The Passionate Love of a Rake (21 page)

“At least now I know your affections lie elsewhere. I need not worry about you and Ellen,” Edward concluded in a dry tone.

“You had no need to worry anyway, Ellen adores you.” Robert felt wounded. “She just saw the truth in me years ago, hence why when she spotted Jane, she worked it all out. It is hardly my fault if you are blind while your wife is not. At least a broken heart is something you’ve never had to bear.”

The look he received told Robert that Edward finally understood. Both Robert and Ellen had been cut off once, wounded, and they’d recognised it in each other.

“You’ll win her back,” Edward answered. “Smile,” he charged. “You’d better turn on the charm.”

They entered the drawing room a few moments later, in more accord than they’d been in since childhood, smiling exuberantly and causing both women to look at them a little oddly.

“What have you done to him?” Ellen leaned to Robert to whisper a little later over her hand of cards as they played whist.

“Told the truth,” Robert whispered back.

“Well, it is about time,” Ellen answered a little louder. Robert watched her throw Edward a cajoling smile, and Edward’s eyebrows lifted, blatantly inquiring what they were talking about.

“For what?” he challenged verbally when he received no response.

“For you and Robert to kiss and make up, that is what, Edward Marlow.”

“I can think of nothing worse,” Edward answered, but then he lifted his glass and looked at Robert. “But I shall drink to him, though. A toast, ladies, if you will, to happy endings!”

“To happy endings!” the women echoed. Robert reached for his glass and knocked the rim against Jane’s, his eyes fixed on hers. She was the only one of the four of them who hadn’t a clue what they were toasting. Poor woman, he’d promised her space, but she was about to become the obstacle of a major family onslaught.

She laughed, none the less, and clenched Edward’s hand, then let it go.

Jane could not remember when she’d felt this happy. First thing in the morning, while the day was cooler, she and Robert would ride out across the estate, just as they had done in their youth, racing across fields and ditches, Robert’s hounds in chase.

His hounds were a new addition to the fold, three of them, pale gray deerhounds. Long-legged and sleek in shape, they could run like the wind, but once they’d had their play, they were as docile a creature as could be found. When they lounged in the drawing room, washed down after their run, Mary-Rose would sit and coddle them. Even on four legs, the dogs were taller than her, but the child loved them, and they seemed to love her, too.

Jane ate luncheon
en famille
, a homey affair with the children, and afterwards, there was always some game or merriment, cricket, chess, cards, catch, chase, or hide-and-seek. This often had Jane in fits of giggles with Mary-Rose. Jane adored the little girl. They spent hours making daisy chains in the meadow or playing with dolls and sharing imaginary teas.

The evening meal always included John, and Jane understood this was when Edward and Ellen gave their eldest son their full attention. John was at the gateway to adulthood. At times, he reverted back to childish ways, while at others, he thought Mary-Rose’s antics beneath him. But he was good-hearted and Jane enjoyed conversing with him.

But most of all, Jane loved little Robbie. The infant was a jolly, restless, little soul, who did not like being cosseted, yet what he did like was to be carried. They shared many walks about the garden, looking at the flowers, the fountains, and the fish pond. The little boy stole such a place in her heart, she was overawed with a broody longing for her own child, a longing that would never be fulfilled. The need became a physical pain. At times, it was so overwhelming, Jane was certain Ellen must know, but she never spoke of it. Nor did Jane.

She would not have children. All she could do was make the most of others’, and six days into Jane’s stay, Ellen answered Jane’s unvoiced longing. She asked Jane to be Robbie’s godmother. The baptism was planned for two weeks hence, and so, Jane’s time became absorbed in helping Ellen plan the celebration.

It was their current activity.

“I thought perhaps tomorrow morning we could have breakfast served on the ridge when we ride out. Do you fancy it?” Robert was leaning about the door frame of the drawing room, speaking to her in passing as she and Ellen sat at the little desk, with invitations spread about them.

Jane nodded. “It sounds a lovely idea, yes.”

“Then I shall have Mrs. Barclay organise it.” He smiled and lifted his hand in farewell as he left.

“You two are getting along famously,” Ellen commented, a searching note to her voice.

“We always did.” Jane’s eyes lifted to the miniatures on the wall, Robert’s mother and father, him and Edward, and her, the surrogate little daughter of the family. When she’d been sixteen, she’d thought Robert her destiny.
And now?
Now, she dare not even think of it for fear this island of happiness she’d discovered would disappear. She did not want to do anything which would shatter the illusion she was living in.

“The bruise on your face has healed. Robert never did say what happened … ” It was a tentative question.

Jane smiled. That particular secret was too raw to share. “I feel much better. Thank you.”

Ellen studied her for a moment then smiled with a look of apology before turning her attention back to the list, clearly accepting Jane did not wish to discuss the matter. “Here, you write these. I will start on the menus.”

When Jane took the list, she had a strange sense she saw the future. But it was not an image, it was a feeling – a feeling of despair, as though she mourned this blissful utopia, and if she mourned it, it was gone.

~

The next morning, breathless and exhilarated after their gallop, Jane watched Robert swing down from his saddle. He left his stallion to graze and strode towards her.

She unhooked her leg from the side-saddle, and once she’d done so, he was there.

His hands gripped her waist and lifted her down.

Her awareness of his touch was stronger than ever today, but she resisted the urge to pull him close and kiss him, and instead took a step away.

He smiled, hands falling to his sides, making no comment on her censure.

She turned and walked towards the rug the servants had spread out beneath a beech tree when they had brought the hamper up from the house.

The rug and the hamper had just been left on the ground, together, in a pre-arranged spot, for Robert and Jane to find. The servants had all disappeared again now.

Jane could see down into the valley and across it to the moor.

Robert walked beside her, then knelt on the rug and flipped open the lid of the hamper. “What do we have?”

Hands on hips, Jane watched him, smiling. The annoying sense of impending doom had not left her since yesterday, but she refused to acknowledge it.

He looked up, all boyish charm. “I do declare, Mrs. Barclay has done us proud again. We have a feast, Jane. Fresh rolls, butter, honey, ham, plum cake, cheese in three varieties, and a bit of the cold rabbit pie from yesterday, and to top it off, strawberries and champagne. How decadent shall we be?”

“Very.” She swept the skirt of her habit beneath her as she knelt, too, and peered into the basket of delights.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“I should serve.”

“Nonsense, you’re the guest.”

The guest?
Perhaps that was why she sensed something going awry. She’d been so busy playing happy families, she’d forgotten she was only a guest. This was neither her home, nor her family. “Very well, I’ll have plum cake and cheese.”

He smiled and tossed a cushion at her. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you want champagne, Your Grace?”

She laughed, but relaxed, leaning sideways on one hand. “Of course, but if you are playing the gallant, before you serve me, you must kiss my hand.” She presented it to him as she said it, teasing.

A wolfish grin formed on his face, and he gripped her wrist while his other hand tugged off her glove. Then he pressed a warm kiss on the back of her bare hand. “Your servant, Your Grace,” he whispered over it afterwards.

A blush burned her cheeks, and her heart raced, which meant he knew how he affected her, for his thumb was pressed to the point of her pulse in her wrist. He paid no heed to it, or so it appeared, and let her go, then turned back to the basket.

After they’d eaten, feeling a little like a stuffed goose, Jane lay back on the rug and rested her head on the cushion. Robert had tidied up and put the hamper aside for the servants to collect later, when they returned. He lay beside her with his head on his palm as he propped himself up on a crooked arm and his other hand began playing with a stray curl of her hair which lay on the rug.

“This weather cannot go on forever,” she said, her awareness of his closeness growing and her breath becoming scarce. She could feel his body heat along her side.

“No,” he answered, his voice distant.

“Is the drought affecting the crops?”

“Probably.”

She turned her head and looked up at him. He smiled, his eyes focusing heavily on her. She remembered that first night in London and the predatory, brooding hunger she’d seen in his eyes then. This intensity was very different. It appeared to be true affection, love even, but it burned with longing. The lock of hair he toyed with tugged her scalp as he played, and she felt a now familiar tingling warmth race across her skin and settle between her legs.

“Robert.” His name meant so many things she could not say, and perhaps it was the deep-seated fear of losing him soon, or the level of attention he’d shown her, or just that her resistance had finally failed, but it was she who reached for him. Her fingers lifted, gripped the back of his neck, and drew him down.

He came willingly. She felt no hesitation.

As his mouth touched hers, her lips parted, welcoming him. Greedy, she was the first to slide her tongue into his mouth.

He answered in equal measure, his tongue dancing with hers.

Her body arched, longing for more, her breasts pressing against his chest and her pelvis touching his hip while her fingers braced his scalp through his hair.

His leg shifted and urged her to part hers. His knee settled in between them over her riding habit. His upper thigh pressed into the pulsing place between her legs.

She pushed back against him, kissing him, feeling the weight of his body as he kissed her harder.

His hand slid upwards from her waist and closed over her breast.

A whimper of pleasure and need escaped her mouth. It was caught in his.

Robert’s fingers began working loose the buttons at the front of her habit, popping them free with one hand without ceasing the kiss.

She was so hungry for him, so in need of him, so aware of every lean muscle in the body which lay half over hers, and again, it was so different to the night she had first met him. This was no longer the need of the past and sexual tension. This was about now, and him. She had come to know him and love him all over again, more than she had done years ago. Her tender-hearted, very dear, Robert.

With a low growl, his warm fingers slipped inside her gown, beneath the cloth, and found flesh, closing over her breast again. The intimate touch sent a shaft of sharp pain to the place where his thigh pressed hard between her legs.

His kiss left her lips and began covering her face, her neck, as she felt the evidence of his arousal, hidden in his breeches, press against her hip.

He began rocking against her and kissed the skin he’d bared at her chest, then her breast.

With beautiful, delicious pain burning inside her, she shut her eyes and just felt as he rocked his hips, and she followed his lead.

Air touched her breast when his mouth opened and his tongue circled and flicked, while his firm grip squeezed her soft flesh and his thigh pressed hard against her.

This thing he could control was wonderful.

His warm mouth sucked her breast again and he shifted a little so the top of his thigh sat more snugly between her legs, as she rocked against him, maintaining the rhythm he’d set, though now he’d stilled.

She sighed, pressing her head back into the cushion on the rug, her fingers on his shoulders while his gripped and released her breast in tune to the movement of her hips.

She loved him and she could feel
it
building, the feeling he’d taught her in London. The wave flowed into her, the crest of it rising higher.

It broke and she cried out as it flooded her, sending her senses reeling then numbing them, leaving her weak and exhausted as it washed over her and ebbed away. Her breath left her lungs on a sigh.

His forehead rested against her collarbone, his hair tickling her skin. His body was no longer taut. His leg lay loosely between her thighs, and his hand was on the ground beside her.

“I’m sorry.” She barely knew why she apologised, but it was just the way he lay over her. “Did I do something wrong?”

He laughed and his head came up. “Hardly.” Then he took a deep breath and released it on a heavy sigh.

She felt the heat of it on the swell of her breast through her open gown.

He moved his leg away and returned to the position he’d begun in, propping up his head on one hand, while the fingers of his other hand trailed about her cheek and brushed aside her hair.

She re-secured her buttons without rising.

His finger touched the corner of her mouth.

She smiled, her gaze meeting his, and touched his cheek.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You started it, Jane. Do you have any idea how much I want you? It’s been hell trying to keep my hands off you. But if that is what you want, I will.”

She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders against the ground. “I have no idea what I want.”

He sighed, still watching, but then he rolled away suddenly. “I suppose we ought to get back anyway. Come along.” He stood and held out his hand to help her up.

Beside the horses, he folded his hands to make a step.

She set her foot in it, and, like so, he lifted her into the saddle.

“Are we going straight home?” she asked.

He smiled up at her, his wolfish rakehell smile.

“One kiss, my Lord, and you are back to being predatory.”

He laughed as he set his foot in his stirrup and pulled himself up with an agile grace that had her admiring every inch of his muscular physique. But once he’d mounted, he said, “Actually, I was smiling because I like hearing you call Farnborough home.”

Home
. But it was not, was it? It had always felt like home. It was the only place which had ever felt like home. But the truth was, she had no home. None but this borrowed one. No real place where she could feel safe and happy.

Jane turned her horse and lifted into a trot.

He moved to ride beside her. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“No. What shall we do?” She sensed him look at her.

“Do you really wish me to answer that? Beyond taking you to bed, I can think of nothing to suggest at the moment.”

“While your brain is still in your breeches, you mean?” she mocked, as he had mocked her, kicking into a canter.

“Now, now, Jane, such foul protestations are not becoming. I did not hear you complain a moment ago while you took your pleasure from me.” His tone was churlish and sarcastic, the humour hollow, as though he was actually offended.

She stopped the mare’s stride and swung the animal about in a sharp turn to face his approach. “Are we arguing?”

His stallion stopped then danced sideways. “Are we? I hardly know any more.”

“Nor I,” she replied, her gaze searching his face, although she didn’t know what she looked for.

“Then we are not. Come on, a gallop, a race. That will knock the tension out of both us and the horses.”