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When Eleanor awoke, the soft light of sunrise limned the edges of the bed curtains. She had slept well.
Rolling to her left side, she studied her sleeping husband, his breaths deep and near-to-snoring. In repose, he did look as handsome as she recalled. His mouth had lost that pinched ugliness, and with his eyes closed she couldn’t see the bitterness lurking there. He had apologized with those lips. She hadn’t seen the words leave his mouth, but she’d heard them all the more clearly because she hadn’t been able to see anything. She would cling to the sweet sound of that “I’m sorry” and “our son,” for as long as her memory allowed.
Her gaze wandered from his face. He’d thrown off the counterpane and the top bed linen. One arm stretched above his head, and his—oh, she never knew what to call his manly part—strained against his black breeches. Her cheeks heated and she looked away.
Despite instructions from her mother to be meek and biddable both in the marriage bed and outside of it, Eleanor had not much succeeded at either. From the very first night of their marriage, she had been unable to suppress the urge to be brazen in their sexual congress. When her husband expressed shock, she’d tried to moderate her actions, but the heat of the moment was over and over her undoing and he was left appalled again as they finished.
Now, however, Octavius slept, oblivious to her thoughts and stares. Oblivious to her desire for him.
Eleanor shook herself, once more attempting the modesty expected of a countess, avoiding any further glances at his breeches. His shirt was disarranged, revealing a fair amount of his abdomen and side, clearly defined muscles all around. She pressed her lips together, realizing her thoughts would never achieve the high morality she strived for if she continued to ogle her husband. She should close her eyes.
Then she remembered their conversation from the night before. He’d been stabbed and yet never admitted the severity of the wound. Or its location.
Hmmm. Eleanor squinted, trying to focus in the minimal light. Was that a scar disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches? Possibly. She inched closer. Maybe...?
Octavius moved, and Eleanor froze. Only after much shifting and a small sigh that shouldn’t have been endearing but was irritatingly so, he settled back into sleep, his face turned away from her. Which she took as license for her to continue her search. There was no harm in looking for that infamous scar, after all.
His shirt had fallen back over the spot she was most curious about. With as much stealth as one could muster on a feather mattress, she slid closer and dipped her head, trying to peek underneath.
No luck.
His breathing was deep. When Henry slept like that, there was no waking him, so Eleanor reached out and ever so delicately clasped the linen fabric between her thumb and finger. Touching his shirt was not touching him, after all, so she pulled it up across his abdomen and then leaned over him, eyeing that stretch of firm skin. She only looked for a raised slash that might indicate scarring. She did not look at the bulge in his breeches, which, after all these minutes, was still there.
“What are you doing?”
If he had spoken in his usual sharp tone, she would have launched herself to the far side of the bed. Instead, his sleepy, bemused rasp sent a shiver scurrying down her spine, effectively paralyzing her. Then Eleanor peered up at her husband across the expanse of his white shirt. He’d raised his head, but his eyelids didn’t seem quite so willing; they shaded his eyes in a way that sent that a shiver of delight right down to her core.
She was in trouble in more ways than one. But a brisk, honest reply would surely see her through.
“I was looking for your scar. I thought this might be it.”
She slipped her finger beneath his waistband and rubbed the spot she suspected, and Octavius made a strange sound. She felt a contour in the skin beneath her finger, but it didn’t run in the direction she thought. Reversing course, she explored the area further. When he made that odd, gargling sound again, and shifted his hips from side to side, Eleanor stilled her finger and stared at his face. He’d closed his eyes and was holding himself completely rigid.
“Oh my,” she whispered in utter amazement. “You’re ticklish.”
“Eleanor, don’t you dare—”
She dared. Sitting up, she quickly set both hands to work, skimming over his sides and abdomen at lightning speed. His chuckles, spontaneous and thoroughly incongruous, came in a staccato beat that left him breathless. Eleanor did not relent as he squirmed beneath her fingers. She even giggled herself, caught up in the only carefree moment she had ever experienced with her husband.
Her assault came to an abrupt end. In one fluid move, he grasped her shoulders, tossed her back upon the mattress and pinned her there with his heavy body. Their gazes connected. Neither of them seemed to be breathing.
He lowered his head and claimed her lips. She did not resist. It had been six years for her, even if not for him. She accepted his weight, reveled in the way he pressed her into the mattress, was shamelessly delighted to feel how hard he was against her thigh. She shifted her leg slightly, applying pressure to his erection. He groaned into her mouth, and Eleanor took the opportunity to push her tongue between his lips, stroking and caressing as he’d once shown her.
Somewhere far, far away, she acknowledged that she’d failed to be docile again and must seem utterly desperate. But... Six years. She could not hold back. Octavius had apologized, and he was at last willing to touch her again. A new beginning indeed.
He levered himself up an inch or two, breaking their kiss, and Eleanor just stifled a whimper of distress. He came back and kissed her hard. Once. Twice. Then he slid to her side, propping himself on his elbow, breathing hard. His left hand fumbled with the ribbons at the neckline of her nightgown.
Impatient, she reached up and undid them herself. She would not have hesitated to pull his head to her breast either, but he beat her to it, yanking the nightgown down first. When he drew her nipple between his lips, unadulterated desire shot through to her core, leaving her wet and beyond ready.
But, they couldn’t do this too quickly. Who knew when they would stop arguing long enough to do it again?
She tried to rein herself in, but it was nearly impossible as Octavius cupped a hand beneath her breast and suckled desperately, as if he hadn’t touched a woman’s body in years. Whoever his mistress was, she should be ashamed.
Too soon he withdrew, leaving her nipple wet and tingling. Eleanor wound her fingers into his thick hair and guided him to her other, untouched breast. He lavished the same attention on that one, driving her to buck her hips off the bed. He pressed her back down with the heel of his hand. She took a deep breath, trying to relax, only to be undone when his wicked hand snuck beneath her nightgown and covered her mound. His lips found hers again just as his finger slipped inside her.
Eleanor’s moans echoed in her head, trapped in the back of her throat as he pressed and teased until she was on the edge of insanity, ready to explode. She tore her mouth away and gasped out, “Stop! I’m going to—”
Slashing at his hand to get him to heed her, she reached for the fall of his breeches, using action instead of incoherent words. She wanted him inside her. Their marriage might be a sham, but at least they could do this one thing right and reach their peak together.
Somehow, with a frustrated groan on her part and two curses on his, they unbuttoned him. Eleanor took the large, rigid length of him in her hand. Octavius hissed out a breath. She stroked him a few times, wanting to do more, but her blood was afire again. She let go, and he stripped off his breeches and his shirt.
With Octavius naked, hard, and slightly off-balance, Eleanor took advantage and gave in to a wild whim. She sat up and pushed against his chest, and he fell back to the mattress. Hiking up her nightgown, she straddled his hips and tried to position herself to take him in. It didn’t work.
Her gaze skittered to her husband’s. Eyebrows flying high, he was most certainly shocked by her action. Which made Eleanor’s brash ardor begin to cool. Why was she always so stupid in the bedchamber?
“Take off your gown,” he ordered.
She looked at Octavius again. His brow had lowered and a fierce heat lit his eyes. Eleanor did as requested, her body prickling anew with anticipation, and he reached a hand down to hold himself steady as she sank onto him.
“Mmmmmm.” She closed her eyes. Not a single thought swam through her brain. She could only feel, smell, and hear: Octavius so deep inside her, the earthy scent of their bodies inside the closed bed curtains, the shuddering breath of her husband as she began to move back and forth.
With each stroke, she was further lost. The pleasure built fast. She braced her hands behind her, on his thighs, and rocked, drunk on carnal bliss; and when Octavius flicked his thumbs across her thrusting nipples she exploded in shudders so intense her teeth chattered, throwing her head back and savoring every second.
Finally spent, she righted herself and opened her eyes. Octavius stared at her. A modicum of sense returned, enough to provoke the beginnings of regret. It vanished again when he anchored her waist with his hands and began pumping his hips up and down. Before long she was swept up in the glory of the ride, the excitement building just as quickly as the last time.
Octavius drew his lips into a tight line. His eyes were so dark and intense Eleanor couldn’t look away. A deep, cresting rumble from his chest quickened her response. Then he stiffened and pulled her flush against him, spilling himself inside her just as Eleanor came for the second time.
Completely done-in, she fell off and to the side like a limp rag. Octavius didn’t move, though she heard him inhale a few times.
“My God, Eleanor!” Shock and dismay. Disgust even?
Shame, deep and painful, filled the void left by the fleeting ecstasy. She was still not worthy of being the Countess of Lexden. Abstinence and deprivation had taught her nothing.
Well, she knew what he thought of her; she didn’t need him to voice his opinion. She turned to face the bed curtain, curling in upon herself, knowing if she ignored him he would go away. He always used to.
The mattress dipped as he sat up. A harsh light seared the enclosure as he pulled back the curtain and left.
Eleanor released the breath she’d held. She covered her naked body with the bed linen. How she would face this day, she did not know. But she couldn’t hide from the day. Just then, Henry called for her.
––––––––
LEX SLIPPED OUT OF Eleanor’s bed and crossed to the washstand in search of a cloth to hand her. Six years. He’d gone six years without a woman, and the one he’d finally succumbed to was his unfaithful wife. God, he hoped the pleasure was worth the self-loathing that loomed up before him.
Then the boy called out. His son.
Hellfire, what had he just done? Had he created yet another Mayne child with corrupt blood? Before, he had always insisted Eleanor use preventative measures, like a sponge soaked in vinegar. How had they even had Henry in the first place?
His world upended, Lex tossed on his banyan and fled to the main corridor, leaving without another word. He couldn’t face either Eleanor or Henry.
Like an illicit lover, he crept down the hall to his dressing room. His valet expressed no shock at seeing him enter through the servants’ door, and Lex collapsed into the chair and flicked his hand, indicating the servant could commence with the morning shave. Today was going to be worse than yesterday. How could it not be? He had a son and he had lain again with his wife.
He cursed, moving his head just enough so the valet’s razor nicked him. “My fault,” he grumbled, pressing a scrap of linen to his cheek to stanch the blood.
He stared into the looking glass, not surprised to see his skin had turned ashen. In the space of thirty-six hours he had mucked up everything. Well, not everything. Mr. Robson was eager to begin work on the arsenal. Lex could—would—focus on business. Eleanor could attend to Mrs. Robson and the boy.
The boy.
His son. His heir.
He closed his eyes, refusing to look at himself.
“All done, my lord. Are you ready to dress?”
“Yes, Rogers. Something older and dark-colored, for I am at the arsenal again today.”
Lex dressed in a hurry, eager to leave the house and all its occupants behind. When he was finished, he again departed through the servants’ door, unwilling to assume Henry had left his bed.
A check of his watch showed eight o’clock. Most of Mayfair would still be asleep, so this was the perfect time to have breakfast at his club. But as he reached the main staircase, he pulled up short as Eleanor approached from the opposite way. She gathered her skirts as if to turn back and then dropped them. She looked behind her and then down the stairs. She did not look at him.
So, she was embarrassed to have slept with him? Well, he could trump her there. His chest swelled with hot, irrational anger at the memory of what they had done. He was eviscerated. Another in a long line of irrational, idiotic decisions he’d made.
Her gaze strayed to the stairs, but she didn’t move a muscle. A woman shouldn’t look so grim after such a wild escapade. But that was Eleanor, always tense. Rigid even.
No, that wasn’t true. When he’d met her, she was different. While certainly stressed due to her father’s circumstances, she’d been a smiling, charming young lady. She’d told him amusing stories while they walked in the park. Her eyes had brightened at the sight of colorful flowers. She was never without a few crumbs of bread for the ducks. Young Eleanor had been alive.
Now she undoubtedly reserved her vivaciousness for Will Drummond, or whoever her current lover might be. Certainly there was not a shred of it thrown Lex’s way.
“Regret is a most unfortunate emotion,” Eleanor declared without warning, her voice sharp.
Lex stared at her. She shaded no truths. She regretted what they had just done together. Regretted their marriage. No doubt she didn’t regret bedding Drummond, and thus she must bemoan the fact Lex was truly Henry’s father.
“Indeed. I know the sentiment well after these six years.” He flicked a glance at her abdomen. “You had better hope you are not with child again.”
Without another word, he spun on his heel and exited the house as fast as his boots would carry him.