Douglas: Lord of Heartache (12 page)

“Ride me,” he whispered. “Ride me hard, Guinevere.”

He applied more pressure to her nipple, pinching and rolling in counterpoint to the strong pressure of his mouth on her other nipple, while Gwen ground her slick flesh against him with desperate strength.

“Harder, love,” Douglas whispered. “You’re almost there.”

He punctuated his words with a particularly sharp tug of his lips and teeth, and Gwen pressed herself all the more firmly against him. The sensations he brought her robbed her of speech, wit, and everything but a sense of driving need, need for him. He repeated the sharper pressure on her nipple, and Gwen moaned with frustration.

“Douglas, merciful…
Douglas
…” Her voice rose in consternation and then…

Unthinkable, unbearable, unimaginable pleasure, deluging her from within her own body. Her intimate flesh spasmed in a great welter of heat, surprise, and profoundly shocking sensation. Just as she thought the pleasure had crested, Douglas drove her up again by wedging himself more tightly against her.

Through it all, she clutched at him desperately with her thighs and hands. When he sealed her mouth with his, she suckled at his tongue and lifted her shoulders from the mattress in an effort to get closer to him.

To be one with him.

“What on earth did you do to me?” Finding the wit and will to voice a simple question had taken two full minutes of lying in Douglas’s arms,
panting
in his arms, while the vortex of sensation gradually slowed and Gwen again became capable of thought.

She gave no resistance when Douglas rolled onto his back and wrestled her up to snuggle against him, her head on his shoulder.

“I pleasured you a bit. Or assisted you to pleasure yourself.”

Pleasured her
a
bit
? “A hot cup of tea is a pleasure. That… That was… That was too much.”

“That was just a start.” His voice held no smugness, no humor, no arrogance.

“You are serious.”

“Your breasts, my dear, are exquisitely sensitive to erotic stimulation. With a little practice, you could bring yourself off just by stimulating your own breasts.”

Bring
herself
off.
The phrase needed no explanation. “Are you saying I am wanton?”

His chest moved, as if he might have chuckled. “Of course not. You are the next thing to a virgin, Guinevere, but your body understands sexual pleasure more easily than most. You are to be envied.”

“This is complicated.” Gwen’s wits were resisting every order to reassemble themselves. “Is this the same pleasure a man experiences when he spends?”

“Comparable, I should hope.”

“You were
that
aroused when you got into this bed tonight?”

“My dear Guinevere,” Douglas said on a patient sigh, “I am nearly that aroused now.”

“I do not comprehend this.” Some sort of upset was trying to coalesce amid all the sensations still burbling through her body. “You had me so bothered, so utterly beside myself, I could not have told you my own name. But you are content to lie here, cuddling me, while you… while this…” She reached under the covers, found his erect member, and gave it a little flip against his belly. “While this
part
of you clamors for attention.”

In the next instant, she had cause to remind herself that Douglas was a bright man. His hand snaked around hers, keeping her fingers clamped on his shaft.

“Some attention would not go amiss.”

Gwen let him caress himself with her hand. “Douglas… I don’t think I’m quite… I still can’t manage…” She fell silent rather than attempt more untruths.

She
wanted
to. Was dying to.

Douglas used his free hand to toss back the covers. He apparently cared not that he was revealed to her, but instead thrust against the sleeve of her fingers and palm in a languid, unhurried rhythm.

“Only some attention,” he assured her, closing his eyes. His breathing deepened, and his thrusting changed, becoming stronger, even while his pace did not quicken.

Watching his face, seeing his naked body gilded by firelight and passion, Gwen’s arousal stirred again. But something else was at work as well. Something to do with trust, and protectiveness toward the man in her bed.

The notion was as novel as the pleasure Douglas had just shown her.

“Hold me tighter,” Douglas whispered. He used his hand to show her how much tighter, and the muscles in his neck corded with tension. This was pleasure for him, though he looked to be in pain. His jaw clenched, his neck arched, his breathing became labored.

Gwen didn’t want to touch him with only her hand. She wanted to be with him in this experience as he had been with her moments ago. On impulse, she leaned over and took his earlobe in her mouth.

“Dear God…” he rasped, arching his back in pleasure. Gwen buried her face against his shoulder as his free arm came snugly around her.

“Ah, Guinevere,” he breathed. His hips jerked as he thrust hard against her hand. He did not sigh or moan or make any of the sounds Gwen had, but she could not doubt he was experiencing profound pleasure. The tension in him eased and he cupped the back of her head with his palm, maneuvering her face to rest against his chest. He lay with her thus, gently stroking her hair, her back, her face, until Gwen felt herself slipping toward sleep.

“You have unmanned me,” he said, not sounding the least perturbed.

Gwen roused herself, leaned over him, and retrieved a handkerchief from her nightstand. She mopped at him gently, but was surprised when Douglas took over the task from her.

“Immediately after I’ve come,” he said, swabbing at himself briskly, “I can be quite sensitive, but thereafter”—he balled up the linen and tossed it on the nightstand—“you needn’t handle me so delicately.”

He was so matter-of-fact, even about this—maybe especially about this. “Come?”

“Spent my seed, taken my pleasure.” He lifted the covers over them both and settled back against the pillows. “Now, I really must hold you.”

“Must you?” Gwen subsided against him, wondering if he’d use the same tone of voice to state a need for eggs with his toast. “Why must you hold me?”

“I cannot precisely say.” He rearranged her in his arms, gathering her closer. “Usually, after I’ve tended to myself sexually, I am quite happy to move on to the next task. You provoke me to gratuitous displays of affection.”

“Douglas?” Gwen wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “Are you teasing me?”

“Whyever would I do that?”

“To distract me from all that has occurred,” she said, flicking her tongue across his nipple.

“Hush,” he admonished her sternly, “and behave yourself. I really do need to hold you.”

Her lover was a bright man, but he was also—wonder of wonders—a
shy
man. Gwen wanted to interrogate him about these gratuitous displays of affection, but—in deference to Douglas’s tender sensibilities—decided she really did need to be held, too.

The first thing Gwen saw in the morning was the handkerchief Douglas had used the night before. She eyed it curiously, glad for some proof she hadn’t dreamed his presence in her bed but not wanting to touch it, so different had the experience been from all she’d known.

Different, but precious. For whatever else was true, the experience had been shared with a man who would protect Gwen’s dignity, protect her person in every regard. The relief of this realization was… astounding.

She snuggled down into her covers, content for once to drowse a bit longer in bed, when memory rose up to assail her.

“You knew it would come to this,” Rose’s father had hissed as he’d fumbled with Gwen’s skirts. He had never used that tone of voice on her before, and the shock of it had rendered her silent. “You’ll soon crave it, you’ll crave
me
. Hold still, goddamn it—”

And then, humiliation and bewilderment, and discomfort just shy of pain. Oh, he’d been different when they’d first met: coaxing, reassuring, dashing… But in the end, he’d been brusque and inconsiderate in his lust.

Her disappointment—in him and in herself—had far eclipsed any fleeting physical hurt.

Gwen need not dwell on the memory. Then, as now, nobody could divine her experiences simply by looking at her.

So she went down to breakfast, head held high, determined to carry on as if…

As if the mere sight of Douglas at the breakfast table, in tidy, conservative riding attire, didn’t melt her insides and provoke those damnable yearnings in the vicinity of her privy parts.

“Guinevere.” He rose and studied her, his eyes unreadable as he held her chair. “You look well this morning. May I take it you slept well?”

She’d never slept better, which notion provoked a blush, though fortunately, no footman stood ready to serve her, no maid brought up fresh tea from the kitchen.

Which was very likely Douglas’s doing. “I did, and you?”

Douglas poured her a cup of tea, a small, thoughtful gesture. He added cream and sugar, and when he passed it to her, he wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the cup.

“I slept better than usual, in truth, but then, I was tired.” There was nothing—nothing—in his expression, voice, or gaze to indicate he’d been naked in Gwen’s bed the previous night and shown her more pleasure than she’d known a female body could experience.

And this morning, he’d touched her. He’d touched her hand. He’d offered her a perfect cup of tea.

“Guinevere?” He set the rack of toast beside her plate. “Fairly was stirring in his room, so I expect he will join us shortly, but you must tell me”—he paused while he set the jam and butter by her plate—“how you fare.”

She could meet his gaze only fleetingly, but that much she managed.

“I am well,” she said, feeling he’d coaxed the words from her, for all their honesty. “What have we planned for the day?”

“First,” he said, pouring himself a cup of tea, “we must see Fairly safely on his way. Cook said you asked her to pack him some victuals, and it seems the weather will hold dry for the next few days. Will you miss him?”

God bless Douglas, he was going to carry her into a normal conversation despite all odds to the contrary. “David is a good friend but he can be… trying. His mind is restless, and he is not particularly respectful of one’s privacy. Inquisitiveness is how he befriends one, in part, but also a natural curiosity in him. With all of his quiet and reserve, it’s rather disconcerting to find he is so intensely attentive to his surroundings and so audacious in his exploration of them.”

“That is Fairly to the teeth, and I will miss him.” Douglas looked puzzled to reach that conclusion. “Rose, I think, will miss him most of all.”

“I’ll fetch her down when I’ve finished breaking my fast.” And why did the cup of tea Douglas had prepared taste particularly lovely? Gwen appropriated a section of the newspaper folded at Douglas’s elbow. “She’s been skipping her naps lately because Hester’s sisters don’t nap. Bedtime is earlier as a consequence.”

The tea tasted lovely, the scent of bacon and toast was lovely, and this day—another wonder—also held the potential for loveliness.

“Would you like to ride out with Fairly? We could accompany him as far as the village if you like.”

Out of habit, she’d appropriated the society pages, though Gwen had never been one for reading at the table.

Douglas was offering her the chance to climb on a horse, to make pleasant conversation with Douglas under David’s watchful eye for two interminable miles over rutted roads on a cold day.

Gwen wrinkled her nose at that less than appealing prospect.

“I see.” Douglas tapped his teaspoon twice against his saucer. “Perhaps today is a bit chilly for riding, and we were on horseback for most of the day yesterday. Ledgers, then, I suppose, and a long epistle to Greymoor, regarding our findings thus far.”

“That would be agreeable.” Gwen gave up on the paper and focused her attention on her toast, which was in want of sufficient butter and jam. “How much longer are you willing to wait here for the steward to return from Brighton?”

“I can wait several weeks at least, but what of you and Rose? How long can you spare for this errand of ours?”

Was that a double meaning? Lovely feelings faded as Gwen silently lamented a lack of facility with innuendo and subtle flirtation. She could deal instead in plain meanings and direct answers—also more butter.

“I was prepared to remain here at least a month,” she said, making sure the butter covered one entire side of the toast. “But the whole journey will have been for naught if we don’t get some answers from Mr. Tanner regarding his deplorable accounting.”

“Will it truly have been for naught, Guinevere?” Douglas asked softly.

Oh, drat him, bless him, and drat him all over again.
“That remains to be seen.” Because there was no telling what comment Douglas might make next, Gwen pushed her chair back. “I’ll fetch Rose.”

She stood abruptly, bringing Douglas to his feet as well. She was so intent on escaping him and his eyes and his veiled remarks and the lingering sense of a privacy she could not have described, that she collided with David at the door.

“Well, good morning,” David said, steadying her by the upper arms. “Late for an audience with the Regent, are we?”

“I’m going to fetch Rose,” Gwen said at the same time Douglas volunteered, “She’s anxious to leave my dubious company.”

“That’s easily understood,” David allowed, bending to kiss Gwen’s cheek. “You look lovely this morning, Gwennie. But please do bring our Rose down to grace the table. It’s what Douglas deserves for being rag-mannered so early in the day.”

“You’re a big help,” Douglas groused as Guinevere fled them both.

“Turn loose of that teapot, old man, or you’ll see just how charming I can be first thing in the morning. Gwennie didn’t eat much.” He took Gwen’s seat and went to work on her unfinished toast.

“She’s flustered this morning, no doubt in anticipation of your departure.” Douglas picked up a section of the three-day-old
Times
Guinevere had been pretending to read, though it struck him as odd that she’d been perusing the society pages.

“Flustered?” David studied a piece of thoroughly buttered toast. “She looked more peeved to me, but then, what do I know?”

“More than you should,” Douglas muttered from behind the paper. He was staring at some inane piece about the Duchess of Moreland’s daughters all appearing attired in pastels on the occasion of the Windham family hosting a hunt ball at the ancestral seat in Kent—
who
reads
this
drivel?
—when Rose bounded into the breakfast room.

“Cousin David!” She greeted Fairly with an exuberant hug, which his lordship obligingly bent at the waist to accommodate.

“Morning, Poppy,” he said, holding his toast away while she embraced him.

“Cousin Douglas!” Rose bounced around the table and headed for Douglas.

“Good morning, Rose.” He felt a twinge of smugness when she scrambled up onto his lap, scooting around until she was facing the table.

Well, more than a twinge, really. Fairly frowned at them then went back to reading the paper without making a single comment, while Douglas spread butter and sprinkled cinnamon and sugar on Rose’s toast, then cut off the crusts and sliced it into triangles.

“Mama fixes my toast exactly like this. I love my toast.”

“Your mother’s guidance in all things is to be treasured,” Douglas said. He poured a slosh of tea into a cup, added a significant amount of cream and two sugars, and set it within Rose’s reach, but not so near she might spill it by accident.

While Fairly pretended to peruse the newspaper, his expression bemused and possibly a bit puzzled.

***

As Guinevere and Rose hugged Fairly good-bye, Douglas stood a short distance away, wanting nothing more than for the moment to be over. There was work to be done, for God’s sake, and it wasn’t as if Fairly were going off to war.

“Safe journey, Fairly.” Douglas extended a hand as his lordship at last prepared to mount. Fairly took the proffered hand and used it to pull Douglas against him in a hug.

“See to our womenfolk, Amery,” Fairly said before thumping him once on the back—rather stoutly—and releasing him. “And send word if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Douglas replied, deciding it was a mercy the idiot man hadn’t kissed him.

“I’m off.” Fairly swung up onto his mare. “I’ll see you all at Christmas, if not before.”

He touched the brim of his hat with his crop and cantered down the drive.

“He rides well,” Douglas observed. Rose, perched on her mother’s hip, was waving her handkerchief and bellowing further good-byes to Cousin David, who had disappeared past the curve in the drive.

Guinevere surprised Douglas by shifting to stand directly at his side and resting her head on his shoulder. Grooms in the stables and all manner of people at the house might see her leaning against him, the child in her arms, but Douglas understood the emptiness parting left for those remaining behind. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him more snugly.

They had stood like this the day they’d met. To feel her body close to his now, to know the strange void left by Fairly’s parting was not Douglas’s singular burden, was a novel and profound comfort.

“I miss Daisy,” Rose said. “And Cousin David and my other cousins.”

Guinevere put Rose down, shot a rueful smile at Douglas, then tucked one hand into his and the other into Rose’s.

“That’s the trouble with loving people, Rose,” Guinevere said. “You miss them sometimes. But you will see all of your cousins again soon.” She began walking them toward the house. “Do you also miss Hester’s sisters?”

“A little.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll get to go play with them again this afternoon.”

Rose brightened. “I may? I promised to bring paper with me when I visited, so we can make snowflakes for the windows.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy that.” Guinevere chattered on, distracting her daughter from the sadness of dear Cousin David’s absence, and offering to bake some biscuits to send along to the vicarage.

“Biscuits!” Rose dropped her mother’s hand and scampered ahead of the adults, leaving Guinevere and Douglas walking hand in hand.

“Do cousins normally hold hands?” Douglas asked.

“I don’t know.” She kept her hand in his and sounded toweringly unconcerned. “Andrew often takes my hand, though Gareth isn’t as demonstrative. I am still not quite comfortable with all of Andrew’s hugging and so forth, but he is attempting to provide me what he thinks I need. I accept that, and understand, as you pointed out, I hurt his feelings when I don’t try to meet him halfway.”

“I’d say you’re a bit past halfway,” Douglas observed, squeezing her hand. “And I daresay Fairly, whom I saw kiss you three times this morning, would agree.”

“He did, didn’t he?” she said, looking thoughtful. “And you have yet to kiss me even once today. Fancy that.”

She strolled off toward the kitchen, leaving Douglas in her wake—unkissed but proud of his lady nonetheless.

***

“Douglas?” Gwen came upon him, boots propped on the corner of his desk and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. She drew the glasses away and tried them on herself when he rose.

“Gracious. These would spare the eyes considerable effort.” She took the spectacles off and handed them to Douglas. “They make you look professorial. Even more distinguished and proper than usual.” They called attention to his eyes, too, which were a gorgeous, piercing shade of blue.

“But you know better, don’t you, Guinevere?” He abruptly seemed about as professorial as a great golden jungle cat, as if he’d moved closer without shifting his feet. “You know I am not always so proper, hmm?”

“I know no such thing, Douglas Allen,” she retorted, unwilling to step back when proximity allowed her to inhale the spice and starch scent of him. “You are a gentleman under all circumstances.”

He raised an eyebrow then handed her a sheet of foolscap covered with elegant, flowing script. “My report to Greymoor, to which you may append any editorial comments you deem appropriate.”

“Duly noted.” Gwen withdrew to the sofa and not entirely for the cushions it offered. “Cook said something odd in the kitchen just now. The staff supports your purchase of Linden, thinking you would be an improvement over Andrew’s absentee efforts, but Cook also said, regarding the steward, ‘That one didn’t know as much as he thought he did.’ She used the past tense, as if the man has left his post.”

Douglas sat at the desk and twiddled a white quill pen in elegant hands—elegant hands capable of endless tenderness. “That might explain why the books are in such disarray, but it leaves us with the question of who made the peculiar entries if the original steward has departed.”

Douglas’s fingers brushed softly over the feather, which sight did queer things to Gwen’s middle.

“You mean, whom is Andrew paying to lie to him and falsify his records?”

“Precisely. I would rather we came across a steward who was lax in his bookkeeping than a liar.”