Page 47 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
When he lifted his head away, his gaze burned into her.“You were a child, bearing a child.Until today, I never noticed the boy’s resemblance to Dempsey.”
She caught her breath, reaching back for a memory.She’d forgotten Reginald’s face.But of course, Shaldon was right.
Shaldon was always right.Anger burned through her again.
“Once apprised of a fact, youwouldunravel all the strands of a lady’s shameful past.”
He lifted his head and his gaze pinned her.“A child bearing a child and sacrificing her own life to see to his needs honorably for over twenty years is not shameful.Among the aristocracy, you are one in a million, Jane.”
“Oh,” she said, the breath whooshing from her.That was said with a different sort of passion, from a man who knew about secrets, could keep them, would honor them.
He swiped a calloused finger over her cheek.“I am in awe of you,” he said, and then he began his assault again.
Her mind ceased to work.Madness welled in her: desire, regret, relief.She should not trust him, could not trust him.
But her body didn’t care and she found herself kissing him back.
Her conscience tried to intervene, pushing memories at her.The small cottage in Ireland, her great aunt Mildred, who viewed everything through the lens of the last century’s easier moral code, her father’s berating lectures and sudden death, her arguments with her cousin.
She’d worn Cheswick down, eventually, and despite his dismay about her wantonness, he’d agreed to her terms for her life.
Cheswick, by some miracle, had left her alone, had kept her secret, had even let her solicitor wonder if the child was his own by-blow.He wasn’t a bad man, her cousin, and she’d always been grateful he’d refused to take her on as a wife.
Shaldon pulled away and stroked her cheek, making shushing noises.
She was weeping, blast it.
He pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and dabbed at her face, his other hand locking her close.No man had held her thus, not even Reginald all those years ago.Reginald had looked and touched—her breasts, her buttocks, the place between her legs.Shaldon was looking ather, touchingher.
And for once it seemed he had lifted the shutters to draw her out of her own chaos, to let her see into himself.
She took a good long look.
“We won’t do this if you do not wish it, Jane.But I very much want to.”
His jaw was smooth under her fingers, and his gaze softened under her touch.She’d desired him, it was true, not just since he’d kissed her.
It was so tiresome being good for so many years.She wasn’t that fourteen-year-old girl anymore.If she planned to take a lover, why not start now?
“Yes,” she said.“I’ll make love with you.But…” She held up her hand.“Not the rest.We will not marry.”Marrying Shaldon would be the height of madness.
The air stirred as she floated up, secure in his arms.
“Never doubt that I will marry you.”
That last was said stiffly, but when he eased her onto the bed his hot gaze raked over her, sending fresh heat that constricted her breath.
He sent his neck cloth flying, flung off his coats, and sat down to tear off his boots.
In mere moments, he’d removed his shirt, trousers, small clothes and stockings, and stood looming over her.
A scar carved a deep spot in his shoulder, and others crisscrossed his chest and waist, like the ones on his back.
And—her chest squeezed again—the evidence of his desire was clear.She struggled to breathe and let her gaze travel down.The sturdy legs bore their own set of scars, a quite wicked one to a knee, the reason he sometimes limped.
He’d fought many enemies, this man, and been hurt by them.
She opened her arms and he came to her.
