Counterfeit Countess (4 page)

John still couldn’t remember what had happened in the month before Waterloo, the month when her first husband had died and she’d remarried, or so everyone assumed. He’d accepted their marriage as real and so would society. She couldn’t live a lie, and she couldn’t drag him in to her masquerade. She would not allow that happen, let him present her to the world of London power and influence as his wife. Sooner than that, she’d let people believe she was an impostor. Which, of course, she was. They’d never forgive her the deception, but they’d give John a free pass, as the man more sinned against than sinning.

Crossing the room as silently as she could, given the creaking floorboards, she went into the powder room to change into her street clothes. When she came back, shoes in hand, her mind whirred with plans. She could become a governess, or a teacher at a small school. Maybe a housekeeper. A vicar’s daughter could lower herself to those professions and feel glad of the opportunity.

A male voice coolly broke into her thoughts. “Going somewhere?”

Her hands turned numb. The shoes fell to the floor with a crash of hard leather against equally hard wood. She clapped her palm over her mouth, stifling all but a single cry. He watched her, one brow raised in the throbbing silence while they waited for someone to take an interest. Nobody came.

Her heart drummed so hard she feared it would burst from her chest. She had to fight to breathe.

The man before her still wore the severely tailored clothes she’d seen him in earlier. However, he’d smudged the shirt and pulled a bunch of threads from his silk waistcoat. The silver embroidery glistened in the light from the candles she’d left burning, the flames guttering because she hadn’t trimmed the wicks.

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Reaching out blindly, she found the corner of her chest of drawers and used it to steady herself, shaking with shock. “Where did you come from?”

“The maid didn’t latch the window properly.”

“But I’m on the second floor!” she cried, horrified anew by the danger he’d faced by climbing up here.

He grinned, but she saw no mirth in his expression. “I can manage to clamber up, even in these clothes.” He gave his coat a disdainful flick.

“Why did you come?”

“Because, my dear, I decided I could not do without my precious wife for another moment. If you wish it, we will sleep, but we’ll do it together, in this bed or in the one back at Grosvenor Square.”

“You can’t mean it!” But when she studied his powerful form she felt a ridiculous urge to throw herself at him. She’d let him close his arms around her and take the weight of the burden she’d carried for so long.

No, he had no reason to do that. She’d traduced him, stolen from him.

“Naturally I do.” He took a step towards her. She held her ground, gripping the piece of furniture hard. He touched her hand, unpeeled her fingers. She couldn’t repress her shiver at the contact.

He stopped but did not let go. “A shudder of repulsion?”

Wildly she considered admitting to it. Then he might leave her alone. She wouldn’t do it to him, lie that way. Not now. “No. It happens when you touch me. I don’t know why.”

“Then let me show you.” He tugged on her hand and she took a step, then another. Then she was as near to him as possible without touching more than his hand. Before she could retreat, he snaked his arm around her and released her hand, only to band that arm around her upper back. Instinctively she turned her head up to his, to demand he release her but as she opened her mouth to protest, he kissed her.

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Lynne Connolly

He gave no quarter. His embrace had no stage of politeness or tentativeness. He took her as if starving, as if he knew how she liked a man to kiss her.

She kissed him back. He didn’t leave her much choice. Hauling her so close a feather couldn’t pass between them, he opened his mouth over hers, worked her lips open with his, and plunged his tongue inside, tasting with a wild abandon she could accept or match.

She matched it. Where she found the courage, or the experience to behave so boldly she couldn’t say. Unless it was the certainty that she would not see him again after tonight. Although her resolution held, the knowledge had sent a pang through her she’d been reluctant to own, but now she could, and admit she would miss him. Again. Only this time he’d noticed her, because he could hardly do anything else. And wanted her.

Exhilaration sped through her, heating her blood. It turned her body into tingling awareness of this big, powerful man holding her so easily, kissing her as if his life depended on it. She was losing her mind.

Or she could do this, enjoy this, allow him to do what he desired and then wait until he fell asleep. Then she could still act on her plan. Men always fell asleep, and snored fit to bring the house down. Although she’d only had personal experience with one, an army camp did not lend itself to privacy.

Even as she made her decision, deep down she knew she was lying to herself. She wasn’t doing it to make it easier for her to get away after. She wanted this, needed it to the last bone in her body.

If she didn’t accept what he was willing to give her, she’d regret it until she took her final breath.

How often had she watched him leave his tent or lodgings, twitch his uniform into place and stride away without noticing her?

To him she’d been another army wife, little above a camp follower, someone to tolerate. She’d let herself dream about him, imagined
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him above her, instead of her husband. Her spouse reached his own satisfaction without helping her, rolled away afterwards with no tender words, not even a “Thank you” and fell into a profound slumber.

John lifted his head to gaze at her face and frame her cheek with one hand that shook. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I first set eyes on you. Say you feel the same.” Temporarily beyond speech she nodded, stunned by the effect of his kiss. “It’s only us here. Don’t think of anything else.”

Two years of celibacy preceded by five years of unsatisfactory coupling had led to this. Tonight wouldn’t be like anything she’d known before.

Oh yes, she wanted it. Wanted him. One time before she walked away.

This man, the man fumbling for the fastenings of her gown, his big hands clumsy on her body. She rewarded him with a smile, then turned in his arms, showed him the row of hooks and loops. He fell on them, undid them roughly. Cool air brushed across her back when he loosened her stays and dragged the lacing wide.

Turning to him, she dropped her arms and let the gown fall to the ground. Robinson would have a fit in the morning, but she’d have to live with it.

He kissed her throat, sending shivers across her skin, making her clothes uncomfortable. “You’re thinking,” he murmured against her flesh. “Stop it. We’ll think later. Not now. Only one thing matters now.”

“Yes.” Her word emerged as a sheer breath of sound. He kissed to the upper slopes of her breasts, nudged her loosened stays with his chin and sent the garment to her hips, where they lodged. He took no notice, but undid the drawstring of her shift—with his teeth. Curving his hands over her hips, his fingers grazing her buttocks, he drew her closer, and sucked her exposed nipple into his mouth.

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Lynne Connolly

Where he feasted. He drew it deep as if he would consume it whole, then released the heated, wet tip to the cool air where it crinkled into a hard point. He smiled, lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes held the promise of slow burn, heat that owed nothing to the light glimmering through the slats on the shutters or the glow of the embers in the grate. As he straightened, he took her breasts in his hands, cupped them and held them up for his inspection. “Your body is lovely. Just as I always imagined.”

With a swift movement that took her by surprise, he turned her, unfastened her petticoats, then opened her stays wider so she could step out of them. Everything fell to the floor with a soft
thump.

When she stretched out her hand, he took it and helped her to move forward, naked but for her stockings and shift. Fine lawn, hiding little, even in the dim light in this room. She had candleholders set in the bedhead, and they were all she’d lit to help her in her task.

She’d said she wouldn’t think, and she’d keep that promise. No more speculation and worry, not for the next—ten minutes, half an hour, however long it took. At least she’d have a memory to take with her.

He led her to the bed, which Robinson had already turned down, the sheets pristinely gleaming, inviting. She dragged them lower so she could climb in. “Take everything off,” he murmured, watching her.

She’d never done that before, undressed for a man. Come to that, she’d rarely disrobed for the marital act. It was usually too cold or not private enough, or they didn’t have enough room or time.

She took her stockings off first, unfastening the garters and rolling the fabric carefully down her legs. She tried not to snag them, more from habit than anything else, because these thicker, robust ones weren’t so fragile.

Closing her mind to the thought she concentrated on removing her shift, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside as if she were
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the veriest wanton. After that she dared not look up, afraid of what she might see. She was entering unknown territory, except for once on her wedding night, when her husband had declared her,

“Acceptable,” before falling on her like a rutting bull.

John’s quiet, “Look at me,” heightened her nervousness, and wearing a silly smile she couldn’t suppress she did what he told her.

He smiled back, but warmer, more meaningful. “You’re lovely, Faith. Better without your clothes than in them.” His hands went to his neck. He unfastened his neckcloth, and dragged it from around his throat. Fully dressed still, while she had nothing on. She reached for the sheet to cover herself. “No,” he said quickly. “Let me see. Watch me, if that makes you easier.”

A laugh bubbled from her throat. “It won’t, but I feel—strange.”

She couldn’t describe it, even to herself, but she tried. “Excitement and fear and anticipation. All those.”

He shrugged off his evening coat and it fell with a rasp of silk, the only sound in the room except their harsh breathing. His waistcoat followed in short order. He tossed it to the floor like a rag.

“All those,” he echoed, as he undid his shirt at the neck and cuffs, then dragged it over his head.

Her gasp rang around the room, softened by the upholstery draped around the old-fashioned tester. This bed was in place when she moved in and she guessed it had been set there when the house was built. She had bought a new mattress, though. She’d never been an advocate of horsehair and rope. Her goose feathers gave her adequate support, but she didn’t know if the creaking frame would survive the next few minutes.

Or her, for that matter. He had a broad, almost hairless chest, gleaming and bronzed. She wet her lips. “You spent a lot of time in the open air.”

He raised a brow. “I did. The ladies of fashion would condemn me for being too brown.”

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Lynne Connolly

“I want to lick it.” Where did that come from? But she did. She wouldn’t take it back.

“You shall. Anything you wish to do. Tonight.” He meant it.

They could give in to the desire that, it appeared, they had both felt in the army, but this was in the nature of a truce. Not a peace.

Happy endings weren’t her forte, but she could have a temporary one tonight. She refused to let her doubts show on her face, but watched him, and then she forgot her fear of inadequacy as he exposed more of his masculine beauty.

Associating the word with a man seemed strange, but not when she gazed at him. Broad shoulders, easy, powerful muscles, evidence of his outdoor life. Her mouth went dry when he kicked off his shoes and pushed his breeches and underwear down and off, staying bent until he’d shed his hosiery.

When he stood, he took her breath away. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s erection before. She just hadn’t seen this one.

Large, yes, thick, too, but dark in colour and leaking clear liquid.

She wanted to taste it, actually wanted it. “That too,” he said, his voice deeper, harsher as if as seized by the moment as she. He’d done this before, doubtless more than she had, so why would he feel that way? Glad she roused him, unsure what would happen, she watched him approach.

He kept her gaze, leaning over her so she lay back against the covers. “That’s it.” His voice purred across her, making the small hairs on her body come to attention. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, so hot, watching her as voraciously as she watched him.

“Now, my lady, let’s to it, shall we?”

Something inside her sank, like a bladder deflating. His smile stoked the still glowing fire inside her. However, she knew this part.

She opened her legs, still looking forward to feeling his body in hers.

He leaned forward, his chest touching her nipples. Delicious, awakening every sense she owned.

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He let his shaft press against her stomach, branding the soft skin with wet fire when he claimed another kiss. He tangled his fingers in her curls, held her head steady while he kissed her and kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough.

The ten minutes she’d allotted to this act had probably passed by now. He lifted his head, his mouth full and damp. “I could do that all night, were it not for the other treats in store. Tell me you want me.”

She nodded and he smiled, a slow, hot smile that heated her blood. Moaning his name, she raised her arms and curled them around his neck, drawing him back with an unspoken request.

“Next time, we’ll take much, much longer.” The smile remained as he reached down and adjusted himself, introducing his cock to the place where it belonged.
Next time
? Not likely.

But oh, she wanted this. Wanted the intimacy, a closeness she’d missed so badly. He watched her as he guided his shaft into position. His knuckles nudged her—she didn’t know the name of it, or even if it had a name, that tight knot of sensitivity at the top of her slit. She cried out, and jerked. He gave a tight smile. “I won’t ignore your clitoris, I promise.”