How to Marry a Rogue (17 page)

She blinked, and the sharpness vanished. It wasn’t a pain, exactly, but she was aware of the strange sensation of being connected to him. Surely that single thrust couldn’t be all there was. Restless, she shifted beneath him, and he grimaced.

“Are you hurt?” The idea she could hurt powerful Jack Waverley was laughable.

“No.” A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and onto her cheek. “I was waiting for you to get used to it.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. Moved a slight inch or two. “I think I’m used to it now.”

“Thank God,” he murmured, and kissed her.

A steady, low throbbing ache had begun exactly where his body pinned hers. The slightest movement even from his breathing stirred an ember of passion that expanded into full-blown fire. Her breathing quickened, and she released his neck. She’d always enjoyed watching his hair sweep around his face, and now twined it through her fingers, holding the silken strands like tiny ropes. He continued to gaze down into her eyes, although his eyelids flickered as if they would close a few times.

“Shall I move at all?” Her voice caught in her throat.

“By all means, love. Move as much as you like.”

He moved the slightest bit, and she arched against him spasmodically. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and covered her mouth with his, sucking lightly on her tongue while his body stroked smoothly into hers.

She forgot about the exuberant French woman who’d scarred his back with her fingernails in a moment of passion and did the same, digging into his velvet soft skin and kneading the granite muscles that quivered beneath her questing fingertips.

He was gasping her name now, but it wasn’t
Georgie
or any childhood nickname. It was her full name, spoken by a man to a woman. He was no longer her brother’s teasing friend but her husband, her lover. She nearly cried with the realization of it and knew that somehow, inexplicably, she had been waiting for this moment all her life.

“Something has happened.” Her voice broke in a joyous cry of release. His arms eased about her, and his kiss softened to a mere caress. She trembled violently, rocking against him as the force of her climax astounded her. He laughed softly and kissed her forehead.

“Not a bad first time, eh?”

His voice broke through the stillness. They’d kicked off the coverlet and sheet, and his skin glowed in the lamplight. She dragged her foot lightly over the back of his calf, and he trembled.

“Not bad at all. I expect you’ll congratulate yourself later.”

She caught a glimpse of his grin before his face disappeared to nestle between her cleavage and throat.

“I’ll let you thank me later.” His strokes resumed, bolder now, and she lifted his head and framed his face with her hands, to better watch his reaction.

His brow furrowed and his mouth gaped open, and then his eyes closed tightly and he groaned.

A rush of heat flowed deep inside her, and it occurred to her that, while they married for the convenience of doing as they pleased the rest of their lives, there was the chance they could conceive a child.

He rolled onto his side, his chest heaving against hers. His lips were warm and languorous on her mouth. She hadn’t stopped marveling at the infinite variety of kisses. He was absolutely right. His kisses were a thing of wonder. Soft as a feather one moment then firm and demanding another.

She sighed as he lazily stroked her breast, kneading it with his fingers as if it were a plaything.

“Is it always like this for you?” She instantly regretted her words. Did she really want to imagine him bedding anyone else? The shock of that truth struck her to the core.

“You mean as noisy?”

A dusky glow of moonlight filled the room, blurring the edges of furniture and walls. In the semi-darkness, she had the luxury of studying his face. The hard curve of his jaw softened and his mouth wore a bruised look about it, as if he’d been boxing. The sudden need to kiss him fought against her sensibilities, but she held back, not wanting him to tease her.

“No, not noisy.” She lowered her eyelids, suddenly too shy to look at him, even though their bodies were still pressed together. “I meant…”
As earth-shattering, heart-rending
—“thrilling, I suppose.”

“Thrilling?” He slid his hand down her waist to her hip. “I must say, Georgie…
Georgiana
, this was the most thrilling moment of my life.”

“Truly?” She picked up his hand from her hip and held it between them. Her fingers were lost inside his large, wide palm.

“Shall I say you’re the only woman in the world for me?”

She swallowed nervously. How had she turned a perfectly normal friendship into something teetering on the edge of disaster?

“I wouldn’t want you to make up pretty things to flatter me.” She turned abruptly on her side, scrabbling for the sheet to cover herself. She heard him sigh, but he could have laughed.

“You’ve gone and done it, Pudding Face.” He scooted close and drew her to him again.

“Done what?” She scowled, but it was lost on him, because he couldn’t see her.

His arousal pressed into her bottom, and she writhed away from him, but he clasped her in his arms, his laughter now audible.

“Your platonic experiment is a disaster. You may as well admit it. I will not hold it against you.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she knew he felt it because his hand had captured her breast. He turned her over to face him and lifted her thigh around his hip. As their bodies touched, she clutched his shoulders before she could stop herself.

“Admit what?” But it was a breath whispered against his lips. His tongue slid against hers and she arched toward him. His strokes were slow and gentle, and she stifled the moan rising to her throat, lest he think she was being wanton.

“We two are not meant for mere friendship.” His lips vibrated against hers. “You are in love with me now.”

Tears filled her eyes. He was mocking her. He was the same, teasing Lothario she’d always known he was. He was probably enjoying the satisfaction of thinking he’d triumphed. That what he’d said all along would happen had, indeed, happened.

“You are mistaken, Jack. We are only friends. I’m just…just a little overwhelmed. It’s France…and the wine. That is all.”

“Of course, it is. Blame everything on the wine. I always do.”

She found his lips again, kissing him feverishly as the force of her desire tumbled her headlong into a black, empty chasm.

****

His breathing slowed in heavy sleep. His arm lay heavily across her, and she lifted his hand to her lips. She almost kissed him but decided against it in case he awoke.

The first streaks of purple light signaling dawn peeked through the gently blowing curtains. They’d rise soon, ready to begin their new lives as a married couple. Only, they wouldn’t have a life like Jonathan and Sophie’s, where words of love were freely spoken and the anticipated birth of a child brought them closer. What kind of life would they have together?

She snuggled into his side as he turned in his sleep. His body curved around hers as if they’d been made for each other. It was nice to share a bed with Jack. More than nice, if she admitted the truth. She could hardly get over her surprise at how events had transpired. When had friendship—childish adoration, even—blossomed into love?

And what in heaven’s name was she going to do about it?

It couldn’t be love. Impossible. Had she not sworn never to love again? It was her very reason to have wanted to marry him in the first place. His conquests and reckless living were the deciding factors in making him the ideal husband. With so many women in his life, he would never become attached to her, and she would never again have her heart controlled by foolish lovesickness.

So why did she anticipate the next time they made love? Why did she want to shower his grizzled cheek with kisses and press her ear to his chest to listen to his heart? Was this platonic love for a man who’d been like a brother for years?

She closed her eyes so she couldn’t stare at him anymore. It wasn’t love at all, just the novelty of sharing a bed with a skilled, enthusiastic lover. What else could it be? Perhaps her first time with Edward might have been the same. She shuddered. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine holding onto Edward and returning passionate kiss for kiss as she had with Jack.

“You talk in your sleep.”

She twitched with surprise, relieved she had not kissed his hand. He most surely would have teased.

“I do not.”

“You wouldn’t know, would you?”

“What did I say?”

“Mostly my name. Just as I expected.”

He yelped when she pinched his thigh. “You are conceited, Jack Waverley.”

“And you love me anyway, Mrs. Waverley.” He sat up to straighten the sheet over them. “We should have ample evidence to show anyone who questions the legitimacy of our union.”

She glanced at the spotted sheet and blushed furiously. He only laughed and pulled her back onto the bed when she tried to rise.

“I should have known you would be…” She choked despite her resolve to be aloof and worldly.

“That I would be what?”

He stretched over her with obvious delight. She pushed against his chest, but he captured her hands, drawing her arms over her head and pinning them to the pillow.

“You have not a bit of compassion in you, whatsoever. You are only interested in teasing me, when last night was so…so…” She bit her lip, and he quickly kissed her, framing her face in his hands.

“So what?” he murmured, his lips trailing across her mouth and to her throat.

“You know what I’m trying to say.”

“Of course it was wonderful. I told you it would be, didn’t I? Have I ever lied to you?”

She struggled against his hold, but he was so warm, and his musky scent invaded her senses that she didn’t want him to stop. He released her hands and she wrapped her arms around him.

“One of my governesses told me a woman had to endure her husband’s…you know.” She chewed her lip. “I’d always thought sharing a man’s bed would be a trial.”

“Well, we can always do it again, and I can try to be inconsiderate and loathsome.”

A single curl had drifted over his ear. She twined it around her finger. “I’m trying to say that you were…that it was…just perfect.”

His jaw worked for a moment, and she half-expected a teasing reply. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I just wanted you to have the full experience. That way, when you run back to Fairwood Hall, you can have something to write about in your diary.”

Again, the devilish grin. Her heart pounded almost painfully. “Are you not coming home with me?”

“What?” His eyebrows darted up in feigned shock. “And face your brother? Are you mad, woman?”

She slipped her legs around him and watched the grin fade into the same look of devout seriousness she recognized from the night before. “We can always send him a letter.”

He chuckled, but she sensed his interest lay in other matters for the moment. “I will go with you, then. After all, I can hardly trust you on the road home by yourself. Who knows what sort of mischief you’ll find? Besides, I did make that promise to your brother.” He sighed elaborately, as if it were only the fact he’d promised Jonathan and nothing else that changed his mind.

Relieved, she almost kissed him but smiled instead. He’d already slipped inside her, like slick satin wrapped in a sheath of velvet. Her mind fogged.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“For this?” He nuzzled her breast, dragging his scratchy whiskers across her throat until she had to stifle a giggle.

“For…for sacrificing your bachelorhood.”

“I’m sure I will be forgiven by all the other bachelors who will curse me for breaking the code.”

“There’s a code?”

If there was, she did not care to hear it. From his heavy breathing and muttered expressions of delight, he did not care to explain.

Chapter Nineteen

“Where are you going?”

She lifted her head from the pillows, her body heavy. They’d spent the entire day in bed, and she didn’t know if it was morning or night. What’s more, she didn’t care. The curtains were open, and a faint, hazy light entered the room.

He paused in buttoning his shirt. “Contrary to popular belief amongst the Fairwood Hall set, I did not venture to France merely for base pleasure-seeking. I do have actual business to attend.”

“Of course, you do.” She wanted to ask if he were going to the
vignoble
but did not want to pry. Even though she’d spent several waking hours under his loving attention and several asleep on his chest, their agreement did not give her the right to ask.

“I will be home in time for supper. You may spend the day guessing my favorite dishes and concocting an excellent menu with my capable cook.”

He pulled on his waistcoat. She caught her breath. He cut such a striking figure. His muscular arms were hidden beneath the flowing sleeves but his heavy, lean thighs strained against the seams of his breeches. He winked at her.

“What is that frown? Missing me already, Georgie?”

She thumped her pillow and pretended she was more interested in comfort than staring at him. “I shall miss your incessant teasing and bad manners. As for your supper, we shall have my own favorites. I hope you like pickled pig’s feet.”

“How did you guess my favorite?”

She groaned. “What time is it?”

He padded across the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s just past six. In the morning.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised you’re awake. You snored all night to awaken the dead. I don’t think I slept more than two hours. Every time I tried to push you away, you’d scurry back across the sheets into my arms. Just think—you no longer need steal into my bed, but may become a welcome visitor.”

She bit back a retort, only because he was stroking the side of her face, and his touch soothed and aroused at the same time. His hand skimmed her throat and slid under the sheet. She tried not to gasp when his palm covered her breast, but did so anyway, reaching for his hand and holding it in place. He leaned forward and kissed her gently, almost sweetly, on the lips.