Good Earl Gone Bad (23 page)

That explained what Jasper had seen earlier in the Payne ballroom. He was trying to keep the membership happy by conducting the sort of sporting activities the splinter group preferred out in the open where he could keep an eye on them.

When he said as much to the other man, Payne nodded. “And so far it's worked. With a few exceptions.”

“I take it Saintcrow was one of the exceptions?” Jasper asked.

Payne nodded. “He was close with the leader of one of the smaller factions And he and Fleetwood were running an underground gaming hell.”

That was a surprise. So Fleetwood had reasons besides loyalty to his sister for wanting to find Saintcrow's killer. It was entirely possible that Saintcrow was killed not for his involvement in the Lords of Anarchy, but for money collected in the course of illegal gambling.

“So Fleetwood was a member of the Lords of Anarchy?” he asked aloud.

“Not for long,” said Payne. “He didn't last above a week before he quit, saying he'd found more excitement at Almack's.”

“Ouch.”

“None of my problem,” the club leader said with a shrug. “I don't care if they take themselves off to do God knows what. But I will not allow it to take place in the club itself. They might like the cover that a group of this size gives them when the authorities come asking questions, but I'm damned if I'll let them use us for that. I try to stay within the bounds of the law and those that don't like it can take themselves off.”

Thanking the other man for his time, Jasper stood and made his way back through the house and out to the street beyond. He gave a coin to the fellow who'd been holding Hector for him and made his way back through the tangle of curricles toward Grosvenor Square.

Once he reached Park Lane the traffic thinned out and though it was rather early the streets were relatively quiet. He wondered what role, if any, the subgroup of the Lords of Anarchy had played in Saintcrow's death. He knew that Smiling Jack had been very unhappy to find that Sir Gerard Fincher had been poaching on his turf. It would not come as a surprise to Jasper that the scourge of the Rookery would be equally unhappy to learn there was a competing gaming hell.

He had just rounded the corner of Grosvenor Square when a man leaped from the shadows and swung a large cudgel at him, connecting painfully with his ribs.

Spooked, Hector went up on his back legs, and it was all Jasper could do to stay on his back. His attacker, perhaps not having considered the response of a large horse to being surprised, hurried off. By the time Jasper had the horse under control once more, the man was long gone.

He was getting his breath back when he saw a slip of paper on the ground near where the fellow had been hiding.

Mindful that his mount was spooked, he swung down, painfully aware that the club had connected solidly with his ribs. And though it was not pleasant to do so, he bent forward and snatched up the paper.

The lamplight was too dim for him to see what it said, and considering that it would hurt far more to remount than it would to simply walk Hector the several yards to Mainwaring House, he tucked it into his pocket and made the trek home.

*   *   *

Hermione awoke with a start some hours later to see that it was dark outside. Scrambling off the bed, she rang for her maid and requested that the girl draw a bath for her and set out her clothes for the evening. She didn't specify that her attire should be nightclothes, but as it was her wedding night and she and Jasper were to have supper in her bedchamber, she supposed the girl would figure it out for herself.

She was seated at her dressing table, which had been laid out with all her familiar brushes and combs and the like from home, brushing out her hair, when she heard the connecting door between her own room and Jasper's open.

Turning, she saw that he had removed his coat, and was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. It was a little thing, but as a man was considered to be shockingly undressed in such attire, it reminded her of the change in their status that had occurred earlier in the day.

Not to mention the fact that she was wearing a terrifyingly sheer nightrail with only a thin robe for cover in his presence.

Things had most certainly changed.

“I hope you rested well,” he said, strolling farther into the chamber. “You look as if you did.”

She winced. “I hope that doesn't mean I was looking haggard before,” she said with a frown.

He grinned. “Not at all. You were lovely before and are lovely still.”

“Diplomatically put, my lord,” she said with a quirk of her lips. Why did her heart insist on beating so quickly? she wondered. It was only a conversation. And her nightclothes were more modest than some evening gowns she'd worn.

And yet, there was no denying that being here in her bedchamber with her husband of a few hours, with only lamplight to illuminate them, was thrilling in a way she'd not ever considered.

“No need for diplomacy when one is speaking the truth,” Jasper said, offering her his hand. She saw that his hair was damp, perhaps from his own bath? And he'd changed into a different waistcoat from the bottle-green and gold embroidered one of that morning. This one was dark blue with silver and caught the light from the lamps that shone from the sconces on Hermione's bedchamber walls.

She took his hand and allowed him to pull her against him, her softness against his hard chest. When she slid her hands around his waist, though, instead of dipping his head to kiss her as she'd hoped he hissed inward.

Startled, she pulled back despite the fact that his arms had tightened. “What is the matter? Did I hurt you?”

“It's nothing,” he said, though his hand unconsciously covered his left side. “I merely had a bit of an accident while you were sleeping. Don't worry over it.”

She frowned. “An accident? How? Did you trip in the house somewhere? I should hope your servants know better than to allow carpets to bunch up.”

“No, nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head. Then, perhaps realizing that she would not be fobbed off with a half answer, he admitted, “I went to see Lord Payne. And on my way back I was set upon.”

There was so much to unpack from those few words that Hermione didn't know where to start.

But that wasn't precisely true. “Let me see your ribs. Did they strike you anywhere else? Your head?”

He shook her off, however. “I had my valet see to it,” he said with a soothing hand on her shoulder. “He is quite used to seeing to my various aches and pains from riding and bouts and Jackson's and the like. I promise you. It was only that you surprised me.”

“If you're sure,” she said carefully. She did not yet know him well enough to know when he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes, so she would have to make do with that explanation. “But I am well able to wrap bruised ribs if it comes to that. Papa leads quite an exciting life at times.”

That was an understatement, she knew, but she was not interested in going back through her father's many sins.

They were saved further conversation by the arrival of two footmen carrying a small table, and soon after the men had laid laying a tablecloth and set two places along with multiple tureens of delicious-smelling food, Hermione and Jasper were seated opposite each other.

She was far hungrier than she'd thought and after a pleasant meal of turtle soup, roast pheasant, ham, oysters, haricots verts, and a dessert of lemon ice, Hermione was ready to write a love letter to Jasper's chef.

When she admitted as much, he laughed. “Married only a few hours and already you are talking of love for another man?”

The mention of love brought her up short, however, for there had been no mention of affection between them up till now. Indeed, as with most marriages of convenience, it had been undertaken without consideration for their feelings.

He must have realized she was uncomfortable, for Jasper said, “Forgive me. I did not mean to suggest that you—”

“That I love you?” she asked, made bold by the wine. “Think nothing of it. I am well aware that we entered into this marriage more as a matter of honor than from any affection on either of our parts.”

“I wouldn't say that there is no affection between us, though,” he responded with a frown. “Perhaps you do not feel any for me, but I certainly would not say that I am entirely without any sort of finer feelings for you. Not love perhaps, but still.”

It was cutting rather close to her heart to admit that she, too, found herself thinking of him in more affectionate terms than one would normally consider in an average marriage of convenience. But that was the truth. Was she willing to admit as much this early, though? Perhaps not.

Instead, rising with her wine glass to leave the table for the servants to remove, and heading over to the small sitting area in the corner of her bedchamber, she said, “I did not mean that we are at daggers drawn, of course. But the truth of it is that we hardly know each other, my lord.”

She was put in mind of a prowling predator as he followed behind her. Once she was tucked into a corner of a sofa, she expected him to take a seat on the chair opposite. But to her shock, he sat right beside her, stretched his long legs out before him, and leaned back against the cushioned back.

“We are certainly not at daggers drawn,” he said, taking her wine glass from her suddenly limp hand, and placing it carefully on a low table behind her. “Are we, Hermione?”

Suddenly he seemed far larger and more intimidating than he had while seated politely across from her at the dinner table. She swallowed. “No, my lord,” she said to his cravat, which was right at eye level now.

He slipped a finger under her chin and tipped up her head. “I like to think that we are friends.” She looked up into his smiling eyes and was breathless with anticipation. For what she knew not.

She licked her lower lip and watched as his eyes tracked there and darkened. “We are friends at the very least,” she admitted, leaning closer without even being aware of doing so. It was almost as if an invisible thread were pulling her toward him. Toward their inevitable coming together.

His mouth when it touched hers was far gentler than she expected. Once, twice, his mouth caressed hers, and when she gasped at the connection, he took that as an invitation to slide his tongue, hot and silky, inside.

It was far more intoxicating than anything she'd ever imbibed, this gentle seduction of his that both claimed and calmed her. Perhaps she would have known better how to resist if he'd demanded, but the stroke of his tongue against hers asked a question that she found impossible to ignore. It was as if he enlisted her in her own surrender.

When her arms slipped around his neck, it was to pull him closer, so that she could have more of him. So that she could slide her fingers though his silky dark locks, so that she could press herself more firmly against the solid expanse of his chest.

He pulled back, surprising a mewl of frustration from her that Hermione hardly recognized as coming from her. “I think we should move to a more comfortable locale,” he said, his voice harsh, unlike his usual amiable tones. Without waiting for her to answer, he pulled her up by the hand and led her to the bed, where seemingly unable to keep his hands from her, he lifted her up onto the cool sheets while kissing her at the same time.

As if by mutual agreement, they began to undress him, she unbuttoning his waistcoat, he unwinding his cravat. And all the while they caressed one another. Finally, he stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head.

When he made to press her into the bed, Hermione held him back with one hand. “Wait, I want to see you,” she said, taking in just how marvelously sculpted the muscles of his chest were. And as he stood impatiently, she took in the light dusting of hair that tapered from the middle of his chest and disappeared just below his navel into his breeches.

“Enough,” he said, once she'd looked her fill, and now he stretched out alongside her, his hand stroking up the flare of her hip and gathering her breast in his palm.

Hermione had never been particularly fond of her bosom, finding it too large for the gowns that were currently fashionable. She supposed breasts were necessary for feeding babies, but since she had none, they were more often than not a source of annoyance.

But the moment Jasper's rough hand stroked over her nipple she knew precisely what other use they might be put to. Almost like they were joined with a thread made of nerves alone, the feel of his mouth when it suckled her through the sheer fabric of her night rail set the heart of her throbbing. For what she knew not.

She only knew that if she didn't hold onto him, she was in danger of flying away on the wings of the euphoria his hands, his mouth, his body were drawing from her.

 

Seventeen

He was quickly losing the ability to hold himself back, Jasper realized as his mouth covered her breast through the fabric of her night rail.

One of the things he'd always prided himself on as a lover was his ability to see to his partner's pleasure before his own, but he was damned if he didn't find Hermione's little gasps of pleasure each time he touched her more decadent than the most experienced courtesan's touch.

Almost from the moment they'd met he'd wanted her. Wanted to be the man who introduced her to the pleasure that was possible between a man and a woman when both their bodies and their minds were engaged.

And he'd not been disappointed in the way she responded to his kiss that day in her father's sitting room. It was one of the reasons he'd been so determined to go through with the marriage that had been arranged over a game of cards.

But even knowing all that, having mentally prepared himself for the intensity of the connection between them, he still found himself responding to her slightest murmur like a green boy with his first lover.

So, when her hand drifted down his chest to rest against the eagerness of his erection, he was a bit more forceful than necessary with his grip on her wrist.