Page 53 of Contracted as His Countess

‘Then it only got worse. There was a terrible argument, a falling-out, and by that time my grandfather was beginning to be unwell. Grandmother insisted they live in London because being near my father agitated him so.’

‘But they left you and your brother here with him. I do not understand that,’ she confessed, watching not his face, but his restless movement as he got up and tied a towel around his waist, threw another around his shoulders and sat down again.

‘My mother was alive then and my father was always a good father towards my brother. At least, where you call teaching him to gamble and fight and whore is concerned. But he saw that he had a suitable education, he showed him some affection, he never punished him, whatever he did.’

‘But you—’

‘I was an expense and, I suppose, an awkward little devil. He did not like me and the feeling was mutual. He’d make promises and then forget and then lie about it. That was almost worse than everything else. Somehow I could cope with him being drunk or angry if only he was consistent, but every so often there would be hope that he had forgiven me for whatever it was he thought was so bad. Hope that perhaps he loved me after all. But I learned eventually not to trust because broken trust is worse than broken bones. He was a lout to my mother and sometimes I think she simply wasted away out of misery.’

‘What happened in the end? You got free eventually.’

‘I had the awkward habit of reminding him about things he wanted to forget, so he’d knock me around when I annoyed him. One day he broke my arm.’ Jack held out his left hand and flexed the fingers as though to reassure himself that the old wound had healed.

‘I wrote to my grandparents asking if I could live with them, stole money from my father’s desk, bribed one of the grooms to deliver the letter.’ He shrugged. ‘I never thought they would send for me and they didn’t. My grandmother arrived instead, took one look at me and had me in the carriage within the hour. I never came back.’

‘I hate raised voices, shouting, people losing their temper,’ Madelyn said, huddling close. ‘You can never relax, never forget that something might make them angry, never quite be unconditionally happy in a moment.’

‘Your father struck you?’ Jack sat back, his expression appalled.

‘Rarely. But he would go white with anger if he was displeased and his voice would become quieter and quieter until you were straining to hear, to understand what it was that you had done that was so dreadful. And then he would shout.’

‘You are trembling. Are the memories so bad—or do you think that I might be like my father? I used to worry about that, work at controlling myself.’

‘No, I am not afraid of you. That was one reason why I spoke to you as I did when we first met. I wanted to see how easily you became angry, what happened when you did.’

‘Have I reassured you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The sun was directly on him, making the water droplets in his spiky wet hair glint, making him seem younger, less hard and experienced.

I love you. Dare I tell you?

‘Make love to me, Jack. Here, now.’

She lay back, and he parted the damp folds of cloth until she was bare to him again and, without speaking, he began to kiss her, everywhere except her mouth. His lips moved over her from temple to toes. His tongue laved trails of heat then his teeth nipped, tiny sparks of desire laved immediately by the pressure of his mouth. Madelyn closed her eyes and the sunlight was red through her lids as Jack’s mouth and hands spun magic out of the lightest touches, the heat of his breath.

Pleas and gasps did not divert him until, at last, he parted her thighs and kissed into the water-wet folds.

Jack had never done that before, kissed her there, his hands firm on her hips, holding her when she would have hidden from him, shielded herself from the intimate onslaught. He was ruthless until she came apart, crying his name, and he came up over her and entered her in one smooth stroke.

‘Did you call? I am here,’ he said. ‘I will always be here.’ He took her up again, aching and desperate and waited, waited, until it was all too much and his shout mingled with her sobbing, whispered, ecstasy.

‘I love you, I love you.’

* * *

When Madelyn was conscious again Jack was still sprawled across her, relaxed into sleep. Had he heard her? Surely he would have said something, would have reacted, whether he was pleased or appalled. No, she must have whispered and he was too caught up in his own climax to hear her words. Perhaps it was for the best. They would make love again tonight and if she had the courage she would say it then when he was calm and she could watch his face for his reaction. That was best—they had all the time in the world to get this right.

* * *

They walked back to the house hand in hand, still slightly damp, very tousled, sleepy with heat and exercise and passion, and halted at the edge of the outer bailey, looking at the house, sullen in the sunlight.

‘That is never going to be handsome,’ Jack said.

‘The first thing is to have all the windows cleaned, inside and out. They are the eyes of the house and that will make them sparkle. Cut those creepers back on the west side, too, and let the light in. Have the grass scythed.’ Madelyn tipped her head to one side and squinted her eyes to blur the imperfections. ‘It may not be handsome, but it will be characterful.’

‘Like me?’ Jack said, chuckling as he led the way around to the front door.

‘Stop fishing for compliments. You know perfectly well that you are very handsome.’

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