The Arrangement

Jo had just stepped foot on the stairs, pitifully eager to get up to her room. But she turned at the sound of Victoria’s voice. Although Jo knew the truth about her husband’s affections, she still could not bring herself to enjoy the other woman’s company. She’d successfully spent the day avoiding her, but of course she’d had to suffer through dinner—a meal at which Victoria had monopolized the conversation, either not realizing or caring that she was the only one talking.

“Thank you.”

Victoria laughed, the sound enticing and musical. “I do hope you will call me Vix—and I have always thought of you as Jo.”

“Of course,” Jo said, already knowing she’d never use the pet name. But there was no reason to be churlish.

Victoria laid a hand on Jo’s arm, and it took all her willpower not to jerk away.

“I hope things will not be awkward between us because of my relationship with Beau,” Victoria said in a loud whisper.

Victoria really was a snake—beautiful, but a snake all the same. It made Jo weak with gratitude that Beau had pulled her fangs so quickly; otherwise comments like this would have her and her husband at loggerheads every single day.

“We are sisters, Jo—there should never be awkwardness between sisters.”

Thanks to her husband, Jo was able to give Victoria a genuine smile of amusement. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Victoria recoiled slightly, a puzzled notch between her spectacular eyes. But she recovered smoothly.

“I’m so pleased to hear it. I really was excited for you when I heard you were finally going to achieve your dream of marrying a Duke of Wroxton.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Victoria’s eyes grew big with obviously feigned surprise. “Oh, I just meant that I know things didn’t work out for you with Jason.” She chuckled. “That naughty boy.”

“I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?” Jo demanded.

“Are you ready to go up, Josephine?”

Jo turned to see her husband standing just behind Victoria. When she didn’t answer immediately, his eyes narrowed and he looked from Jo to Victoria to Jo.

Whatever he saw on Jo’s face made his stern expression soften. “You go up, darling. I’ll join you shortly.”

The same caressing look and loving endearment that sent Jo’s pulse racing caused Victoria’s full mouth to tighten with displeasure.

Jo knew she was grinning but didn’t care. “Good night, Victoria.” She didn’t wait for a response before turning on her heel and floating up the stairs.

* * *

Beau’s head ached as he dried his wet face and then slipped into the robe Dobson held out. He nodded his head in dismissal at his valet, his mind on the woman he’d left down at the bottom of the stairs—when it should be on the woman he would be joining in only moments.

Damn Victoria! How dare she try to thrust her way into Beau’s more than satisfactory marriage bed? Oh, not that he hadn’t expected it. He’d meant what he’d said about Victoria always being welcome in his homes, but that didn’t mean she would have free rein to torment his wife.

Beau had seen the disparaging looks she’d given Josephine earlier, the way she’d monopolized the conversation, speaking of past events that only served to underline how close she and Beau had been that summer, and how Josephine had not been part of it.

Making his marriage work with such a strong-willed woman as his wife would be challenging in itself; the last thing he needed was a meddling ex-lover.

Victoria was a bloody menace. The sooner her mourning was over and Beau could find her another husband, the better.

He had no idea what she’d been saying to Josephine on the stairs, but it would likely be another evening in which he would need to put out a fire that Victoria had started.

“Dammit all to hell,” he muttered as he strode toward the connecting door, not knowing what he would find, but girding himself to expect the worst.

He yanked open the door.

Josephine was curled up in a chair by the fire reading, but she looked up and smiled when he entered. So, she was not armored in flannel. Instead, she was wearing a lovely confection that had obviously been purchased with him in mind.

Well.

“You look like a thundercloud,” she said.

Beau snorted. “Do I? I’m beginning to realize I would have made a dreadful diplomat with such a face.”

She grinned and put a placeholder in her book before setting it aside.

Beau lowered himself into the chair across from her, wanting to sort things out before getting to the real business of the evening: which was stripping that nightgown from her body and teaching her something new.

“I’m sorry, Josephine. I know this isn’t much of a wedding holiday for you. Between your father and now—” Beau composed himself. “What did she say to upset you?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Josephine.”

She sighed. “Fine, she said something about being glad I finally got what I wanted—a Duke of Wroxton.” The look she gave him was more than a little hurt and slightly accusing. “I don’t know what she meant, but I’m sure she shall enjoy sticking me with pins for her own twisted entertainment.”

If Victoria had been in front of him at that moment, Beau would have throttled her.

Here was yet another vow the old man had extorted from him. But at this point, was he really breaking his word by explaining what their vicious sister-in-law meant? By speaking now he wasn’t exposing the truth; he was only stopping a problem before it got worse.

“Please, tell me.”

Perhaps he was becoming weakened by all this emotional turmoil, or perhaps he was just sick and tired of always finding himself on the wrong side of the argument with this woman. It really didn’t matter. What mattered was that he needed to ameliorate at least a little of her unhappiness, even if it meant breaking his word. If he didn’t tell her, Victoria would—as Josephine said—stick her with pins. He could not be a party to that.

So he took a deep breath, and prepared to tell her one more thing to hurt her.

* * *

Jo had never seen an expression like this on her husband’s face: it was bone weary, and she dreaded learning whatever had made him that way. Perhaps it would be better if she told him she didn’t want—

“Your father made a marriage contract with my brother—five years ago. Jason broke their agreement. It wasn’t a legally binding agreement, of course—not without your signature or knowledge—but Jason couldn’t have known that when he married Victoria, thus breaking his word.”

Jo didn’t know what she’d been expecting Beau would say, but this certainly hadn’t been it. She’d started shaking her head before he’d even finished. “Even my father could not be so arrogant.”

Beau said nothing.

“I cannot believe this! Just when was he going to tell me? When he dropped me off at the altar?”

“If it is any consolation to you, he deeply regrets his actions.”

“Oddly, that is no consolation at all,” she said, her voice shaking with anger.

“I can’t blame you for being angry.”

A horrid, nasty, slimy thought shoved its way into Jo’s frazzled brain and her head whipped up. “Is that why you married me? Did he pressure you to save your family’s tarnished honor?”

He sighed. “It’s long over with, Josephine. What matters is that we are married now, and it seems quite happily—at least for the past forty-eight hours, or so.”

“I guess that is my answer,” she said, ignoring the thrill she felt at his “quite happily” comment and keeping to the subject at hand.

“Fine, here is your answer. It was part of my reason for marrying you. First off, your father approached not long after I learned of the horrible financial disaster Jason left. Not only did his offer seem like a godsend, but then he told me about what Jason had done. If your father hadn’t known my brother, I suppose he never would have approached me. And we never would have married. Would you have preferred that?”

Jo looked into his handsome face and knew he was right: they were getting along and their marriage showed signs of only getting better, but—blast it! Just who did her father think he was?

Edward James Loman, that’s who, he would have said.

Jo took a deep breath and flung herself off into the void. “I am glad that I married you.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up into an almost boyish smile. “Thank you,” he said softly. “As am I. So does how we got here really matter?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just—” She flung up her hands. “No, you are right. Once again I’m acting angry at the wrong person. It is my father, and not you, who is responsible for this.”

Beau held out his hand. “Come here. I don’t want to sit across from you—I want to be in bed with you. Inside you.”

His words tore the air from her lungs, and her legs were wobbly when she rose from her chair.

Beau sucked in his breath when she stood. “Good God.”

Jo looked down; she’d forgotten she was wearing this particular nightgown, a pale blue and very sensual creation with sheer panels in strategic places.

“Do you like it?” she asked, recalling with a shiver what he’d said the night before—that he wanted her naked.

He stared as if enraptured. “I might have to revise my opinion about fancy, lacy nightgowns. There is something about this one—it covers you, but with a suggestion of nudity that almost makes you look more naked.”

Jo didn’t think her head could become any hotter.

“Turn around,” he said.

She put her hands on her hips. “Has anyone ever told you that you are very bossy?”

“No. But I have been called draconian and dictatorial. Does that count?”

She laughed and then twirled in a circle for him.

He made a growling noise and took a step toward her, dropping his mouth to suck on her hard nipple though the lace panel.

Jo swooned. He was so . . . so—Oh, she didn’t know what the word was. And she didn’t care right now.

“It’s very becoming,” he said when he stood up, his robe sliding to the floor and exposing his arousal. His eyes were riveted to her body. “Now take it off.”

Her hands were shaking badly, so it was fortunate the gown had only three ties to loosen before she could pull it over her head. Once freed, she flung it aside and moved toward the bed.

But he caught her hand and tugged her back. “No,” he said, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was more of an assault. Jo met him stroke for stroke, their teeth clashing in their urgency to get deeper inside each other.

Beau wrenched himself away and then pulled her toward the sofa.

“Kneel and put your hands on the back of the settee,” he ordered.

She blinked, dazed.

“Do it, Josephine,” he said when she gaped up at him.

Her limbs were jerky, but she took the position.

He made a noise of approval. “This is a breathtaking view of your body.” His hand slid from her hip over her flank and then paused to cup her breast, thumbing her aching nipple while his other hand slid between her thighs.

“You are so wet for me,” he murmured into her neck, biting and kissing and licking while he pulled her tightly against his chest and drove her ruthlessly toward her climax.

When she began to shake and cry out he kneed her thighs apart and entered her with a punishing thrust, riding her hard while teasing another orgasm from her just before burying himself to the hilt and emptying deep inside her.

* * *

They were lying side by side, faceup on her bed, the cool air beginning to chill their sweaty bodies.

“I am not usually so impatient, my dear. Thank you for indulging me.”

“I daresay you can find a way to make it up to me,” Jo said lightly.

He turned toward her. “Look who’s cheeky.”

Jo grinned and turned on her side to face him, propping her head in her hand.

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“My father sent nothing again today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, he’s so stubborn.”

Beau’s lips pulled up on one side. “I wonder if it runs in the family?”

Jo smiled, pleased by his gentle teasing. She loved lying in bed and talking with him almost as much as she loved his body and what it could do to her.

“Tell me about yourself when we first met—did you only have the one Season?” he asked.

“Yes—and that one was more than enough. My father hounded me mercilessly the next year, but I stood firm.”

“So, stubborn in other words?” His blue eyes crinkled at the outside edges.

“You used to smile like this a lot back then,” she said.

“Hmm, did I? Well, I suppose I was younger then.”

His face had subtly tightened and Jo knew he was probably thinking about the things that had stopped his smiles. Like the jagged pink scar on the right side of his chest.

She reached out and touched him lightly. “What happened here—Er, that is, if you don’t mind talking about it. I don’t mean to pry,” she added when he fixed her with the impassive look she’d decided she didn’t like very much because it was a mask, a defense.

“It is from a bayonet, not deep or life threatening. Tell me, why just the one Season? What did you plan for your life before your father sought me out? Or was I only the latest offering in a long line? Did he bring suitors and leave them at your door, like a cat leaving a mouse?”

They both laughed at that image.

“I had three other offers that Season,” she confessed, “and a few others over the years. But you were the only one he brought to me—Well, who knows? Maybe there were a dozen others and they all begged off at the last moment.”

“Shhh,” Beau murmured, kissing her deeply and thoroughly, until when he finally pulled away she couldn’t recall what they’d been discussing.

“What happened that Season to make you hate society so much?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t particularly care about such things—parties, balls, society functions, moving from London to Brighton to the country and then doing it all over again, but my father became obsessed with the aristocratic set. Oh, he didn’t want to join them, not that they’d ever accept him even though he buys and sells peers the way he does ships and—” Jo stopped when she realized what she’d just said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Shh,” he said. “You don’t need to apologize for the truth.” He cocked his head at her, absently stroking her side with his hand, making Jo want to purr. “You keep saying them. You do realize you are now them.”

“Not really. I’ll never be of your class—you know that. And I’ll never be of my father’s class. I’m neither fish nor fowl. I am destined to spend my life on the fringes—any entrée I have is thanks to you.”

His gaze became uncomfortably acute. “I don’t understand why you agreed to this marriage. You never really cared about becoming a duchess, did you?” Jo swallowed and his eyes narrowed, making him look like a predator who’d just caught scent of his prey.

God. How had this conversation started?

“You said something earlier—that I used to smile more. How did you know that? I suppose we must have seen each other often—in particular at a house party.” He grimaced. “It infuriates me that I don’t remember any of our interactions. I know I was distracted, but I don’t understand how I didn’t see you, but you saw me.”

Jo felt her deceitful face heating.

His eyebrows shot up. “Why are you turning such a charming shade of pink?”

Jo raised her palms to her flaming face.

“Josephine?” he asked in a voice that warned he would have it out of her. “What is it?”

Why not tell him? Hasn’t he already confessed enough of his own embarrassing secrets?

She dropped her hands. “I was never outgoing—I rarely spoke unless somebody dragged me into a discussion. It was just too mortifying to know that men only spoke to me because of my money.” She shrugged. “You never saw me because I never once spoke to you. In fact, I usually hid when you were around.”

“But why?”

She snorted. “Ask Victoria.”

His eyes narrowed.

She swallowed several times. “I didn’t mix with your set, Beau—not normally. The only reason I was invited to that party—my only house party—was because Lady Edelson had a son she wanted to marry off.”

His brow creased and then he snorted. “Not Bertie? God. Tell me she didn’t want you to marry—”

“Yes,” she ground out between her teeth. “She thought I’d be perfect for her dipsomaniac half-wit son, Bertie.”

“Ah.”

Jo couldn’t stand the pity on his face. “I didn’t know anyone there except Victoria.” She snorted. “I say know. That’s not really accurate. She only paid me any mind when I could be a foil for her beauty—as if she needed one.” She cut him a glance from beneath her lashes; he looked pensive. Whatever memories talking about that party stirred up, they weren’t entirely happy ones. Jo wanted to ask him how he liked having to relive the past but then recalled that what she was about to tell him was entirely her fault, not his.

Jo rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy, unable to look at him while relating this embarrassing tale. “It was a dreadfully tedious party for me and the last of its kind I would ever attend. The group, you probably don’t recall, broke into eight couples whenever the opportunity presented itself. Bertie and I were to be the ninth couple, but he wasn’t exactly challenging to dodge. Anyhow, a person could hardly walk a step without encountering—well, you know.”

She risked turning to him.

“You must know that women were—still are, I’m sure—mad for you. It’s rather nauseating, really.”

He actually blushed. “Er—”

“I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed looking at you—we all did. But, for some reason, Victoria thought it was the most amusing thing she’d ever seen—a little merchant scrub like me admiring you from afar.”

He looked dazed.

“Victoria talked about you—told tales of what you two did.” Jo’s breathing was rough. “She dropped several hints—I know she wanted me to see it.”

“It?” He frowned. “What?” And then. “No. Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Yes,” she hissed, releasing the pent-up frustration, anger, and jealousy of five years into one word. “Yes, you and Victoria.”

His lips were parted and he was shaking his head. “Er, I thought we were in the—”

“Carriage house,” she finished for him.

“She told you we went up there?” he asked with no little disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Good God. Were there more of you watching?”

Jo could not believe his question. “I. Don’t. Know.”

He recoiled slightly at her angry tone. “And where did you hide?” His expression said he really didn’t want her answer.

“In the wardrobe. Across from the bed.”

“Ah.” He nodded, his lips tightly pursed. And then he dropped his arm over his face, his nose in the crook of his elbow, his bulging biceps hiding everything except his chin, and his body shook.

“Beau?” she said, turning onto her side and laying a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head, choking.

He was crying?

And then she heard a snort and recoiled from him as if he’d spat fire at her. “You’re laughing?”

He dropped his arm and gave up trying to hold back, laughing until there were tears in his eyes.

Jo crossed her arms over her chest, which reminded her she was nude, so she sat up and pushed herself toward the edge of the bed. “I’m so pleased to amuse you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in between gasps of laughter, his hand catching her upper arm and holding her like an iron shackle. “I daresay you were dreadfully shocked—perhaps frightened even. But, darling”—Jo shivered at that naturally given endearment—“you were the one who went there. Did you know what we would be doing?”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose so,” she ground out, even her ears burning now.

“So then whose fault was that?”

Jo seethed. “Let go of me.”

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head, his expression regretful.

Jo squirmed, but her attempts didn’t even budge him.

“Where are you going, Josephine?”

“Nowhere, it seems.”

He pushed out his lower lip, tilted his head, and gave her a rueful smile. He looked so adorable Jo wanted to hit him.

“Is it dreadful of me to laugh?”

“Why would you think that?” she retorted sarcastically, struggling mightily to maintain her glare.

His lips curled up at the corners in a satisfied smirk and he flexed his arm, the action pulling her slowly but inexorably toward him.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a voice that was far from commanding.

His nostrils flared. “Did you like what you saw, Josephine?”

She gasped, her face blazing. “Of course not.”

“We really must cure you of this disturbing propensity to lie,” he said, his eyes narrowed as he easily pulled her onto his hard, hot body. “I’m going to check and see if you really are as repulsed as you say.” His free hand slid between her thighs as if it had every right to be there, as if her body belonged to him.

He thrust a finger into her slick passage and groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Wet and hot.”

Yes, Jo thought as her mouth whimpered and her body arched against his, her hips wantonly begging for more. There was no point fighting it: he could do or say whatever he wanted to her and her traitorous body loved it.

“My Josephine,” he murmured, kissing her neck while his powerful hips pulsed suggestively beneath her. “You’re on fire for me and your cunt—”

Her body stiffened and a scandalized shriek burst from her at the coarse word.

Beau just chuckled. “Oh, Josephine—you act shocked, but your cunt is telling me something completely different. You’re wet and swollen and clenching just thinking about the things I did all those years ago.” He lowered his mouth over her neck and bit her, hard. “Just how will your body respond when I do those things to you?”

Jo made a mindless gasp and he began to move in measured, deep thrusts.

“Have you pictured yourself spread out on a bed like that ever since, Josephine? Naked, exposed . . . vulnerable,” he whispered, his hand never stopping. “Am I the man in your fantasy? I hope so. Am I cruel? Wicked? Relentless?”

Jo bit her lip hard enough to taste metal. She would not—she would not—

“I would tie your wrists . . . restrain your ankles . . .” he murmured, his voice hypnotic, his breath coming in rapid, heated puffs on her throat. “If I had you bound that way . . . what do you think I would do . . . Josephine? Do you think I’d make you . . . come?”

“I don’t—I, no, I—” Her voice was ragged, barely a whisper.

“No?” His hand paused. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked in the same mild tone he might use asking if she cared for another lump of sugar in her tea.

“Please.” She shamelessly ground her sex against his motionless hand.

Again that wicked chuckle as he resumed his exquisite torture.

His other hand was no longer restraining her—she noticed belatedly—and it slid between their bodies and found her hot, pulsing core as surely as an arrow found its target.

Jo couldn’t catch the sob that broke out of her as he effortlessly pushed her toward her crisis and she shuddered and shook until she lay like a limp rag on his chest.

“I think that is what you want, isn’t it? To come when I will it . . . your every pleasure mine to command.”

His finger slipped from her sheath.

“No, don’t go,” she begged. “Please—”

“Shhhh, I’m not going anywhere, my lovely, needy darling,” he whispered, positioning something bigger and hotter against her entrance. “This is what you want,” he told her.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “and I’m going to give it to you. Hard.”

He took her with agonizing slowness, making her feel each and every inch, his body sinuous and undulating, his thrusting slow, lazy, deep.

“Tell me the way you want it,” he said, his voice strained, his body slick with the effort of resisting his own need, but his motions smooth, thorough, controlled.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Tell me,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

“I want you . . . hard, Beau.”

He flipped her onto her back before she’d even stopped speaking, their faces a bare inch from each other.

“Josephine,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile. “You want it hard, my wicked, wanton, wonderful wife?”

Jo tilted her hips and wrapped her legs around his body. “Hard,” she whispered.

And that’s exactly what he gave her.