An Inconvenient Wife (33 page)

“You’ve a fever,” she
breathed. “Your shoulder….”

His mouth nuzzling at her
neck, she felt his lips curl in a smile. “No fever, except for you, and my
shoulder is fine.” He rolled onto his back and then propped himself up on one
elbow. “But since I am wounded…..” Sounding amused, he tugged at one of the
ties fastening her nightdress. “Undo these for me.”

Her fingers clumsy with
nerves, Anne untied the bows, dazed by the feel of his calloused hand sliding
under the fabric of her gown to cup a breast. Hesitant, still half-believing
this was a dream, she ran her fingers through the hair covering his chest. His
skin twitched beneath her hand, and she pulled back with a gasp. “Did I hurt
you?”

“No. Touch me however you
wish.” He pushed the loose material aside, teasing at her breast with his hand,
his mouth. Heat flooded her, pooling in her middle, the chemise abrading her
swollen nipples, making her crave for more…more
something
.

“Sit up, Anne.” He slid the
nightdress from her shoulders. “Take off your chemise.”

Anne raised her hips to free
the chemise and pulled it over her head, vaguely surprised by her lack of
modesty.

“Much better.” Nicholas went
onto his knees beside her. “You are beautiful, Anne.” He palmed her breasts and
rubbed his thumbs in lazy circles around her nipples.

 “Nicholas.” His name a sigh
on her lips, she was lost in the wonder of it, the feel of him as he eased her
back and lay down, his solid body hard against hers. He kissed her, his hand
hot on her skin.

“Nicholas!” Shocked from a
sea of sensation, she cried his name as he moved lower, fingered the thatch
between her legs and she tensed, her legs closing tightly together. He stilled,
and then kissed her, hard, his tongue probing deep into her mouth until she
relaxed and his hand again cupped her possessively.

“Anne. I need you.” He
shifted, and she half-heard his grunt of pain somewhere in the back of her
mind, before every thought flew from her head as his teeth closed over one taut
nipple at the same time his fingers found her sex. She arched, hands clutched
in the sheets.

“Nicholas!” A mixture of
distress and enjoyment threaded her cry, and he rolled over until she lay
beneath him, one hand still between her legs and the other arm now free to take
some of his weight while he ravaged her mouth. She felt his cock, hard and
heavy, rubbing her thigh with every movement.

“Anne, I’m sorry...I can’t
wait any longer.” Hardly recognizable, so hoarse was his voice, apologizing,
saying her name, and she did not understand, only knowing that he needed her.

Anne opened herself to his
probing fingers, caressed the bent head suckling her breast, her heart thudding
wildly under his mouth. “Then do not. I am willing.” She smiled, knowing he
could not see it in the dark, almost overcome with the emotions that swirled
through her in a glorious, terrifying flood; ignoring the pain when he plunged
into her, the tears that sprang from her eyes, then…the reward, as discomfort
eased and their bodies moved to a rhythm as old as time. She reveled in it, the
tension that built to an almost unbearable height, his harsh cry as his seed
spilled into her and he lay atop her.

Anne smoothed her hand along
his back. She wanted him here, safe in her arms, more than she had ever wanted
anything in her entire life—and knew he would not stay. Indeed, he soon moved,
rolled onto his back and shifted away, the sudden gap between them chilling
more than her skin. Anne lay utterly still, listening to his breathing slow,
steady. Could he hear her heart, which beat so hard she felt it might burst
from her chest?

She ached
there,
and
felt an unfamiliar liquid seeping onto the sheets beneath her. What was the
protocol for a wedding night? Should she say something or wait for him? Get up
and wash, while he is in the room?
Not a wedding night, Anne. A first night,
perhaps, or more likely an only night, and why now, after all these weeks of
antipathy toward her?
That he, unlike her, would see this loss of control
something to regret, Anne felt certain. Now he would apologize, words she did
not
want to hear.

“I’m sorr—”

“No!” Anne cut him off
before he could voice the regrets that hung in the tense silence.

“Don’t say it, please. You
regret this; I do not.” She edged further away from him. “I think you should
go, Nicholas.” Her voice betrayed none of the turmoil in her head, and pride
dammed her tears. She would
not
break down in front of him, however much
it hurt.

He sat up, swung his legs
over the side of the bed, and hesitated. In the faint light of the growing
dawn, she saw him look over his shoulder. It seemed, for a moment, he was going
to speak, and she tensed, but whatever it was remained unvoiced. He stood,
wrapped his robe around him, and went away as quietly as he had come.

Aching inside and out, Anne
turned onto her side and curled up, arms crossed tight over her breast. She was
not
going to cry. She was
not
. And, indeed, she lay dry-eyed,
staring at the vacant pillow beside hers, his scent still clinging to the sheets,
and her, until her stiff limbs complained. She stretched, turned over and sat
up.
It was what you wanted, Anne, to know a man’s touch, have your husband
in your bed, and now you are dissatisfied?

“Yes! I want more.” Startled
at her overloud cry of defiance, Anne grimaced, tossed aside the covers and
went to the bathing room to wash. She wanted more, she
deserved
more,
and Nicholas was not as disinterested as he tried to appear. This was more than
a casual coupling to satisfy a man’s needs. He wanted
her,
and by the
heavens above, she would
haunt
him until he acknowledged it. Anne did
not know the first thing about seducing a man, but she knew where to go for
advice—and she was a fast learner.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Anne stared at the spots of
blood on her sheets, hot with mortification at the sudden understanding that
Clara would know instantly what had occurred last night. It was the wrong time
of month for her courses, which Clara knew also, eliminating that excuse.
However much speculation there was amongst the servants concerning her
relations with Nicholas, Anne wanted it to
remain
speculation. Changing
the soiled linen herself was to open the door to even more rumours. If there
was one thing she had learned in the past months, it was how little privacy one
had in a house full of servants, all of whom took an inordinate interest in
their master and mistress.

Anne sank down on the side
of the bed, her lips tight with indecision. No more than she would Westcott
want to have his most intimate affairs known.
He didn’t seem to care last
night. Did he think it could remain a secret, coming to her bed after all these
months?
“More that he did not think at all,” Anne muttered. Men didn’t, she
understood, when their passions were involved.
Passions? You are a fool if
you think Westcott was doing anything but assuaging some masculine need for
relief. Just because he came to you…

Westcott
had
come to
her. Reluctantly perhaps, but he was not immune. It was a start, and not to be
wasted with doubts.

“You need to speak to
Juliette, and send for Maggie to help you with these damn sheets. And oh yes,
stop talking to yourself!” Satisfied she had a plan in mind Anne rang for Clara
and crawled under the covers. With any luck, she could avoid Nicholas until
dinnertime, which might allow her to decide on how to face him without
embarrassment. Although why she felt embarrassed, she had no idea.
She
hadn’t gone to
him
.

Pleading a sleepless night,
Anne declared her intentions to her maid. Now to get through what was sure to
be an uncomfortable conversation with Maggie.

This proved less difficult
than expected, as Maggie kept her opinion to herself, content with no more than
a terse “It’s about time,” and a narrow-eyed scrutiny.

Of the sheets? Of Anne? Was
her changed state so obvious? Anne studied her reflection after Maggie left
with the telltale bedding bundled into one of her sewing bags. The face in the
mirror looked no different to her, other than the colour that stained her
cheeks whenever she remembered how Nicholas’ hands had caressed her breasts,
how he
suckled
her breasts, for heaven’s sake! Heat swept over her and
she fanned her face with her hand.
Stop thinking about it, Anne, or you will
never leave this room
. Think of something else, some mundane thing, like planning
the menu.

Anne splashed some water on
her face and was able to greet Clara calmly, sidestepping the maid’s curiosity
as to Maggie’s visit, and finally was dressed, hair neatly arranged, and her
usual calm expression in place. She wrote a brief note to Juliette and handed
it to her maid.

“Please let me know when
Lady Lynton’s reply arrives, Clara. I expect to be taking luncheon at Lynton
Hall. Tell Martin to have the gig brought around in an hour.”

“Yes, my lady. It looks to
be a fine day for a drive.” Clara began tidying the room. “The show was grand,
and the rest of the staff is looking forward to seeing it. Do you know when it
might be?”

Anne smiled to herself. If
Clara couldn’t discover the reason for Maggie’s early morning appearance, being
the first to know when the staff was to see the puppet show would make up for
it. “The date has not been set as yet, but I know the players are eager to
perform again. It
was
wonderful, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Clara said,
beaming. “It’s ever so nice, all the goings-on since you and the others came,
my lady. Except for his lordship’s being hurt, of course.”

“Thank you, Clara. I’m happy
to be here.” Anne smiled at the cheerful young woman and went out. Goings-on?
That was one way to put it, she supposed, enjoying the irony, but personally
felt a little less excitement might be in order.

Escaping the schoolroom
later that morning, Anne hurried to change her dress. Juliette’s return note
declared her “free and delighted to have Anne join her for luncheon”. Dressed
in a warm walking gown of deep green wool and matching pelisse, Anne ran down
the stairs, reaching the bottom just as Westcott came in, his hair ruffled from
the wind and more colour in his face than she’d seen since the shooting.

“You’ve been outside.” Anne stopped
short, one hand on the newel, and appalled at the accusatory tone of her voice,
hurriedly added, “It isn’t too soon? If you overdo….”

Westcott handed his hat and
gloves to Martin and walked toward her with a teasing, enigmatic smile on his
face. Anne’s gaze fastened on his lips, the feel of them against her mouth
vivid still and she felt the heat rise in her neck.

“I won’t overdo by a short
visit to the stables,” he said mildly, halting just inches away from her. “I’m
told you are going to Lynton Hall today.” He raised his hands, untied the
ribbons of her bonnet, and retied them more tightly. “There is a chill wind.
I’ve ordered the carriage for you. You’ll take cold in the gig.”

The backs of his hands
brushed under her jaw, sending a shiver over her back. Gracious, she was acting
like a mooncalf, and taking herself sternly to task, she stepped down and
around him. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she managed, sounding far cooler
than she felt. “Thank you.”

She took her gloves from
Martin, whose impassive expression didn’t entirely hide his interest in this
exchange, and trusted she was more successful in hiding her feelings. Moon over
the man she would not
.
But you plan to seduce him, Anne? You won’t
get far this way.
For a second she hesitated. Dared she kiss his cheek?
No,
she wasn’t ready for that. What if she saw distaste in his eyes? Better when
they were alone.

Anne edged toward the door.
“I won’t be terribly long. A few hours at most.”

“Return whenever you wish,
but I have given the coachman orders to bring you back before dark. The roads
can be unsafe at night.”

Of course you have. The man
thrived on giving orders.
Annoyed, even though she never intended
to be away so long, Anne fled before he said anything else. Before
she
said,
or did, anything she’d regret.
Like “kiss me, my lord?” Oh, and could she
imagine that being well received?

No—perhaps—maybe.
Ninny.
If you have any sense at all, you will choose the first
. But hard as she
tried, Anne clung to the latter possibilities.

~* * *~

The curving beds planted
along the front of Lynton Hall were bright with tulips and daffodils. Anne
caught a glimpse of bluebells and primroses under the trees lining the drive
and promised herself she would ask Westcott how he felt about Westhorp’s
landscaping, which, with the exception of Sarah’s walled garden, was planted in
the Italianate style of the previous century. She knew little of gardening, but
felt she might enjoy it and this less formal design appealed to her.