The Fairest of Them All (20 page)

Jack broke the kiss.

“What is the matter?” she asked. He could feel her heart's wild beating. It matched his own. His blood sang for her.

“The words,” he ground out. “This isn't just a coupling. The Widow Fitzwilliam is right. Words count.” He held her from him. Lord, she was so finely made, so delicate and yet strong and ­resilient. She might even be stronger in spirit than he.

Hope had been. His late wife had taught him much of love . . . and through Charlene, he'd found the will to love again. Was any man more blessed?

Jack struggled to keep his masculine impulses in check, to clear his lust-­driven brain.
The words, the words, the words 
. . .

“Charlene Blanchard, I take you for my wife. I want you by my side, always. I wish to hear your voice every day, to see your face light up in the morning and your head on my shoulder at night. I ask you to bear my children and know that my affection for you will only grow as the years pass. This I promise you.”

Her eyes had grown serious as he'd made his declaration. Did she realize how seductive she was? Or how he valued the gift of her trust?

Their hands were still joined. She now placed his palm against her left breast. “My heart is yours, Jack Whitridge. You are the only one who knows me and has not tried to change me.”

“I would not have you picking pockets,” he had to admit.

She laughed, the sound the music of angels. “I promise I will never stoop to crime again.”

“Thank you. It would not do for a lawyer's wife to be a petty thief.”

Charlene's eyes softened. “A lawyer's wife. There is no finer title that I want. I am yours, Jack. I love you all the way to my soul.”

Ah, yes, blessed.

Jack kissed her. He must. The kiss between them grew heated. Her tongue now tasted him.

His hand covered and stroked her breast as he introduced her to the other places that should be kissed. The bed became their school. Charlene let him push her down into the covers, his leg resting on her thigh.

He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, but when he nibbled his way to the sensitive skin below her ear, she practically cried out her astonishment.

Jack smiled against her skin. “You like that,” he whispered. “What of this?” He kissed her breasts. She gasped, then sighed her pleasure.

Her voice became a purr. “I like that very much.”

Jack took his time. Reveling in the taste and feel of her skin. The warmth of her body was his haven.

He ran his hand over her hips and down along her thigh. She immediately opened to him. She was that honest and willing . . . and so he slid his hand up intimately.

Charlene did not flinch but arched herself for him. Her hand returned to his hardness. He stroked and she mimicked the same movement against him and he was the one almost undone.

Jack could delay the moment no longer. He needed to be in her, to feel himself surrounded by her. He rose over her and pressed her back into the mattress.

“If the hurts, even the slightest bit, tell me and I shall withdraw,” he said.

“It won't,” she answered. “You would never hurt me.”

He was not so certain. Her trust humbled him.

Slowly, he entered her. Her body warmed to his. She reached up for him, placing her hand around his neck and drawing his weight down to him. Their lips met and melded. Jack pulled back and thrust deeper.

He felt her tightness, the breaking. She shifted, a sign she'd experienced something, but she would not let him leave. “Please, love, stay,” she whispered.

Jack began moving, his every sense attuned to her. This was the way it was meant to be between two people who loved each other. This was no fleshy act but a sacred moment between a man and his love.

He sensed her quickening; his own desire picked up heat. Together they moved, striving for that moment, that little death where all cares are erased—­

Her hold on him tightened. She said his name, repeating it. Her body arched. Her words became inarticulate. He kept driving, knowing what she needed, letting her ride to that one point, that ­pinnacle, that glorious completion.

Only then did he allow his own release and it was magnificent. For a span of time, he was lost in her.

And then slowly, he regained his focus. He felt the sheets around them, the softness of the mattress, the curves and secret places of the woman he loved. Jack rolled onto the bed, gathering her up into his arms. She snuggled right into him, holding him tight.

“We did it,” she whispered. “We are no longer alone.”

Her last word caught him by surprise. Since Hope's death he
had
been alone. Love's grace had once again rescued him. “You are my life.
My
life.”

She burrowed even closer. “Yes,” she agreed, “because we are now one.”

In that manner they fell into sleep.

I
t was close to midnight somewhere in the ­Midlands on the road to Scotland when the duke almost ran his phaeton into a ditch.

Sarah had been trying to sleep as best as one could on the rickety seat of a sporting phaeton. Why men wished to drive these uncomfortable contraptions was beyond her.

She had suggested while there was still daylight that they find a place to stop for the night. The duke had instead purchased a lamp that he hung from his vehicle as if that would light the horses' way.

The journey was exhausting, especially with His Grace, Duke of Sour Words, for company.

They'd rarely spoken to each other and she liked it that way—­although, in truth, she had been praying for just such an incident as the ditch. Then she would be right about the need to stop and he would be wrong, and
that
would give her great pleasure.

The man was arrogant and far too focused of purpose for her comfort. That he thought the worst of Char upset her, even if what he might be thinking could be the truth.

Charlene had certainly surprised Sarah with her questionable choices. Then again, while riding beside the Bitter Duke, Sarah had started to reflect on what role she might have played in Char's decisions. Her conclusions were not comfortable.

The vehicle swayed as the wheel rolled along the top of the ditch. The tired horses faltered at the sudden imbalance.

Sarah would have been flung off her seat if not for Baynton's quick hand grabbing her cloak. He threw both of their weights in the notoriously unstable ­vehicle to his side. The wheel beneath her found the road and the horses regained their ­footing.

The duke brought the horses to a halt and ­released his hold on her garment.

“We almost toppled,” Sarah said, breathless as she realized the extent of the disaster that could have overcome them.

“But we didn't,” he snapped.

“But we could have.”

“We're
fine
.”

“Yes, so fine that you'll kill both of us by ­weaving back and forth across the road.”

The moment she spoke the words, she wished she could call them back. Baiting the Beast was not in her best interests.

He proved her concern by flicking the reins to urge the horses forward, and then just as abruptly halting them so suddenly, they pranced and she almost fell off the seat that way. “
What
would you have me do?” he ground out. “You sit there completely critical, judging my every endeavor and find it lacking—­very well, what do
you
think we should do?”

Sarah struggled not to answer in kind. She could point out that she hadn't spoken at all for the last two hours. Instead, she said calmly, “Sleep. We both need sleep.”

“As you can see, we are in middle of nowhere.”

Because of your obstinacy
. She forced a smile. “Then let us drive on a bit sensibly and, hopefully, we shall find shelter.”

By the hard set of his jaw, she could tell he'd heard what she'd not said, proof that he could be perceptive if he had a mind to it.

And, as if wishing a tacit truce, the duke ­stoically moved the horses forward. A half hour later they came upon a yeoman's cottage. He set the brake and jumped down to knock on the door.

No one answered as one wouldn't to a knock in the dead of the night in London, but this was the country and along a busy road.

Sarah picked up the lamp to give him some light. “The cottage appears deserted,” she said.

He pounded again on the door and then tried the handle. A moment's inspection led him to say, “It is nailed shut.”

In the deep night, the ring of light extended far around them. She noticed dark shapes. “There is a barn. Perhaps it is open. I'm certain they won't mind our sleeping there and caring for our horses for the night. This close to the road, they are probably accustomed to travelers.”

He didn't respond but went off into the darkness to investigate. A few minutes later, he ­returned. “The building is open and there is hay. I don't know where we will sleep.” His words had come out on puffs of chilled air. He had the ­decency to take the lamp from her and offered his hand to help her alight from the vehicle.

She pulled her cloak around her. “Do you need help bringing the horses?”

“Hold the lamp,” he ordered, which she did. She was so tired, she had to stamp her feet to stay awake while he pulled the horses and ­vehicle to the side of the cottage and then quickly ­unharnessed the team.

The horses were spent. She knew Baynton had planned on changing them along the way but when the time had come, he had not been pleased with the quality of the stables they had passed. His grays were prime stock and he was wise to be cautious with them.

The barn was more than suitable for their needs. There was a good stock of hay in a hayrick that took up half the barn. It wasn't musty smelling, which was a relief. The horses needed something.

The other half of the barn had stalls with dirt floors. There had not been an animal in them for some time which led to Sarah to wonder if the ­cottage was abandoned and the barn was being used by the neighbors to store fodder.

They spread some of the hay in the stalls and turned the horses into them. During this time, she and the duke did not speak. They both understood what needed to be done.

Sarah then saw to her own needs. Returning to the barn, she found the duke had already climbed onto the hayrick and had made a nest for ­himself, using his coat as a blanket, which was exactly what she'd been intending to do. He'd even hung his hat and the lamp on the poles of the hayrick.

“Do you need help up?” he asked her.

“I believe I can manage,” she answered, but when he offered his hand, she didn't refuse it. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

Squirming around, she found her own soft space in the hay. It was not uncomfortable. She nestled into her cloak.

He blew out the lamp, plunging them into the darkness one can only experience in the country. She let herself relax.

“I'd forgotten how comfortable this is,” she murmured, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until he answered.

“You have done this often?”

“When I was younger I traveled with an acting troupe. I've done this many times in fact. I would place a wager you haven't.”

Her comment met with a moment of tense silence, and then he said, “I am not as pampered as you may think.”

Of course, he took it as an insult. He was that touchy. “Oh, I'm certain you are,” she answered. “But I have become that way as well. It takes having nothing to finally realize how much one truly has.”

“Is that another veiled insult or are you ­philosophizing?”

“Philosophizing.”

“What set you into that mood?”

“This trip. I'm starting to realize how my ­ambitions for Char might have encouraged her ­decisions.” The comment had flowed out of her. The darkness invited confidences she would never have thought of sharing with him an hour ago.

And why not be open? What did she have left to hide?

“Such as?” He had a good voice, a deep, masculine one with the right touch of culture to it.

“My worry over money. The house on Mulberry Street was a bit too dear for my income, which is always precarious at best.”

He didn't answer immediately and she began to believe he'd fallen asleep until he said, “Didn't Dearne have a brother who took the title? And the responsibilities?”

“An angry brother with an empty title, Your Grace. He had agreed to pay a portion of ­Charlene's expenses but he has conveniently forgotten his obligation over the past six months or so.”

“What of the courts?”

“Courts cost money for representation. Besides, I didn't want the world to think her penniless. I wanted her to have the life that was rightfully hers.”

“Is that what she wants?”

“There is the question. Obviously not. I wanted her to be safe and secure, and money is power. A woman is mere chattel without it.”

“The law sees them as chattel to protect them, Mrs. Pettijohn.”

“Or is it to keep us in our place, Your Grace? Isn't that the reason men like you want virginal wives with little experience of the world?”

“No, we don't ‘want' such a thing,” he replied, his voice tight. “However, there are standards.”

He was probably whipping himself into a lather of offense again. Sarah didn't care. She was too tired. “Yes, yes, the rules—­the ones everyone of power flouts. My Char may be ruined when all is said and done, but let us not forget your brother is playing a role.”

“My
twin
.” A wealth of anger colored that word.

She looked toward him in the dark. He radiated tension. She didn't answer but waited.

He did not disappoint. “This is a second betrayal,” he said as if unable to stop himself. “The first was over a decade ago when he left. He never said a word to me that he was planning to leave. There wasn't even a sign. He just went off and all of the responsibilities fell on my shoulders. Sometimes, I hate it. I feel trapped in my own damn life. There are those with expectations all around me and the one person I should be able to trust rips my faith in him open to the core.”