Her Errant Earl (6 page)

“I shall do my best by you,” he said, a note of almost harsh
honesty entering his tone. “I vow it.”

You mustn’t think too much
.
Only feel.

She wasn’t certain she could. Her mind was spinning faster
than the wheels on a runaway carriage. He hadn’t given her the promise she
wanted. What in heaven’s name was his best? Dare she trust him enough to
discover?

“I shall try not to hurt you again, Victoria,” he added, his
voice softening. “If I leave, you are welcome to accompany me.”

She supposed it had to be concession enough, particularly
coming from a man as incapable of being tied down as her husband. He hovered
over her, so very large and beautiful. The time for speaking was over. Victoria
reached out to him, pulling him more fully atop her.

He came down over her, his mouth crushing hers in another
kiss. Her breasts were pressed firmly against him. His manhood was stiff and
thick, prodding her. He toyed with her sex, rubbing his cock against the slick
flesh, flicking over the tender nub hidden there.

She opened her legs to him, allowing him to guide her so
that she wrapped her legs round his waist. Then he pressed his arousal against
her. Instinctively, she jerked up and into him, wanting to feel him inside her.
He entered her slowly at first, just the tip dipping into her. The sensation
was odd yet wonderful, without pain this time.

She moaned against his lips, gripping his broad shoulders in
an effort to pull him even closer. Somehow, she couldn’t have enough of him.

He stopped at her moan, breaking the kiss to glance down at
her, their noses nearly brushing against one another. “Have you any pain,
darling?”

Victoria shook her head, incapable of coherent speech, and
slid her palms down over his strong back to his buttocks. She urged him to come
inside her more fully, drawing him into her. He obeyed her unspoken plea,
pushing deeper. If she had thought his touch had driven her mad, it was nothing
compared to the onslaught of sensation she felt now.

He began a wicked rhythm, and she matched him, raising her
hips eagerly for more. Each thrust built the intensity of her pleasure,
bringing her closer and closer to the point of fulfillment once again. He
groaned, increasing his speed as he pumped into her before lowering his head to
claim her lips in another kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, possessive and
demanding. When he reached between their bodies to tease the bud of her sex,
she couldn’t stave off the ripples of bliss that began to overtake her. She
shuddered, coming helplessly undone, crying out her pleasure.

Her climax seemed to drive him wild, for he propelled
himself into her even faster, harder and deeper. He tore his mouth from hers to
throw his head back, eyes closed. The expression on his face was one of pure
ecstasy. She’d never seen him look so unguarded before, and watching him as he
took his pleasure filled her with a new feeling of warmth for him.

In another series of thrusts, he stiffened against her, a
groan so low it almost sounded like a growl coming from his throat. She knew
another wave of heady passion as the wet spurt of his seed went inside her. And
then he collapsed atop her completely, breathing heavily. He pressed a reverent
kiss to the side of her neck.

In the aftermath of their desire, neither one of them spoke.
Victoria gently brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and held him, a quiet
sense of happiness taking root within her.

Pembroke woke to the strange presence of his wife in his
bed. He blinked his eyes open as a thin sliver of sunlight cut through the
drapery of the windows. She was curled against his side as if she were a little
cat. A handful of long blonde curls tickled his nose as he assessed the tableau
before him.

Devil take it. He was actually in his wife’s chamber. He
hadn’t returned to his. He had never, not once in his life, slept for the
entire night with a woman. What the hell was the matter with him? One week in
the country and he was noticing things like dust, housekeepers and footmen, and
allowing the wife he hadn’t wanted to drape herself all over him and choke him
with her wild hair. His right arm was even wrapped around her, anchoring her to
his side as if it were where she belonged.

Christ.

Careful not to wake Victoria, he rescued his arm and raised
a hand to pluck her curls from his face. They smelled like her sweet perfume.
Damn if his cock didn’t harden at the scent. He wanted her again. With a
muttered curse, he dropped her curls as though they were made of asps.

He had to escape her clutches, perhaps go for a
head-clearing ride. He gently laid back his portion of the bedclothes and sat
up. Then he made the mistake of glancing in his wife’s direction. She was still
gloriously nude, lying on her side with her back to him. The position and the
peeled-back coverlets provided him with a fair view of her pale, perfectly
rounded backside. Even her back, small and curved into a dip at her narrow
waist, appealed to him. Her hair was a riot of golden tresses tangled across
both his pillow and hers.

His
pillow?

True, he supposed everything in the house was his, whether
or not it had received an improvement from the bit of her dowry his father had
allowed to trickle down to him. But he certainly didn’t want to get in the
habit of thinking he belonged in her bedchamber unless it was for the sort of
mind-numbing passion they’d shared the previous evening. After which he would
bloody well leave.

A slow, steady ache took up fastidious residence in his
skull. What had he been thinking to allow her to cozen him into making promises
to her? By God, he had never made a promise to anyone. Not that he’d intended
to keep, that was.

An odd feeling bloomed in his chest. Guilt. His wife was
turning him into a saint. He wouldn’t have this. Not a bit of it. But her sweet
bottom was certainly a tempting sight. His manhood was pointedly reminding him
of that fact yet again. What was the harm in indulging himself in another bout
of lovemaking? He longed to lose himself inside her wetness, fill her with his
seed. Get her heavy with his child.

He could admit to himself that making love to Victoria
wasn’t truly a task he had taken on in the name of restoring his funds any
longer. He’d lost sight of duty and necessity. Instead, he was enjoying
himself.

He leaned down, unable to stop himself from the folly, and
kissed the arch of her bare shoulder. He flicked his tongue against her skin,
tantalized by the smooth creaminess of her, the taste of sweetness mingled with
a hint of salt. She made a breathy sound and rolled over onto her back. Not
enough of the coverlet traveled with her, leaving one of her generous breasts
peeking out at him. Her sweet pink nipple pointed up, hard and ready for his
mouth. He wanted to suck it until she started bucking wildly against him as she
had last night.

This was a development indeed. He’d thought that perhaps
after he’d taken her, his desire would abate. That she would be just like any
other woman he’d bedded and lost interest in before. True, they had consummated
the marriage, but it had been more a formality than a prolonged coupling. Last
night had been utterly splendid, like a fine feast that left him sated but
hungry for more.

He gave in to temptation and cupped her breast in his palm,
loving the way her nipple puckered and tightened against him. She truly was a
gem hidden beneath her quiet exterior. She possessed a rare beauty, he
recognized, her features more original than expected. At this proximity, he
spotted a smattering of freckles on her nose. He found it rather charming,
really. Perhaps there was something to be said after all for American ladies
who wore seductive silks and walloped their husbands in the nose with fine
English literature.

Pembroke kissed her then before he lost complete control of
his upper works. She was slow to wake, but after a bit of coaxing, she parted
her lips and sighed into his mouth. But kissing her was a prelude to something
he wanted much more than mere kissing. Unable to help himself, he pushed the
obstruction of her coverlet away so that he could straddle her naked body. He
was desperate to be inside her. His hands were on both her breasts, her fingers
tangled in his hair, her petite limbs wrapped round his waist.

Ah, sweet Christ.
If this was what living with his
wife was like, he’d never leave. It seemed there were benefits to waking up in
her bed. He skimmed his fingers down between their bodies to the juncture of
her thighs and the prize he sought. Her sex was already slick and ready for
him. He flicked his thumb over the sensitive nub just the way he’d discovered
she liked. Her body was incredibly responsive, jerking against him.

If he didn’t take her soon, he’d explode. He positioned
himself at her entrance, raining kisses down over her throat, and thrust. She
was as hot and tight as he remembered. All lucid thought fled his mind. His
entire world became focused on losing himself in his wife’s luscious body. In
and out he stroked, loving the throaty moans he produced from her lovely lips.
He pumped at a fast pace, knowing from the heaviness of her breathing that she
preferred her lovemaking to be deep and intense just the way he did.

Caught in the throes of heady desire, he almost didn’t hear
his wife’s half sigh, half whispered words.

“I love you.”

She loved him? Had he heard her aright? He couldn’t have,
and she was still dazed with sleep. Surely she didn’t love him. Still, somehow
her declaration had the opposite effect on him than it should have, because he
was suddenly about to climax. Instantly. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.
Throwing his head back like a conquering warrior, he spilled his seed inside
her.

When he was finally spent, he rolled to the side and forced
himself to get out of her bed before he decided to live there forever. Empathy
was one thing, guilt another. But this inexplicable, unavoidable attraction he
felt for her was altogether unacceptable. He couldn’t allow it to rule his
life. He had to remember that his primary focus was saving himself from
financial ruin and not playing lovelorn suitor to his wife.

“William?”

Her sleepy voice called after him, her tone questioning. He
hadn’t even looked at her in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He was afraid
to, by God. He stalked across the chamber and recovered his discarded dressing
gown. Perhaps he owed her an explanation for his boorish behavior this morning,
but he had none. He was more bollixed up than he’d ever been in his admittedly
bollixed life.

“William?”

Christ. Her voice sounded unsteady. He turned to look at her
as he stuffed his arms into his sleeves and knotted the belt at his waist. She
had covered her beautiful body and appeared incredibly small in the large high
tester. Her hair was still a halo of riotous curls around her face. She had
told him she loved him, and he had embarrassed himself in response by coming as
quickly as a lad having his first maid.

He wasn’t meant to love her, nor she him.

Love didn’t exist for anyone other than silly chits and
proud mamas. Victoria was waiting for him to respond. He cleared his throat.
“Good morning, my dear.” And with nothing more, he turned on his heel and took
his leave from her chamber before he did something even more imprudent like run
back to join his delightfully rumpled wife in bed.

Had she told him she loved him? After the door joining her
husband’s chamber to hers snapped closed, Victoria sank back into her pillows,
mortified. She’d been convinced she was in the midst of a wonderful dream,
overtaken by the sensations he evoked in her. It had been a sinfully lovely way
to wake up, to her husband’s impassioned kisses and caresses. She hadn’t meant
to say those three words aloud.

She could pretend she’d never spoken them, carry on as
William had, as if he’d never heard her. But she wasn’t naïve, and she knew
he’d heard her all too well. It was why he’d run off at the first opportunity.
He didn’t love her. That much was apparent.

His reaction to her blunder had been crushing. She’d told
him she loved him, and he’d offered her nothing more than a cool “good morning”
before disappearing. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in allowing him into
her bed, for in so doing she had also allowed him back into her heart. If
indeed he’d ever left it.

Her bed still smelled like him. She wished he hadn’t gone.
It was as if he’d demolished the bridge they’d built between one another.
Reluctantly, she rose and sought out her wrapper, still pooled on the thick
carpet. Odd, but she felt more alone now than she had in all the months he’d
been gone.

With a sigh, she headed to the bell pull and rang for Keats.
Although she’d like nothing better than to hide from her husband for the
remainder of the day, she knew doing so would merely be a childish postponement
of the inevitable reckoning. She crossed the room as she waited, pulling the
drapes aside to stare down into the slightly gloomy sunshine of the day.

If only he’d said something more than “good morning”.

* * * * *

William was still cursing himself for being an ass by the
time his wife glided into the morning room for their customary shared
breakfast. He could have managed a bit more than a polite greeting earlier, and
he knew it. He paused at her entrance, in the act of helping himself to the
kippers, bacon, eggs and toast on the sideboard.

She wore a vibrant morning gown of deep indigo with French
lace peeking from a high décolletage and an embroidered skirt that was cut away
to reveal more lace beneath. Although her attire was quite modest, he could
envision the delectable curves and breasts beneath her fashionable wasp waist
and acres of silk. When last he’d seen her, she’d been nude and he’d just been
inside her.

He swallowed hard, willing his instant arousal to subside.

“Good morning,” he offered through suddenly stiff lips.
Christ, she was turning him into a halfwit, let alone a fool. Here he was,
tossing her the same meaningless pleasantries that had already put an invisible
rift between them. He could sense her withdrawal from him just as surely as he
could smell the crisp aroma of the bacon before him.

As if to prove his point, she cast him a look that was
positively frigid. Her diminutive features were immobile in her ordinarily
expressive face. Rather than meeting his gaze, her eyes were trained upon
something on the far wall of the breakfast room. An old family portrait,
perhaps, the one of his grandfather posed with his favorite hunting dog.
Anything but him.

He’d hurt her, he realized, and just when he’d promised not
to. He winced, watching as she allowed the butler to seat her in an equally icy
silence. Though she did thank poor Wilton with a forced smile.

Time for him to pay the forfeit, he decided. He finished
adding a heap of eggs to his plate. “May I put together a plate for you, my
dear?”

She still refused to look directly at him, but she did deign
to give him a regal nod. “You may.”

The ever-efficient Wilton appeared at his elbow, kind enough
to take Pembroke’s plate back to the table for him so that he could dedicate
his attention to his wife’s. He selected an array of meats, toast and jam. He’d
noticed that she never touched her eggs, but she had a fondness for marmalade.

He placed her plate before her with a flourish. “Your
breakfast, my lady.”

He was near enough to her to catch a whiff of her sweet
perfume. Her golden locks had been twisted into an artful coiffure by her
lady’s maid, the tresses so shiny they glinted beneath the gas lights. She
refused to turn toward him, leaving him only with her profile. A lone sapphire
earring dangled against her creamy neck. Damn if he wasn’t jealous of the
bauble for its proximity to her soft skin.

“Thank you, Pembroke.” Her voice possessed an underlying
note of emotion. “Please do enjoy yours.”

He’d been dismissed.

It occurred to him that he was lingering like a lovesick
swain at her side. What the hell was he doing, staring at the pretty shell of
his wife’s ear, thinking about kissing her neck before the butler? He was a
candidate for the lunatic asylum. His fall from grace was complete.

Feeling even more like an imbecile, he seated himself. How
could she rattle him so, this tiny scrap of a woman he’d never even given half
a thought to until last week? It was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Absurd.

“Did you say something, my lord?”

He paused, forkful of eggs poised in
medias res
to
his mouth. Dear God. Had he been muttering aloud to himself? He tamped down his
self-loathing, flashing her a patient smile. “Nothing at all.”

They were quiet for a time then, but for the tinny sound of
cutlery on fine china. He was grateful for the respite. Cook really was quite
good, and he savored every bite of her moist, fresh-herb-laden eggs. Not to
mention the divine taste of the bacon on his tongue. Perhaps he would do best
to keep his mouth full at all times, he reckoned.

“You haven’t given me any eggs,” she murmured into the
silence that had descended.

He glanced up at her to find her stare upon him, direct and
assessing. She was testing him. “The omission was intentional, my dear. I’ve
taken note that you never touch the stuff.”