Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

" I t is good of you to take her in."

Jack stood when Leda entered the dining parlor. The sight of her hit him with a physical impact, as if his vital organs were organizing around a new center.

She glided toward him.

"We could do no less. The peddler walked with her from Snettisham, which is quite a ways, and everything she owns in the world is in that box she brought. I will send word to the Waddelows that she is here, and that we have asked her to stay with us."

With us , she said. As if they were a unit. An us .

He gripped the back of her chair to keep from reaching for her as she neared. She had long ago eschewed sitting at the far end of the table for their dinners and instead sat to his right, like an honored guest. She took her seat, and he smelled violets. A small knot of the flowers peeked from a glossy coil of hair and from the neckline of her dress, a simple round gown of innocent white but with a long tunic draped over her shoulders, trimmed with green vines and subtle flowers.

She had dressed for him, for their simple dinner together, and dabbed toilet water behind her ears. He saw directly down her bosom—the reason the custom had been invented, no doubt, for a gentleman to hand a lady into her chair. His groin tightened.

She was learning his secrets, all of them. Peeling away and exposing to air the truths he had tried for years not to look at.

"The peddler said her father is dead, poor soul." Leda fidgeted with a fork beside her plate, edging it into alignment. "He knew him and his people. They camp over by Bircham for part of the year."

Jack stared at the cloth covering the table, pressed white and crisp with the industry of Mrs. Leech. Nora's red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, her cheeks two stabs of bright color in her pale, anguished face. How had she been standing right at the spot where they had discovered Anne-Marie's body? How had she known ?

"Nora had been living with the Waddelows all this time hoping he would eventually come to claim her. But now, with no hope…she came to you."

"She came to you." Jack's voice grated his throat. "She trusts you ."

Nora had not, in all this time, come to Jack, though she knew the truth and he had pretended not to. What was it about Leda Wroth that drew bruised, seeking souls like iron shavings to a lodestone?

"What will you do?" she asked.

"Keep her here, of course. And find a governess for thr—two girls."

He would not make Anne-Marie's daughter a housemaid, not as the Waddelows had. For certain, natural children were not always accepted, but they need not be hidden away. Edmund Rolfe, rolling round and well-fed among the brand-new bricks of Heacham Hall, had got a son on a Swiss girl he met during his Grand Tour and brought the boy to England to marry a gentleman's daughter. The bastard was a lieutenant-general in the Army, last Jack heard, and had two children himself, and when Rolfe died the world would say he had left his estate to a fond acquaintance when really it passed to his grandson, because a family that had begun as tradesmen in King's Lynn did not put an entail on their properties as if name were to be prized above the cunning to take an opportunity that presented itself.

Ellinore would be Jack's ward. He should have insisted on it in the first place, rather than letting Anne-Marie keep her veil of secrets. He had seen Nora's chapped hands, her forearms beneath the short sleeves of her gown little more than tendons and skin. That harm lay at his door, another sin piled atop the others.

He should tell Leda the truth, in its entirety, now. The words poised on his tongue. But he did not like what the truth said of him, and once it emerged, he would not see that look of warmth and admiration from her again. He would like her to adore him a little while longer. One more night.

Leda canted her head, studying him. "It will make the task of finding a governess harder, with a cuckoo in the nest."

Even peers needed to pretend to a certain respectability, though the world watched closely enough to see their dirty laundry as it came out the back door into the yard for airing.

"No one would say a word if you married me," Jack remarked. "That would be the greater wonder. A fine, clever woman with the world at her feet, choosing to marry a mad widower baron who lives with his bricks at the edge of the world."

Her eyes glimmered round and sad. "Jack." She said his name; it dropped like a ripe plum from her lips. "I've said I won't marry again. You or anyone. I—cannot."

"Yes." The bitterness spilled from him. "So you've said."

"Doesn't it help, knowing it's not you?"

"It would be better if it were me. Then I would have a reason."

Henry entered the parlor wearing the livery in which he had served the previous baron, antique breeches and a tailed coat. It had never occurred to Jack to tell Henry he might put the suit aside if he wished, for who would see him here? Jack never entertained—Anne-Marie had disliked crowds of people—and he would not have Leda for his helpmeet, a beautiful, clever wife who shone in company, who drew people to her like moths to flame.

She smiled at May, the housemaid, as she trundled in after Henry with the tureen of soup, placing it as carefully on the table as if she were serving the queen.

"Is it a great fuss for you downstairs, May, if we take in Miss Nora?"

May's eyes widened. "Thas alright, tha is. Her's a right mite, so thin and tiny, but she's useter work, so she won't get primmicky, and she'll fit in the upstairs with Miss Muriel for now." She shook her head. "Hant a scrap with her but her bag. It went sadly with her in the town, I shink."

Jack winced, feeling this report on Ellinore's state a further accusation of his neglect. He'd assumed the child was better off with her grandparents, even if they didn't acknowledge her outright. Anne-Marie hadn't really cared for the company of children; she liked to sew and do fine work, take long walks in her own company, and she could seclude herself in her dressing room for hours, trying on different adornments.

Anne-Marie, come to think, had possessed that same self-containment he saw in Leda, but where Anne-Marie had been cool and remote, Leda was warm and approachable. It was like her to notice that taking in an orphan would create more work for the servants, and like her to broach the subject directly.

Anne-Marie, like most of her class, had assumed servants existed to do the job for which they had been hired, seeing to her comfort. Leda saw the human creature within. Jack hadn't missed how his aunt's butler in Bath had chivvied his ladyship's companion, and that the man would dare showed he considered himself one of the household, not a stick of furniture that moved about.

Nevertheless, as soon as the dishes had been laid, Jack sent the servants away. Leda stirred her soup; Jack regarded his wine.

"I knew Anne-Marie had a past when I courted her."

Her eyes were a deep gray in the candlelight, like a tidal pool at dusk. "And you approached her despite that?"

"Because of it, I think. I knew I must have a wife, and I was attached to no one. I didn't see a risk that I would become attached to anyone. I was ridiculed when I arrived. A baron's coronet on the head of a shoemaker's son? The very foundations of the earth should tremble and fall."

Leda applied herself to her soup, sipping delicately as she listened. The woman didn't hide her appetite. Jack wondered if meals at the asylum had been inadequate, and that was why Leda openly savored her food.

"You didn't think you would find love?" she asked softly.

He met her gaze. "Did you ever imagine you would?"

She took up her fork and pried at the shell of a lobster. "We are discussing your courtship. I've been told she was very lovely."

"She was. Many had tried for her hand. I was told to harbor no hope. But I had that coronet, you see. The best on offer around here are baronets and vicars."

She lifted her brows. "That swayed her?"

"It swayed her parents, certainly."

"Ah."

The flame of the candle in its stick before him flickered as Leda passed him a dish of buttered asparagus. "But were you happy?"

"Not in the least. Nothing I did could please her. I was as kind to her as I knew how to be." He caught the flicker of Leda's eyelids, the narrowing of suspicion, there and gone. "But I, even with the title, was not enough. She was rarely content. I thought a child might cheer her, but when Muriel was born…"

"A difficult birth? I saw one with Ives, remember. You will not turn me off my food."

He smiled with one half of his mouth. No, indeed, from the way she tackled the dish of cauliflower, she was not squeamish about talk of childbirth.

"It was the melancholy that gripped her." Jack drew in a deep breath. Even now, these shadows held teeth and claws when they sprang out again at him. "It was dark. Deep. I knew no way to draw her out of it. She had no interest in the babe, she would not nurse—she could scarcely leave her bed. I feared she would starve to death under my roof."

Leda chewed, then chased her bite with a swallow of wine. "I have heard it goes ill for some women. Motherhood is not every woman's sole mission in life. And not always the rarefied joy that the church fathers would have us believe."

"She did not wish me to touch her thereafter." Jack swallowed hard. Shame tasted tart, like the horseradish Mrs. Leech had used to flavor the leg of mutton with oysters. "And I respected her wishes. I feared what another childbirth would drive her to. But then, of course…"

His lips closed over the words. This shame, he could not share. Despair choked him, the oyster turning cold and gummy in his throat.

"So it is good that you decline to marry me," he said, his voice hoarse with the burn of the sauce. "I made my wife's life a misery. I should no doubt do the same for you, and make you loathe my touch."

"Jack Burnham. My lord Brancaster." Leda set down her fork, tapping it against her porcelain plate, and the clatter rang like a shot through the quiet room. "I do not loathe your touch. I crave it."

He raised his goblet, saw his hand shaking, set it upon the table again. "I see no evidence of that. You hide it well."

She watched him, a level look, that calm consideration he had seen in her as she watched the ball in the Upper Assembly rooms when he had first come upon her. A woman of remarkable poise and elegance, who looked upon the field before her as if she were assessing each of the actors. Deliberating where the danger to herself might arise, and how to defend herself if it did.

She glanced toward the door, which stood open to admit the servants. She rose and walked across the room with the deliberation she always showed, the edges of her long tunic fluttering against her gown like wings she kept tucked to her sides. She shut the wooden portal, and he saw that her hand trembled slightly, as his had done.

Then she returned, circling the table, rounding her chair to his. He half rose, finally conscious that a lady was standing. His heartbeat rang in his ears. She drew a deep breath and held his eyes, as if she were asking something. Whatever she wanted, his answer was yes.

She pushed him into his chair and settled her beautiful rump into his lap, and Jack's vision blanked for a stunned moment. She slid her fingers through the curls clinging to the nape of his neck, and his mind started to gallop—he would have to ask Mrs. Leech for a trim. The contact unleashed something feral in him, a fierce, hot rush of triumph, of possession, of need.

She whispered the words against the side of his mouth. "Touch me, Jack."

Her mouth was warm and sweet from the lobster sauce, her tongue as silky soft as the violets in her hair. He fell upon her like a man arriving at a pool of cool, fresh water after months, after years of drought. He stroked her jaw to tilt her chin so he might plunge his tongue into her mouth, and she shivered. She met his invasion with a soft probe of her tongue, tasting him, and he was lost, drowning. She smelled of almonds and her hair was spun silk and her body was as soft and firm as a ripe summer plum. He wanted to take every part of her into his mouth and consume her. Possess her utterly.

He splayed a hand across her collarbone, exposed by the gown. A pulse drummed at the base of her neck, that smooth, proud column. She didn't flinch as he trailed his roughened fingertips over the damask of her skin.

"I can touch you here."

"Yes." She breathed hard, kissing him back, kissing him with a hunger that matched his. She wanted him .

He slid his hand to her bosom and cupped one breast, feeling where her softness met the firm slope of her stays. He traced the skin along the edge. "I can touch you here."

"Yes." She shifted position, throwing one leg over his to straddle him, turning her body toward him, pushing her breast into his hand. She wanted him. "Oh, yes."

He dove into her softness, putting his mouth everywhere he could reach. She shuddered when he kissed along her jawline, nipped the shell of her ear. The soft hollow below, that was where she dabbed the almonds. He nuzzled his face into her neck. Her short, fast breaths pushed her breast against his hand and he cupped its mate with his other, glorying in her surrender. He found a tiny mole on the side of her neck, as if the artist had marked his glorious canvas. She gasped as he kissed along the ridge of her collarbones, moved lower.

"I can kiss you here."

She tipped her chin back. A coil of hair fell from its pin, brushing his shoulder, the back of his hand at her breast. "Please do."

"I can kiss you here?" He brushed his mouth over the tops of her breasts, swells of softness. She had dabbed almond water here, too, and the scent nearly drove him to frenzy.

Her eyes flew open. "There?"

Had no man ever kissed her properly? Had her husband had this splendid body before him, all these luscious curves, and never feasted, as was his right? Jack growled at the waste.

"These are made to be kissed." He kneaded his fingers, and her shoulders melted, pushing her breasts toward him. He swallowed another growl of satisfaction.

"If you don't like it, tell me, and I'll stop." He would stop, though it would kill him if he failed her. Right now she was completely with him, soft clay in his hands, yielding to his touch. She looked dazed and heated, tossed on the same wave devouring him, and he wanted to push her further, to the brink of passion.

The drawstring neckline untied easily, and he simply shoved down her stays. Two beautiful breasts spilled forth, her beige skin slightly marked by the stays, her nipples like the brown pebbles he found on the beach. He wrapped one arm around her back to lift her and gorged on the banquet before him.

"Jack ." She tossed her head, another lock of hair sliding free, as he curled his tongue around a nipple and pulled it into his mouth. Her pulse raced like a deer over a field. "Oh."

"You don't want me to stop," he growled, the words muffled by his tongue against her skin.

"Oh, please don't."

She was so responsive. Her short catches of breath, her fingers digging into his shoulders, the way she arched her back over his arm as he licked and nipped. He caught her wildness, fed on it. She thrashed in his arms as he shaped a soft breast and sucked, hard. She whimpered and bucked against his leg, her thighs clenching. His groin hardened, the ache its own pleasure, spurred by his awareness of her desire.

"Will you come for me, Leda?" he murmured, pursing his lips around a nipple, wine-sweet. "Will you give me that?"

She tossed her head to the side, clinging to his shoulders as he moved to the other breast, the nipple taut and begging. She whimpered as he suckled. "I don't—I can't?—"

"You like this." His growl was guttural. He felt like a wolf homing in on its prey. Here, here , this woman in his arms, she was all that mattered in the world.

"I do," she mewled. "I do ."

He lifted his thigh, pressing against her. "Then ride me. Take your pleasure. Use me, beautiful Leda."

"But I don't—we're?—"

" Take it ." Take me , he wanted to beg. If he could bring her to peak, make her climax, if she could have pleasure because of him, it would mean everything. He tossed aside her muslin skirts and gripped her knee, covered in a silk stocking. "I'm going to touch you here."

"Oh," she gasped, nudging her hips toward him as he swirled his tongue around her nipple.

"And here." He slid his hand up her thigh, past the edge of her stocking, over her garter, to the sweet, firm flesh, hot and smooth as cream. He stroked his way to her inner thigh, pressing against the smooth fabric of his pantaloons, so thin a barrier between them.

Her entire body shuddered. " Oh. "

He paused and caught her eyes, pools of violet shadow, hazy with desire. For him. "Shall I stop?"

"No," she whispered.

"I want to make you come," he rasped. "Just like this."

She closed her eyes as he bent again to her breasts. She shivered as he traced a path over the damp flesh, pinkened from his mouth. He'd found now what she liked and pulled her into his mouth, sucking and licking. She squirmed, allowing his hand to move up her thigh. Her skin was so warm and in a moment he found the soft curls, damp with need. His cock swelled in his pantaloons, reaching for her, for this heaven.

He didn't know a woman's body. She would perceive that and pull away. But as he slid his fingers over the unfamiliar flesh, moist and slick and hot, she inched her hips until she settled a tight bud of heat against his finger. The catch of breath in her throat, her moan almost near despair, told him he had found the key.

"Take what you want. Use me, Leda. Find your pleasure." With me. Because of me. In my arms, and no one else's.

She bit her lips and dug her fingers into the muscle of his shoulder. Then she began to rock against his hand.

Her ecstasy was beautiful to behold. She shivered as she strove, bucking against him, writhing her back and rolling her hips. Moisture pearled on his finger. His groin throbbed with an ache of pain and he wondered if he would come too, just from the feel of her, the taste of her flesh, his hand buried at the core of her, the scent of her arousal, rich and sweet, and her wild, keening moans. He rubbed his finger against her secret pearl and she dug in her nails.

"Like that," she whispered. "Just that."

He wanted to watch her forever, relish her wild seeking, but all of a sudden she went stiff, head thrown back, her entire body quivering, and he felt it in his hand, the tremor of her release. She gave a soft, quiet moan and he watched her face as the sweetness of her climax suffused her. His body throbbed in tune with hers, his breath harsh and rasping to match her soft pants. She dropped her chin to press her forehead to his as she calmed, and he simply held her, clamping down on his own need, enjoying the wonder, the primal triumph he felt.

"What," she whispered, her breath on his cheek, " happened to me?"

He grinned. He wanted to shake his fists and roar, but that would mean letting go of her, his soft, beautiful, pleasured woman. "You never came with your husband?"

"Not even close."

"But you can bring yourself—surely?" She'd known how to fit herself against him. She'd known the rhythm she liked.

"Not like that," she said, the words barely a whisper, but they raised a shiver on his skin. "That was— you ."

He wasn't less than a man, then. He could please a woman. Even if he had offered nothing more than his body to use, she was with him. He felt the tendrils sinking into him like weights on a fisherman's net clawing into the sand. She belonged to him now.

A hesitant, ponderous knock sounded at the door, Henry's knock, then May's anxious voice behind it. "Milord, are you badly? We've the fricassee of chickens here, and the trifle coming directly."

Leda uttered a curse and slid off his lap, skirts trailing. He missed her heat at once. With swift hands she yanked up her stays and the bodice of her gown as she slid into her seat. With two vicious yanks she stabbed her loose locks of hair back into their pins.

"You may enter," Jack called when she had hid the evidence of their tryst, all but the radiant flush of her skin. "We needed a moment. Mrs. Wroth had a—confidence to share."

The door opened and the servants came in, glancing between the two of them, and Jack knew his grin surely told them more than they needed to know. Leda began a conversation, sharing a whimsical tale Mrs. Styleman had told her about the rug in the parlor of Hunstanton Hall and her mother-in-law's attachment to it. Jack listened and made the appropriate remarks, aware of the throb in his body, the flush of her skin, the memory of her trembling beneath his mouth and hands. He wanted to be alone with her again, as soon as possible.

All at once it didn't matter that he had another mouth to feed in his household, when he so desperately needed to repair his income. It didn't matter that all Norfolk and his fellows in the House of Lords thought of him as the Mad Baron. It didn't matter, right now, if whispers still ran that he'd pushed his wife off the cliff. Leda Wroth had found pleasure with him, and all that mattered now was that she not leave him.

She couldn't abandon him. Not now, not after he'd tasted her. He'd never be able to let her go.