Trust Me (6 page)

He would be a father.

He put his mouth on
hers and she opened to him, taking the hot, passionate onslaught of his tongue.
Thrusting hers back.

She lifted her hips
and wrapped her legs about his waist. Tightly. Holding onto him and accepting
the powerful thrusts of his pelvis against hers. She couldn’t talk so freely of
her feelings. But she could
show
them.

He grew harder than
ever, like iron. And he swelled larger, straining against her inner walls,
ramming against the mouth of her womb. Her cunt drew tight, squeezing the
wonderful thickness of his cock in convulsive waves.

Fiery pleasure swept
through her, she surrendered to it, surrendered to Jon, crying out, giving him
all of her love, all of herself.

****

It quickly became
apparent to Anne that these clothes were unlike any she had seen Jon in before.
The materials more refined, costly. The coat was tailored so closely to fit
Jon’s body that it must donned slowly, carefully.

Toby moved about
briskly, fussily brushing invisible specks of lint from Jon’s dark blue coat,
applying several tweaks to a snow-white cravat that already seemed inhumanly
perfect.

Jon pulled away and
glanced in the mirror then frowned and turned back and motioned to Toby.

The valet hurried
back and gave the cravat several more tweaks. And then finally Jon’s attire
passed muster and Toby left.

Jon came to her and
held out his hand. She looked up at him and felt her mouth drop open. He
looked… magnificent.

His expression was
cool, distant.

Intimidation beat
through her. She hesitated.

He was wholly
consumed with getting to Lloyd House at a certain time. He had asked Toby for
an update on the preparation of the horses and carriages, several times in a
curt voice.

He looked down at her
and held out his hand, his gaze so impersonal that another shudder of
apprehension quivered through her.

The arrogant set of
his jaw didn’t ease but as he looked down at her, tenderness softened his eyes.
“Come, my love.”

Anne glanced down at
her gown, aware for the first time that, despite the expensive velvet, it was
really rather drab. A greyish-plum and cut with a style more comfortable than
elegant.

“Hmm.” His tone
resonated with consideration.

She looked up and
found him contemplating the gown.

“You need new
clothes, Anne.”

“Yes, I suppose I
could use a few more, I—”

“Your clothes are not
suitable for a countess in Mayfair.”

“Yes, I—”

“You need an entire
new wardrobe.”

The statement carried
an air of finality. A decision he’d made in which she would get no vote.

“I should have
thought of it before now. It will cost a small fortune to have one made so quickly.
Well, today you shall have your pelisse.” He picked it up from the bed then
motioned for her to stand. His impatience, his sudden irritation, vibrated upon
the air between them.

She stood and he put
the wrap on her shoulders.

“With your wrap on,
no one shall see your drab, mousy little gown.” Humour laced his voice.

She turned and looked
at him.

His eyes were warm
and full of affection. “I was so intent to get my ring on your finger, I
neglected to tend to some of the most important matters.”

Shame washed over
her. “I should have done so myself.”

The ever-present
vertical line between his brows deepened and he placed a finger on her lips, a
soft brush of pale grey suede. She could smell the newness of the gloves.

“My little country wench.
You are inexperienced with Mayfair and Society. It is my place to guide you.”
He bent and placed a peck on her cheek. “I shan’t be so neglectful again, I
promise.”

****

The rain had stopped.
Jon opened the carriage window. Air rushed in, bathing his face with coolness.
A refreshing change from the humid, stuffy sense of being trapped inside the
carriage during the storm. The scent of wet earth and grass and other subtle
hints of scents filled the carriage. The smell of the road. No matter how many times
he had experienced it travelling with the Dragoons, it always filled him with a
sense of liberation. Change was something he craved, needed.

But on this trip,
there was no feeling of exhilaration. He was not sitting here as usual, tapping
his foot and trying to control the rise of anticipatory excitement.

Jon watched Anne as
she slept, curled on the seat across from him.

Did she look a little
pale? Well, that was understandable. Carriage travel was still a strain for
her. That was something he had not known about love. He had not expected how it
would tie his feelings so closely to those of his beloved. He couldn’t take
pleasure in a trip that was so unpleasant for her.

But she was holding
up well. He had been prepared for tears or carriage sickness, possibly a few
hysterics. He’d known grown men who had suffered similar fears born of trauma,
and he had witnessed their complete undoing when they were forced to face
something that triggered old memories and viscerally recalled terrors. And a
little hysteria in a young, sheltered woman would not have been unexpected.

Warmth entered his
heart and he smiled to himself.

She had been brave
the past couple of days.

Damned brave.

He knew what it cost
her. His admiration for her grew with each passing day.

The blanket he had
put over her earlier had fallen and he reached across to reposition it. He
noticed, again, the shabbiness of her travelling dress. The garment must be at
least three years old. And such an unbecoming colour. How could he have
forgotten that she needed new clothes? He’d known the deficiencies of her
wardrobe from what he’d seen her wearing at Whitecross Hall. However, lately he
hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to any of her clothes. He’d mostly
focused on keeping her out of them.

Then again, she
wouldn’t have required a new wardrobe secluded with him at his hunting box.

He hadn’t planned on
coming to Mayfair so soon.

Resentment burned
through him again.

He refocused on the
paper he’d been reading. But he kept hearing her words, from the night before
they had set out for London.

It is your duty as a peer of this realm to take a pivotal part
in this debate.

The Massacre at Saint
Peter’s Field. The possibility of rebellion, of civil unrest or even war,
raised the prospect of needing to raise a regiment and return to military life.
All of that would have excited him before.

But that was when
marriage had simply been something he contemplated to gain heirs to fulfil a
duty. Maria Waterbury, his former fiancée, was a woman who had been ready to
exchange her feminine fertility for his title. Blackmore Castle had been just a
place, an inheritance and encumbrance he had never wanted.

Now everything was
different.

He had a wife. Now he
had someone he cared for deeply, a woman who would bear their children.
Blackmore Castle was her security, something that already belonged to their
sons.

He did not relish the
prospect of a war in way now.

He felt, for the
first time in his life, an investment in peace. And he was becoming possessed by
an uncomfortable urgency to take action to prevent unrest and war.

Jon himself was
incredulous that battle-tested British troops—Hussars, for God’s sake– could
have so poorly handled the affair at St. Peter’s Field, in Manchester.

Some where between
fifteen to eighteen people dead, the exact number was not certain.

Hundreds wounded.

All over mere a mere
oratory.

To make matters
worse, Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, had sent a letter to the commander of
the yeomanry and the Manchester magistrates—
thanking
them for their
prompt action in preserving the public tranquillity.

And this
congratulatory message had been approved by the Prince Regent himself.

Good God!

The government was
apparently bent upon doing what it could to incite a full-scale rebellion.

But then Jon had
always held politicians in contempt. How could he not? The almighty, the old
earl, had been one of the most powerful Tory forces in the House of Lords.
Jon’s father had been expected to follow in his footsteps. Grandfather’s power
and money had virtually assured Gerald Lloyd of a seat in the House of Commons.
But he hadn’t the force of personality or personal discipline to carry it off.
He had debauched himself into an early grave before Jon had been placed in
trousers.

And that failure had
sealed Jon’s fate as a young man. Grandfather had decided that this son born of
his failed second son would also fail at politics and therefore decreed that
Jon would enter divinity school.

But Jon had not
wanted to be a clergyman any more than he had wanted to be a politician. He had
chosen to defy Grandfather and become a warrior instead.

Now, all the great
wars had been fought and won. And Jon was an earl with a seat in the House of
Lords.

How that must gall
Grandfather.

There was some joy to
be found in that.

Before, Jon had taken
part in the House of Lords in the same way he partook of everything that had
come with his inheritance of the earldom. He had attended those debates and
votes that he found entertaining.

A soft sound drew his
attention. He looked up. Anne had awakened. She sat leaning towards the window,
with her eyes focused on the greyish mass on the horizon that was London.

“Good afternoon,
beautiful,” he said.

She didn’t turn, she
just kept staring out the window and gripping the seat.

Perhaps she had not
heard him over the sounds of the carriage.

“Anne,” he said,
louder this time. “Why don’t you come over here?”

He waited. No
response. He touched his boot to her shoe. “Anne.”

“What?” Her
distracted voice held tension.

Jon had long been sensitive
to other people’s emotional cues. It had proved necessary growing up in a house
filled with underlying tension and underhanded conflict. It had served him well
in the Dragoons when leading his men. Such sensitivity had also served him well
with women, for purposes of seduction.

However, he was not
used to feeling such cues right down to the pit of his stomach. Anne’s least
pain was his own and it had been that way from the start to some degree. But it
became more so the longer and better he knew her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Jon’s jaw tensed.
“I’ll ask once more, what’s troubling you?”

“I am quite all
right.” She turned and gave him a smile that was too bright. It didn’t match
her eyes. Eyes that held deep shadows.

He gently pried her hand
off the seat. Then he stripped her glove off and touched her fingers. They were
ice-cold.

His frustration
increased to a breaking point but he took a deep breath and forced his voice to
be soft. “Anne, I’ll ask once more, and this time, don’t be evasive. What’s the
matter?”

“I have told you
already, nothing is wrong.”

His every nerve
bristled with an impotent sort of energy to fix the situation. But who could
make a woman speak if she would not? He tapped his fingers on his knee.

They were about to
face a most straining scenario. They had to present her to Society as a stable
and whole young woman.

And truth was, she
still suffered from the after-effects of the accident. She was emotionally
fragile, shy and adorably, maddeningly knotty-headed.

It was up to him to
guide her

How could he help her
cope with her fears and anxieties if she wouldn't share them openly with him?
How could he anticipate how she would react to things around them if he didn’t
know what was on her mind?

Jon’s impatience
reverberated on the air, electrifying Anne’s every nerve ending. Sometimes his
emotions, especially when he was attempting to suppress them—as he was now—,
proved too powerful for her.

And right now, her
own emotions were overwhelming her as it was.

If only there was a
way to have a moment to herself. Just some breathing space. But there wasn’t.
She glanced out the window again. Her throat seemed to seize up. Choking her.

She leant closer to
the open carriage window. To the east lay the dense grey sprawling cluster of
buildings.

London.