Once an Innocent (35 page)

She felt unaccountably nervous. What if he rejected her again? Her heart wasn’t strong enough to bear it.

“Would it help … ?” he started, his voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat and began again. “Does knowing it was an international emergency help at all?”

Naomi shook her head.

Jordan took a step toward her. “What if I told you I’ve retired my position with the government? Would that make it better?”

She shook her head again and gasped a quiet cry.

“How about knowing I’ve been missing you all the time, wanting you to the point of physical pain?” Raw emotion marked every, tense line of his tall, muscled physique as he stalked straight for her. “That I’ve been useless for anything because my heart will give me no peace, and I’ve had to stop myself on a dozen different occasions from abandoning my duty and coming to you? Does that alleviate your suffering?”

He stopped in front of her. A mere inch separated them. His warmth caressed her, while his scent of clean linen and sandalwood suffused her senses.

“No,” Naomi murmured, tipping her head back to look at him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “What do you want from me, my love?”

“A kiss.”

Before the words were well out of the gates, his lips were on hers.

What started tender and welcoming quickly intensified. Jordan wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. His mouth slanted, and his thumb tugged her chin, urging her lips apart. Naomi clung to his shoulders as velvet tongues slipped past each other, caressing and exploring.

Oh, he felt so good. His hard muscles tensing and straining for her. His arms and hands holding her so close.

Jordan kissed her jaw and down her neck, his mouth trailing fire on her skin.

“I missed you,” she whispered breathlessly. “Every day, I felt like I was dying.”

His answering groan was agonized. “I’m so sorry.” His big hands gripped her hips, and he rested his forehead on hers. “Please believe I only did it to keep you safe. I hated that you’d been hurt. I couldn’t stand the thought of you ever being in harm’s way again, even if it meant I couldn’t have you.”

“Shh.” Naomi hushed him with a soft kiss.

Beginning at her face, Jordan’s hands traced Naomi’s body. His fingertips glided over her throat and shoulders, down to her hands, then back up the underside of her arms. Pleasurable sparks danced across Naomi’s skin. When he reached her underarms, Jordan rolled his hands to palm her breasts, squeezing them in turn and teasing her taut nipples through her clothes. Her back arched, wordlessly requesting more of the same. But he wasn’t done yet. After giving her breasts their due, he spread his fingers wide and ran down her ribcage. His hands spanned the distance from hip to breast.

His nose dipped to trace her throat, her collarbone. Slowly, he sank, bending his knees to follow with his nose the path of his hands. At last, he knelt at her feet, with his arms wrapped around her, his hands flowing over the curves of her thighs and calves. His nose pressed into the juncture of her legs.

She gasped; he moaned. Naomi’s fingers threaded into his hair for support.

“I love you, Naomi.” His scorching eyes raked up her front to settle on hers. “I want to take you back to Lintern Abbey and make you my viscountess. I want to make a home with you. I want to make children with you. I want to worship your body with mine every day. And every night.” He playfully nipped at her hip. “I want to give you Clara for a mother-in-law and Kate for a sister-in-law, and I want to warn off my father when the hugs he’ll give you last too long. I want Lady Janine for my aunt. I want your brothers for my own, and God help me, I even want Caro, because having her for my mother-in-law means I’ve succeeded in making you my wife, and nothing could make me happier.”

Joyous tears slid unheeded down Naomi’s cheeks. She held Jordan’s face in her hands and felt such love washing over her. He hadn’t offered her jewels or dresses or his place in society. He’d offered her everything she ever wanted — love and a home and family of her own.

There was only The Question remaining.

“Oh!” A surprised yelp came from just outside the parlor, followed by a plaintive, “Naomi? Can you hear me in there? I could use some assistance.”

Sniffing and wiping a hand across her cheeks, Naomi’s head turned to the door. “That’s Isabelle. I must see … ” she said apologetically.

She opened the parlor door. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Isabelle stood just about five feet down the corridor with a shocked expression on her face. She was hunched over a bit, her arms wrapped across her abdomen. She met Naomi’s questioning expression, then her eyes drifted down.

Naomi followed the direction of her gaze. Isabelle’s pale pink slippers were splashed with liquid. In fact, the duchess was standing in a puddle.

“Oh!” Naomi gasped, echoing Isabelle’s surprise from a moment ago. She took Isabelle’s arm and led her toward the stairs. “Jordan!” she called behind her.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, looking from her to Isabelle, to the puddle, and back again.

“Everything is wonderful,” Naomi said. A broad grin spread on her face. “I need you to find Marshall. Tell him he’s about to become a father.”

• • •

Edwin Alexander Trevelyan Grantham Lockwood, Marquess Keighdon, future Duke of Monthwaite, and adorable infant, attempted to straighten his legs in the confines of his swaddling blanket. He yawned, displaying a shell-pink tongue and bitty gums. The little squeak he emitted had every female in the room cooing.

His Aunt Naomi touched her nose to his forehead and inhaled deeply. Little Edwin was warm and soft and perfect, and emitted that mysterious baby smell that made every maternal instinct in her body leap to attention.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to hold him in here?” she asked her brother and sister-in-law.

In the bed a short distance away, illuminated by several candelabras and oil lamps, Isabelle’s sweat-damp face beamed at her son. Her nightrail was unselfconsciously open at the top, rumpled linen parted to reveal pale skin. Marshall, foregoing all claims to dignity, had shucked his boots and coat and sat on the bed beside his wife, clutching her hand and wiping her hair back from her brow. His face was taut with worry.

As these things went, Isabelle’s labor hadn’t been too bad. Naomi had felt privileged when Isabelle had asked her to stay. She’d done whatever she could to assist the midwife and comfort Isabelle, from making compresses, to ordering more hot water from the kitchen, to holding Isabelle’s hand and encouraging her while she pushed. Seven hours after Isabelle’s bag of waters ruptured, the tiny marquess had made his squalling appearance.

Everything was joy and smiles until the afterbirth. When the placenta came, it brought along a frightening quantity of blood. And the blood had kept coming. A few minutes later, Isabelle had gone ghastly white and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Marshall, who had come in to meet his son only ten minutes before, now saw his wife slipping away before his very eyes. “No! Isabelle, please God, no!” He scooped her head and shoulders up, cradling her to his chest while he pleaded with her to stay with him.

“Put her head down!” Naomi snapped. “You’ll make it worse.” Bewildered and clearly in shock, Marshall did as she said, although his stream of endearments and curses and prayers continued unabated.

The midwife ordered Naomi to hold linen between Isabelle’s legs while she ran for her bag of herbs. She produced a tincture of shepherd’s purse and coaxed some of it down Isabelle’s throat.

“Roll her to her left side,” the midwife had instructed Marshall.

“And put the baby to breast,” Naomi had added, recalling the chapter in her French book that dealt with post-natal emergencies.

Now, an hour later, Marshall did not seem inclined to leave his recovering wife’s side for even a minute. “No, let Edwin meet the others.” Marshall’s eyes still looked haunted. “Oh, and please have something brought for Isabelle to eat. She can eat now, yes?” he inquired of the midwife.

“Aye,” the midwife said from the foot of the bed, where she was washing her hands in yet another basin of hot water, “some blood pudding, if you have it, or a rare beefsteak.” The older woman regarded Naomi. “You’ve a knack for midwifing, my lady. We make a fine team.”

“We do, indeed,” Naomi agreed with a smile.

“Naomi,” Isabelle called in a tired voice.
Thank you
, her sister-in-law mouthed.

In the parlor, where Jordan’s proposal had been interrupted, everyone gathered together, waiting for news. As one, when Naomi walked into the room, the group surged to their feet and formed a semicircle around her.

While they aww’ed and cooed over Edwin and asked after Isabelle, Naomi looked at the faces of the people she loved. Caro and Grant. Lily and Ethan. Aunt Janine and Sir Randell. They were a cobbled-together bunch, but they were family. Her family.

Behind the group stood Jordan, who hadn’t eyes for the infant in her arms, only for Naomi. Quiet pride and love illuminated his entire being. This man, whose devastating smile and witty charm could seduce a ballroom full of women, now had no words. His eyes said everything Naomi needed to hear.

Gently, she passed her nephew to his grandmama. Then she took Jordan’s hand and led him upstairs.

• • •

On such a night as this, Naomi thought as her lover slowly removed her clothes, layer by layer, she couldn’t ask for another thing in the world. The baby was safely arrived. Isabelle would recover with some rest and good food, and the house was full of love.

Best of all, she had Jordan. This morning, she hadn’t dared hope he would come back. It had hurt too much to dream. But here he was, standing shirtless behind her, tilting her head to the side so he could kiss the hollow where neck and shoulder meet, as though they’d never parted.

Jordan worked the fine muslin of her chemise back and forth across her nipples. The friction was exquisite on those sensitized nubs. His hands slipped beneath the material on her shoulders and pushed the chemise down her arms. It fell in a soft heap at her feet.

“My God, you’re beautiful.” His voice rumbled in his chest, sending a shiver up her spine. She leaned back against his chest, loving the feel of his warm arms wrapping around her, of his hands sliding over her skin. Those big hands cupped her bottom. He grunted appreciatively. “You have an arse to make men weep, my love. And these hips, lush. Just right for holding.” The stiff bar of his erection strained against his breeches and pressed against the cleft between her buttocks. “Just right for … ”

Suddenly, he went still. His hands slid around to her belly and gently, reverently cradled her flesh.

Naomi’s heart constricted at his unspoken question. “Maybe,” she confessed. “It’s still too early to be sure.” Those cramps had come to nothing, and her courses were a week late.

Jordan’s fingers curled. He hugged her tight from behind, then turned her around and pulled her against his chest. “I hope so,” he murmured against the top of her head. “Is it wrong for me to hope for it, when we aren’t married? If so, bollocks to that. I’m hoping, anyway.”

Her nails grazed over his chest. She admired the muscles rippling beneath her fingers. “But we will be married.” Fascinated with his body, she played with the crisp hair sprinkled across his chest, and followed a trail down through the cleft between his abdominal muscles. Her finger dipped into his navel and resumed traveling the road until it disappeared into his breeches.

Jordan was nearly purring under her caresses. “You’re damn right, we’ll be married. I brought a special license. Did I get around to telling you that?” His breathing kicked into a faster tempo.

Naomi worked the buttons on the fall of his breeches. “No,” she said, beginning to feel pressure mounting between her thighs. “You neglected to mention it.” She pushed his breeches down his lean hips, letting her fingers splay over his steely buttocks and then to his heavily muscled thighs.

He kicked out of his clothes and put his hands on her hips, walking her backward to the bed. His mouth claimed hers in an open, hungry kiss. His tongue pressed deep into her mouth, thrusting and withdrawing, just as he thrust against her lower belly.

Naomi fell back onto the mattress, and he fell with her. She scooted back and he crawled forward, never once breaking their kiss. When they arrived at the bank of pillows by the headboard, she sank down and started to wrap her legs around his hips. She needed to feel him inside her. Needed to express her love in this timeless dance.

“Not yet, love,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Remember I said I want to worship your body every day and every night?” He latched on to a nipple and drew it deep into his mouth, rolling it between his tongue and palate. She arched into his ministrations. Her fingers threaded in his black curls, holding him close. “I’m starting now,” he rasped. His tongue dipped in the hollow between her breasts. “Right now.” He flashed her an erotic smile touched with mischief. “This is going to take a while, Naomi. I hope you have a while to give me.”

She did.

Lily Bachman squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and drew a deep breath. Behind the study door was another dragon to slay — or perhaps this one would be more like a pesky dog to shoo off. Whatever the case, one thing was certain; in that room, she’d find a man after her money. He was the fourth this Season, and it was only the end of March.

She smoothed the front of her muslin dress with a quick gesture, and then opened the door.

The Leech, as she dubbed all of them, halted whatever nonsense he was blathering on about and turned at the sound of the door opening, his jaw hanging slack, paused in the action of speaking. Her father sat on the sofa, situated at a right angle to the chair inhabited by the would-be suitor.

“Darling.” Mr. Bachman rose. “You’re just in time. This is Mr. Faircloth.”

Lily pressed her cheek to his. “Good morning, Father.”

Mr. Bachman and Lily were close in height. He was of a bit more than average height for a man, while Lily was practically a giantess amongst the dainty aristocratic ladies. She stuck out like a sore thumb at parties, towering over every other female in the room — just another reason she detested such functions.