Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 11

  “I suspected when you decided not to join me and Fairly on our ride this afternoon and then when you excused yourself so soon after dinner. Are you very uncomfortable?” His arm encircled her shoulders, and he gently kneaded her tummy with his free hand.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Gwen closed her eyes, giving up tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The last of her good sense decamped for the Continent as well, along with a portion of… loneliness.

  “You are teaching me how to do it right now, Guinevere,” he said, kissing her temple.

  That he had never comforted another woman thus pleased her, for herself, but made her wonder why it should be so for him. Though Douglas was composed of muscle, bone, and self-discipline, he was surprisingly good at cuddling.

  “So,” she said, eyes still closed, “you’ve abandoned Fairly, or did he retire early?”

  “He is not yet abed, though he more or less excused me from providing him company. Does he harbor a tendresse for you?”

  The question was detached, merely curious, in contrast to the comfort of Douglas’s body all around Gwen’s and his hand, both thorough and gentle on her belly.

  “I don’t know.” But what a marvelous, surprising notion. “If he does, it’s the kind of tendresse he would never want either of us to acknowledge. I believe it more likely he has befriended me out of sympathy for his in-laws, and I do consider him a friend.”

  “I do as well. A good friend.”

  “I am glad you have a good friend.” She shifted on his lap and felt the unmistakable evidence of his growing arousal. “Douglas?”

  “Miss Hollister?”

  “Are you…? That is, did you want to…? Oh, hell and the devil…”

  “I am not here to importune you, Guinevere. I came to see how you fare and because I missed you.”

  “But you’re… aroused.” And he’d become aroused simply holding her in all her voluminous night clothes.

  “Are you uncomfortable because you had to say the word aloud or because I clearly desire you?”

  The damned man sounded amused. Gwen tucked her face back against his shoulder, the better to sniff at him without getting caught at it. “Both.”

  “Ah, Guinevere.” He grazed his nose along her hairline, inhaling audibly. “Your modesty is sweet, but for the love of God would you put from your mind the notion I will fall upon you like some ravening beast?”

  “Eventually,” she muttered. “Maybe.” Douglas as a ravening beast, though… as a soaring eagle, rather. That she might inspire him to such a state was much too intriguing.

  “I shall make you pay for your lack of trust, you know,” he whispered. “One fine day—or night—you shall fall upon me like a ravening beast.” And didn’t he sound pleased to contemplate such a notion?

  Gwen drew back to assess his expression. “Isn’t it uncomfortable to be aroused without expectation of fulfillment?”

  “As a boy of fourteen, yes. At that age, a fellow can be perpetually aroused and never have a realistic expectation of fulfillment. As he matures, a man learns to control himself and to find gratification when needs must. I, however, am in anticipation of eventual fulfillment, so arousal can be seen as inchoate pleasure.”

  “Inchoate pleasure.” Gwen tried the phrase on, finding it vintage Douglas Allen. “That sounds like a particularly masculine point of view.”

  “Allow me to enlighten you.”

  He bent his head to kiss her, but paused, closing his eyes and inhaling her fragrance first. Gwen watched the sensual pleasure of it suffuse his features and traced his jaw with her fingers. Douglas turned his cheek into her palm, then with her fingers drifting into his hair, set his parted lips to hers.

  She tasted brandy sweetness on his tongue as he traced her lips, limned her teeth, and dared her to explore him in return. He smoothed the hair back from her temple and brought his hand to rest again on her abdomen. While his mouth feasted on hers, she let her hands trail over his shoulders and winnow through his hair. As she grew more and more involved in his kiss, Douglas moved his hand stealthily up, one rib at a time.

  The instant Gwen recalled that he had a hand and that his hand was on her person, and that, more specifically, his hand was on her ribs, she went immobile, as if she might hear the sound of that hand sliding along her flannel dressing gown. Douglas stilled his hand as well, allowing her the opportunity to pull away, to protest, to stop him.

  He had, Gwen reminded herself, been so utterly daft as to promise her control.

  But Gwen’s courage and curiosity carried the moment, and when she made no demurrer, Douglas lifted his palm and brought it to rest, gently, over the fullness of her breast.

  He gave her time, let her become accustomed to the weight of his hand on that intimate and precious part of her person, to the warmth of his fingers and palm through the fabric of her bedclothes. He’d touched her thus previously, but she’d been properly clothed and upright.

  What was he waiting for?

  Not a what, but a who. Gwen arched her back, pressing her breast against his hand. Douglas lifted his face, his gaze hooded as he explored the lush abundance of her in his hand. Gently, he kneaded, and Gwen sighed a moan of mingled longing and satisfaction.

  She continued to arch into his grip as Douglas eased his fingers and thumb around her nipple and applied a hint of pressure. In response, Gwen seized his face between her hands and brought her mouth up to his in fierce demand. Her tongue sought his, her breath quickened, and her whole body writhed in slow, seeking movements.

  Revelation poured through her along with riotous satisfaction. She could be a ravening beast, she did arouse a man’s passion, and here in the privacy of this isolated estate, she would share pleasure with her lover. Six years of self-doubt Gwen had never admitted to another save Douglas evaporated on a sigh.

  Douglas eased his hand back down to Gwen’s tummy and rested his forehead against her temple, and eventually Gwen realized he was not giving her another pause to gather her courage; the dratted man had the self-possession to call a halt to matters.

  When Douglas lifted his head, she saw humor in his eyes, and regret—more than a hint of regret.

  “Inchoate pleasure. Any other questions?”

  Gwen’s schoolmaster’s hair was rumpled, his breathing deep, and his eyes lit with desire. “Yes. What in the world have I got myself into?” And by what means could she delay their return to Enfield indefinitely?

  “How about we get you into bed?” Douglas suggested. “I did not want to deprive you of your rest, and it’s late.”

  “I am supposed to sleep after that?”

  “You are.” Douglas rose with her cradled against his chest, as if she weighed no more than Rose. “And you are to dream of me and of pleasures no longer simply inchoate.”

  Gwen did not protest that she was too great a burden, because clearly—for Douglas—she was not. Douglas laid her on the bed and lifted the covers over her.

  “You are almost more lovely than I can bear, Guinevere,” he said, perching at her hip. “I shall visit you again tomorrow evening, if you’ll allow it.”

  He regarded her with such gravity, she suspected his words were reluctant, an admission or concession of some sort. “I’ll allow it.”

  Which was a concession from her, one she could make only because his discretion was absolute and their privacy considerable.

  He rose, though he scowled down at her for a moment, his hands on his hips. “If I don’t leave now, you will find yourself in the company of a ravening beast, and that won’t do.”

  “No,” she said, smiling up at him. “That won’t do—yet.”

  Douglas nodded in brisk approval. “That’s the spirit.”

  He bent to kiss her lips, a quick parting kiss that brooked no further mischief, and then he left the room.

  Before
his footsteps in the corridor had even faded, Gwen was back to… missing him.

  ***

  “Let me walk you up to the nursery, Gwen,” David offered when dinner concluded. “Amery can meet me over the cribbage board later.” Amery would likely trounce him, of course, not that David minded so very much.

  “Of course,” Douglas said, following them from the room.

  As Douglas headed off in the direction of the library, Gwen watched him go with a curious blend of fondness and despair in her pretty green eyes.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said.

  Yes, she should marry the man. The sooner the better, damn it. “Ask. My discretion rivals that of the tomb, dear lady.”

  “Was Lady Heathgate truly indisposed?”

  Tricky ground, for it was entirely likely even Lady Heathgate—Greymoor and Heathgate’s mother—was conspiring to foster a match between Douglas and Gwen.

  David infused his words with a physician’s clinical confidence. “Lady Heathgate nearly died of lung fever following that long-ago boating accident. Her constitution would be more susceptible to ailments than other people’s, and flu is tricky. I’ve seen it carry off hale adults in a matter of days, and the only nursing to be done is essentially to keep the patient comfortable. Willow bark tea and cool baths for fever, hot toddies, the usual tisanes, and so forth. I don’t believe she’s ill, so much as avoiding becoming ill, but that is not why I asked for your escort up to the nursery.”

  “What was it you wanted to discuss?” Her tone suggested if David meant to lecture her about propriety, when the entire family knew he owned a brothel, she’d slap him, friendship be damned.

  “As I was packing today,” David replied, winging an arm he half-expected Gwen to ignore, “I came across some papers Heathgate and Greymoor wanted me to pass along to you.”

  Papers he’d been ignoring for the duration of his visit.

  “This sounds serious.”

  Already, without an inkling of their contents, she was fretting over the documents. “Gwennie, when will you believe your family loves you and wants to see you happy?”

  She took his arm, a victory of sorts, though more of a victory for Douglas than anybody else.

  “When I have title to my own property and can support myself and Rose thereupon, and my cousins still attempt to meddle. What kind of papers are they?”

  She hadn’t remonstrated him for his familiar address, hadn’t bristled at taking his arm as they wandered up the stairs. Truly, Douglas was effecting miracles in the wilds of Sussex.

  “These documents describe the terms upon which Greymoor established a trust for Rose, and name you as trustee for as long as you choose to serve. The trust holds a substantial sum, provided by the family, and is disbursable at your discretion for any purpose that would serve Rose’s well-being.”

  Gwen stopped at the head of the stairs and dropped his arm. “Did you put them up to this?”

  David took a leaf from Douglas’s book and resorted to cool politesse. “I do not believe that constitutes a thank you.”

  Gwen paced ahead of him, skirts swishing. “I do not want to be beholden to them, or to you. Rose doesn’t need anything that I can’t—”

  She stopped, her hems settling around her ankles.

  “You were saying?” Gwen had been working up to a rousing tantrum, which David was rather relieved he would not see. He sauntered up to her but did not offer his arm.

  “Rose needs options.”

  She recited this, eyes closed, fists clutching folds of her skirt.

  “We all need options.” But Gwen’s pronouncement sounded like a grudging concession to common sense.

  “Many by-blows of titled gentlemen can occupy a place on the fringes of Polite Society,” Gwen said, gaze fixed on the flame of a mirrored sconce. “Rose will not be one of those so blessed, and if some decent fellow ever does take an interest in her, she can’t have her old mother’s wicked past standing between her and a happy future.”

  David positively hated the determination in Gwen’s tone, hated the ruthlessness with which she relegated herself to the status of nuisance-at-large in her daughter’s life.

  He put Gwen’s hand on his arm and patted her knuckles. “Rose will have options. Her titled relations have seen to it.” All three of her titled relations had seen to it, for David in particular knew what a child raised without a father faced when coin was in short supply.

  “Thank you.”

  Now he did not want Gwen’s thanks. He wanted to pass her his handkerchief, shake his finger at her, and tell her to damned marry Douglas for everybody’s sake.

  “You’re welcome,” David murmured as they approached the nursery door. “I’ll leave you here, but I won’t depart so early tomorrow Rose can’t wish me well on my journey.”

  “Good night, then.”

  David Worthington had traveled much as an apprentice to a ship’s surgeon, seen much as the owner of a high-class brothel, and experienced much as a wealthy young man might when plagued by both curiosity and boredom.

  Nothing in all that experience prepared him for the shock of Gwen Hollister going up on her toes to kiss his cheek. For God’s sake, the woman didn’t even kiss her cousins, or she hadn’t—prior to making this journey with Douglas.

  “You will make some woman a wonderful husband. For your sake, I hope it’s soon.” Gwen left him standing in the corridor, David’s smile becoming not exactly sad but certainly thoughtful.

  Did Gwen’s cousins know Rose was the offspring of a wealthy, titled gentleman? Did the gentleman himself know he had a daughter?

  Did Gwen know she’d admitted more to David about Rose’s paternal antecedents than she’d ever allowed her aunt or her cousins to know?

  And what confidences, if any, was Douglas teasing from Gwen when his lordship ought instead to be wooing the lady?

  ***

  “Did you take your nightgown off for me, Guinevere?” Douglas’s words, just above a whisper, were followed by the sensation of his hand cupping Gwen’s buttock as she lay drowsing in her bed. His chest curved against her back, creating warmth wherever they touched.

  “What are you doing here?” She scooted over onto her back and found Douglas propped on an elbow, regarding her by the light of the dying fire.

  “I was holding you,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “Now I suppose we’re going to indulge in that favorite female pastime, talking.”

  By the light of the fire, he looked tired. Tired and burdened, like the Douglas she’d first met nearly three weeks ago. “You can hold me, and we can talk.”

  “A compromise.” Douglas touched his mouth to hers. His hand rested on her abdomen, while his lips parted over hers. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured between kisses. “Missed touching you.” He brushed his mouth over hers again. “Missed your scent.” Gwen began to enjoy his litany and his manner of punctuating it. “Missed kissing you.” Her hand wandered up to caress his face. “Missed being kissed by you.”

  Something warm and blunt nudged at her hip.

  Gwen yipped and jerked away. “Douglas!”

  “I have not missed startling you.” Douglas rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “It’s only me, and only a part of me you’ve known to achieve this state before. All it means is I desire you, not that you will allow me to act on my desires.”

  “I wasn’t…” Gwen forced herself to take a slow, steady breath. “I’m awake now.”

  “So you are,” Douglas replied, still staring at the ceiling. Gwen laced her fingers through his, though he at first did not acknowledge the gesture other than by turning his head to regard her. “How flustered are you, Guinevere?”

  “I am not panicked.”

  “What reassurances do you need?”

  “Oh, the usual: You won’t rape
me. You won’t demand from me things I’m not ready to give. You’ll allow me to stop you.” She’d tried for a flippant tone, as if she woke up to a man—a naked man—in her bed every night. Tried and failed. “Douglas?”

  “Hmm?”

  “This is hopeless. I am hopeless.”

  “Nothing,” Douglas said with tired resolution, “is hopeless, and certainly not you. If I’d told you a month ago you’d find yourself naked in bed with me, how would you have reacted?”

  “I would have slapped you. At least.”

  “You’re not slapping me. There is hope, yes?”

  Gwen didn’t share the humor. She wanted more than dogged hope, a function of Douglas’s stubbornness more than any real expectation. She rolled to her side and considered the bleak, set line of Douglas’s face.

  “Are you angry, Douglas?”

  “God, no,” he replied, frowning at her. “Never that. I should not have presumed a willingness to talk to me in your bedroom was the same as a willingness to have me naked in your bed.”

  “You are unexpected in my bed, not unwelcome.”

  “That’s something.” Douglas turned his gaze back to the darkness overhead. “Guinevere,” he recited patiently, “I will not importune you for favors you are unwilling to grant, I will stop when you ask it of me, and I will not cause you pain.”

  He’d recited his oaths calmly, and she believed he meant them, but to Gwen, he also sounded unhappily resigned to having to offer them to her yet again.

  “May we try something, Douglas?”

  “If this something involves either one of us putting our clothes back on and leaving the room, then no, I cannot endorse it.” Douglas’s fingers curled around hers gently, for all his tone was brusque.

  “I want…”

  “Just say it, Guinevere. I cannot see you blush in the dark.”

  “I want to hold you.”

  “Any particular part of me?” Douglas asked, a note of anticipation in his voice.

  “You,” Gwen said again. “I want to hold all of you, in my arms, in this bed, now.”