Trust Me (9 page)

“Did you find the
dowager?”

He nodded.

She waited for him to
expound upon the gesture.

He remained silent,
stern-faced.

Another wave of
anxiety curled through her belly. “Should we not go and speak with her?”

He caressed her
shoulders, briefly. “You’re fatigued, we should retire to our chambers.”

“I am not tired, I—”

“Yes, you are.” His
expression softened, a bit. He touched the tip of her nose. “The strain shows
in your face. You’re quite pale.”

All right, so she was
tired. But… “It seems very disrespectful not to at least meet her.”

There, that was the
diplomatic way to put it, wasn’t it? After all, he’d been raised by his
grandparents and no man wanted to hear his maternal figure maligned, no matter
how rude the dowager’s behaviour.

His expression
hardened again.

“You may meet her later.”
A note of resolution sounded in his tone. There would be no use arguing with
him.

His response
certainly seemed very odd. Her stomach tensed even more.

****

Jon watched his wife
as she surveyed the sitting room between their two bedchambers. She turned and
scanned the sitting chamber. Bare wood bookshelves lined most of the walls.

He had wanted her to
see it complete. They were supposed to have had months to refurbish her
chambers. Now she was seeing them all bare bones. She couldn’t see it the way he
saw it in his mind. The way he wanted it to be, perfect for her.

“You did this for
me?”

“I thought you would
prefer this to sharing a study with me.”

“I do.” She turned
further to face the three large windows. “Oh, I do.”

Her tone rang hollow
and she carried her shoulders too high, as though she were struggling to hold
herself up.

He loosened his
cravat with a yank and struggled to keep the impatience out of his tone. “Anne,
what’s troubling you?”

“I am quite all
right.” She turned and the shadows in her eyes hit him right in his guts. She
gave him a smile. A smile that was too bright. A smile that made him feel
hollowed-out inside. The deep shadows were still tearing into him.

The situation with
Grandmother, the disrespect she’d shown them, had obviously dulled Anne’s joy
in the chamber. Resentment burned through his guts. The old harridan took such
pleasure in snatching the joy from life. He’d be damned if he would give her
the satisfaction of seeing Anne’s wan, hurt face over supper.

“Have you always had
that here? Surely not…”

Anne’s voice drew his
attention. She was staring at a crimson divan that stood in the centre of the
chamber. Large and plush. For the first time that day, her eyes glimmered with
something approaching real enjoyment. But just barely.

“No, I purchased it
after Eastwood Place.” He attempted to smile.

“Oh.” She dropped her
eyes and caressed the rich nap.

The crimson chaise in
the study of Eastwood Place—her favourite spot in all that great house, she’d
said. Jon had attempted to seduce her upon it. The purchase of this new chaise
was another surprise he’d intended for her, ruined by his grandmother’s
ungracious behaviour. The pressure of feeling her dejection became intolerable.
He must do something to fix the situation.

He touched Anne’s
shoulders. The muscles were tight. “You must be tired.”

“It is very
stimulating to be here in our new home.”

“Maybe too
stimulating?”

“Yes, perhaps in some
ways. But after supper, I want to stay up until the servants are abed and
explore every inch of this house.”

“You are tired and
you are going to have a rest. I’ll have supper sent up to you. I don’t want you
to have a headache tomorrow.”

“Goodness, Jon, I am
not a child.”

“No, but you are mine
and therefore I demand that you take excellent care of yourself.” He touched
her back, pulling and tugging at her laces.

“Neroli should have
arrived at Blackmore Castle by now,” he said, trying to cheer her with the
subject of her horse.

“I hope she settles
in all right.” Anne sounded a little sad. “She can be so highly-strung at
times. She needs much cosseting.”

“Like her mistress.”

“Well, I hope the
grooms understand this about her. I am so afraid she shall fall into a
despondency.”

“Do not worry, she really
will be better off in the country this winter. I have sent detailed
instructions to the grooms at Blackmore. I assure you they know that Lady
Neroli is one very special animal.”

Systematically,
dispassionately, he stripped off her garments, rewarded by her deep release of
breath when he unfastened her stays. A vicious looking red impression remained
on her flesh from the oppressive fabric. He tapped her ribs, a little sharply.
“You laced yourself too tight.”

“Nellie did it.”

“Tell her not to do
that again.”

“This is Mayfair. One
must put their best appearance forward.”

“As far as your
appearance goes, the only one you must please is me, and I am telling you never
to lace yourself like that again.” He walked to a chest by the window and
withdrew a sheet, a small blanket and an amber bottle.

She looked a little
lost as he returned to her with the items. Her eyes were huge, her face
slightly sallow. It had been a day of too many changes. He had all but forced
her to come to London to begin with. And then she’d been rudely cut by
Grandmother. No wonder she was worn. He placed the sheet over the chaise.

“Lie on your
stomach.” With his tone, he left no question that it was an order. He motioned
to the chaise.

She lay down without
question or even a glance in protest. Her instant carnal submission was always
gratifying. So many other women played submission like a game, for additional
spice in the bedchamber. And they seemed to always make such a battle of
things.

But Anne’s physical
submission was something genuine and freely given.

A true gift.

If only she would
give of her whole self that freely.

He sat beside her and
began spreading generous amounts of oil on her back. The scent of rose and
lavender filled the air. Her muscles quickly softened under his gliding touch,
her body went limp and sank into the chaise. He massaged her back, her neck,
her arms, even her feet. The soft firmness of her body never failed to fill him
with pleasure. Pleasure that slowly melted away the hard core of tension in his
stomach.

He slid the pins from
her hair then undid the braids. Her tresses sprung into curls. The
black-as-midnight colour formed a pleasing contrast against her richly hued,
dark-honey skin. He plunged his fingers into the mass of ringlets to massage
her scalp then drew his fingertips slowly down her neck and back.

She moaned, a low and
lingering sound that sent waves of anticipation deep in his groin. Her body
tensed, she attempted to turn to him.

He wanted to relax
her body, to take her mind off of the distressing day. But he didn’t want his
own emotions or desires to be engaged. Not now.

He touched her
shoulders and gently pressed her, forbidding her. She moaned again, a soft
sound of protest that rang with resignation to his will. He drew his hand
slowly down her spine. She writhed beneath his touch. He slid his hand over her
buttock into the crease between and then into her folds.

Luscious, warm, wet.
Very wet.

His cock twitched. He
ached to mount her, to thrust inside of her, all the way to the hilt. He closed
his eyes, feeling the ache shudder up through his stomach, through his whole
body.

Denial would do him
good, would teach him not to be a slave to his desires.

She trembled then her
whole body went rigid, still. Her cunt squeezed his fingers. Her cries, muffled
by the chaise as they were, drove fierce stabs of desire deep in his groin. His
cock went hard as iron. He wanted to wrench open his trousers and jerk himself
until he spilled his seed over her beautiful arse. Or better yet, sink himself
cods-deep into her pleasure-warmed depths, in one quick, hard thrust.

Christ, surely he
could give a woman an orgasm without becoming a lust-obsessed weakling. He’d
had her just last night and again this morning. Then she had given him oral gratification
during the long carriage ride to Mayfair. What the devil had happened to him?
Their married life thus far had been one long orgy of indulgence.

For him, carnality
had always been a pleasure, a diversion, not a necessity.

Even at first, at Whitecross
Hall, when he’d been mad with lust for her, he had forced himself to wait.
During their time at the cottage, he had paced himself, partly afraid that the
delicious novelty of her would wane too soon. He needn’t have worried. The more
he had her, the more he hungered for her.

The last spasms of
her flesh eased. He withdrew his fingers and laid his hand on her buttock. Her
arse was round, broad, soft and yet it held a certain, perfect degree of
firmness. At moments like this he became sharply aware that she was ten years
younger than he.

Lord Bartram had been
one of their set. A wise, worldly and entertaining gentleman of about
thirty-five who had adored cards and horse racing and all manner of
sophisticated pastimes. He had married a young, nubile girl of twenty. And
despite all his worldly wisdom, he had changed into a thoroughly different man.
A man who went to bed before midnight, who spent his days fretting over his
wife’s every variance of pregnancy. By far the worst, he’d lost his sharp,
cynical wit and become one of those irrepressibly cheerful persons.

Bartram had become a
laughingstock. A fool who was led around by the hook he’d allowed to be placed
his nose. A willing supplicant on the alter to youthful beauty, to womanhood.

Womanhood. God. Hadn’t
Jon learned all he ever needed to know about women whilst a child in this very
house?

But Anne was
different.

Was she?

Or had he simply been
infatuated with her youth and considerable charms? Her novel difference of
personality?

A beautiful bride in the
very springtime of her youth. A shy little wildflower whom he must guide and
protect. The last thing he’d envisioned for his countess. A mistress? Yes,
definitely. But never his countess.

****

“She’s very dark.”

Jon stared down the
long expanse of the table to where Grandmother sat. “So you’ve said.
Repeatedly. I have eyes to see her with for myself.”

“It seems rather
furtive and frankly silly for a woman of your years and—” he paused and gave
her a disdainful glance. “—dignity, to be so critical of a young woman you’ve
yet to meet.”

Grandmother
compressed her lips a moment. Then she took a long drink of her wine. “I’d
heard she was dark, but heavens, what a shock to see just how dark.”

“Her mother was
Spanish.”

“Yes, of course.”
With her soft platinum curls, that dainty circlet of flowers and her huge,
pale-blue eyes, she appeared almost girlish in the flicking candlelight.
“Goodness, she’s such a plump girl too. Such broad hips. I assume childbirth
will leave her big as a whale.”

Grandfather had called
Grandmother his sack of bones. She’d always been a slight woman and deeply
resented any woman who possessed a decent bosom. Such remarks were to be
expected. They shouldn’t faze him in the least.

They made his blood
boil.

“Does she wear a
bonnet?”

“A bonnet?” At any
other time, he might have laughed at the seriousness of her tone. But now, as
things were, it took all his will to keep the ire from his voice. He scowled.
“You’re becoming ridiculous.”

“That hat she was
wearing today offered no protection against the sun. She’ll be as dark as an
Indian if she goes about like that. She needs a bonnet with a wide brim. You
should make sure she gets one and wears it at all times outdoors.”

He laughed. “Of
course, Grandmother.”

Her eyes flashed. “Do
not laugh at me, my lord earl, this is a serious matter. They are all
speculating about her, about how her maternal grandmother came from
Saint-Domingue. No one seems to know much more about that branch of her family.
They could have been anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter to
me.”

“Well, it should.”

“She’s Saxby’s
daughter. Surely that is good enough.” He shrugged. “As you say, she is
wealthy.”

She paused with her
spoon held halfway to her lips, her eyes growing larger.

“What?” he asked
irritably.

“No, it is not her
wealth, is it?”

“What else could it
be? After all, we’ve already established that I am incapable of any finer
feeling.”