Page 50 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
So much there was said of its snout and its head,
That they called it the great Janissary:
Not a lady could sleep till she got a sly peep
At the great Plenipotentiary.”
When Frederica started the same verses all over again, Gabe shook off his stupor and took the stairs two at time, following the sound of her voice straight to her closed bedchamber door. He swung open the door and came to a halt, jaw sliding open once more and his own prick hardening at the sight of his wife in the sheerest creation he’d ever seen. It displayed her body in all its superb glory. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, dark hair cascading in waves down her back to touch the top of her perfectly rounded bottom, and her bare arms were slung wide as she spun around. One hand made small circles in the air, and in the other she clutched a snifter of dark amber liquid, which was sloshing over the edges as she spun.
She circled once more, head still back, eyes still closed, and stopped so that she was fully facing him. Her hard nipples showed through the sheer white material of her night rail, as well as the outline of her lush breasts and full hips. His mouth went dry with desire. He hadn’t wanted a wife, but now he had one, and the need to possess her strummed through him. Every moment in her presence was putting cracks in his wall.
He gritted his teeth. “Frederica.”
She jerked her head upright and snapped her eyes open.
Damnation, but her eyes were lovely. Like silver fire across a twilight sky. They warmed him through and not with simple lust. It was a wanting. A dangerous one. Just as he hardened his resolve, she grinned and melted his determination.
“Gabriel!” She dashed toward him and essentially tripped into his arms. He caught her, acutely aware how touching her, embracing her, made not only his groin ache but his damned chest constrict.
“What are you doing?” He plucked the snifter out of her hand just as she brought it to her lips to take, he presumed, another drink. Instead, he swigged it back in one gulp, surprise registering that it was whisky. “Why the devil are you drinking whisky?”
“Because,” she said, nuzzling his neck.
His first reaction was to let her, but his short history with her had taught him it was unwise to allow his instincts to rule him where Frederica was concerned. He needed to take a breath and temper how hot she made his blood run. Except her lips on his bloody neck felt better than anything he could recall ever feeling. It took him until her lips had made a trail down one side of his neck and up the other before he could force himself to pull back and get the answers he needed.
“Frederica.” He grasped her shoulders and held her far enough away that her lips could not tempt him. He couldn’t damned well think straight with her mouth on him. Actually, if he was honest with himself, she’d been wreaking havoc on his ability to concentrate all day. “Why are you imbibing in whisky?”
She gave him a lopsided grin that made him want to laugh. “Well, I was only supposed to have two fingerfuls.” She held up two fingers between them and stared at them as she fluttered them. He tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help himself. She was so deep in her cups. Her brows dipped together in a frown, and she poked him in the chest. “You’re not supposed to laugh at me,” she muttered. “You’re supposed to want me madly in this night rail.”
“I think,” he said, his hands sliding down to her waist with a will of their own, “that we’ve already established that I want you madly. You don’t need to don a night rail such as this to make me burn for you.” She could be wearing a potato sack, and he’d suddenly want to live on a diet of potatoes only. When she frowned, he added, “However, I do like you in it very, very much.”
“I’m glad.” She grinned again. “But I froze my arse off waiting for you in it, which is why I had the third finger of whisky. The first one warmed me so much, I thought three might chase the cold away for good.”
He frowned at her use of the wordarse. Not that he had innocent ears, nor did he really give a damn if she cursed like a sailor or not—it just sounded wrong coming from her for some reason. “But why did you have the first fingerful?” he asked, rubbing her back purely to ensure she was warm. Not at all because it felt so bloody good to touch her.
She tilted her head, looking as if she were having trouble remembering why she drank the whisky to begin with, and then she said, “Oh yes. Because of you, you cocksure jackanapes. I found myself nervous about seducing you, which was quite surprising, and I decided whisky might be just the thing to settle me and is one of the ways to show you I belong here.”
“Was the whisky Blythe’s idea?” She nodded, and then hiccupped. Bloody Blythe. He was going to stuff a rag in her mouth. “And the cursing?” Freddy nodded again. “And did Blythe teach you some bawdy words?” Another nod and a sway. “Cocksure jackanapes?” He hiked his eyebrows at her.
“Did I use the words incorrectly? I’ve loads more where those came from if I did.” She hiccupped again and leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his chest, and that small gesture of trust made more than his chest constrict. His entire body hardened.
“You jumbled it just a bit.” He told himself not to stroke her gently, lovingly, but his hand smoothed over the delicate curve of her head anyway. “I assume Blythe taught them to you today?”
“Yes,” she murmured, her voice heavy as if sleep were near.
“All to show me you belong here because you don’t want to live in Mayfair?”
“I do belong here.” Her weight settled further against him. He tightened his arms, prepared to keep her upright and then pick her up. She was a slip of a woman who was not used to imbibing. “But it’s not just that I don’t want to live in Mayfair.” She raised her head, swaying as she did, and set her hand upon his heart. She tapped her fingers against his chest and settled her hand over his heart as a sad look settled on her face. “To my consternation, I’ve discovered I want this beating organ to beat for me,” she murmured, “but I don’t truly know how to get it to do that.”
A flush of adrenaline shot through him. She wanted his heart. Good God. A longing pierced him, making him stiffen. Suddenly, she slumped against him, and her body became instantly loose and heavy. He reacted immediately, glad to think of her immediate needs and not how she made him feel. He scooped her off her feet and into the safety of his arms. Her head lolled backward, revealing her long, slender neck and her pale skin. He could just see her veins hiding underneath her skin. The pulse there beat strongly, but he knew how fragile life was. And she wanted his heart. She wanted him to let her in and accept all the pain that could come with that if he were to ever lose her.
He shook from the thoughts as he took her to the bed, laid her down, and stared at her, his own heart thudding in his chest while he warred with himself as to whether to stay with her or go to his own bedchamber. But when she shivered and moaned, there was no choice in his mind. He kicked off his shoes and settled behind her, pulling her into his arms. She wiggled, pushing her soft bottom into his groin, and then she let out what sounded like a contented sigh.
An unexpected smile tugged his lips, and he surprised himself by pressing a gentle kiss to her bare shoulder while slipping his arms around her midriff. A strange sensation filled his chest, as he lay listening to her deep breaths, inhaling her scent—a mix of flowers and vanilla and oak from the whisky.
She wanted into his world, and he was denying her. And she wantedhim. She had turned herself inside out tonight in an effort to get those things. It killed him to see her hurting. He had made a grave error in not considering how his actions might hurt her and what effect that might have on him. He was supposed to be protecting her, but he was a danger to her himself. Not a physical one, but that made it no less powerful. Could he allow her in? Could he accept the risk that would bring?
Chapter Eighteen
