Page 53 of To Love and to Loathe
“It was not a terrible marriage, you know. It was somewhat comforting, in fact, that it wasn’t a love match—it felt like we didn’t have unrealistic expectations of each other. The bit in the bedroom was uninspiring, I’ll confess, but he was never terribly interested in me—physically, I mean. I sometimes wonder if he was interested in ladies at all, for that matter. He had his nephew next in line, and he was fondenough of him, so I don’t think he was terribly bothered about producing an heir. He had his pursuits, and I had mine. He was generous with my pin money, and I was able to paint as much as I wanted. I could go about in society and do all the things I loved—dance and socialize and, yes, flirt—without being under constant pressure to find someone to marry, now, and it was all rather pleasant.
“And then Templeton died, and I was sorry about it, because he had been kind enough to me. But even mourning was not so dreadful, because it was an excuse to stay home and paint and be no one but myself, and that was another new sort of freedom for me. And when my mourning period was over, and I was able to be back out among society, and the first flood of invitations came in and I realized I could do whatever I chose, with no one to answer to, with money that was mine, forever…”
She trailed off.
“You got to experience what it is like to live as a man,” he finished for her.
“A very privileged sort of man,” she amended with a quirk to her mouth. “Yes.” She paused, took another breath. “Penvale grew up in that house, too, and I think he felt what I did to a certain extent, but, well… he was able to leave. I had to stay until I was married. And each day that I stayed, I was conscious of what I was costing them.”
She looked down at the pencil in her hands, turning it over between her fingers. “I’ve offered to help Penvale, you know,” she said quietly. “With the cost of buying back Trethwick Abbey. I don’t even know if our uncle would sell it to him, but I told Penvale that if he were willing, I could put up half of the cost.” She looked up again, meeting Jeremy’s eyes, an expression of fond exasperation upon her face. “He refused, of course. Just as he refuses to marry a wealthy heiress tosolve his problems. He’s determined to do it himself—to not rely on anyone else.”
She sighed, the quiet exhalation of breath so soft that Jeremy would not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening so carefully to every word she spoke. “It’s the Bourne curse, apparently—or at least for our particular branch of the family tree. We don’t wish to be a burden on anyone else. We just want our independence—the independence we never had as children.”
She fell silent at last, and Jeremy sat as though frozen in his seat, unable to break her gaze and equally unable to stem the flow of shame he was feeling. He remembered, during her first Season, at some ball or other, mocking her for the list of potential suitors she was keeping. He had dismissed her as cold and mercenary. But he had never truly understood. He’d had his fair share of financial difficulties, particularly after the death of David, but at the end of the day he’d been a marquess—and, prior to inheriting, the second son of a marquess, with an allowance befitting his position. He’d never felt this helpless sense of dependence that she had experienced. How could he fault her for using the one weapon she had in her arsenal?
“Have you finished sketching me?” he asked, his voice rough at the edges.
She blinked, then looked down, appearing surprised to see the sketch pad before her and the pencil still clutched in her hand. “I suppose I have. This is certainly a good enough start for this evening.”
“Good.” He rose in one fluid motion and walked toward her. He reached down and plucked the sketch pad and pencil from her hand, laying them down carefully on a nearby table. He then took her hands in his and drew her to her feet. The firelight flickered across her face, creating shadows against her cheekbones, dancing across thesmattering of freckles on her nose. He drew her forward until they were pressed together and he could feel the steady beat of her heart pounding against his chest.
“I’m sorry for judging you. In the past, I mean,” he added, seeing her slight frown. “I didn’t understand. I couldn’t possibly have understood. But I understand a bit better now, and I apologize for how I behaved then. It’s years too late, but—”
“Better late than never,” she said softly, but there was a warmth to her gaze that let him know he was forgiven—a warmth that he was not certain he’d ever seen directed at him, from her.
A warmth that made other parts of him begin to heat in response.
“It feels rather presumptuous to ask for anything, when I’ve just had to apologize to you,” he said, leaning forward slowly, bringing his face oh so close to her own.
“But…?” she breathed against his mouth.
“I’m ready for my next lesson,” he said, and claimed her mouth with his.
He had a wild, fleeting thought that he would never grow tired of kissing her. And that was madness, of course—ithadto be madness, because there was not a woman of his acquaintance that he’d not eventually grown tired of kissing. He saw no reason that this trend should change now. And yet, somehow, it seemed impossible to him that he should ever grow weary of the warmth of her mouth, of the soft little sigh she made at the back of her throat as she settled more deeply into the kiss, of the taste of her, of the feeling of her tongue tangling with his own.
One of his hands sank into her thick, glorious hair while the other reached for her waist, undoing the laces there and a moment later shoving her wrapper from her shoulders and down her arms to poolat her feet on the floor. His own banyan followed a moment later, and he pressed himself more firmly against her, the heat of their skin separated now only by the fine material of his shirt and her nightgown. He felt her hand scrabbling at his waist, and in the next instant it had worked its way beneath his shirt, resting flat against his abdomen and making it very hard for him to concentrate on anything happening above that particular region of his body. A moment later, she was tugging at the hem of the shirt, and he stepped back to pull it over his head in one fluid motion and toss it aside.
And now, he did allow himself a moment of male smugness, because the way she was staring at his naked chest was nothing if not flattering. Had it been any of his previous bed partners, he would have offered a seductive “Like what you see?” accompanied by the requisite arching of one devilish brow, but he rather thought that any so blatant attempt at seduction withthisparticular lady would result in nothing more than laughter on her part—and laughter did, at key moments, have a rather deflating effect upon the proceedings.
So instead, he merely closed the distance between them once more, seized her about the waist, and resumed where they had left off a moment before.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Diana asked breathlessly, “Should we move to the bed?” After a moment of lazy incomprehension—his mind never did seem able to move terribly swiftly in these sorts of situations—he nodded in agreement, and shortly thereafter found himself braced on one elbow as he slowly drew her nightgown over her head. Each inch of skin that he revealed was more enticing than the last: her long legs; the nip of her waist; the full breasts that had occupied no inconsiderable amount of his attention over the years. At last she was naked before him, and with abit of hasty maneuvering—and an awkward sort of high leg kick that would not perhaps go down in his seduction archives as one of his finer moments—he, too, was in a similar state of undress.
Normally, at this juncture in the proceedings, he would have plunged forward boldly—a hand between her legs, or perhaps his mouth, depending on how things were going; the quick application of a French letter; and then, bliss—but tonight, he hesitated. He met her eyes for a moment, feeling more uncertain than he had at any point since he’d been an actual virgin, and she smiled.
“Good,” she said lightly, “you’re already learning.” His confusion must have been evident upon his face, because she added, “It’s not a race. We’ve made it this far in relatively little time; there’s no harm in pausing the proceedings for a bit.”
“I find it a trifle difficult to be patient at the moment,” he said through gritted teeth, and her eyes flicked downward. She met his gaze again a moment later and her mouth curved into a very feline sort of smile.
“Shall I take pity on you?” she murmured, and a moment later her small hand curved around him, making him jerk involuntarily in her grip. “Is that better?” she asked innocently, blinking at him. He resisted the urge to moan with great difficulty, and instead thrust into her palm again, the heat and friction of her hand so maddening that it was all he could do to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. She tightened her hold on him and stroked him slowly; he reached down and seized her hand, adjusting her grip, showing her the pace he liked. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and before long his arm gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto his side even as she rolled onto hers, allowing herself better access to the portion of his anatomy she was presently interested in.
At one point, she allowed her eyes to flick up to his face for a moment, gauging his reaction, before casting them back down once more, evidently satisfied with whatever she saw in his expression.
“I thought,” he managed to get out, after some indeterminate period of bliss.
“Mmm?” She gave an inquisitive hum, never removing her attention from the task at hand. Literally.
“I thought… Jesus Christ.” This time hedidmoan. “I thought you were supposed to be teachingmehow to pleaseyou.”
