Contracted as His Countess Read online

  The chaise drew up in front of the front door, which opened, revealing a tall man who must be Wystan, the butler, and two footmen who ran down to open the doors. Jack jumped down, then stood and held out his hands to Madelyn. ‘Let me help you.’ She gave a startled gasp when, instead of handing her down, he swept her up in his arms and strode across to the door. Tradition said that brides should be carried across thresholds and, in his opinion, straight upstairs.

  ‘My lord, my lady. Welcome home and on behalf of the staff here, may I offer our congratulations. Dinner—’

  ‘Thank you, Wystan. Please tell Cook to put dinner on hold indefinitely. We will ring when it is required. Bedchamber?’

  ‘Er... Yes, my lord. Second door on the right on the first floor, my lord. When Lady Dersington’s maid arrives—’

  Jack was already halfway up the stairs. ‘Tell everyone to have their own supper,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘My wife needs to rest.’

  ‘Jack, I don’t, really. I am not tired,’ Madelyn protested.

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘Jack, I must weigh so much. Do put me down... Oh!’

  He shouldered his way through the door, walked to the bed, deposited Madelyn on top and went back to turn the key in the door.

  ‘But, Jack, I should wash.’

  ‘Afterwards.’ He shrugged off his coat, glad he had travelled in a comfortable old one that did not require the exertions of a valet to get it off, and began on his neckcloth.

  ‘No, now.’ Madelyn slid off the bed, revealing a gorgeous flash of long leg, silk stocking and bare thigh, and fled into the dressing room.

  Jack found he was grinning. He sat down on the end of the bed and began to pull off his boots, a far more difficult exercise than getting out of his coat. He had them both off, and his stockings, but all that he could hear from the dressing room was frantic splashing. Perhaps he had better stop undressing—virgin brides should not be confronted by stark-naked husbands, even if she had seen him last night. Hopefully she would find him acceptable enough when she was stone-cold sober. He gave the bed an experimental prod. At least there seemed to be a new mattress and clean linen and a pile of soft-looking pillows.

  The dressing room door creaked open and Madelyn emerged, swathed in a vast linen bathsheet.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ He got up and went to put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You are shivering.’

  ‘Cold water.’ She was staring fixedly at the open neck of his shirt. ‘I think... I think I would like you to warm me up please, Jack.’

  ‘There is nothing I would like better.’

  ‘The candles...’

  ‘We could make love in the dark, but I would very much like to see you. Are you shy?’

  She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘Well, so am I. What if you take one good look and say, Ugh?’

  ‘Idiot,’ she said with a choke of laughter. ‘Jack, are you still angry with me?’

  ‘No,’ he said and realised that was the absolute truth. ‘And I would never hurt you, not intentionally. Although I understand it might not be exactly comfortable the first time.’ As he spoke, he let his hands stray slowly over her back, her bare shoulders under the fall of silky hair, gentling and stroking until she began to sway against him, relaxing into his touch.

  His fingers explored the edge of the linen sheet to find the corner that had been tucked in to secure it. One tug and it began to unravel, then slid to the floor. Madelyn made a grab for it, missed and pressed closer against him in an effort to hide, which suited Jack very well indeed.

  ‘I am wearing too many clothes,’ he remarked. ‘But I cannot unfasten my breeches with you so close. Can you reach the buttons?’ For a moment he thought she would refuse, then her fingers slid between their bodies and began to search for the fastening of his falls. He was already so erect that the fabric was straining, making it harder to push the buttons through the holes and Madelyn’s groping fingers were accidentally wreaking havoc every time they strayed or slipped.

  There was a gasp of relief—although which of them made it was difficult to tell—then he pushed at the breeches so they slid down over his hips, taking his small clothes with them, leaving him with just the shirt tails for decency.

  ‘May I look at you?’ It was like holding a trapped bird in his hand, the flutter of her pulse where his hand rested close to her neck, the beat of her heart against his.

  Jack sensed Madelyn make the decision, felt her shoulders straighten as her head came up and she stepped back, one pace, then another, and stood looking at him with those magical ice-clear eyes wide, her cheeks growing pinker as the silence stretched on and he took in the pale beauty standing in front of him.

  Then her hands moved and he thought she was going to cover herself. Instead, Madelyn took a step forward and fisted her hands in the loose fabric of his shirt. ‘It is only fair that I look at you, too,’ she said, and tugged it upwards.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was sober now. Sober and wide awake and there were a lavish number of candles to see by. Jack stood in front of her, brushing back his hair from his forehead as she dropped his shirt to the ground.

  He was quite naked, quite shameless, standing there letting her look her fill. He had no need to hide anything, Madelyn thought. No indulgent little belly forming, no pigeon chest or spindle-shanks, just solid, well-muscled, beautifully proportioned masculinity in its prime.

  Very male...and I do not appear to be repelling him. Not if the imposing erection was any guide to Jack’s feelings. Goodness, that must be uncomfortable, she thought, forgetting for a moment to be shy or apprehensive.

  ‘You are making me blush,’ Jack said, and she looked up guiltily to see that the colour was, indeed, up over his cheekbones. Then he moved, scooped her up in his arms so that her breasts were tickled by the dark hair on his chest and, before she could focus on that sensation, she was on the bed and Jack was beside her.

  Instinct made her turn, burrow into his arms, as though he would protect her from what was about to happen. Which was ridiculous, she thought a little wildly. He will make it happen and I want it. I want him. That wonderful dark hair was tickling again. Madelyn leaned back a little so that she could see and ran her fingers through it. Soft, springy and yet coarse, it fascinated her and she petted it while Jack lay quite still until her nails scratched over one nipple and he gasped.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?’

  He moved so fast that she had no time to react. One moment she was on her side focused on his chest, the next she was flat on her back and Jack was straddling her, leaning forward and caressing her breasts. ‘No, it doesn’t hurt,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘It feels...good.’ His short nails scratched lightly across her own nipples and she saw them harden, then he caught the nubs between thumbs and forefingers and began to roll them, gently at first, then with an insistent pressure that sent waves of sensation down to her belly, to the part between her thighs where his weight pressed them together so intimately.

  She wanted to push him away, make him stop because it was so shaming to feel this wanton, mindless need and yet that was the very last thing she wanted. Madelyn closed her eyes and bit her lip to somehow stop the soft moans.

  ‘Open your eyes, Madelyn.’ Jack shifted, came down so that they were lying chest to breast, his weight on his elbows.

  Somehow her legs had parted so that he was lodged between her thighs, cradled there. Instinctively, she closed her legs to hold him there. Reluctantly she opened her eyes.

  ‘You are lovely,’ he said simply. ‘Don’t be frightened, don’t be ashamed. We are made for this. Let me pleasure you.’ His weight shifted again so he could free his right hand. It slid between their bodies, down to where she could already feel him pressing against her. His fingers stroked and probed as they had in the carriage and she felt the cresting pleasure that he h
ad given her then, tightening, straining, and she arched up to meet it and let it break her into shards of light.

  ‘Open for me, sweeting.’ He was nudging against her, but she was still dizzy, still riding the waves of sensation and she did not resist, even when he pushed and she realised he was inside her, pushed again, filling her.

  It was too much, too tight, too...

  ‘Ah.’ Jack was still, tight against her. She looked up into his face, strained and dark-eyed and taut with pain or pleasure, she no longer could tell which was which. ‘Madelyn?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Although quite what she was agreeing to she was not certain, all she knew was that she needed him, all of him. Now.

  He began to move, gently at first, and her body tried to resist until, quite suddenly, she felt herself soften, open to him, accept him as though they were one being struggling up towards the light. That spiralling tension was back, different somehow, more involved with Jack and the feel of him all around her. Then it broke and she cried out and heard his shout and felt the hot wash of his release inside her and fell into the star-dusted darkness.

  * * *

  Jack woke to the sound of carriage wheels on the drive below and voices. One glance at the candles told him he had only drowsed for a few minutes, but Madelyn was deep asleep in his arms.

  He smiled and eased her gently away to one side so that he could slide off the bed. He picked up his clothes and went quietly into the dressing room, emerging washed and redressed ten minutes later. Madelyn stirred as he moved on stockinged feet to the doorway and a board creaked loudly under his weight.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘I’m here. Our people have arrived. I’ll have Harper come up and order water for a bath for you. We can eat up here, then all you need put on is your robe.’ It was not cold—the new staff had clearly aired the room properly. He went to the bed and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Are you well, sweeting?’

  She blushed and pulled up the coverlet over her naked body, but she nodded without hesitating. ‘Yes.’ She appeared quite convinced of the fact, he saw with some relief. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He found that he was very well indeed. Madelyn was not the wife he would ever have chosen, but he realised that now all his doubts about her had evaporated. It might not be easy adjusting to each other, they had so little in common, but at least they were unlikely to have any problems in bed, he thought.

  * * *

  He was still feeling buoyant by the time their delayed supper was served. Tomorrow he was going to have to go and make his peace with Cook, but she had managed to produce an excellent meal despite the delays and despite what he suspected must be a thoroughly antiquated kitchen. The staff that Lyminge had found for the Mote appeared, so far, to be excellent.

  Madelyn had bathed, changed into a magnificent heavy silk robe and was looking composed and happy as she sat across the small table from him, toying with a plate of sweetmeats.

  They had spoken very little during the meal. Footmen had come in and out, Wystan had hovered, carafe in hand. They had smiled, exchanged commonplaces about the food; Madelyn had firmly rejected a second glass of wine, but under the table their feet met and touched. Madelyn had eased off her shoes, he realised as a bare foot teased down his calf.

  ‘Stop it, you wicked woman,’ he murmured, leaning forward. ‘Thank you, that will be all,’ he added to Wystan. ‘We will ring when we want you to clear.’

  The door closed silently, leaving them alone. ‘You, my lady, should retire to your chamber and sleep now.’

  Madelyn looked at him, blushed, then dropped her gaze. ‘We do not make love again tonight?’

  ‘Tonight you are tired and you will be sore and I want you to rest,’ Jack told her, very conscious that every instinct was telling him to be selfish, to take her back to bed and revel in her all night long.

  ‘This is not my bedchamber?’

  ‘No, it is mine. Yours is through there. As I remember it, it is a much more intimate room with a view of the gardens and a larger dressing room.’

  ‘It was your mother’s?’ She was playing with the end of her braid, twisting the hair around her fingers as though conscious that this was likely to be a sensitive subject for him.

  ‘No, my grandparents were still living here when she died and this was their suite.’ He glanced around the room they were in. ‘This would have been my father’s after they moved permanently to London.’

  ‘Is that difficult for you?’ she asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand.

  Jack tried to think of the last time that anyone had touched him like that, reached out to give comfort.

  I am here with you now, that touch seemed to say. You are not alone any longer.

  He told himself that Madelyn was feeling sentimental after their lovemaking, that he should not start feeling the same way about their relationship, but he turned his hand over so that he could curl his fingers into hers.

  ‘No, I thought that it might be, but there is nothing of him here. He probably spent his nights in the beds of other men’s wives or drunk on the sofa.’ And they had laid any ghosts to rest in that bed just now.

  She nodded, her eyelids drooping, and he got up to ring for her maid. The feeling of those long, cool fingers in his seemed to linger.

  ‘You are half-asleep already. Come, let me show you your chamber and Harper can put you to bed.’ He paused as he opened the door between the two rooms. ‘I am glad you chose me, Madelyn. Do you think you can come to feel the same way?’

  ‘I already do,’ she said, standing on tiptoe to brush her lips over his.

  Jack closed the door before the temptation to follow her into the room proved too great.

  * * *

  ‘Tell me what you are thinking about to make you smile,’ Jack asked three days later as they picked their way through the remains of the formal garden towards the motte of the old castle. The house had been built in what had been the outer bailey of the castle where all the old walls had long since crumbled away. The inner bailey with its jagged sections of battlemented wall had become the gardens and the motte stood alone at its far end.

  ‘It would make you blush,’ Madelyn said demurely and laughed when his hand closed tightly around hers and he swung her round to face him. ‘I was thinking about last night. And the night before. Oh, and this morning, of course.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Jack growled. ‘or I’ll pick you up and go straight back to the bedchamber.’ But he kissed her instead and after a moment they began to walk again, Mist, her little Italian greyhound, cavorting at their heels.

  I have fallen in love with him, Madelyn thought as she had, with a sense of wonder, ever since the day before when Mist had arrived, scrambling down from Jenny the maid’s lap in an ecstasy of happy wriggling and almost choking on the soft little barks she so rarely produced.

  She had watched Jack running his hands over the little dog, checking that she had not suffered from the journey, talking softly to her to reassure Mist, who was inclined to be protective of her mistress and wary of large, strange men. Jack was gentle and empathetic with animals, just as he was with her, she realised. This could not be easy for him, coming to this house where he had been unhappy as a child, dealing with the memories, learning to live with a new wife who had not been his choice.

  She loved him now and, perhaps, he was coming to be fond of her, she thought. His lovemaking told her he was rather more than fond, but she cautioned herself against setting too much store by that. Men, she understood, wanted physical relations on a far more basic level than women and set less emotional value on the experience. But even so...

  ‘Can you make a garden here?’ Jack asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. ‘It is bigger and less sheltered than your plot at Beaupierre.’

  ‘Yes.’ Madelyn looked around. ‘It will be very different. And a mod
ern garden, I think.’ She stopped to look at the motte. ‘This castle is much older. Did it ever have a keep on top of the mound?’

  ‘A wooden one, we think. There are no remnants of stonework. Do you want to climb to the top?’

  ‘Yes, please. I will get a much better idea of the whole estate from up there, I think.’

  It was a steep climb. The original staircase had long since vanished, leaving only a winding path through the turf. Madelyn was panting by the time they reached the top and thinking that she must design some gowns with rather shorter skirts for daywear.

  ‘There is the well. Be very careful of the grille over the top—it must be almost rusted through and it is a long way down.’ He dropped a pebble in, and she gasped at the length of time before the faint splash.

  ‘I feel unsteady just thinking about it. Shall we sit here?’ There was a low bank, and Madelyn perched on that, looking out. ‘I do not know much about agriculture,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘But there do not seem to be many fields with crops in them, or animals, either.’

  ‘No,’ Jack said. ‘This estate is going to need a lot of work and investment to make it productive again.’

  There did not seem to be much to say to that. His father and brother had stripped it of its assets and neglected it and her own father had paid it no heed at all. Jack had already told her that the tenant at the Home Farm seemed to be lazy and old-fashioned in his methods and on the other holdings drainage and fertilising was needed and the farm buildings repairing before there was any hope of decent yields and better rents.

  ‘There’s that row of cottages by Cherry Brook,’ Jack said, pointing. ‘I told you about them—you can see from here how bad the roofs are.’

  ‘Look, a carriage is turning in off the road.’ Madelyn pointed, glad of an excuse to change the subject.

  ‘That will be Lyminge and the new accountant,’ Jack said, getting to his feet. ‘I had best go down and greet them. Are you coming?’