Chapter Thirteen

Rayne concentrated on the weight of Julia’s hand against his forearm. A common enough sensation, and yet his augmented awareness of her presence was proof that everything had changed. His focus fixed to the slight pressure, the warmth, the way she tucked up close against his side, her palm barely spanning the circumference of his muscle.

When they were fighting—when the fire in her fanned to full flame—he hardly noticed the considerable difference in their sizes. Times like this, however, when she was pensive…quiet…she appeared tiny enough to fold into his pocket.

The one in his waistcoat, near his heart.

She, on the other hand, was not focused on him at all. Instead, she took great interest in the corridor wall as they walked, her gaze catching on portraits as if they were briars. Every now and then her lips twitched as if she was working up the courage to speak but wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say.

“Did you see Farring’s letter?” she finally asked.

“No, but James described the important parts.”

She briefly closed her eyes before inhaling and setting back her shoulders. “Then I suppose you know you are one traveling coach richer.”

“So it would seem.”

A generous gift on Farring’s behalf. Truth be told, he’d grown increasingly attached to the carriage. As he’d ridden with Clarissa from London to Southford, Clarissa had bubbled over with happiness to be wed, and every mile since, the chariot had been increasingly marked by images of Julia.

In all, he’d already made more tender memories inside the glossy monstrosity than he’d made anywhere else. Although… “One cannot accept a wedding gift…without a wedding, don’t you agree?”

She stopped walking, withdrew her arm, and turned to him. For a moment, he thought she would launch into his arms the way she had after the bridge.

Instead, she fluttered her hands and then backed up against a column. She slapped her flattened palms behind her against the wall, as if she were afraid she might be tempted to touch him again.

For the first time, he noticed what she was wearing. The same gold-tinted silk she had worn to Clarissa’s wedding had been cleaned, aired, and fell to the floor in elegant folds.

“Let me guess. Farring sent you clothes, too?”

She nodded. “This and three other dresses I had left with Horatia in London.”

Like his mother, Farring had an eye for detail.

He imagined Julia changing inside Southford’s stables while Farring kept watch at the door. He heard the silk whisper as she pulled it over her head, imagined the sound of her laces as she untied her stays. He frowned.

“Do your stays lace in the front or the back?” he asked.

Her expression softened. “I didn’t need help changing into the livery, if that’s what you’re asking. All of my stays lace in the front. While I stayed with Farring’s family, I didn’t like to trouble the duke’s staff more than necessary.” She lifted her brows. “Four young women plus the duchess means a constant flutter of clothing.”

He heard nothing after lace in the front.

He’d inadvertently discovered why conversations about undergarments were strictly prohibited. He’d been admiring her dress. Now, all he could see were her breasts.

And all he could imagine was undoing her laces.

So many laces.

And string was ever so fascinating.

Heat simmered beneath his collar. Controlling his lust was going to mean a lifetime of pain.

“Thoughtful, isn’t he?” she asked.

Rayne blinked. “Who?”

She frowned. “Farring, of course.”

“Ah, yes. Farring.” Rayne forced his gaze back to her face. “Thoughtful with a dollop of cunning deception.”

“I can’t quite judge him for meddling in my affairs, now, can I?” She lifted her brows. “Not when I liberally meddle in the affairs of my loved ones.”

“Noble restraint.” His lips twitched. “Are you always so fair-minded?”

“When not…overcome.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m often overcome, with you.”

Lord, did he understand.

“You set out to abduct me.” A fact, not a question.

She nodded.

“And what were you going to do with me once you abducted me?”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “Well, I briefly considered pirates.”

He could imagine—bloodthirsty little thing. “Pirates?”

She gazed out beneath her lashes. “Briefly.”

She was very pretty when she blushed. Pretty enough to take a bite. But first— “Who is Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven?”

“So you do know his name.”

“I do,” he conceded. “But I do not know his relationship to you, do I?”

She cocked a brow. “Who do you think he is?”

“I haven’t the faintest, except to know he is not your intended.” He stepped closer. “You are many things, Lady Julia Stanley.” He touched her elbow, slid his fingers down the side of her forearm, and lifted her palm. “And first among them is loyal. You would not have done what we did in your bedchamber if you were on your way to marry another man.”

Her hand lay limp within his. “I thank you for that, at least.”

“Still… I’d like to know who he is and why you told me—”

“I didn’t tell you he was my anything. I just said I was going to meet him.”

“Really? Let me see if I recall this correctly.” He altered his voice. “Al-lick prefers me in breeches.”

She pressed the back of her free hand to her mouth. “That, I’d forgotten. Terrible of me.” Her stifled giggle escaped. “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t. And he didn’t mind.

She’d meant to make him jealous. And he vividly remembered how swiftly the wound had bled green. “Why did you let me believe you were going to wed him? And, for heaven’s sake, why did you leave me this afternoon and write him a letter?”

Her dark eyes moved between his. “You aren’t going to understand.”

That hurt, though anger at the pain was unwarranted. He hadn’t yet shown her much understanding, had he?

“Tell me.” He held her fingers against his cheek. Less of a chance to muck things up when they were touching. “I promise to at least try and understand.”

“Did you meet Miss Watson while you were at Southford? She was the elderly woman who walked me back to the manor.”

“Elderly?” He frowned. “She couldn’t have been a day over sixty.”

“Well, she’s been old forever. What’s elderly, then? Ninety?”

“Ninety is a happy miracle.” A strange emotion stirred in his stomach as he imagined them together and old. He cleared his throat. “I was not formerly introduced to Miss Watson. But I saw you with her in the library.”

“You saw me in the library?” She studied him out of the corner of her eye. “You didn’t look like you saw me.”

“I knew you were watching me.” His voice went velvet. “I always know when you’re watching me.”

She lifted her chin. “Merely to glare at you for having the audacity to arrive so late to the wedding breakfast. It’s called a wedding breakfast, Rayne. Not nuncheon.”

“I was late; I know. Farring’s fault, actually. He was, at that very moment, weaving me into his nefarious plan.”

She nodded slowly. “Of course he was… He had to convince you first, didn’t he? Anyway… I was looking up Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven, and discovering he happened to be a respectable widower. As to why that matters…well, he is also Miss Watson’s love.”

“Lover? Southford’s spinster has a lover?”

“I said love, not lover.”

Julia wiggled her fingers as if to pull away. He secured them, captive within his own.

“They were in love. And love…” Her eyes went pink. “Shouldn’t be wasted. I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. Peak…valley. Peak…valley. “So you wrote Belhaven to tell him of Miss Watson’s continued tendre?”

She looked fixedly at their joined hands. “Silly, I know. Not something that’s done at all. But I couldn’t abide thinking he might be dreaming of her…and her of him…with time running short and”—her breath caught—“neither of them knowing.”

She’d been correct. He couldn’t understand. But now he knew what kept the fire in her wild soul burning. She had a poet’s heart wrapped inside a warrior’s spirit.

Terribly intoxicating. But could he ever live up to that call?

“Why did you write him, then? Why did that feeling well up inside you, strong enough to be heedless of decorum?”

“Because I was hurt—”

Ouch.

“—and angry.” Her skin flushed. “And I didn’t want this whole journey to have been in vain. Because for myself”—tears webbed her lashes—“I’d given up.”

Given up. Her words burrowed in his sternum. Lady Julia Stanley did not give up. Ever. “What had you given up?”

“I’d given up on love,” she said crossly.

The small window of vulnerability was closing. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Have you still?”

“I don’t know.” She lifted her gaze. “We can’t seem to converse without fighting.”

“True.” Even now, remaining midstream between consternation and lust demanded his full concentration. “I can’t promise that will change.”

With her free hand, she wiped away her tears. “What can you promise?”

“At a minimum?” He tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Pleasure.”

She lifted a brow. “With plenty of trussing?”

His manhood responded by slowly—maddeningly—coming to attention.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s start with a healthful dose of cave exploration…” Inwardly he swore he’d keep her protected…especially from his basest desires. “And perhaps, if you tire of subterranean landscapes, we’ll explore other French phrases that may be of interest.”

She chuckled half-heartedly. “I did enjoy that bit of your French.”

Unconsciously, she tilted her hips—an infinitesimal change that engrossed his sensual awareness. Perhaps conversing without arguing would remain difficult, but in that type of congress, they’d be in perfect accord.

“So…now that you’ve successfully abducted an earl…” He lifted her hand and placed a lingering kiss on the spot between her first and second fingers. “What are you going to do with him?”

Her breath caught. His stopped as well.

“Scotland is dismally cold this time of year.” She looked away. “But there’s this infamous little inn in Gretna I’d dearly like to visit…”

Ah. Bravehearted, fierce little kitten…he’d been cowardly to intimate she must do this alone.

He sunk to one knee, held her hand to his cheek, and then said, “Lady Julia Stanley, my dearest, ruinous minx, would you do me the honor of becoming Lady Rayne?”

Her tears returned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

…

Julia’s heart overflowed as Her Grace’s court gathered at the foot of the stairs to wave goodbye. Periwinkle Gate would always—always—hold a special place in her heart. The carriage rolled on down the drive, ending a three-day sojourn of indulgence beyond anything Julia could have imagined. Rayne had made, as promised, a banquet of her flesh. However, he’d denied her full copulation.

As soon as we wed, he’d promised. I’d like to see at least one thing properly done.

They’d intended to delay their departure until after the duchess, Theo, and Annette returned; however, by the third day, Julia had lost patience.

“I’m sorry we missed the Mother, Theo, and Annette.” She folded her hands into her lap as the carriage turned away. “We will be able to come back sometime, won’t we?”

Rayne glanced askance. “Are you asking me for my permission?”

She hesitated, still unsure she could trust the teasing affection behind his eyes.

“You’re right.” Julia nodded to herself. “Your permission is not required. I should have said I intend to return sometime in the future.”

He smirked. “Now that sounds more like you.”

His words suggested he’d made a study of her, the way she’d made a study of him. But was he finally surmising correctly? He’d gotten everything muddled so many times before.

Except in bed.

Attraction, on the other hand, had never been part of their difficulties.

Attraction had been instant. Incendiary from first glance.

Now that she was, quite literally, on her way to the summation of all her desires, she realized she’d given little thought to anything but that attraction.

She knew Rayne’s friends. She knew his sister, Clarissa. She knew bits and pieces of his past, and, thanks to Periwinkle Gate, she understood the depth of his loyalty. But she knew very little about his home.

Or, for that matter, about his expectations of marriage.

While he seemed content enough, she couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he had withheld—or she’d missed—something important.

Panic hovered like a fluttering moth in the valley at the bottom of her throat.

“Rayne,” she said warningly, “I don’t know how to be a wife.”

“I’ve had little experience with wives…and I don’t know anything at all about being a husband.”

“You don’t remember your parents?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly interested in the passing trees. “I remember them.”

His clipped answer further muddied the shallow waters of trust. “Is that all?”

He turned, studied her briefly, and sighed. “I have memories of them both, but never in the same room.”

A cold, slick emotion darted through her body, leaving her chilled. She’d felt a similar shiver when Farring had spoken of Rayne’s parents.

“I don’t remember my mother at all.” She looked away. “But I don’t tell many people, because I should remember.” She’d been five. She remembered other things from that era. Markham. Katherine. Her father. Miss Watson’s warm cuddles. Just not her mother.

“Memory is a strange thing.” His gaze softened. “I suppose that means neither of us has an example to follow, doesn’t it?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “we will learn as we go.”

The distance across the carriage had grown by at least a league.

“Well, there’s one thing we already know.” She reached across and laid her hand on his thigh. “We are good together.”

He stared down at her hand almost uncomprehendingly. She feared he would remove it from his person. Instead, he turned over her palm, then lifted her inner wrist to his lips. Looking into her eyes, he sucked and then gently bit her flesh.

“We are that.”

With his beard shaven, he resembled the Rayne she’d first met. However, the undomesticated Rayne, the Rayne she’d grown to love and to trust, lived on in his eyes.

“Come,” he said.

She shuffled over on the seat.

“Closer.”

She laughed. “I can hardly get any closer.”

“Can’t you?”

He lifted her into his lap, then arranged her skirts up around her waist so she could sit, facing him, with room enough to spread her legs and place her knees on either side of his hips.

“If”—he pulled her head to his shoulder—“one comes into possession of a nearly fully enclosed traveling chariot, one should make use of the privacy granted, don’t you agree?”

She closed her eyes. The curtain whispered across the rod as he shut out the world. The old fears should have returned. They did not. When Rayne was close, she was secure.

For this moment, she’d allow herself to believe that everything would proceed the way she’d once dreamed. That he’d take her home and they would build a life together at the Grange.

That he would finally see her and know her and love her complete.

“You—on my lap. Have I told you how good this makes me feel?”

“Just me on your lap?” She frowned. “Don’t mock me, Rayne.”

“I’m not.” He paused. “Have I ever?”

“Yes.” She snorted. “You’ve never held back from telling me the truth…no matter how pointy and sharp.”

He removed her hat, drew aside her hair, and kissed her neck. “The day I forget that first time together will be the day I die.”

“Die? I’m not sure that’s in any way romantic.”

“I didn’t promise you romance. I promised you pleasure.”

Again, that spiral shiver—a shiver made more potent by the way he locked her inside his arms.

“It’s your wedding day,” he murmured.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Yet you are agitated.”

Of course. She was in a moving carriage, and he was holding her still. “Yes.”

“Shall I help you calm?”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

He dipped his fingers into the cleft of her behind, cupped that flesh, and then ended his caress on her thigh, just above the ribbon that held her stocking.

She clenched in anticipation. “You make me lightheaded.”

“You make my prick stiff as steel.”

She rocked forward. “Romantic…”

“Like I said…”

“I prefer the word cock, I think.” She moved his hand to the top of her thigh. “You know, I like the way you touched me.”

“Where?”

She lifted her brows. “On your bed.”

“Minx.”

She threaded her finger through his and dragged his hand the rest of the way. He hummed as if he’d were about to taste some infinitely delicious morsel as he slid his thumb over the nub between her legs.

“Do you know what I like best?”

A languid openness spread through her being. “I can imagine.”

“If you guessed your mouth around my cock, you were right.”

His words against the lobe of her ear sounded so dissolute. So forbidden.

And so very desired.

“That’s a remarkable coincidence. I like having your cock in my mouth.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, what the man could do with his fingers!

“Is there anything we’ve done yet you didn’t like?”

“That first time, I wasn’t…” She hesitated. “Quite prepared for your taste, but I’m used to it now.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “I tried to warn you.”

“I wasn’t interested in warnings.”

“You never are.”

“I don’t like to hesitate.” She wound her hands into his hair and rocked against his fingers. “I like to seize.”

She lost herself in his kiss. A kiss like a newly discovered shelter, with precipitation and wind all around them and quiet heat within. She set herself apart from the not-knowing, running her hand along his smooth chin.

She hid no sensation from her face as he took her where he wished her to go.

And when he coaxed her to the peak, she cascaded like water over jagged rocks, shimmering through a thousand disparate droplets that had once moved together as a stream. Then, she became the still, silent pool. The quiet that hid depths.

He rolled his forehead against hers, his arms tightening in discourse that never found words.

These small pieces of him he allowed…they’d be enough.

They had to be enough.

“Better?” he asked.

“Not for you, though.”

“You’d be surprised, minx. You’d be surprised.”

She shifted in his lap, arranging her skirts back over her legs. But when she made a move to climb back to her side of the carriage, he held her in place.

No verbal protest. Just a firm hand against her hip.

Stay.

Very well. She rested her head against his shoulder.

He drew aside her hair and placed his heavy palm across the back of her neck.

Safe. Protected.

This was either the start of something unspeakably glorious or the beginning of a wretched, gasping end.