chapter 19
“What was the domestic matter you had to see to?” asked Mr. Broadhurst, making Caroline jump an inch off her dressing stool.
Her maid mumbled an apology as if she had caused her mistress to startle.
“A bit of spilled pomade necessitated a room change,” lied Caroline.
Her maid’s eyebrows dipped in a vee above her nose.
All these lies that kept rolling off her tongue shamed Caroline. But she saw no reason to point out to Mr. Broadhurst that Jack had returned. She wouldn’t hide the truth if her husband asked, but this was a time when discretion seemed the better part of valor.
In the looking glass reflection, Mr. Broadhurst’s expression turned dark, but he could not pursue the matter with the maid in her room.
“My dressing gown, if you please,” Caroline stood and held out her arms.
Her maid complied, pulling the heavy velvet robe around her, and Caroline fastened the frogged buttons up the front.
Mr. Broadhurst stepped into the room, his hand at the belt of his paisley robe. Surely he didn’t mean to sleep in her bed again tonight. Even the servants would wonder at that.
Her skin crawling, Caroline dismissed her maid.
As soon as they were alone, Mr. Broadhurst turned to her and said, “Are you deliberately trying to obscure which gentleman you are sleeping with?”
“Yes.” She fiddled with the button and its braided loop at her neck. “I cannot see that you need to know which man I use. Once I am pregnant I will never want his attention again.” As the words came out, they felt false.
She didn’t like intercourse. The act always hurt and made her feel invaded, almost as if she were being cleaved in two. She couldn’t have imagined ever wanting it, but the way Jack touched her exposed skin had shifted something inside her. He’d left her breathing fast, faintly tingly and yearning for more of the same—perhaps even a gentle kiss. Of course what she needed from him was a baby.
But there likely would be too little of the noninvasive sort of touch if she allowed him more liberty to grope her or kiss her. Men seemed intent on fondling and kissing in a way that disgusted her. But to send Jack out of her life in totality, that was more than she could bear to contemplate. As long as Mr. Broadhurst never knew, she would still be able to see Jack. Daily, if he worked in the mill office.
Mr. Broadhurst grabbed the neck of her dressing gown, crushing her hand in his. He pulled her until she was on her toes and growled, “Do not forget you are my wife. When we are certain what is needed is done, you will never see him again.”
Her heart thumped madly and cold rivulets of fear ran down her back, but she was able to keep her voice even. “As I would wish it. Unhand me, Mr. Broadhurst. There is no call to act uncivilized.”
“Don’t you dare get used to this.” He shook her, his eyes burning with a manic intensity.
“Let me go,” she said firmly, but every part of her was filled with terror. It was as if she saw the pits of hell in his eyes.
A cold miasma of dread shrouded her, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break the spell.
He shoved her back.
Gasping, she stumbled and then caught her balance. Keeping her eyes down, she slowly backed to the door. “I am going now.”
Had she betrayed her affection for Jack in her expression? She didn’t know. But she didn’t dare allow herself to feel any tenderness toward him. If Mr. Broadhurst had ordered Mr. Whitton killed, she was playing too dangerous a game with Jack. Mr. Whitton had friends and connections, and his murder would be investigated, but Jack had nothing to protect him. His family hadn’t the resources to fund an inquiry. No one would look deeply into his death.
Her heart skittering, Caroline hurried down the hall and swung into the room where she and Jack had been last night. She twisted the key in the lock and then went out through the dressing room, down the servant stairs, and then to the first floor.
Repeatedly checking over her shoulder didn’t reassure her she wasn’t being followed or watched. She darted around a corner and raced to a spiral staircase that reached the northern el of the house. All this cloak and dagger slipping around might be overkill, but she couldn’t risk Mr. Broadhurst learning that she was going to Jack.
When she first came to live here, she’d spent hours learning the layout of the house, always imagining which way she could go if she needed to escape. She’d told herself it was wise to know all exits in case of a fire, but in her mind she always envisioned running away from Mr. Broadhurst.
Until now that had never made sense. Her fear always seemed misplaced. Except for doing her duty, marriage to Mr. Broadhurst had not been onerous. Now, however, she didn’t know if he was the sometimes brusque older man she knew or a man who thought anything he wanted should be his because he could pay for it. Worse yet, he seemed to believe that anyone who stood in the way of what he wanted could be destroyed because he willed it.
Her breath held, she twisted the knob to Jack’s room and then slipped inside, pulling the door shut and twisting the key. She eased out her breath, half expecting Mr. Broadhurst to thwart her. The escritoire stood next to the window. A wardrobe occupied the far corner. Everything seemed normal and ordinary. As she stared into the darkened room, no shadow took a form it shouldn’t. All was as it should be.
The old-fashioned washstand with pitcher and bowl had been shifted close to the fire. The chair from the desk was beside it. She imagined Jack stripping down and washing while sitting there, and she shuddered. Not only was such a thought unseemly, but after Mr. Broadhurst’s unspoken threat she couldn’t allow herself to think that way.
A low fire burned in the fireplace behind a heavy screen. She turned toward the bed dominating the center of the room. Her pulse raced, fear still leaving a bitter copper tang in her mouth.
The lump in the middle was Jack. As her ragged breathing stopped clouding her ears, she heard the deep regular sound of him sleeping. Her shoulders dropped and she sighed.
Poor Jack had to be exhausted. The doctor had warned that he should not exercise for more than a few minutes at a time. She should let him sleep. She tiptoed toward the wing chair on the far side of the fire. The floor creaked and she froze.
“Caro, come to bed.” Jack’s voice was sleep roughened and moved through her like warm honey. Shifting to the far side, he pushed the covers back, exposing a plain unbleached nightshirt. His own sleeping garment, not Mr. Broadhurst’s.
She caught the post at the bottom of the bed, suddenly far too aware that she was very sore and her female flesh felt swollen and abused. “If you are very tired . . .”
“I’m not so tired I don’t want you.”
The words made her shiver. She brushed her dampening palms against her dressing gown and swallowed several times. Her heart was still fluttering and she took one last look over her shoulder at the door.
Jack leaned up on an elbow and watched her.
Caroline dropped her eyes. “I suppose we should get this over with.”
He sighed loudly and rolled to his back. “If that is what you want.”
The sooner it was done, the sooner she could relax. He would fall asleep, she could rest on the far side of the bed until dawn. She wasn’t going back to her room until she absolutely had to. As much as Mr. Broadhurst thought the servants needed to believe the pregnancy was his doing, she didn’t want to spend any more time alone with him than was necessary.
“It is what I want,” she said. But it wasn’t. The way Jack had touched her on the stairs awoke a need in her she didn’t know she had, but she couldn’t allow herself to feel affection for him. She was putting him in too much danger as it was.
He looked at the canopy and sighed. “Fine.”
She closed her eyes. This was so wrong.
Besides, she knew copulation would hurt, and hurt worse than it had the night before. Mr. Broadhurst had ensured that, which perhaps was his plan.
In the first month of her marriage, she had to beg Mr. Broadhurst for time to heal between his visits. Coldness swept through her. Perhaps he derived satisfaction from knowing the act of conception would be uncomfortable for her.
The bed rustled as Jack removed his nightclothes.
She reached for the frogged buttons of her dressing gown, but her fingers felt wooden.
“Caro,” he whispered.
She jerked her eyes open. He sat, his bare chest gleaming in the firelight, the covers thankfully around his waist. Her body went hot and then cold.
He held his hand out. “Come here and let me help you.”
She hesitated, not knowing if she wanted this done faster or slower, but her fingers were clumsy. The loops seemed too small to fit around the covered buttons. She stepped up to the side of the bed and Jack slid toward her. His hip peeked out and she tried to avert her eyes, but the smooth flesh drew her gaze.
He wrapped his warm fingers around her hands, stilling her shaking. “It will be better tonight, I promise,” he said softly, his brown eyes holding hers.
She shook her head and pressed her lips together. After Mr. Broadhurst, it couldn’t be better. She would have to try harder to keep Jack from seeing her pain, since it bothered him.
He pulled her hands toward him and put them on his shoulders. His skin seemed to leap under her fingers. Her breath snagged as fresh tingles traveled up her arm, almost as if touching him electrified her. He slid his hands along her forearms and then reached for the button at her throat. “I’m just going to undo these, sweetheart.”
She nodded, thinking he would make short work of them. But he didn’t.
The one at the top of her neck was first, and then he scooted closer and reached for the lowest button. He didn’t have trouble with them, the fastenings almost seemed to melt open, but he took a painstakingly long time between each button, until she was mentally urging him to hurry. Then the heels of his hands rested against her breasts as he unbuttoned the center. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and with each breath his hands were there, not groping or pinching, just there, making her want . . . more.
When he finally undid the last one, she stepped back, jerked the dressing gown from her shoulders and tossed it across the bottom of the bed. She turned her back to him as she lifted her nightgown, untied her pantalets, and let them fall to the floor.
She turned around to find Jack leaning on one palm and frowning.
“I’m ready,” she squeaked.
He shook his head. “No you’re not.”
“Jack,” she protested.
His eyes narrowed. “If you’d let me undo the top of your nightgown, I could touch you as I did on the stairs.” His voice was low and coaxing. “Nothing more, unless—”
She shook her head.
“You liked it,” he whispered.
She couldn’t allow herself to savor his touch, but she didn’t know what explanation to give him. She drew on the otherwise useless hauteur bred in her. “You surprised me is all. I don’t—”
“I just want to make this less unpleasant for you,” he interrupted, sliding closer to her and tilting his head toward hers until his breath whispered across her lips.
It would take so little to close the distance, to feel his lips on hers. She couldn’t allow this, but oh she wanted to, and she tilted closer. His gaze alternated between her eyes and her lips. Her pulse raced, her lips tingled, and her mouth watered. He drew her like a flame draws a moth.
“Kiss me,” he rasped.
His words broke the spell. What was she doing? She had nearly . . . Twisting her head to the side, she fought to pull back. Panic rolled through her in waves. “I only need you to get me—”
“I know why I’m here.” His voice was flat and his mouth tightened. He moved back toward the center of the bed and then lowered himself to his back.
Her throat tightened and a wave of sadness rolled through her. She cared for him too much as it was. Hell, she more than cared for him, she feared she already loved him. But she couldn’t, Mr. Broadhurst would punish him. And there was no future for them. Her chest grew tight, as if her heart were being squeezed. Her whisper was scratchy as she said, “This is all it can be.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But clearly it did. She could hear it in his resigned tone and it hurt deep inside her. Her throat closed and her eyes burned with unshed tears. She had looked forward to this moment, had wanted to feel Jack underneath her, inside her, maybe release him from the promise he made to keep his hands off of her, but she feared what Mr. Broadhurst would do if she let herself get drawn into loving Jack. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You’re not disappointing me.” The edges of his lips turned up, but his eyes looked sad. “We can get this done whenever you’re ready.”
He twisted, reaching under the pillow beside him. She feasted on his long lean form and the way the muscles bunched under his skin as he moved. He rolled back, then pushed the covers down, exposing his thick male instrument surrounded by a nest of dark hair. Her fingers itched to explore him.
Jack cursed silently to himself as he drew out the ointment he’d stashed under the pillow. He’d blown it. She had been a hairbreadth away from touching her lips to his and he couldn’t resist telling her to kiss him. If he’d just been a second or two more patient, she would have closed the distance. But his blood thrummed in his veins and throbbed in his cock. The wait for any response from her was driving him mad. She was so close to giving in, but stubbornly resisting.
She couldn’t know it, but that near kiss had been what pushed him to readiness. And if all it was to be was stud service, he needed her to get on now, before the deep aches in his body made his desire recede. Maybe in the aftermath he could tempt her further.
She pulled her nightgown up around her thighs. He watched, hoping for a glimpse of heaven, but she seemed oddly determined to retain whatever modesty she still possessed. He hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t ever seen her totally naked, hadn’t so much as caressed her breast, but he had slid his cock in her and come. Modesty at this point seemed oddly endearing, and hugely frustrating.
She clutched the hem of her nightgown tighter and put one knee on the bed and then the other, and then she swung her leg over him like she was mounting a horse. On her knees, she hovered above him as if gathering courage to bring their bodies together.
“Before we begin, I got this for you.” He removed the lid from the earthenware crock and held it out.
She looked at the creamy contents and then back at him, her forehead furled.
“It’s honeymoon ointment. It should ease you.”
She blinked rapidly several times and then averted her face. She tilted forward and planted her hands on the mattress to his sides. She was so close, but so far away.
“Down there,” he added, because she seemed confused. “I don’t want to keep hurting you.”
She made a peeping sound of protest.
He waited for her to move or say something, but she hung over him, the soft insides of her thighs against his hips, her nightgown brushing his cock, her hands planted on either side of his chest. Her head dipped down, her hair dragging across his chest, preventing him from reading her expression.
He put his free hand on her hip and she startled.
“Caro?”
She squeaked again.
“Do you want me to put it on you?” He held his breath, knowing she would refuse to let him touch her there.
Then she moved her head up and down.
Excitement pulsed through his body. Before she changed her mind, he dipped his fingers into the crock and came out with a generous dollop. With his other hand he lifted her nightgown—not that he could see anything with her head nearly on his shoulder—and reached down to press the thick glob between her inner folds.
She tensed.
Resisting the urge to spread the ointment around, to explore her secret garden, he held his fingers motionless. “It will take a minute to soften.”
But he could already feel the consistency changing from lardlike to greasy with her heat. She tensed, clutched the sheet and held very still.
“Am I hurting you?” Slowly, he smeared the ointment around.
She shook her head, her hair dragging his chest and sending spikes of wanting to his groin.
But her female flesh felt puffy, as if inflamed and sore. God, had he done this? His heart flopped oddly in his chest. He swallowed hard trying to rid himself of the tightness in his throat. How could he ever convince her sex could be enjoyable if she were suffering?
She whimpered. With her face averted, he couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure.
“You feel swollen,” he whispered. “I must have hurt you a lot last night. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she warbled, and then cleared her throat. “It’s s-soothing . . . feels almost c-c-cool.”
That didn’t relieve his guilt. Concentrating on coating the opening of her body, he dipped one finger inside her and then a second. No wonder she was more reluctant tonight. He wanted to look and see if his fingers were reading her correctly, but she would never allow it.
“Caro, sweetheart, you don’t have to like this, but don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt if it does.”
She made a sound of protest.
Touching her in her private place was raising his need for her. But for her desire for a pregnancy, he would have begged her to wrap her fingers around him and let him find satisfaction that way instead of risking making her sorer.
But that wasn’t why she was in bed with him. She wanted his release only to get her pregnant, not because she wanted sex with him. If only he could convince her to fool around awhile first, he could wait until he was close to coming and then finish quickly inside her.
“Sweet, let me see your face,” he whispered near her ear.
He slipped his fingers higher, looking for that elusive little nubbin where a woman’s pleasure was centered.
She lifted her head, and he thought she might turn toward him. He found what he was looking for and caught it. Careful to use only a little pressure, he tightened his fingers and rubbed the nubbin between them.
She gasped and jerked toward the head of the bed and away from his hand. “Jack!”
Ah, he’d found her sweet spot, and had just as quickly lost it when she shot away from him. But she hadn’t yelped in pain. No, her reaction was surprise. Her neck was near his face and it was all he could do to stop himself from pressing his lips there. He turned into her, burying his nose in the fold between her shoulder and neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin. “You liked that,” he murmured.
She shuddered and then tensed, but didn’t protest.
Yes, he thought. He could yet show her pleasure, if only she would let him touch her, kiss her, hold her.
She tilted her head farther away then lowered herself back down. She kept a space between their bodies, as if she could keep this all business and no pleasure. He reached again to slide his fingers in her feminine folds.
She caught his wrist and pulled it away. “I’m sure that is enough.”
She drew in a deep breath and lowered her bottom onto him. He didn’t help her to join their bodies, although the heat of her flesh against him caused rush after rush to slide down his spine and throb in his cock. Wanting to slow everything down, he reached for her hips.
“Caro, if we touch—if you touch me awhile before we are joined—I can be fast.” Why wouldn’t she look at him?
“Please, could we finish this?” Her voice quivered.
“Just be a part of it with me,” he begged. He needed to watch her expression for signs of pain. He needed to know she was all right. He needed her to connect with him.
“I can’t. I can’t like this. I can’t like you,” she quavered.
Her words stunned him. She couldn’t like him? Or didn’t want to?
She reached down and positioned his cock against her. A burst of physical pleasure spiraled through him. He wanted her so badly. Then she was pushing down, joining them. He grunted, as his cock slid inside her. A soft moan left her, even though he could tell she’d tried to hold it back.
His head spun while she rocked on him. Her body felt so right, warm and slick this time.
Part of him wanted to shove her off, but another part wanted to be like this, forever buried deep inside of her. But he wanted this and so much more. He didn’t know that he’d ever thought too much about connecting with a woman on more than the physical level, but this purely mechanical act left him hungry and angry, as if she’d taken his heart, soul, and body and given him nothing in return.
He’d had enough things taken from him today. If it killed him, he was going to get her to be part of this. Her face had gone soft with desire on the stairs. A minute ago she’d looked like a woman who wanted to be kissed. She wanted this for more than getting pregnant. The exchange of looks at the mill hadn’t been one-sided. She’d been attracted to him for a long time. She might lie to herself, but he’d be damned if he would allow her to lie to him. Not now, not in bed, not while their bodies were locked together. Grasping her hips tightly, he held her down, stopping her rocking.
“Why are you determined to not enjoy this?” he demanded.
“Jack,” she protested. Her voice was thready and high, and her body tensed. Everywhere.
He groaned, but had to ignore the throbbing heat and the urge to continue.
“Why?” he repeated. Was she determined to keep him at arm’s length because he was a laborer, because he was poorly educated, or because he was a sad specimen of a man unable to support himself, let alone a wife? His heart pounded as he waited for her answer.
“It’s . . . it’s a sin,” she hissed.
He rolled his eyes and let out a loud impatient sigh. “So it is all right to sin, but not to enjoy it? I think even God would find such logic twisted.”
She put her fingers over his mouth.
He supposed that was a signal to stop talking and get on with the action. He pushed down harder on her hips and kissed her fingers. Tilting his head back, he caught the tips between his lips and flicked his tongue against them.
She jerked her hand away with such violence, the inch of space she tried to keep between them disappeared. He breathed deeply, loving the feeling of her breasts against his chest. She slapped her palms against the mattress.
“Stay there,” he whispered. “Stay against me, Caro. I just want you close to me.”
He wanted to shake her, but mostly he wanted to love her.
She sobbed and everything in him went cold. She was so tender, he knew they should have done more to get him close before he dipped his wick.
“Dammit, Caro, I’m hurting you.”
“No-o,” she whimpered. But a huge sob followed and then another.
With every shudder of her body, every time her stomach quivered, a stab of dismay went into his chest. His lungs grew tight, as if he were being suffocated. All he wanted was this to be pleasant for her, and she was crying as if her heart was broken.
“Then why are you crying?” He tried to not sound impatient, but his success was doubtful.
She sniffed as if she’d been trying to hold it back for a long time. Her body shook as sobs rattled through her. “Because it doesn’t hurt.”