Salt Bride (23 page)

She did not think fidelity and constancy were part of his marriage vocabulary, as she brought her gaze back up to his brown eyes. She might take their wedding vows seriously, even consider them romantic and heartfelt, but men of the Earl of Salt Hendon’s stamp would see the exchange of wedding vows much as they did any contract, legally binding and entirely to their advantage.

“I do not disagree with you, my lord,” she replied quietly. “Indeed, I would go further and say that wives take their marriage vows far more seriously than do their noble husbands.”

“Now you are showing your ignorance of the nobility,” he said and looked away into the fire, as if the topic was distasteful to talk about openly. “Noble wives are deceitful; husbands are uncomplicated about their sexual needs. Trust me. I know.”

She did not doubt his first hand experience. His mistresses must have a husband somewhere and at sometime. She mentally sighed and wished he would just pick her up and carry her to bed and make love to her. All she wanted at that moment was love, laughter and sharing the physical expression of that love with him. She did not want to think about his love life with other women. For this night at least he was exclusively hers.

She could not predict the future, whether he would remain hers for one week or two, perhaps a month, so she was prepared to jump right in and enjoy him and their time together without fear or favor. But she was no fool. She was not prepared to wait until he had had enough of her then play the cast-off passive wife when he returned to his usual way of life. Tom had told her at dinner that he and his mother had taken a house just around the corner in Upper Brook Street. Lady Despard intended to remain in London a further six weeks before Tom returned to take her back to Bristol. Jane had every intention of leaving London with them. She just hoped Salt didn’t tire of her before then. She didn’t want to be around when he cast her aside for his newest favorite; nor suffer Diana St. John’s gloating triumph when he did.

Love and laughter and making love, that’s what she needed tonight.

“Of course, I’m sure you have no regrets making love to all those women,” she said in a light conversational tone, knowing she was goading him terribly. “Not to mention the orgies, where you probably don’t remember how many women you cavorted with. But did it never occur to you that there was the possibility of you contracting some terrible social disease from such cavorts?”

“Of course it occurred to me!” he bristled, angry embarrassment overriding whatever shock he felt at her raising such a topic. “What do think me? Mad?”

Jane looked to the ornate plaster ceiling and tried hard not to smile. He was even more handsome when out of sorts and embarrassed. “Jacob Allenby told me once about a type of pox that often infects Lotharios and if left unchecked will send you mad. He says that’s what killed King Henry—

“We are not having this conversation!” he snapped.

“But if I can’t have this conversation with my husband, then who can I have it with?” Jane asked earnestly, looking up at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat, ill at ease yet knowing she had every right to a response.

“You have no need to be concerned,” he said haltingly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve never… That is, I have never consorted with a common prostitute. As for the others… I was—
I am
—extremely careful, and since October when I—we—I haven’t— As I said,” he added abruptly, seemingly unable to complete a sentence under her steady gaze, “You have no need for concern.”

“How
very
comforting,” she said, seemingly unimpressed. She picked up on the month of October, the month they had officially become engaged, but for the moment was content to push that to the back of her mind in her pursuit of teasing him mercilessly. “But what about the women you have consorted with? Did you ever stop to ask them if they were just as considerate?”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, horrified at the thought, his awkwardness increasing with every sentence she uttered. He had never been spoken to with such frankness, a habit that was all her own, and he certainly had never openly discussed his love life with anyone. And here his bride was questioning him about his sexual history, no less! He was too dumbstruck to be furious.

“Did it never occur to you that your mistresses and any of your casual lovers might have caught something from their other lovers?” she continued with all the casualness of one discussing the day’s menu with the housekeeper. “It’s all very well for you to tell me you’re disease free, but what about Elizabeth and Susannah and—”

“Enough! This conversation has gone far enough!” he growled. His brow furrowed. “How do you know their names?”

“Or were they expected to give you a full medical history before you bedded them?” she added, backing away from him to the bedchamber door. “Names?” She shrugged. “I was under the dining room table while you were talking to Sir Antony, remember? And the spectator boxes of your Royal Tennis court have very thin walls. You’d be surprised what I learnt from your gaggle of female admirers.”

He was appalled. “They are not my admirers and—”

“No? Well you certainly can’t blame them for ogling you in your tennis breeches, which, by the way, leave nothing to the imagination—”

“—I wouldn’t take as read the tittle-tattle of a bunch of frustrated hens. Nothing?” he added, face deepening to a nice shade of puce. “
Nothing
at all?”

“Nothing at all,” she stated, and was surprised he was self-effacing at being so openly admired. A dimple showed itself in her left cheek. “So I shouldn’t believe that little theatrical display, either? I’ve never seen so much female underclothing in full public view before. And on a tennis court no less!” She smiled sweetly, a hand to the doorjamb. “It was very chivalrous of you to return Jenny Dalrymple’s stocking and garter. No doubt she’ll be only too pleased to offer up a full medical history now that you’ve offered her the post of mistress.” She put up her little nose, not expecting an answer, and, turning on the balls of her bare feet she disappeared into the bedchamber, saying over her shoulder with a toss of her long hair, “Not very romantic, but quite sensible under the circumstances.”

He stared after her, speechless. He didn’t have an answer. What had been a piece of tomfoolery and gamesmanship on the sporting field of battle had been reduced by his wife to a tawdry boy’s prank. Pascoe Church had not only had his eye on Salt’s previous mistress he had also been pursuing Jenny Dalrymple. He knew returning Jenny’s stocking and garter with a flourish would put Church off his game. That was the sum total of his intent.

He had not told a living soul, he barely admitted to himself, but taking that kiss from Jane without her permission during the Hunt had had serious repercussions for his virility. To his troubled amazement, and growing fear that there was something wrong with him, he lost his hearty appetite in the bedchamber. That’s not to say he was a monk. But since the previous October, when the date had been set for the exchange of marital vows in the first week of January, he had eschewed his mistress. He blamed Jane just as he blamed her now for the healthy resurgence in his sexual appetite.

He was still frowning at the bedchamber door, when Jane peered back into the dressing room with a mischievous twinkle.

“I don’t know why you’re standing there waiting. I’m not about to ask you for a physician’s report, if that’s what’s stopping you from joining me in the marital bed.”

“You little witch!” he exclaimed, tension easing in his limbs. He came to life as she disappeared again and strode through to her bedchamber. “I should thrash you, madam wife!”

“As you did in the dining room?” She chuckled and skipped to the four-poster bed. “You see me all aquiver with terror, my lord!”

“Not only a witch but a strumpet and a shameless baggage to boot!”

She darted out of his way and scrambled up onto the mattress, using the damask curtains to pull herself up. He grabbed for her, caught at her dressing gown, which easily slipped off her shoulders, and was left with a handful of silken material, while she stumbled about on the mattress in her thin linen nightshift laughing at his inability to catch her. At that, he clambered up beside her, picked her up and dumped her amongst the pillows. She threw a feather-filled pillow at him and he caught it before it connected with his chin. Now they were both laughing and before she could scuttle away, he pinioned her wriggling body to the bed, straddled her thighs and held her wrists above her head.

She smiled up at him with an impish grin. “Shall I oblige your lordship by rolling over so you can smack my behind?”

“No, my lady,” he murmured, dipping to kiss her full mouth, the intensity in his brown eyes both exciting and frightening her. He let go of her wrists and slid down the length of her body to kiss the instep of her dainty foot, his kisses progressing along her shapely leg as his hands slid her thin nightshift up over her knees then gently parted her thighs. “I have a much slower and exquisite torment in mind.”

When they finally drifted off into a deep sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms among a tangle of bed sheets and pillows, it was the early morning, in those few hours of utter quiet when it was still dark and there were no carriage wheels, not even the clip clop of horses’ hooves to be heard on the cobblestones in Grosvenor Square. Jane slept soundlessly, snuggled up in her husband’s warmth, but the Earl, who had fallen into a deep sleep only to stir a handful of hours later, lay wide awake in the final glow of the dying fire in the grate, staring unseeing at the pleated canopy above his head. He was befuddled, bewitched and bewildered by his bride and it scared him half to death.

His heart thudded against his chest, just as it had when he spied the seventeen-year-old Jane amongst the gentry assembled to see the hunt on its way; she had literally taken his breath away. He was overjoyed to discover that her astonishing beauty was matched by her decency of character and a forthright yet gentle nature. Here was a girl who was as honest as she was beautiful, untouched by cynicism and flattery. He had pursued her, courted her, and ruined her on her birthday. To all outward appearances he had played the Lothario landlord to the hilt. But this time it was different. She was different. He was different. He had fallen immeasurably in love and wanted to marry her and make her his countess. He had asked her to marry him and then lost his head in the summerhouse, forgetting his upbringing as a gentleman, and made love to her.

Why had she not trusted him to return from London? Did she think so little of his character that she believed him capable of taking her virginity with false promises of love and then abandoning her? What manner of man was he to her? How was it she had accused him of breach of promise when he had not broken off their engagement? Why had she not waited for his return? She confessed her ruin to her father and been cast out of his house, and he had the locket returned as proof of her fickleness. He had been disbelieving and devastated when he learned she had accepted the protection of Jacob Allenby, a man he despised above all others. It did not make sense. It still did not make sense to him four years on.

He felt betrayed.

Reason yesterday he was intent on having her sign a document that laid down rules by which she would live as his wife and countess, rules to demoralize and humiliate and make her a virtual prisoner on his estate because he wanted to punish her for breaking off their engagement, for betraying his love, and yet, today he could not get enough of her.

But he would not allow her to get under his skin, to have his hopes and dreams shattered a second time. He would content himself with bedding her. In bed he knew exactly how she felt, what were her needs and desires, and could have his own strong carnal appetite satisfied into the bargain. And if the previous two nights were anything to go by, where lust was concerned, neither of them need look elsewhere ever again. Lust, pure and simple, he understood. Lust was uncomplicated. Lust could be satisfied. Lust would do them both just fine.

He slept past noon and woke completely rested. Sprawled out in Jane’s bed in the semi-gloom, a new fire in the grate but the curtains yet to be pulled back to reveal the wintry sky, he was content to think of nothing more arduous than what he would eat for breakfast. He was well aware that his long-suffering secretary would be waiting him in the library, appointment book open, and with a stack of correspondence requiring an answer, his signature or to frank, but for once in his life he was going to ignore pressing matters of state and eat a leisurely breakfast with his wife… Who was not beside him.

Where was she?

Frowning, he threw off the covers, found his banyan, covered his nakedness and scraped his hair out of his eyes. He poured cold water from a patterned jug into the porcelain bowl on the bedside table and splashed cold water over his face. Feeling reasonably awake, he went in search of her. He forgot that at this hour, not only was his secretary going about his duties his whole household had been up for half the day and were all busily engaged at their tasks.