by Sylvia Day
Jo could feel him stiffen inside her each time he spent; each jerk was a little weaker than the last, until he was almost still.
“Yes,” he whispered one last time, and then shuddered.
Yes, she echoed silently but fiercely. Yes, you are finally mine.
CHAPTER 5
Beau woke with a start, instantly aware he was not in his camp bed. No, he was home now—in London.
He held a warm, small body in his arms, her back pressed against his chest, abdomen, and already-interested groin.
Indeed, it was his hard cock that must have woken him. It was snuggled between the firm globes of her ass and clearly had ideas of its own.
The candles were still burning, so he knew it couldn’t be late. He turned just enough to see the clock; he’d only slept for an hour. Beau laid his head back on the pillow and listened to the sound of her breathing. His wife’s breathing.
Her body had been a joy—and her sensual and curious nature promised a great deal of pleasure for both of them.
His cock throbbed, reminding him of the feeling of plunging deeply into her tight sheath; Beau wanted to take her again, but she would be sore. And she was too innocent and inexperienced to pleasure him in other ways—not yet, at least. His lips curled into a smile at the thought of the things he would teach her. Eventually.
She shifted in her sleep, rubbing against his sensitive shaft and causing him to suck in a breath.
He would never be able to sleep in this bed.
He carefully untangled their limbs, amazed when she continued to breathe deeply even as he climbed off the bed, his weight making the worn mattress shift and shudder badly.
As Beau bent to pick up his robe and slip it on, he decided a new mattress would be one of the first things he would buy with her money.
He snuffed the candles and made his way toward the sliver of light beneath their connecting door. Dobson had left two candles burning and Beau extinguished the one in the wall sconce.
He lowered himself onto his bed—this mattress no improvement over the other—and laced his hands behind his head, staring up at the cracked and peeling plaster ceiling.
Unless Josephine could convince her father to relent, they’d be heading to Yorkshire in a week. Beau had already sent a message to his mother to stay at the castle. The only reason he’d given in to his mother’s request to travel to London at this time of year was because she’d made him feel like an ogre for denying his sisters the treat of coming to his wedding.
“Ha!” he snorted softly. Some treat today had been.
He shook his head as he thought back on the gruesome day. What a bloody gudgeon Loman was to conceive of such a stupid idea.
Beau was even angrier at himself that he’d let the old bastard bully him into agreeing to it.
Both father and daughter had the same broad streak of stubbornness running shoulder to shoulder, but the old man had decades more experience. If it came down to a struggle between father and daughter, Beau suspected he and Josephine would be heading north shortly.
He was looking forward to going home, as he’d not been to Wroxton Court in five years.
But thinking about home made him think about Victoria and the letter she’d sent—three entire sheets—alternately gushing about his return and scolding him for not coming directly to see her, as if they were long-lost lovers looking forward to a reunion.
Well, clearly she was.
“Bloody hell,” he said, closing his eyes against the drama he was sure awaited him.
Other than this recent letter, he’d not spoken to Victoria in five years. Beau had no doubt that she was just the same, which was to say just as beautiful, seductive, selfish, manipulative, and devious as ever. Beau’s mother shared the last three qualities on that list with Victoria. So, two demanding Duchesses of Wroxton awaited him.
And then there was the one he was bringing with him. Beau shook his head. Good God. What man deserved to be stuck with three bloody duchesses?
Although it was unfair to class Josephine with the other two. She was stubborn, yes, but she was not selfish. Indeed, the fierce devotion she showed her father was awe-inspiring. Neither of his parents had been cruel, but neither had they moved any of their children to such heights of affection or fidelity.
No, it was distinctly unjust to put Josephine and Victoria in the same category.
Escaping Victoria’s trap had been the biggest piece of luck in his life. Even a cannonball to the skull was preferable to a life shackled to the woman who lurked behind Victoria’s beautiful mask.
He’d felt guilty for years that poor Jason had ended up saddled with her, but his brother had steadfastly refused to learn from the mistakes of others.
Even after Beau told Jason that he’d been bedding Victoria the entire month of their betrothal—his besotted brother had still believed Victoria’s declaration of love and had wanted to marry her.
Well, Beau hadn’t been much wiser when it came to the siren. He should have known she was trouble when she turned up naked in his bed, only a week after he’d met her. She had been far from a maiden, but then Beau had never had an interest in virgins, and he’d enjoyed Victoria’s lusty, adventurous, and somewhat deviant habits, which had nicely matched his own.
Victoria’s marriage to Jason had been like pairing a cobra with a kitten.
Poor, sweet, weak Jason. If there was a man less suited for a dukedom than his brother, Beau didn’t want to meet him.
Beau had known there were financial troubles years ago and his suspicions had been confirmed earlier this week when he’d skimmed the ledgers at his solicitor’s office.
His brother couldn’t be blamed for all of the debt, but Jason had barreled headlong into a financial disaster that might have been, with careful management, staved off for another generation.
Now those worries were all over.
An odd pang of foreboding stabbed at Beau as he considered his current situation. He knew he’d been wallowing in self-pity since he’d inherited last August; he’d never wanted the title and had looked forward to a long and satisfying career in the army.
And yet as he looked around him now, he had to admit his blessings were many. He had his health—a bloody miracle after a decade on campaign—a vast fortune at his disposal, and a wife who showed a good deal of promise, at least in the bedchamber.
As for her argumentative nature, Beau felt confident he could bring her to heel along with the rest of his argumentative, fractious relations. Indeed, other than her lineage, Josephine would fit right in with his squabbling siblings.
All in all, Beau’s situation was far better than he ever could have expected. That should have made him happy—and it did—but it also made him uneasy to be the beneficiary of such munificence.
Beau recalled a small war-torn village in Portugal, where he and his men had received the evil eye from the villagers. That was the level of superstition he was feeling at this moment—he was worried because he was actually quite happy.
Beau chuckled at the ridiculous thought and snuffed the candle: he was no peasant and he needed no talisman to protect him from evil.
CHAPTER 6
Jo was eating alone in the breakfast room when she heard boots out in the hall. She wasn’t surprised when Beau came into the room dressed in top boots, snug buckskins, and a black clawhammer that lovingly sheathed his exquisitely formed torso.
“Ah, good morning,” Beau said, his lids lowered as he looked down at her. Something about his expression sent vivid images from last night flickering through her mind.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she murmured, hot faced.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, a subtle twist to his lips.
Jo glanced at the two footmen beside the door, but they might have been stone carvings for all the emotion showing on their impassive faces.
“I did, thank you,” Jo said, proud of her cool tone. If everyone else could demonstrate such sangfroid, so could she.
“I
hope you will forgive me for bringing the smell of horse and dirty boots into your breakfast room,” he said, coming close enough that she could smell the salty, horsey, leathery scent of him, which hit her directly between the thighs.
“Er.” Jo couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
He smiled and then stunned her yet again by dropping a light, husbandly kiss on her cheek.
Jo stared at her mostly empty plate and concentrated on not making any mortifying noises.
“Coffee,” he told one of the footmen before turning to the chafing dishes. “Do you ride?” he asked her.
“Er, yes,” she admitted. “But not particularly well.”
“You haven’t spent much time in the country?”
“No.” None, really—except that week I spent with you five years ago. Do you remember that, Beau? Jo swallowed a giddy laugh. What had come over her this morning?
Her husband: that was the thing that had come over her.
The thing turned, holding a full plate in his hands. He took the seat across from her—so there would be no escaping.
“I thought your father owned several houses around the country?” he asked, buttering a thick slice of bread.
“Yes, but they are all in cities. Bristol, Manchester—” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I really don’t know where they all are.”
His eyebrows rose as he chewed a mouthful of bread and then washed it down with coffee. “You never traveled with him?”
“Rarely.” She hesitated and then said, “My father is not the sort of man who travels for pleasure. His trips are, were”—she grimaced—“mad rushes that revolved around business and meals with other men like him. I wasn’t needed as a hostess on such journeys.”
“But you did act as his hostess here in London?”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “Tell me, Your Grace, is this your way of asking if I know how to plan a dinner or seat a table?”
“So prickly,” he said, a faint curve to his lips as he chewed.
Her mouth curved in an answering smile. “You are correct. As always.”
He chuckled but didn’t comment.
Jo realized they were speaking like a real husband and wife.
And then the good humor drained from his face. “Did you receive any response to the message you sent last night?” he asked.
The question was like a stone crashing down on her head.
How could she be laughing and chatting while her father withered and died?
Jo cleared her throat. “No, nothing.”
“I thought you hadn’t,” he said, taking a sip of black coffee before turning back to his plate. “He gave me a letter I was to give to you today and I also wrote to him myself this morning.”
“Oh! Did you?” Jo asked, more surprised to hear that he’d made such an effort than she was to hear her father had sent one of his missives. Jo was accustomed to her father’s brief correspondence; she knew whatever Beau had from him would likely not illuminate the current situation.
“If you come by my study after breakfast I shall give it to you,” he said.
Jo nodded and then said, “Thank you for writing to him. That was very thoughtful of you,” she added more quietly. “Perhaps you will make him listen to reason.”
He gave a soft snort to show what he thought of that notion and raised a piece of ham to his mouth.
He was likely right, but Jo couldn’t help feeling ridiculously pleased that he’d cared enough to write to her father.
Perhaps he’s just doing all he can to avoid being closeted with you in the country for two weeks.
I refuse to believe that.
Oh, then it mustn’t be true.
She would not let the evil little voice ruin her moment of happiness.
“Would you like to go to the theater this evening?” Beau asked. “I can’t guarantee there is anything worth seeing, but—”
“I’d love to,” she said, flushing at how eager she sounded.
But when Beau smiled at her, Jo was glad she’d let her enthusiasm show.
It was true her father was ill and being horrid to her, but at least some things in her life seemed to be going right. One very important thing—at least so far.
My husband likes me, she thought.
For once, the little voice had nothing to say to that.
* * *
Jo was busy working on an inventory for the house and making a list of things needed—a lot—when Wroxton entered her study.
“Ah, I was told I’d find you here.” His rosy cheeks proclaimed that he must have just come in from the cold.
“Mmm,” Jo said, finishing her train of thought before putting aside her quill and glancing at the clock. “Oh, dear! I had no idea it was so late.” She put away the small book as he came over to her desk.
“I procured a box for a production of The Tempest that begins two nights hence.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid there simply isn’t much else worth seeing.”
“That’s one of my favorites.”
“Hmm, a tempest—why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Jo still wasn’t accustomed to this teasing version of her husband and had no witty response.
“In any event, don’t have too high expectations, as this will be a production full of understudies rather than principals and a first night is never the best,” he said, leaning against the wall beside her desk, the casual pose showing off his long, powerful body to mouthwatering advantage.
“What are you working on so diligently?” he asked.
“I’m making a list of things we’ll need based on the inventory we started today.”
“By your expression I’m guessing it is pretty grim?”
Jo reminded herself this was his family’s home. “It’s not so bad.”
He smiled and pushed off the wall. “Liar.”
The word reminded her of last night and she could see by the way his pupils flared that he was thinking the same thing.
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
Jo lifted her chin, not because she didn’t want to go to him—she wanted to fling herself at him—but because she wanted to go to him too badly.
“And why would I do that?” she asked coolly.
He slowly shook his head from side to side as he closed the distance between them, making her feel as if she were being stalked by a panther, until he was standing barely an inch in front of her.
Jo’s eyes riveted on the place where his dark blue cutaway coat met his pantaloons: skintight buff pantaloons stretched over powerful hips and pelvis, which hid nothing of the magnificent body they covered.
Jo made a mortifying gulping noise and shut her eyes.
His voice floated down from above, darkly amused. “I would say that you should come to me when I bid you, because I am your lord and master. But I know that answer won’t fadge with my willful wife. So I’ll tell you the truth, Your Grace.” He stooped, placed his hands around her waist, and lifted her from her chair in a smooth show of strength that was impressive and arousing.
Jo yelped and slid her arms around his neck as his mouth claimed hers. He moved one large hand from her waist to her bottom, his splayed fingers sinking into her flesh and pressing her tightly against his torso as he probed and stroked and kissed until she was breathless.
When he pulled away, his eyes were slitted and his smile was smug and sensual. “That’s why you should come when your husband tells you to do so.”
“Ah,” Jo admitted hoarsely. “That’s a very good reason.”
Beau laughed, but his expression grew serious before he gently lowered her to the floor.
Jo’s entire body stiffened, and not with passion this time. “What is it?”
“No, it is not that.” He reached into his coat pocket and unfolded a letter. “Stowers gave this to me when I came in; he said it arrived two hours ago.”
Jo stared down at the familiar handwriting:
Your Grace,
I sleep almost every minute of the d
ay and those few minutes I’m awake I don’t want to talk or cry or have gloomy, weeping mourners around my deathbed. Tell my daughter that the father she knows is gone—that this letter is causing me physical pain to write and I just want my suffering to end. Take my Josie out of town; you gave me the word of a gentleman, Wroxton. See that you keep it.
Yrs & etc.,
Edward Loman
The writing deteriorated alarmingly, barely a scrawl by the time it got to his name.
Jo looked up to find her husband regarding her with an unreadable expression. “Your father is a man of few words.”
Jo gave an unladylike snort and refolded the letter before handing it back to him. “Yes, and those few words make his wishes patently clear. This letter is almost word for word the same as the one you gave me this morning.”
“I am sorry, Josephine,” he said, sounding it.
“As am I.” More sorry than she could bear to think about; her father was forcing her to mourn him before he was even dead. Stubborn, selfish, thoughtless man!
Beau replaced the letter in his pocket and held out his arm. “Come, we must get ready for dinner.”
* * *
Jo smiled to herself as Mimi took the last of the pearls from her hair. “Oh, Your Grace, I wish you had come up earlier. I need more time to—”
“You need more time to make me beautiful?” Jo teased. “I doubt there is enough time for that.”
“Oh, hush, you shouldn’t say such things about yourself,” Mimi chided, her eyes flickering from her work to Jo’s reflection. “I was only going to say I would have liked to fix these curls again and—”
“My hair already looks grand, Mimi. I’m getting ready for bed—not a ball.”
“Aye, well, bed is more important, Your Grace,” she said with a look that made Jo’s cheeks heat. Jo looked away, down at her lap and the turquoise silk of her evening gown. Beau had commented on it before dinner, his eyes glinting with approval as he’d taken her into the cavernous dining room.
“Perhaps I should find a nightgown in this shade, Mimi. Even I have to admit I look well in this color.”