by Sylvia Day
Beau did not rush her. It was important they begin as they meant to go on. And the beginning was now.
“I am angry,” she admitted. And then she met his gaze and added in a quieter voice, “And I do want you.”
The ferocious wave of arousal that swept his body stunned him as he looked into dark eyes that told him more plainly than words just how much she desired him.
But they must attend to business before pleasure.
He took her hand and kissed her palm before saying, “I collect it is Victoria?”
She nodded, her lips pressed together and her eyes—so hot with desire only a moment before—clouded with deep unhappiness.
Beau found the prospect of discussing one woman with the other repellant and had hoped to avoid it. But he knew Victoria would take the first opportunity to tell his wife they’d once been lovers—if Josephine did not already know about that from long ago. Victoria was a woman who would delight in teasing and taunting Josephine in the years to come, and it was up to Beau to at least provide her with the truth before Victoria could spring it on her.
“You’re angry that she has come without an invitation?”
Her eyes flew to his. “You didn’t invite her?”
“No. In fact, I specifically ordered her not to come.”
“Oh,” Jo said, and then gave a halfhearted shrug, as if she wanted to say something but had decided against it.
“Josephine, you must tell me what is wrong. I’m not the sort of man to catch subtleties. Or even unsubtleties.”
She smiled faintly at that. “I was disconcerted, and yes, a little angry, when I came into your study and found her—”
“Kneeling so dramatically at my feet,” he finished for her.
“Yes. And then you looked so angrily at me when I interrupted you that—”
Beau lifted a hand imperiously. “Wait—please. I want to be sure I understand. You thought I was angry at you for interrupting that annoying little drama?”
“Yes.”
He gave a bark of unamused laughter. “I was relieved to see you, Josephine. I was furious with Victoria—for disobeying me and coming to London, for behaving like an actress in a pantomime and dropping to her knees, for any number of reasons. But I was not angry at you.”
Her cheeks wore twin spots of red and she remained uncharacteristically quiet; Beau had no idea how to interpret her reaction, so he continued.
“When I came in here tonight, I didn’t know you were upset about Victoria until I asked you about it. I wondered why you were looking so unhappy and angry in your bed but assumed you were stewing about your father’s behavior and my unfortunate part in it.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did. Likely because, as my own mother put it, I am a dictatorial, draconian clod.”
She choked on her laughter.
“So you see how easy it is to perpetuate misunderstandings if you do not talk?”
“Yes.”
“Now, I want to speak of this irksome matter—Victoria—only this once and then I want to put it behind us.”
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.
“I know what you are thinking: dictatorial. But the truth is that talking about her or dwelling on her is not something that gives me pleasure. I would rather learn about you and talk about us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Beaumont.”
He frowned. “Nobody uses that except my mother—call me Beau.”
“You told me to call you Beaumont.”
Why was she looking at him with her mulish expression? “I did?”
“Yes, just last night.”
“I have no recollection of that.”
“Ah, so you are not infallible, after all,” she quipped. “Or perhaps you are losing your mind?”
Beau laughed, genuinely amused by her spirit. “I fear it is the latter, as I have never been wrong before. But you will call me Beau from now on.”
She rolled her eyes, flattened her hands palms down, and made small gestures of obeisance. “Yes, master.”
“Actually, I prefer that to Beau.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Beau was enjoying himself, but they needed to finish with Victoria.
He gave Jo a stern look. “I do not love Victoria. I thought I did—long ago—and maybe I did.” He shrugged. “But whatever I felt for her died almost as long ago.”
He took Jo’s hand again and raised it to his mouth, permitting himself a more lingering kiss, licking the soft, damp skin of her palm, her salty taste unexpectedly erotic.
Her pupils flared and her small, shapely mouth parted in a way that made him imagine putting something in it.
Beau set the entrancing image aside for later and turned back to the far less appealing matter at hand.
“I know, now, that you and I met several times when I was home on leave five years ago.” He kissed each of her fingers. “I am sorry I do not remember you—not only because I suspect it causes you pain, but because I would like to remember you; I wish I remembered you. But those weeks were . . . well, suffice it to say I have forgotten more than I remember about that time. You are the only memory I regret losing, Josephine. I hope you believe that.”
She gave a jerky nod.
“I know Victoria is . . .” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. While he wanted to alleviate his wife’s worry, he did not wish to insult his brother’s widow or disparage her.
He felt a light pressure on his hand and looked up from his thoughts.
“I know how Victoria is. We were once friends—of a sort—or at least I thought we were.” She shrugged. “I don’t like her, but she is now my family and I know she might live with us for some time before she remarries, or the remainder of her life if she doesn’t. You have my word that I shall always be civil to her.”
Beau nodded and then braced himself to make a more uncomfortable, but necessary, confession.
“I suspect Victoria will take the earliest opportunity to tell you that Sarah is my daughter.”
She appeared to have no words at the ready, and Beau could not fault her reaction.
“We were lovers that summer—after I asked her to marry me. I’d suspected my brother was infatuated with her, but I had no idea she was toying with both our affections until I caught them together.”
“Oh.” Her eyes were round.
“Yes, that was my response,” he said wryly. “I’m ashamed to admit I had been so besotted that I hadn’t known what she really wanted until that moment: to marry a duke, not his younger brother; she used me to get to Jason. I’m sure a more observant, less draconian, man”—he smiled slightly—“might have noticed signs, but I missed them all. Regardless of what happened between her and Jason, I stood ready to honor my offer of marriage. Jason would have none of it. He told me he loved her and she loved him. So—” Beau shrugged. “That was an end to it and I left for the Continent that very day—voluntarily shortening my leave by two weeks.”
The tawdry tale seemed to hang in the air between them.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “That must have been awful.”
“I’m not sure you understand, Josephine. I didn’t flee the country because I was brokenhearted. I fled because I felt so guilty at my lucky escape—guilty that poor Jason was not so fortunate.” Her eyes widened and he nodded. “Yes, the reason I didn’t return for five years was not because I was so brokenhearted that I couldn’t face the woman I’d lost; it was because my mother wrote regularly to regale—and blame—me with stories of their disastrous marriage. Tales of how Jason and Victoria were behaving with a recklessness that was endangering the future of the dukedom.” He shook his head. “I can never know if Jason really did slip and shoot himself, or if he did it on purpose. I desperately hope he was not in such despair as to take his own life. But my brother was never strong. The enormity of his situation would have crushed him. My mother told me how Victoria flung the truth of Sarah’s paternity at him at a family gathering. Now
, as for whether the child really is mine? None of us could know that—you understand that Victoria was with both of us at the same time?”
“Yes,” she said, not with revulsion but something else in her eyes. “I understand.”
“I will have to live with the burden of what I’ve done for the rest of my life and—”
“What burden? You mean your brother’s possible suicide?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What did he do to jeopardize the security of your estates?”
He shrugged irritably. “Gambling, horses, the usual run of costly pursuits.”
“Did you make him do those things?”
Beau frowned, and then realized where she was going. “No, you are correct, I did not.”
“So claiming responsibility for his death is—Well, it’s ridiculous.”
Beau bristled at her tone.
“No, don’t become angry or offended. I’m just reminding you that everyone is responsible for their own actions. How old was your brother when he married Victoria?”
“Thirty-five.”
“So, old enough to make his own decisions.” She dropped her chin and gave him a challenging stare. “It is arrogant for a person to believe they are responsible for other people’s decisions.”
Beau couldn’t help laughing. “Ah, so I am arrogant, am I—along with draconian, dictatorial . . . what else?”
“Authoritarian,” she supplied.
“Hush,” he said, pulling her closer and then lifting her small, soft body onto his lap so that he was cradling her. “You are trying to assuage my guilt and that is very kind and commendable and wifely.” He kissed the tip of her nose, amused when her skin once again turned fiery.
He held her at arm’s length and pointedly looked from her body to her face. “Did you wear this hideous nightgown to express your displeasure?”
She gave an adorable gurgle of laughter. “Yes, is it terribly obvious? I just thought—”
“I want it off. Now,” he said, standing and lifting her to her feet along with him. “Do you want to dress in a way that pleases me, Josephine?” he murmured as his fingers made quick work of the few buttons.
“Yes, of course.” Her voice was flatteringly breathy.
“Then you will wear this for me in the future.” He lifted her gown over her head and flung it aside.
“I want you waiting for me in nothing from now on.” He stared down at her naked perfection and tugged on his sash, shrugging his robe to the floor, his cock hard, thrusting, and eager to possess her.
“You are beautiful,” he said, his eyes roaming her flushed skin. “I need to be inside your body. Now.”
She glanced from Beau to the bed on the other side of the big room, taking a hesitant step toward it.
Beau caught her hand and pulled her back. “No. Here and now.” He dropped into the chair behind him and held out his hands, amused by her shocked expression. “Straddle my thighs, Josephine. I’m going to teach you how to ride me.”
* * *
There were pulse points in Jo’s body that she’d never known existed. And every single one of them was thudding at his touch, his words, and—most of all—the sight of his long, thick arousal curved against the quilted musculature of his abdomen.
Beau took her hands and pulled her down ungently onto his lap, shifting and positioning her until Jo’s bottom rested on the hard bones of his thighs, his hands sliding from her knees to her sex, pushing her legs wide, exposing her, his blue eyes blazing and hungry.
Jo stared every bit as hungrily at the masculine riches before her.
“Take my cock in your hand, Josephine.”
Her head jerked up and her thighs instinctively tightened.
He eyed her from beneath heavy lids with a faint, challenging smile, as if he were curious to see her response to such a vulgar, inappropriate word.
A proper lady would be offended, Jo knew, but her body adored his crudity.
She slipped her fingers around his hot, silky shaft and gave him a tentative stroke.
“Harder,” he demanded, flexing his hips and shoving himself into her tightened fist. “That feels so good,” he said raggedly. Jo stroked her thumb over his tiny slit and he groaned and bucked, so she did it again, and again.
“Yes, Josephine, like that,” he murmured, his hand moving from her thigh to the damp tangle of curls.
Jo grunted and inched closer when he stroked that already very stimulated part of her, his skilled fingers knowing exactly what to do to send her down the path to ecstasy.
She noticed her hand had stopped and resumed her measured stroking, her other hand tracing the distinct grooves on his abdomen, which flexed exquisitely with each pulse of his hips.
But then her body began to shake and her head tipped back, her fist slowing and slowing and—
Beau covered her limp hand and stayed her motions, his other hand driving her toward her climax.
“Come for me while I watch you, Josephine.”
Her body exploded at his coarse command and for a brief eternity there was nothing in the world but bliss.
Jo was still floating when she felt something breach her entrance.
“Are you too sore for me here?” he whispered, stroking and probing with his middle finger.
“No.” She shuddered as yet another wave of pleasure washed over her. “I want you . . . Beau.”
“I like the sound of that,” he growled, grasping her hips and lifting her. “Say it again.”
“I want you, Beau.” Jo grabbed on to his powerful shoulders, her fingers unable to penetrate the hard, tightly woven muscle.
“Watch me as I take you,” he ordered her, his heavy-lidded eyes dropping to where he was pressed against her opening. And then he entered her in one smooth thrust.
Unable to look away from the place where they were joined, Jo cried out as her body struggled to accustom itself to his thick length.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he gritted, holding her impaled for a long moment before pulsing his hips in sharp thrusts. “I’ve thought about being inside you all day long,” he said while they stared at the mesmerizing sight of his slick shaft sliding in and out of her body. “Did you think of me today, Josephine? Did you want this?” He lifted her hips up until only his crown was inside and then brought her down hard.
“Yes,” Jo gasped, shuddering at his powerful assault.
“More?” he hissed, his fingers digging painfully into her bottom as he lifted her again.
“Oh, yes, please, I—”
This time, when he brought her down, he met her with an upward thrust.
“Oh God,” she moaned, vaguely shocked at her words.
Beau gave a wicked, breathless laugh and commenced to work her without mercy.
Jo clung to his shoulders, her body a willing and eager sacrifice to the ferocity of his lovemaking. This was not like the night before—this was a primal, thrilling claiming that would leave her bruised and sore, and Jo reveled and rejoiced in each savage thrust.
This was what she’d wanted; this was what her body and soul had craved for five long years. This was exactly as he’d been the night she’d spied on him.
Except tonight, he wasn’t passionate and unrestrained with another woman, but with her.
At long, long last, he belonged to her.
CHAPTER 9
Jo’s first thought when she woke was that she’d once again slept through her husband’s departure. Except this time she knew he couldn’t have departed much more than a few hours ago. He’d been insatiable last night. But then so had she.
She was grinning like a fool when another, far less pleasant, thought hit her: Victoria was here.
“Ugh,” she said aloud, dropping back onto her pillow.
Don’t let her do this to you; don’t let the manipulative witch add to all the other difficult, unpleasant matters you need to deal with. The voice, for once, was kind and soothing.
And it was giving her excellent advice.<
br />
There was no reason to fear Victoria. Beau’s explanation last night had not only rung true; it had been heart wrenching. He did not love Victoria and he did not wish that the law allowed a man to marry his sister-in-law.
Jo would need to adjust to Victoria’s presence as the other duchess was likely to live with them at Wroxton Court.
Thinking about Beau’s castle made Jo think about her father, and thinking about her father was like a punch to her midriff.
He really was going to die without ever letting her see him again. It was hard to comprehend. Each time the thought came to her, it was just as painful and shocking as the first time.
Yesterday she’d seriously contemplated taking a hackney to his house and pounding on the door. They’d have to let her in, wouldn’t they? If only to stop the racket.
She groaned. But she’d promised her father. And while she wasn’t a gentleman, her word still meant something to her. So here she was, getting closer to leaving him every minute.
Mimi had already started on Jo’s packing and the trunks and boxes were a pointed reminder that the hours were ticking past, faster and faster.
Jo would leave and her father would die here alone.
Why was he doing this to her?
Because of her mother? Watching her mother wither away from consumption had been painful, but Jo had treasured those last weeks and months with her. Why did her father always believe he had to protect her from everything?
Jo contemplated pulling the covers over her head, but it was past nine already, time to get up. She shoved back the blankets and hopped out of bed just as the door to Beau’s dressing room opened.
“Good morning.” It was her husband, clad in yet another glorious robe, this one a dull gold and black. He was holding a tea tray in his hands. “I guessed you might be awake. I thought to surprise you.”
Jo gaped. Yes, she was certainly surprised.
His lips curved into a wicked smile and his gaze dropped to her chest.
Jo yelped and dove headfirst into bed, yanking the bedding up around her.
His warm laughter came closer and she heard the rattle of crockery before he said, “Come out of there. I’ve got your robe at the ready and I’ve closed my eyes.”