Page 39 of Lord Garson's Bride
“And now?”
He pulled the blinds down, plunging them into shadow. “Shift across and sit on my lap.”
Gingerly, balancing herself against the swaying carriage, she wriggled over and perched on his knee.
His thick dark lashes lowered as he inspected her gown. “Why, Jane, I do believe you’re wearing a dress that fastens up the front. Can it be you had dalliance in mind?”
She blushed again. “Given what happened in the cathedral, I didn’t want you to tear it.”
“Very…sensible of you.”
“You married me because I’m sensible,” she said, regretting the sourness that crept into her answer.
He didn’t seem to hear it. Instead his gaze remained fixed on the way her breasts molded against the front of her dress. The ache in her nipples intensified, and she shifted on the seat. The itch between her legs had become familiar. As had the needy weight in the pit of her stomach.
“You’ve proven to be so much more,” he said. “I’m a lucky fellow.”
Given he hadn’t yet had her, she couldn’t believe he really felt like that, but she’d learned enough in the last few days to let the comment pass. Right now, she didn’t want to distract him from putting his hands on her.
Which was why she’d worn this gown. As he’d guessed straightaway. There was nothing slow about Hugh Rutherford.
The carriage hit a rut, and she bumped against his thighs. Those strong hands—hands that, in her restless dreams, did so many brazen things to her—closed on her waist. It would be easy to fall off his lap, but she knew Hugh would keep hersafe. Somewhere since their wedding, she’d learned to trust her husband.
The shock of that revelation kept her silent, as his touch softened and the male part of him hardened. So close to him, she couldn’t miss his swift arousal.
“Now, how to manage this,” he said in a musing tone. “I think perhaps… That’s right. Turn your back to me and tuck your head into my shoulder.”
Battling the moving carriage and propping her hand against the firm width of his chest, she wriggled some more until her cheek pressed against his neck. She rested upon him, buttocks nestled against his rod in a most improper manner. Once that might have frightened her, but now it just heightened her need.
“That’s good,” he murmured. “Now straddle my knees.”
“Like I’m riding astride?” She remained overwhelmingly conscious of the hard flesh rising against her bottom.
“Yes.” His arms closed around her as she shifted. His groan vibrated in her ears.
“Am I hurting you?”
They were so closely entwined that she felt as much as heard his grunt of derisive amusement. “No more than usual.”
“Hugh…”
As the carriage dipped into another hollow, she automatically closed her legs around his and dug her fingers into his forearms. This pose permitted no modesty. Her skirts were generous enough—just—to accommodate her, but the constant lurching intensified the empty ache inside her. Through layers of petticoats, she felt the strength of his thighs against her sex. She might as well be naked.
He firmed his hold. “You know how to make it better.”
She did. But she wasn’t yet ready to change from bride to wife. This courtship made her feel powerful and desirable, and not like plain, practical Jane Norris at all.
“Perhaps not in a carriage.”
“A man can hope.”
“One day his hope may even be fulfilled,” she said with an attempt at humor, but the words emerged in breathy fits and starts and sounded like a promise. Between her legs, she became embarrassingly damp. She squirmed to escape the tormenting friction of his thighs, but that only made it worse.
Or better.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, although there was nobody but the two of them to hear.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, which wasn’t entirely true.
