Page 61 of Who’s That Earl

Despite the room’s deepening shadows, he saw surprise, perhaps even a little uncertainty, flit across her face. At Dunnock, she’d wanted him above her, surrounding her. She had seemed to crave those reminders of his strength, the proof of his ability to protect. Tonight, however, he wanted to remind her of her own strength, her own power. Though she’d been hiding behind false names and widow’s weeds, he’d seen her, how strong she was. Now she needed to see that he found her strength equally alluring. Arousing.

Just when he was resigned to breaking the silence, to attempting to put into words what his heart felt, she set one knee on the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and kissed him. Slowly, tentatively, she aligned their bodies, straddling his hips with her thighs, surrounding him. Reaching between her legs, she guided his cock into her womanly heat.

God, what a glorious thing to carry her, to be ridden by her, to watch her seek pleasure even as she gave it. Lightly, he encircled her with his arms, careful not to restrict her freedom, letting her set the pace. Slow at first, then fast, then slow again, pressing her breasts into his chest, then rising almost onto her haunches so that they swung temptingly before him. Lifting his chest, he caught one pert nipple between his lips, drawing sharply in time with the shallow thrust of her hips, until he felt her clench around him, a silent cry parting her lips, calling his seed from him in a rush of heat.

Afterward, she collapsed against him and lay still, the drowsy weight of her more soothing than he could have imagined. He listened to her quiet breathing and recalled the soft sigh of the ocean. In Dominica, he had dreamed of peace. He had dared, sometimes, to dream of Jane. At last, those dreams had come true.

At Dunnock, in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he had pushed away any thought of what the future might bring, for him or for them. But now he welcomed it, the knowledge that this was their future: days of drowsy lovemaking; swift, silent coupling in the dark; and all the moments in between, standing beside one another, supporting one another, together through whatever they must face. Including tomorrow...

A wry smile curled the corner of his mouth, and a huff of breath lifted his chest as he drew his arms more firmly around his bride, his countess.

Her enemies didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter 23

Jane jerked awake to the sound of someone pounding on the front door. For just a moment, she was back at Dunnock again, the pleasant ache between her thighs, Thomas’s scent on her pillow, Agnes demanding to be let in to assure herself of Jane’s safety. But as the fog of sleep lifted, driven off by the incessant hammering of a fist against oak, she realized she was in Edinburgh. In the narrow rope bed. Alone.

She glanced hurriedly around the small chamber. Her dress and shift hung crookedly from the towel bar of the washstand. No sign of Thomas’s clothes anywhere, no proof of that strange, silent interlude except that which she carried on and in her body. Not a dream, then. But when had he left? And where on earth had he gone?

“All right, all right. I’m coming.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her banyan as the dogs howled and the visitor knocked relentlessly. “Hush,” she ordered as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Athena at least did her the favor of pausing to consider the command before rejecting it.

“Who’s there?” she called, remembering that the person on the other side of the door might be her father. How could Thomas have left her at a time like this?

“Mrs. Rutherford. I demand you let me in this instant.”

Her landlady? It couldn’t be more than an hour past sunrise. Cautiously, Jane opened the door enough to peer out. “Ma’am?” A pair of brown and white noses thrust themselves past her ankles and into the gap to carry on with their protest, at least as energetic in their animosity toward Mrs. Rutherford as they ever had been with Thomas.

Perhaps the dogs had better judgment than she’d given them credit for having.

“Open that door, Mrs. Thomas.” Her chin jerked to underscore the demand, though her iron-gray hair did not move with it. On the whole, Jane would much rather have had to face Agnes’s discovery of Thomas hiding in the wardrobe. “And silence those dogs,” Mrs. Rutherford snapped.

Snatching up a dog under either arm, Jane let the door swing wide, sparing a quick glance into the street. Across the way, a tall gentleman leaned against a lamppost, wearing a familiar greatcoat and slouching slightly as if to disguise his height. Before she could decide whether her imagination was playing a trick on her, the man lifted the brim of his hat with one finger, just enough to reveal his eyes, and favored her with a wink. Thomas. But how—? And why—?

A nod from him sent her looking farther up the street, and sure enough, there was Mr. Ross, or so she gathered, his hat also pulled low and one booted foot propped on a neighbor’s area railing. They had formed their own guard, it would seem, and the realization gave her a moment’s relief, all the more needed when she closed the door and turned to face Mrs. Rutherford.

She was standing in the middle of the sitting room, but craning her neck to see past Jane and into every corner. “I don’t know why you’re smiling, Mrs. Thomas. A blush of shame would be more fitting.” Jane bristled, thinking of Mr. Donaldson’s last sermon. “You entertained a gentleman here last night,” the woman went on. “Expressly against the rules.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Betsy saw his boots and coat by the door when she came in this morning to light the fire.”

And indeed, for the first time, Jane noted that the hearth was blazing and a tray sat in the center of her desk. Someone had already helped himself to the toast and jam.

A man of his size, up all night...I’m sure he must’ve worked up quite an appetite.

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing outright. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about, Mrs. Rutherford,” she said when she could trust herself to speak. “I have long suspected, however, that Betsy has an aversion to dogs. Perhaps she’s just trying to stir up trouble.”

Mrs. Rutherford looked askance at Athena and Aphrodite, then back at Jane. “Then you won’t object if I look upstairs?”

Something rose in her—the memory of her mother’s prying, her father’s heartlessness, along with a surge of rebellion against a world that considered itself entitled to sit in judgment on her choices. “Certainly not, Mrs. Rutherford,” she replied, her voice sweet enough to set her own teeth on edge. “And in turn, you will, of course, understand that I shall be leaving by the end of the week.”

“Well, now, Mrs. Thomas, I shouldna think that would be necessary,” Mrs. Rutherford began, in no doubt the most mollifying tone she possessed, though that wasn’t saying much. The landlady was evidently partial to keeping a tenant who paid her rent—at a slightly higher rate than advertised, of course, to ensure that Mrs. Thomas was a lady of quality.

“Oh, but it is.” Jane stretched her thinned lips into a smile. “If you’d be so kind as to have your manservant bring down my trunks from the attic? Today?”

“Well,” Mrs. Rutherford huffed as she brushed past on the way back to the door. “I’m only trying to keep a respectable house, ma’am.”

“Of course. But I’m afraid I’m done with houses, Mrs. Rutherford.” Her false smile softened into something genuine. “I’ve decided I’m quite ready for a home.”