girl, you
are so quiet.”

Rattled by the loud,
gravely voice, Anne rebalanced her teacup in her hands and shifted in the
surprisingly hard-cushioned wingchair. They were sitting in the parlour of Lady
Ester Alday’s townhouse. Ester was Jon’s great-aunt. The chamber’s décor
gleamed with cold splendour in cornflower-blue and white with silver gilt
accents.

Anne tried to think
of something to say but found her wits dull, sluggish.

Beside Ester sat her
elder sister, Lady Harriet Thurles-De Wit, peering over her spectacles with
cold, grey eyes that sent a shiver through Anne as the woman studied her.
“You’ll want to eat sparingly of those ginger biscuits.”

Anne couldn’t have
swallowed a bite. Her nerves were too tightly strung.

“You’re already far too
plump, and I am sure you shall be breeding soon enough. You young girls don’t
lace tight enough. You will all have breasts and bellies like sows when you are
my age.”

In fact, the odour
from the ginger biscuit had begun to nauseate Anne. She took her plate and set
it as far from herself on the side table as she could.

“My word, your
complexion is so dark.” Ester turned to her sister and said. “Harriet, don’t
you think her skin is extraordinarily dark?”

Harriet held her
spectacles up to her eyes and squinted hard in Anne’s direction. “What do they
call those people?”

“What people?”

“Her people.”

“Dear, her mother was
from Spain.”

“Yes, Moors! That’s
the word. She looks as dark as a Moor. Are you a Moor, girl?”

Anne’s mouth went dry
and her breathing quickened. She couldn’t have answered to save her life. It
wasn’t the question. It was the way the women were looking at her, as though
she’d flown in on a broomstick from the moon.

She had been subject
to derision over her dark complexion during her seasons, from the other girls.
But she hadn’t expected Jon’s elderly aunts, well-established Society ladies,
to engage in this sort of open humiliation of her person.

To say she was
shocked was certainly an understatement.

“Harriet, my dear,”
Ester said. “I think that the term ‘moor’ is a bit arcane. I am sure they are
now simply called Spaniards, as are all other people from Spain.”

Harriet pressed her
lips together a moment. “Well, I am sure you’re wrong.”

Ester gave her sister
a mild look. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Harriet blinked
several times then shrugged one shoulder up slightly. “In any case, imagine the
next Countess of Ruel, a Spaniard.”

“She is the not the
next countess, she is the current.”

“Such a mouse of a
girl. She’ll have a fine time out acting as countess with our Sarah at Lloyd
House.”

“That is for
certain.”

The sisters shared a
chuckle.

When she had caught
her breath, Harriet turned back to Anne and raised her spectacles to her eyes
then studied her so intently that it sent shivers over Anne’s scalp.

“Can you speak
Spanish?”

Anne had so adjusted
to being discussed as though she were invisible, it took her a moment before
she realized that Ester was speaking to her again. She tried to smile but her
lips faltered and she shook her head. She knew only those few words her mother
used as curse words. Yes, she could
read
several languages but only by
sight, for she had taught herself from dusty old language books in her father’s
long-abandoned study during her isolated youth in Ireland. But she didn’t have the
wits at the moment to explain.

Harriet drew her
thin, silver eyebrows together and clucked. “That dark, dark complexion.”

“Well, there’s no
helping that,” Ester said. “We must resign ourselves that the prized pale
complexion of the Lloyd ladies will forever be darkened. But she has brought
Ruel a fortune.”

Anne’s heart beat
faster. Why must everyone always speculate about her money?

“Lemons!”

The explosive shout
made Anne jump. She gripped the edge of the wingchair. Her heart beat rapidly
though jerkily, as though it were stuttering. With each beat new energy pounded
through her and she found her voice. “Pardon me, Aunt Harriet?”

Her voice sounded
small and slightly strangled. But she couldn’t help it.

“Girl, you must slice
lemons and put them on your face. Lay like that for an hour each morning. It is
the only way to bleach some of that darkness from your skin.”

“First of all, Aunt
Harriet, my wife has a name.”

At the sound of Jon’s
voice, Anne looked up. He entered with his cousin, the Hon. Henry Thurles-De
Wit, a tall, reed-thin man of middling years who possessed his mother,
Harriet’s steel-grey eyes and light brown hair.

Harriet tittered, a
nervous sound. “Well, of course she does. I meant no harm.”

“Secondly, I happen
to be quite fond of her complexion.”

“Of course you would
be. Any husband would claim so.”

Jon laughed, the
sound cutting and cold. It sent a chill through Anne.

“If I had wanted a
wife with a milk-and-water complexion, perhaps I would have selected your Caroline.
I hear she’s still available even in her—what is it? Her fourth Season?”

Harriet pursed her
lips and blinked several times. Her chin quivered. “Everyone knows that my
granddaughter is exceedingly selective.”

“Of course.” Henry’s
voice was soothing, conciliatory. “Mother, please, let me serve you some more
tea.” He rushed to collect Harriet’s teacup. “My niece is a most selective
young lady.”

“Jonathon, please
come here and sit with us.” Ester picked up the teapot. “Allow me to pour you
some good, stout India black. Before you and Lady Ruel arrived, Harriet and I
were discussing what could be done about all this tittle-tattle about you and
Lady Ruel and… well, your irregular courtship.”

Ester’s voice had
gone high-pitched on the last word.

Jon accepted a cup of
tea. “What do you think we should do?”

“You must have a
grand, public wedding. At St. James’.”

“We’re already
married.”

“I am aware.
Nevertheless, a public ceremony with Lady Ruel dressed in something like palest
yellow, well, that would put everyone in mind of her youth, her relative
innocence. And put some of this onus on you, where I am most certain it
rightfully belongs.”

Goodness. She
couldn’t imagine anything worse than a public wedding! And then a sudden
silence startled her. She looked up. Everyone was staring at her. Her throat
went tight. She put a hand to her collarbone and rubbed slightly. Jon had said
she should act haughty when she became uncomfortable around others.

However, Jon’s
presence, the recentness of her complete submission to him, made it impossible
for her to be aloof or haughty. She remained immersed in the immediacy of the
moment, strangely attuned to every nuance of emotion from the others yet unable
to direct her own. Her shyness froze her brain and dulled her wits.

It wasn’t a
comfortable place to be. Feeling others’ emotions wasn’t something she enjoyed.
She preferred to shield herself. And without her haughty veneer, she felt
stripped to the bone and utterly lost.

“Is our countess
always this quiet?” Ester gave a slight laugh, sounding nervous. “I can’t
imagine any woman who isn’t interested in the planning of her own wedding. This
will be her day.”

“I don’t want a
large, public wedding,” Anne blurted.

Jon flicked a glance
in her direction, making eye contact briefly. She imagined that somehow he had
heard her silent protest and her heart skipped a beat. But his expression
softened and he turned back to Ester. “Quite right,” Jon said. “We do not need
to have a second wedding ceremony to make things right.”

Relief washed over
Anne.

The two aunts glanced
at each other and both their faces turned downcast for several moments. Then
they turned to their attention back to Anne.

“Are you sure you
wouldn’t fancy a public wedding? Every girl dreams of her wedding day,” Ester
said. “And we would be happy to plan everything, you wouldn’t need to worry a
bit.”

“No, please, thank
you but no, I just— I don’t want to make a spectacle out of this,” Anne said.

“Such a wallflower.
Goodness me! I’d never have pictured you with a wallflower, not in a hundred
years,” Harriet said.

Ester caught her
sister’s eye and frowned then shook her head slightly. Harriet immediately bent
over her teacup.

Anne’s shoulders and
neck tensed. Oh, to be talked about as though she weren’t even here. Didn’t people
ever stop to think that wallflowers must also have feelings?

Jon turned and caught
her gaze once more and smiled ever so slightly. But this time his eyes smiled
too; they were positively lit. Anne recognized that look: wickedness. Her heart
picked up its pace. Oh God, what would he do here?

She sought refuge in
picking up her long-forgotten teacup. It gave her something to do with her
hands besides gripping the edge of the wingchair. She took a small sip. The tea
was too strong and cold. She lowered the cup to the saucer.

“Aunt Harriet, you
must go easily upon Anne. Our trip to the dressmaker’s proved most stimulating.
I fear she was overcome.” Jon winked at Anne.

Anne inhaled deeply
and her teacup rattled on the plate. His look was too heated, too intimate. She
wanted to drop her gaze to her lap but could not pull it away from his.

“Hmph, you mean to
tell me she actually fainted from the mere excitement of a trip to the
dressmaker’s?” Harriet sounded scandalized.

“It was a most
memorable trip, Aunt Harriet. Even I became a bit weak in the knees.”

The older woman gave
a soft titter. “You were always a teasing boy, always speaking nonsense.”

“It really was
exhausting. I fear I shall have to take her home and see her straight to bed.”

Anne felt heat flare
over her face even as her lips twitched with a smile. She schooled her
expression to remain blank.

Harriet made a
scoffing sound. “A gentleman fatigued from an afternoon of shopping. I have
never heard of such a ridiculous notion.”

Harriet looked so
full of consternation, laughter welled up inside of Anne. She fought it back.
Yet warmth curled about her insides. Yes, it was a little cruel for Jon to be
making sport of his elderly aunt. However, during her Seasons, Anne had been
the object of countless shared jests. She’d never been a co-conspirator. There
was a certain irresistible delight in sharing the jest.

In the carriage, with
the door securely closed, Anne collapsed into laughter. “That was very wicked
of us both,” she said breathlessly.

Jon did not share her
mirth. He held his mouth in a rigid, thin line, the look in his eyes hard yet
somehow distant.

Her laughter died and
her stomach cramped with the sudden tension. “Jon?”

He focused on her.
“They were inexcusably rude to you. They deserved to be made sport of.”

“They are old
ladies.”

“They are the same as
I ever remember them. I am sure if I had been common Jonathon Lloyd with my new
bride, they would have been far, far worse. It is very hard for them to adjust
themselves to the fact that I am the earl. To them, in a way, I shall always be
the spare.”

At his bitter tone,
Anne caught her breath. Jon rarely spoke of his past. And never in a manner so
revealing of his emotions.

“They would never
have been so rude to cousin Charles’ bride.”

All her own concerns,
her anxiety over the coming social occasions and the possibility of facing more
people like his aunts, faded away. Her concerns no longer mattered. She touched
him. The muscles of his arm tensed under her hand. She knew him well enough now
to recognize his deepest hurt. She tried to think of the best way to soothe
him. “That’s the past. You are the earl now. What your family thinks of that is
irrelevant.”

His arm went even
more rigid. “We needn’t speak of it any longer.”

His curt tone made
her heartbeat quicken. But she pushed past her timidity and continued. “What
matters most is that you fulfil your duty to the estate and the people who gain
their living from it.”

He was staring out
the window. She didn’t expect him to respond.

Then his arm relaxed.
He turned to her and regarded her so seriously.

She was hard put not
to fidget.

A slight smile curved
his hard mouth. He reached down, took her hand and laced his fingers with hers.
He laughed softly. “You’re like one of those ducal ladies of medieval times.
Wearing your chatelaine at your waist with your sleeves rolled up, ready to aid
the sick and the needy.”