In response, Jonet let her hands drift down to the small of his back and drew his hips into hers. With a sigh, Cole let his eyes drop shut as she skimmed her warm mouth up his throat and along the curve of his jaw. “
Umm
,” she moaned invitingly when her lips reached his earlobe. “Come with me, sir, and I will show you.” Lending urgency to her request, Jonet’s fingers brushed lower still.
Cole opened his eyes to look down at her, trying to maintain a sober expression. “Come with you where?” he asked warily, pulling back to study her. “Jonet, you are very wicked. I am trying to work, and you are tempting me to neglect my obligations.”
Jonet’s mouth formed a perfect pout. “Is marriage not an obligation?” she asked sulkily, one finger coming up to lightly brush his bottom lip. “Some men would say it is the worst sort of obligation, you know! And why is it wicked when a wife wishes a moment alone with her husband?”
It was on the tip of Cole’s tongue to say that, after almost a year and a half of marriage to her, the word
obligation
had never once sprung to mind. But his retort melted in a rush of desire, because by then, Jonet had him by the hand and was leading him—not completely against his will—across the floor of his bedchamber and into the dressing room.
With the skill of a man who has had much practice, Cole easily kicked the door shut behind him, plunging them into utter darkness. And then, Jonet’s mouth was on his, warm, eager, and infinitely comforting. Just as it always was. Instinctively, his arms banded her to his chest.
“My darling,” she whispered, barely lifting her mouth from his, “remember when you promised me that we would make love in every room at Elmwood?”
“Yes? . . .”
“Well, we missed one.”
“Did we indeed?” he managed to murmur, finally certain he knew what she was up to, and knowing there was little point in arguing. Pausing long enough to ensure her door was also shut, Cole slid out of his coat and began returning her fervent kisses, his temperature quickly ratcheting up. Desperately, Jonet’s hands tugged free his shirt, then slid beneath the fabric, making him moan her name into the sweet recesses of her mouth. He jerked her harder against him, and in one smooth motion, rucked up a fistful of green silk and let his palm slide beneath the soft swell of her buttocks, expecting to feel the fine lawn of her drawers. But Jonet had already taken them off !
He sighed with pleasure at the feel of her. Of course, it was sheer folly to be fondling one’s wife in the middle of the day, but Cole had long ago given up trying to reason with Jonet. And after all, he had promised. Jonet pressed a little closer, until suddenly, a little alarm bell went off in the hazy recesses of his mind. He tried without success to push her away. “Jonet,” he whispered urgently, “what about the baby?”
“Napping,” she murmured desperately against the hot flesh of his throat.
Cole tried to shake his head. “Not
Arabella!
” he insisted, wedging one hand between them and smoothing it over her stomach. “
This
one.”
Jonet had the audacity to giggle. “Oh, come here,” she whispered urgently, ignoring his question and pulling him toward the chair in the corner. Halfway across the floor, Cole tripped over something—it felt like Jonet’s riding boot—and muttered a soft curse.
He struggled to regain his balance, only to find himself being summarily shoved into the chair. In the darkness, Jonet’s fingers worked feverishly at the close of his trousers. No longer able to maintain even the pretext of resistance, Cole groaned deeply when at last Jonet took him, hot and throbbing, into her strong, capable hands.
“Oh, have mercy, Jonet,” he moaned, his hands going to her waist and dragging up her skirts. “I love you more than life itself, but if you mean to do this,
hurry up!
”
Without another word, she straddled his knees and laid her hands lightly atop his shoulders. Urgently, Cole guided himself toward the warm welcome he knew he would find, but Jonet, too, was impatient. She slid onto him hard and fast, drawing in her breath on a deep, hungry gasp. “
Oh
,
Cole
—
!
” she moaned appreciatively as he buried himself up to the hilt.
With his hands, Cole circled her waist, which was only now beginning to thicken with pregnancy. Gently, he lifted her, reveling in Jonet’s soft sounds of pleasure. She moved against him, slowly at first, until eventually her motions took on a wild urgency.
With a mindless silence, Cole thrust inside her, the utter darkness of the room serving to heighten his sensual awareness, fanning the flames of his desperation to lose himself inside his wife. He thought he would die from the pleasure. With Jonet, he always did. But he hadn’t—not yet, anyway. He thrust inside her again, feeling that sweet edge of release slide near them both.
The knock on the door came out of nowhere.
Cole froze in midmotion, grappling for reality. He glanced across the room to see a shadow darkening the shaft of light that shone beneath Jonet’s door. On his lap, Jonet whimpered and shifted her weight. “
The boys?
” she asked witheringly.
“
They
’
re outside
,” Cole responded, his mouth pressed to her ear.
Beyond the door, heavy feet shuffled uneasily. “
My lady
—
?
” Donaldson’s whisper was hesitant, yet urgent. “My lady? Are you in there? Verra sorry tae disturb you, but his lordship is below.”
“Oh, God, what now?” muttered Jonet, in a tone loud enough to be heard beyond the door.
Donaldson shuffled again. “He’s in quite a bad state, too, ma’am. A wee bit drunk.”
In the darkness, Cole rolled his eyes, and Jonet’s head fell forward to touch his. Her exasperation was understandable. During the first year of their marriage, Delacourt’s escapades had become legendary, and Jonet’s role as elder sister had been mightily taxed.
Of course, society—deprived of Jonet in the role of murderess—had cast her in the role of Delacourt’s tragically lost love. That, combined with the utter humiliation of being bested by a quiet cavalry officer, was said to be the root of Delacourt’s misbehavior. Cole suppressed a snort of amazement.
“My lady—?” Donaldson sounded pitiful.
“Oh, what does he
want—?
” repeated Jonet, her words ending on a frustrated wail.
Donaldson hesitated. “He says he has urgent business with
The Reverend Mr
.
Amherst
—his exact words, ma’am—and says I’m tae fetch him doon straightaway,” he answered through the heavy oak. “Says he has need of a parson. And he’s in a rare foul temper, that he is.”
Nothing rare about his temper, thought Cole grimly. He was always in one. Worse, his visits inevitably heralded some impending disaster, but this time, the viscount’s search for sympathy was particularly inconvenient. And this time, he had not asked for Jonet . . .
“Oh, all right, Charlie!” Jonet answered peevishly. On Cole’s lap, she stirred ever so slightly, tightening on his shaft, then with a resigned sound, began to lift herself off.
Stubbornly, Cole tightened his grip around her waist and growled in the back of his throat. Delacourt could bloody well wait! Jonet sighed with pleasure and glided back down. And then up. Snug, silken heat flowed over him.
Beyond the door, Charlie waited.
Jonet rose up once more, and Cole could not restrain his hands from going to her bodice to tug downward on the green silk to expose the swell of her breasts spilling out of her stays. Jonet’s head tipped back as a deep shudder coursed through her. “
Ahh
—”she softly breathed.
“M’lady?” whimpered Donaldson. “What am I tae do w’ his lordship?”
Jonet snapped back to attention, her body jerking taut. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” she screeched. “Tell him to go straight to—”
“—the drawing room,” interjected Cole, swiftly clapping a hand over her mouth. “She wants you to send him straight to the drawing room,” he repeated.
Jonet’s tongue came out to tease at the palm of his hand. Very deliberately, she tightened on his shaft and slid partway up.
“Yes!” said Cole loudly. “Tell him that I . . . I will attend him there . . .
soon!”
“Soon, did ye say?” asked Donaldson anxiously.
“
Very
soon!” confirmed Cole, falling deeper in love with Lord Delacourt’s sister with every passing moment.
POCKET BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS
Beauty Like the Night
LIZ CARLYLE
The following is a preview of
Beauty Like the Night . . .
The old Devil comes to a Bad end
A
n early October mist still lay heavy in the vales of Gloucestershire when Mr. Grayson Rutledge rose before dawn to partake of his customary morning repast: black coffee and two slices of bread, lightly buttered. Therefore, by the time the blood-chilling screams commenced, he had been miserably but diligently occupied in reviewing the estate finances for well over an hour, whilst ensconced in what was—or only moments earlier had been—his father’s study.
As a matter of old-fashioned civility, the room had always been called ‘his father’s study,’ despite the fact that the wicked old devil had never troubled himself to study anything save games of chance, and had certainly never gazed upon the inside of an account ledger. Indeed, Chalcote Court’s elderly housekeeper had often sworn that Viscount Treyhern had never poked so much as a toe inside the room during her tenure—though he had reputedly poked a rather saucy parlor maid in the corridor just outside the door one raucous New Year’s Eve.
His father’s lack of scholarship aside, Grayson’s rather formidable concentration was abruptly severed when the aforesaid screaming began at precisely a quarter past seven. The shrieking was unmistakably feminine in origin, for Grayson found it loud, shrill, and unremitting. The racket echoed down the ancient corridors of Chalcote, bounced off the tapestried walls, and sent a bevy of curious servants scurrying up from the pantries and kitchens and cellars, all of them eager to see just what mischief the old lord had wrought this time. And all of them—or so it seemed to Grayson—bolting past the study door enroute to the commotion, their boots and brogans pounding on the hard oak floor.
Hopelessly distracted from an already impossible task, Grayson jerked from his chair with a hiss of frustration, and started toward the door just as the butler floated in, looking rather paler than usual.
“I fear it’s the new governess, Mr. Rutledge,” Milford explained without preamble. He knew that the young master preferred to take bad news the same way he took his whiskey: smooth, neat, and infrequently.
Grayson threw his new pen onto the desk in disgust. “Good
God
—
!
What now?”
The ashen-faced butler hesitated. “She’s in the corridor upstairs, sir.”
Grayson elevated one straight black brow. “As I plainly hear, Milford.”
“And she—well, she’s in a rather revealing state of
dishabille
, sir.”
Both Grayson’s brows shot up. “Indeed? Cannot someone fetch her a wrapper?”
Milford cleared his throat decorously. “Yes, Mr. Rutledge. Mrs. Naffles is seeing to it, but the more pressing concern, sir, is . . . is his lordship. I greatly fear that—well, the governess was in—in his—your father’s—bedchamber and . . .”
“Oh, devil take it, Milford!” Against his will, Grayson’s hands flew to his temples. “Please don’t say it . . . !”
“Oh, sir,” said the butler mournfully. “I fear so.”
Blood pounded in his head as Grayson tried to dredge up a measure of sympathy. Given his father’s ribald predilections, this embarrassment had probably been inevitable. “Well, he’s a damned ugly sight, seen barearsed,” he remarked flatly. “I should scream, too. I daresay.”
“Yes—well, I mean no . . .” Milford shook his head as if to clear his vision. “Indeed, Mr. Rutledge is—or I should say—his
lordship is
perfectly bare-ars—er, naked, sir. But in addition, I fear he’s—he’s—”
“Christ, man! Spit it out!”
“Dead.”
“
Dead
—
?
” Grayson looked at the servant incredulously. “Dead, as in—?” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“Ah—just dead, sir. In the regular way. ’Twas overexertion, I daresay, if you’ll forgive the impertinence.” Milford looked obviously relieved that the news was out. “Mrs. Naffles says ’twas apoplexy for sure, since his lordship’s gone an even darker shade of red than usual, sir. Rather like bad burgundy . . . and the eyes are even more protruding than—well . . . never mind about that. Nonetheless, a man of his advanced years . . . and the governess, Miss Eggers . . . er, rather lively and all that—”
“Yes, and apparently possessed of exceptional lungs,” interposed Grayson dryly. The screams were now subsiding into heaving, hysterical sobs.
“Yes, sir. Quite good . . .
lungs,
sir.”
Grayson picked up his pen and balanced it in the palm of his hand. “Where is my daughter, Milford? Dare I hope that she has spared this debacle?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Miss Ariane is still abed in the schoolroom wing.”
“Good.” Grayson sat back down. “Well, I thank you, Milford. That will be all.”
“Thank you, sir. I mean . . .
my lord
.” The butler began to back out of the room, then paused. “By the way, my lord—what, precisely, ought we do now? About the, er, young lady? Miss Eggers?”
Grayson scraped his chair forward and snapped open the next ledger. Without looking up from his task, he began to etch neat, uniformly shaped numbers into a perfectly straight column down one side of the page. “Precisely how long, Milford,” he finally replied, “had Miss Eggers been warming my father’s bed? And did she do so willingly?”
The butler did not bother to feign ignorance. Hands clasped behind his back, the thin, angular servant looked up at the ceiling as if mentally calculating. “Above two months, the housekeeper says. And by all accounts, she had every expectation of becoming the next Lady Treyhern.”