In the Widow’s Bed Page 3

  The Frenchman caught on quickly and covered her moving fingers with his own. The dual attention excited her unbearably and she moaned as her lover nudged into her body and then thrust deep.

  “Merci! Tu es magnifique!” he whispered against her shoulder.

  While she adjusted to his surprising girth, his fingers slipped and slid with hers, working to build her passion higher. When he thrust, then pulled out completely before sinking deep into her body, Phoebe moaned.

  Sensations built swiftly while her lover used all his skill to coax her legs wider, to help her accept more of him. The thick length of him invaded her body, battering her senses into submission. Phoebe moaned at the joy of surrender.

  A heavy rising tension gripped her as his sure hard thrusts claimed her completely. She opened to him, letting him use her as he saw fit.

  Behind her, the Frenchman grunted, his hand clutched her hip tight. “Together we will come, mon amour,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, oh God, yes.”

  Phoebe rubbed harder against her nub while behind her, the Frenchman thrust deep then ground their hips together in a tight circle. Phoebe’s body clenched and then shook violently, dragging a loud wail from her lungs at the intensity.

  The Frenchman shuddered, and then thrust hard three times as he pumped his seed into her body. His heavy weight fell over her, cocooning her in blistering heat. Phoebe hung her head as she struggled for breath. Never. Not once had her husband affected her senses like this. What she’d thought she wanted, and what she’d gotten, surpassed her every desire.

  She’d have to remember to thank Lord Selwood the next time she saw him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jonathan sipped his coffee behind the days’ newssheet while the houseguests clattered and chattered over breakfast. He supposed he was being rude by not conversing with them, but he needed the dry analytical content of the paper to control his raging arousal.

  Lady Jocelyn sat across from him, daintily eating her breakfast and sipping her tea. But she had stretched out her leg and was currently running her toe up and down his trouser in a brazen flirtation.

  However, what aroused Jonathan was Lady Warminster’s presence across the room, fixing herself a heaped plate of food. He could usually bear the sight of her without reaction, but today her smile tortured him. She looked smugly happy, content and, given the way her lips lifted for no obvious reason, he wondered if she was thinking of last night.

  Jonathan tucked his legs under his chair, turned the page, and tried to concentrate on the goings on in parliament that he’d missed during the recent sessions. But the paper couldn’t hold his interest. He lowered a corner as Lady Warminster sank into a chair at his side.

  “Lord Selwood, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the day.” She reached for her silver.

  Jonathan folded the paper and set it in his lap, waving away the footman eager to take it from him. He might just need it to escape the room without drawing undue attention. “Good morning, my lady.”

  The blonde beauty smiled, lips lifting enough to torture. Jonathan glanced away. Was she thinking of last night and her mysterious French lover?

  Across the table, Lady Jocelyn winked at him.

  Jonathan turned back to Lady Warminster as she cleared her throat.

  “I must thank you, Selwood, for your advice last evening. I believe I’ve never had a better night’s rest.”

  Jonathan coughed. She hadn’t had a wink of sleep till the early hours of the morning. He’d made damn sure of that. “I’m glad.”

  Still, the memory of his deception, imitating his late mother’s people, sat ill with him. But if the lady had known she’d entertained Jonathan Oliver—a gentleman younger than her stepson—in her bed he’d have been kicked from the room posthaste. However, the French had a way with words that never ceased to arouse his lovers. So he’d disguised his voice and used the cover of the darkened chamber to share the night with the lovely Lady Warminster. He couldn’t regret that fact.

  Cautiously, Jonathan glanced down at the paper in his lap. When he shifted it aside he discerned that he might need to stay seated for a bit longer until his aroused state was less noticeable to others.

  “Morning Selwood,” Lizzy sang out as she swept into the room. “What are you doing here so early?”

  Thank heavens for small mercies. The presence of his sister would surely dampen any amorous inclinations. “And a good morning to you too, Lizzy.”

  While he watched, Lizzy filled her plate to alarming proportions, avoided eye contact with the lingering bachelors, and sank into the chair on his other side. Jonathan eyed the plate. “If you consume all that you shall have the gentlemen stampeding in the other direction. Be sure not to overdo,” he whispered.

  Lizzy’s lips lifted in a sweet smile. “Occupe-toi de tes affaires, Selwood.”

  “Sois sage, enfant.” The warning quip to behave rolled off his tongue in French easily in response. However, when silver clattered against china to his right, dread trickled through him. He turned to Lady Warminster. She stared at her plate with fixed attention, grasping her retrieved knife and fork with a tight grip, an alarmingly high color pinked her cheeks.

  Concerned, he set his fingertips to her hand. “Are you at all well, my lady?”

  The countess shrugged and his fingers were dislodged. “Yes, yes, everything is fine.” Then she hastily shoved food in her mouth. Unsure if he had given himself away or not, Jonathan finished his coffee. Given that his sister’s presence had a strong cooling effect on his desires, he no longer had any need to linger at the table. He excused himself and, despite failing in his mission to speak privately to Lady Jocelyn, he went off to find his friend.

  As usual, Lord Warminster was in his study, resplendent in shockingly bright shades of green silk. Warminster glanced up swiftly as the sound of the door opening reached him then buried his head in his confidential report again. Jonathan paced the room until he was done. “I came to say goodbye.”

  “Forget it.” Warminster advised in his usual voice, devoid of the grating cheeriness. “You are here for the duration.”

  Jonathan stared at his friend, or soon to be ex-friend if he ever learned where he had spent last night. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t be trusted not to expose himself to Warminster’s stepmother in more ways than one. “I do have other responsibilities, old man.”

  Warminster crossed his arms over his chest, and Jonathan noticed he sported yet another garishly vulgar gold fob chain. He really did dress the part well.

  “Elizabeth is here. She’s your responsibility. You couldn’t hope to have a better excuse to linger around the ladies.”

  “Ha.” Jonathan shook his head. Lizzy refused to follow his advice, and after many a pitched battle, he’d given up. Besides, life had become infinitely more peaceful since he stopped trying to force her down the matrimonial path. Once Lizzy ceased all her blustering, he found her surprisingly good company. However, most men did not consider their sister’s happiness when planning such alliances. Like Warminster they remained at loggerheads for all eternity, determined to marry them off for political and financial gain. “Lizzy will go her own way regardless of my presence.”

  “She needs a leash.”

  Jonathan wearily sank into a chair as the exertions of last night, the lack of sleep, overwhelmed him. He planned to put his feet up and take a nice long nap when he returned home to Dalemain Court. “Then someone else will have to fit it to her. She bites.”

  Staying for the whole of the house party might provide him with the opportunity to woo Lady Jocelyn out from under Warminster’s nose, yet after the adventure of last night the debutante’s charms were less appealing than they should be.

  Warminster looked up, a scowl creasing his face into fury. “Do you not care how she is perceived by others? The gossip about her is quite offensive. I considered calling Perkins out last night over some unflattering comments about her ability to make a match. I sim
ply cannot lose my temper around these fools.”

  Amused by his friend’s strong reaction, Jonathan leaned forward. “Settle your feathers. Have you not worked it out yet? She has a grand plan in mind for her life. Marriage does not feature in it at all.”

  “Ridiculous. You’ve let her run wild.”

  “Well, if you believe that’s the case, my friend, you’re welcome to attempt to take her in hand,” Jonathan urged. “Just don’t come complain to me later when the wound turns septic.”

  Warminster skin darkened, his lips pressed tight together. The other man didn’t remain silent long. “If this is how you speak of Elizabeth then it is not surprising she remains unmarried.”

  Jonathan was too weary for Warminster’s games. “Oh, for God sake. You know Lizzy very well. She won’t marry without love. Our parents’ unhappy union taught us too well. And don’t pretend this is all my doing that she’s still here to tempt you. If you’re so concerned, you should have trusted that she could keep your confidences. You should have wed her years ago and been done with these foolish games.”

  Warminster scowled, tugging on his pea green waistcoat. “Don’t be ridiculous. In my line of work a man can’t have an intelligent female clinging permanently to his arm. She could be badly hurt if anyone believed she was in my confidence.”

  Secretly, Jonathan pitied Warminster. Perhaps his friend didn’t understand his sister after all. “You’d be surprised how well Lizzy can defend herself. Just last week she blackened Lord Archer’s eye for touching her arm.”

  Warminster’s eyes widened. “She didn’t?”

  “Knocked him right on his presumptuous arse. I haven’t laughed so hard in ages.” Jonathan shrugged. “At least, not since the last swain came to pester her.”

  Warminster stood suddenly and started pacing. After three turns around the room, he stopped at the door to the terrace. “Just how well can Elizabeth defend herself?”

  “I’ve not trained her, if that’s what you’re asking. But she does have a suitably robust temper and tends to use whatever is at hand.”

  His friend pivoted, eyebrows raised high. “Like poor potted plants?”

  Jonathan laughed weakly. “Oh, hell. Has Lizzy gotten physical with one of your guests? I bet Mr. Perkins regrets following her onto the terrace now.”

  “Not Perkins.” Warminster ran both hands through his pale hair, disturbing the precise curls.

  Alarmed, Jonathan sat forward. “Warminster? Are you all right?”

  The other man nodded, but then shook his head. “A man, a stranger, was found just outside that terrace door this morning. Trussed like a bird with the shattered remnants of a potted petunia at his feet. I had wondered who’d dealt with him.”

  “A spy?”

  Warminster nodded and his face paled horribly. “Very likely.”

  “Well, Lizzy appears no worse for wear this morning,” Jonathan mused. “In fact, I thought her downright cheerful.”

  “Good. Good.” Warminster however appeared anything but. “I need to speak with her.”

  Now that would be an interesting conversation, certainly one not to miss. So much for Lizzy’s good mood. Jonathan wearily dragged himself to his feet. “They were at breakfast when I left them.”

  “They?”

  “Lizzy and your mother.”

  “Stepmother,” Warminster corrected as he dragged Jonathan from the room. But the ladies were no longer at the table. They stood some distance away in the garden.

  Warminster hailed them cheerfully and swiftly dragged Jonathan’s sister aside for a private tête-à-tête. Jonathan watched them for a long moment and, seeing Lizzy didn’t appear likely to kneecap his friend immediately, he let his gaze shift to the countess.

  Lady Warminster appeared to be looking everywhere but at him. Disappointed, he glanced at his sister and his friend where they stood in deep conversation. No sign of trouble yet. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”

  Her back stiffened. “No, thank you.”

  Jonathan shrugged off the rebuff. If she had worked out who had shared her bed last night, and didn’t like it, then that was her problem. But he distinctly remembered the lady singing his praises repeatedly during the night. She might fool herself today that she’d been imposed upon, but Jonathan remembered that she’d enjoyed his attentions thoroughly.

  He sat with a groan, and swiveled so he could lie upon the bench, pressing one arm across his eyes. He’d rest here a few moments then return home.

  ~ * ~

  Phoebe discreetly watched Lord Selwood fall asleep on the hard stone bench while she tried to control her pounding heart. But her pulse raced with the fear that she had not just been indiscreet, she’d been monumentally stupid. How could she have taken a man to her bed and not tried harder to determine his identity.

  To be sure, the French accent had distracted her. She’d forgotten Selwood’s late mother was a French émigré, but the quick snippet of conversation she’d heard between Selwood and his sister at breakfast had brought her memory flooding back. Selwood spoke French fluently enough for her to suspect that Warminster might enlist his help in his highly secretive work. But had she really taken a man to her bed whose age was so much lower than hers?

  Why would he desire an old woman?

  She turned to face him fully. The long, dark hair fanned out over the stone bench was of similar length to her lover’s. The expertly tailored jacket and waistcoat hid a broad and possibly muscled chest. Phoebe let her gaze travel on, noting the strong legs, large feet and—when her gaze rose again—the obvious outline of an erection tenting his dark trousers.

  “May I help you, my lady?” Selwood watched her, a wicked smile lingering on his lips.

  Appalled to be caught staring, Phoebe spun about. No! She simply could not have made love to him. But when she heard Selwood climb to his feet and move to stand behind her she trembled.

  “I forgot. You like the cloak of darkness to hide your desires behind. Did you enjoy your view, ma belle?”

  Phoebe raised a hand to her throat. “Don’t speak like that.”

  A light touch ghosted over her back. “Why not? You didn’t object last night. In fact, you were quite vocal in your appreciation of certain conversations. I particularly enjoyed the one about your breasts.”

  “Please. Stop.”

  “That wasn’t what you said last night.”

  Phoebe swung around. “How dare you?”

  A pleased grin spread across Selwood’s handsome face. “Why not me? I met all of your criteria. Clean, experienced, available, and discreet. No one could possibly suspect I was in your bed last night. And I would do it again to ‘ear you scream in pleasure, mon amour.”

  Phoebe’s heart beat frantically as Selwood added the French accent to his last words. “Warminster will kill you when he finds out. You know what he is. Were you tired of his friendship?”

  Selwood’s arrogant smile chilled her. “No, not tired of it. But things change. He set me to watch you last evening and his desire happened to coincide with mine. Can you imagine he placed me in the bedchamber beside yours with orders to beat any man to a pulp if they so much as looked at you twice? It wasn’t hard to convince me, but I put on a good show of resistance just the same.”

  She stared up into his dark eyes and her body quivered.

  “I would make love to you in the light, ma belle. Bring you such pleasure that you would scream my name for all to hear. I could rest your back against that broad oak tree, fall to my knees at your feet and delve beneath your skirts. Would you like to watch me lick your nub until the pleasure overtakes you?”

  Phoebe shook her head to banish the erotic image. This surely must be a dream.

  “Or would you like me to lure you to the center of the maze, push you to your knees and take you from behind again? When we were joined, I could feel every intimate shudder of your body, every gasp from your lips, and hear every plea for me to fuck you harder.”

  Selwood’s fingers s
lid along her arm, drawing heat from every pore of her skin. To her horror, she could feel moisture flooding from between her legs. Phoebe pressed her thighs together as Lord Selwood moved closer.

  “Look at me.”

  Hesitantly, Phoebe glanced up. Lord Selwood’s dark gaze burned into her composure. Her breasts grew heavy, nipples hardening to painful peaks under her thin day gown. Selwood’s gaze swept across her chest—lingering on her breasts in a most unsettling way. His smile grew. “No corset.”

  Phoebe dragged in a breath as his hands moved. He didn’t touch. He was only teasing her with the idea of it. Yet her body believed what it wanted to. She burned for more pleasure.

  “In case you miss me, ma belle, I’m not adverse to a daytime rendezvous. I am under Warminster’s orders to stay for the entire house party so I’ll be in my bedchamber, and at your disposal, for the whole afternoon.”

  Phoebe’s mind whirled. Selwood was staying in the house, in the bedchamber next to hers for the whole week of this godforsaken house party. She’d have to lock the doors to keep him out.

  “Now, as much as I’d like to continue our stirring discussion, you must excuse me. The conversation between your son and my sister looks to be reaching a critical point. Warminster might do better with his head on his shoulders. Lizzy appears incensed. Au revoir.”

  While Phoebe blinked away the effects of Selwood’s verbal seduction, he strode off, collected his furious sister, and disappeared around the ornamental pond.

  Good God. Phoebe was doomed.

  With just a few short words, Selwood had reduced her to a mass of quivering need. She couldn’t get the images he’d planted in her mind to go away. The idea of the young, muscled man pleasuring her in the garden brought greater yearning coursing through her. She wanted him. She wanted to come again against that talented mouth, on the thick cock she’d surrendered to last night. Damn it, she wanted everything.