Glowing in Gold: The Brothers Duke: Book Five Page 5

  Edward smiled. It was a fair approximation of his usual grin, carefree and incapable of masking more complex emotion, and the men around him relaxed. Soon they were back to making coarse comments about other women in the room; Edward watched them with a look of barely-concealed pity, wishing he could find every woman he’d been awful about in the past and apologise personally.

  After the moment in the workshop, he had simply avoided thinking about Jane. He had shut himself in his room, looked sadly at a bottle of brandy and attempted to drink himself into unconsciousness, but that hadn’t worked. His body very much wished to think about Jane Selkirk, even if his mind had rejected the idea–so think about her he did for a long, erotically-charged night, imagining all the ways that moment in the modiste’s workshop could have been taken further still.

  Potential. Every touch of her face, every stroke of her cheek and slight pull of her hair, had spoken of more enticing things to be found with only a little more exploration. It was like her personality–the more witty asides she gave, the more acute observations she made, one realised that she only grew funnier and more fascinating the more one spoke to her…

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Edward drank the champagne in a swift gulp, earning curious looks from one or two of his friends.

  ‘What’s the matter, Duke? Not enough champagne?’

  ‘No.’ Edward looked bleakly at the dancing couples, hoping and yet fearing that he would see the glimmer of a gold dress. ‘Not enough champagne, and too much ball.’

  In the end, after that night of alcohol-soaked sensual longing, he had emerged from his bedroom with a clearer head. There was no point trying not to think about Jane Selkirk–merely trying to avoid her made her presence all the more inevitable. If she had set up home in his mind, then he may as well learn as much as he could about her.

  The week before the ball had been spent on this all-consuming mission. For a woman he’d never assumed anything about, Miss Selkirk had an incredibly active life. He’d discovered all of the societies of which she was a member, read every piece of scholarly work that she had ever undertaken, and listened carefully to Margaret, Charlotte, Anne and Dorothea talking about her during their interminable conversations. Yes, he’d caught Margaret glaring at him once or twice–but really, she’d never warmed to him a great amount. It was hardly unusual behaviour.

  Unless Jane had told her about what he’d done, of course. That would make things an awful lot more unpleasant. Edward glanced surreptitiously at the edge of the ballroom, where Margaret was speaking lovingly to her husband with a glass of champagne in hand.

  No. She probably didn’t know anything. If she did, he’d be picking pieces of glass out of his hair. Edward sighed again, wishing that he could stop feeling so utterly defenceless.

  The worst of it was that he didn’t want to go back in time. He didn’t even want to return to the carefree, roving days of being a happy rake. If he did that, then–well. It would mean he didn’t know Jane.

  Knowing Jane made him happy. Knowing her in all ways–both in conversation and in his arms. But knowing her meant the inevitable pain of losing her, of wanting her, of… of…

  … he had believed himself to be in love in the past. The operative word in that particular sentence was believed–and belief could be incorrect if it wasn’t tempered by wisdom. This new sensation when he thought of Jane, the new storm of feeling in his breast… Lord, it was like comparing a snowflake to an avalanche.

  But it couldn’t be love. He’d refuse it, push against it, fight it if he could. He was not the sort of man who fell in love, damn it–he wouldn’t, he couldn’t…

  Jane’s bright laughter briefly stilled the room. The wave of need that rose in Edward, the sudden, frightening clutch at his heart, had him gripping his champagne glass far too hard for comfort. He wanted that laughter in his ear, and his alone—wanted it in his bed, at the breakfast table, beside him on long walks…

  … oh, Lord. He was in trouble.

  So this was what Jane had been missing. A night of glittering, golden splendour–a ball that had seemingly been made for her, and her alone. How many times had she looked on from the sidelines as a captivating young woman had danced every dance, a crowd of gentlemen forming with eyes for no-one but the chosen princess?

  She was the princess now. It was all but an objective fact. Not merely the princess of the night—the queen of it. Her dance card had been filled, a dozen gentlemen had made the most extravagant compliments about everything from the style of her hair to the colour of her shoes, and at least three mothers of marriageable daughters had looked at her as if they wanted to kill her…

  … and at some point, presumably, she would begin to enjoy it. She just wasn’t sure when.

  If only she could forget her past. As it was, every display of politeness or interest that a gentleman showed only reminded her of how rude they had been in her days of invisibility. How utterly ignored she had been—why, it was as if they hadn’t seen her as a person, let alone a woman. There were at least four men in the room that had gushingly introduced themselves, asking how on earth they had never met such a charming creature—but they had met her before. She remembered them.

  They didn’t remember her. Apparently, no-one did. Jane looked at the happy dancers, at the ladies and gentlemen full of elegance and laughter, and wondered who the last man to truly see her had been.

  Edward. Edward, in the study of the Duke townhouse, speaking to her with such friendliness. Such surprise. He hadn’t truly seen her before that day, but—but there had been recognition. Even before the gown, the coiffure, the making of the butterfly that was the new Jane Selkirk, he had seen and liked the commonplace caterpillar she was at heart.

  But she wasn’t thinking about Edward if she could possibly help it. He had prepared her for tonight, yes–and he had enjoyed himself with her in a way that left her happy and not ruined, which was really all she should expect from a rake by nature. There were many other gentlemen around her–good, moral gentlemen who had no suggestion of inconstancy attached to their names, who would honour a woman’s reputation all the way to the altar.

  What a pity she didn’t believe anything they said to her. And what a pity that she believed wholeheartedly every word that Edward had ever said.

  Goodness. If she wasn’t careful she was going to stare into space, and that would look very odd surrounded by people. Smiling, murmuring small, pointless comments that Margaret had sternly told her to use if she needed a moment to herself, she managed to slip through the wide-open windows that led to the Weldon gardens.

  At least the garden was a place of halcyon peace. Slightly too cold to encourage amorous couples in bushes, but not cold enough to make being outside intolerable… and oh, the moonlit scent of flowers as each bloom settled itself for the night.

  She was happy in gardens, surrounded by things that didn’t care how she looked. Plants only paid attention to the important things; her diligence at watering, her care at feeding. What she did, rather than any of the other nonsense that had suddenly become so important.

  She felt far too scrutinised tonight. Even if everything seemed positive–more than positive, positively gushing–every smiling face and murmured compliment seemed far too good to be true. The shock with which she was greeted, the effusive enthusiasm that clung to the hem of her gown… all of it, every single particle of it, could turn at the drop of a hat.

  Not here, in the garden. Not with no-one to see her, speak to her, desire her. Here she could recover her equilibrium, fragile as it was in these strange days, and think of something pleasant.

  Not Edward. No, she couldn’t think of him, however pleasant thoughts of him inevitably were. A painful sort of pleasant, though—they tugged directly at the heart, allowing no distraction and no mercy.

  ‘It’s too cold for you to be out here without a shawl.’

  Him. Jane’s bones sang with the knowledge of his presence. She took a deep breath, determined not to lose herself. ‘A
nd did you bring me one, Mr. Duke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then all you’ve given me is a useless piece of advice.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you cold.’

  ‘I’ve spent all night trapped in that infernally stuffy room. A little cold air will refresh me.’

  ‘You could catch a chill.’

  ‘Mr. Duke. If this is leading up to some sort of witticism, I fail to see the path that’s guiding us there.’

  ‘No witticism.’ He was closer now. ‘I just don’t want to see you cold.’

  He sounded different tonight. More serious. Jane turned to him, steeling herself for the shock of his proximity. There he was, silhouetted in the light streaming from the ballroom.

  If only you were slightly less handsome. It would make everything so much easier.

  ‘There’s no need to look so frightened.’

  ‘You’re misreading my expression.’

  ‘Good. Do I frighten you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Better still. Sometimes I–I frighten myself. I’ve been doing that more and more often, lately.’ Edward moved closer. His hair shone in the dim light of the moon; Jane clenched her hand into a fist to prevent herself from stroking the tousled locks. ‘Ever since–’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘I… nothing.’ She had enough bravery to ask the direct question, but she couldn’t persist. Not with him looking quite so handsome, and quite so serious. ‘If you’re so very certain that I’m cold, we should…’

  ‘Should what?’

  Return to the ballroom. Speak to one another like normal people. Reasonable suggestions crowded Jane’s throat, but to her surprise she didn’t say any of them. What she did say came from deep within her, startling her. ‘We… we should go somewhere warmer.’

  It wasn’t flirtation. It was clumsier, needier than that. But Edward nodded, for all the world as if she had said something commonplace. ‘Have you seen the orangery?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The orangery. It’s too large to be considered a glasshouse.’ Edward held out a hand. ‘Come.’

  The touch of his fingers sent sparks through her. It didn’t matter that she was wearing gloves, or that his grip was almost impersonal in its lightness–being close to him, touching him, sent her back to the dressmaker’s workshop with potent haste. She could almost smell the faint scent of soap and cotton in the air, the feel of his lips on hers.

  No. She had to live in the now. Had to look about her as they slipped inside the vast glass environs of the orangery, dark-leaved citrus trees all about them.

  ‘I didn’t know one could keep an orangery in the city. I’m astonished there’s enough room–he must have purchased double the land.’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘And how do you think he managed to get this variety of melon? I was sure it could only grow in sunnier climes.’

  ‘Are we going to speak of Charles Weldon’s talents until sunrise?’

  ‘Maybe. Why?’

  She stopped breathing as Edward placed his hand on the small of her back. Slowly, relentlessly, he pulled her towards him until they stood nose-to-nose, the faint scent of dark soil and citrus sharpening every one of Jane’s senses.

  ‘Because every moment I spent without touching you feels like a waste.’ He gently brushed the tip of his nose against hers; Jane bit back a gasp as a thrill of pleasure ran through her. ‘All right?’

  ‘So listening to me talk is a waste?’

  ‘No. No, I–I didn’t want to say that. I didn’t mean that.’ There it was again, that frustration in his voice–that dark undertone of something very like longing. ‘You know I didn’t–’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why do you challenge me at every turn?’

  ‘Because…’

  Because I’m as frightened as you are.

  For a moment she was seized with the desire to pull Edward back into the ballroom. To make him look at her in the bright light of a hundred candles–to make him show everyone in the crowd the desire for her that she felt burning in him now. Meeting when alone, in silence, couldn’t be the only thing she was expected to hope for.

  But by the time she opened her mouth, forming the words, his lips had met hers. All thought, all reason, flew away at the mere suggestion of a kiss–and when the kiss ripened, deepened, becoming something ragged and raw in the work of a moment, it was all she could do to keep upright.

  ‘Jane.’ Her name in Edward’s mouth felt precious, like a gift she didn’t entirely deserve. He whispered the word in-between kisses, his hands moving to her jaw as he caressed her face. Yes, more kisses–his mouth on her lips, her cheeks, the untouched white line of her neck that sang with pleasure as soon as he touched it. She could respond in kind, give kisses of her own where she wanted to touch him–his cheekbones, his temples, the corner of his mouth from where his smile emerged. Her clumsy, passionate exploration was met with a low, bestial growl in Edward’s throat that drove her onward, giving life to the base instincts filling her body.

  She gasped as the stone bench bordering the orange trees met her back; Edward pushed her downward, his hands gripping her waist as he sank down with her. There was no smoothness here, no prettiness–just hunger, a savage, ardent need that made Jane pull him down to her with barely-concealed violence, her skin thrilling with triumph as she finally felt him covering her with his body.

  Yes. This was what each word signified between them, each look. His body on hers, meeting her, pressing against her with such thirst that it felt as if they were meant to be one.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Edward paused, looking at her with fraught eyes. His breath was hot on her neck; Jane shivered at the feel of it, her body yielding to his against the rough surface of the bench as he reached beneath her skirts. ‘Tell me to stop.’

  ‘I don’t want you to stop.’

  ‘But you can’t know about–’

  ‘I told you that I’ve read things. That I know things.’ Every moment without his mouth on hers was insufferable. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Because my sentiments concerning you are already too good to be true.’

  How could she respond to that? What answer could possibly match the wild surge of hope rising in her chest, dwarfing the lingering suspicions as to his constancy?

  ‘Do you know what I want? Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All I want to do is give you pleasure. It consumes me.’ Edward’s kiss was unexpectedly gentle. ‘Did you know that?’

  Jane couldn’t answer. In the end she gave a weak nod, her entire being focused on the feel of his hand as he stroked her inner thigh. He was so, so close–so near to her centre, hot and wet and hungry for his touch with a strength that was almost embarrassing.

  ‘I’m not exaggerating. I wish I was.’ Edward’s teeth grazed the lobe of her ear; Jane gasped aloud, the sound ending in a lingering sigh of pleasure that echoed through the orangery. ‘Yes, Christ, like that–that sound. All I think about is how to make you do that. How to make you do it again.’

  His fingers gently, skilfully brushed against the damp patch of curls at the meeting of her thighs as he settled his palm against her mound. Oh, Lord, touching her there–how would she ever be able to think about anything else? Jane thrust her hips forward with deep impatience, a soft whimper of pleasure on her lips as Edward held her more firmly.

  ‘Yes. Just like that, my darling.’ Edward kissed her neck, his voice low and rough as his fingers slipped between her curls, finding hot, yielding flesh that no-one else had ever felt. That Jane herself had barely dared to feel with her own fingers, daunted by the power of her own pleasure. He stroked along her slick centre, stopping just short of her bud; the sudden stillness of his fingers made Jane want to scream. ‘Can I give you pleasure?’

  ‘Y–yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Another stroke, deeper, longer. The flames in her licked higher. ‘Thank you.�
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  With another slow, deliberate movement of his fingers, he was in her. Deep, deep in her, knowing she was ready, knowing she was eager for his touch from the way she trembled. Lord, the attention that he paid to her–how could anyone live without it after having experienced it?

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ Edward sounded worried, his fingers stilling. ‘I should–’

  ‘No. Don’t.’ He couldn’t stop now that he had started; she gripped him tightly, using muscles she hadn’t known she possessed. Nothing could stop the pleasure building in her now, the firework shudder of sensation that came when she shifted her hips. ‘You’re not hurting me. You’re–oh, don’t stop.’

  Edward kissed her. His mouth was hot and raw, full of the same need that burned in her own breast. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I thought rakes weren’t supposed to ask so many questions.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about rakes.’ Edward murmured darkly in her year as he curled his fingers once, then twice; Jane cried out, the intensity of the pleasure almost too much to bear. ‘And you’re not going to develop your education in that particular area.’

  ‘You can’t–ah!–command me.’

  ‘I’ve seen what a damned genius you are about everything. If you choose rakes as your specialist subject, you’ll leave the population in tatters.’ Edward curled his fingers again, stroking Jane’s innermost self; Jane gasped, gripping his shirt with shaking hands as another blaze of feeling shot through her. ‘So with your permission, I’m going to make this count.’

  With your permission. As if she had some sort of hold over him. The thought was as precious as it was frightening–but really, she couldn’t think anything at all. Her sense of reason was slowly slipping away, leaving her a creature of pure, ecstatic instinct as Edward coaxed yet more pleasure from deep within her core.

  She had always relied on her brain. Her body had done her no favours, given her no friends, awarded her no accolades; she had begun to view it as a mere receptacle for her mind, a means of carrying her from place to place and nothing more. Apart from tentative periods of self-discovery, begun furtively and finished in shame, her knowledge of her own body was theoretical at best. To have someone display passionate, sustained interest in her not in spite of her body, but because of it–to feel the hunger, the want in him–was the most delirious, intoxicating drug. It was as if years of dull, unquestioning self-dislike were vanishing with every kiss, every stroke, every murmured word of encouragement in her ear.