“Indeed,” agreed Lady Brimworthy, admiring the fortune in diamonds and sapphires at Victoria’s slender throat. “Brimworthy flies into the boughs when I buy jewels,” she added morosely. “Next time he rings a peal over my head for being extravagant, I shall mention Wakefield’s generosity!”
When elderly Countess Draymore reminded Victoria to join her tomorrow for a Venetian breakfast the countess was giving, Victoria replied, “I’m afraid I cannot, Countess Draymore. I’ve been away from my husband for four days now, and to tell you the truth, I miss his company. He is the very soul of amiability and kindness!”
Countess Draymore’s mouth dropped open. As Victoria moved away, the old lady turned to her cronies and blinked. “The soul of amiability and kindness?” she repeated in puzzlement. “Where did I conceive the idea she was married to Wakefield?”
In his house on Upper Brook Street, Jason paced back and forth across his suite like a caged beast, silently cursing his aging London butler for giving him incorrect information about Victoria’s whereabouts tonight, and cursing himself for coming to London in pursuit of her like a jealous, lovesick boy. He had gone to the Berfords’ tonight, which was where the butler said Victoria was, but Jason hadn’t seen her among the crush at the Berfords’ ball. Nor was she at any of the other three places the butler thought she might be.
* * *
So successful was Victoria in her attempt to appear devoted to her husband that by the end of the evening, the guests were regarding her with more amusement than concern. She was still smiling about that when she entered the house shortly before dawn.
She lit the candle the servants had left for her on the table in the foyer and climbed the carpeted staircase. She was in the process of lighting the candles in her bedchamber when a stealthy sound from the adjoining suite caught her attention. Praying that the person in there was a servant and not a prowler, Victoria moved quietly toward the door. Holding her candle high in her shaking hand, she reached for the handle on the connecting door just as it was flung open, startling a scream from her. “Jason!” she said shakily, her hand on her throat. “Thank God it’s you. I-I thought you were a prowler and I was about to have a look.”
“Very brave,” he said, glancing at the upraised candle in her hand. “What were you going to do if I was a prowler—threaten to set my eyelashes on fire?”
Victoria’s giggle caught in her throat as she noticed the ominous glitter in those green eyes and the muscle leaping in his hard jaw. Behind that sardonic facade of his, there was a terrible burning anger, she realized. Automatically, she began backing away as Jason moved forward, towering over her. Despite the civilized elegance of his superbly tailored evening clothes, he had never looked more dangerous, more overpowering than he did as he came toward her with that deceptively lazy, stalking stride of his.
Victoria started backing around her bed, then stopped moving and quelled her rioting, irrational fear. She had not done anything wrong, and here she was behaving like a cowardly child! She would discuss this whole thing reasonably and rationally, she decided. “Jason,” she said, with only a small quiver in her reasonable voice, “are you angry?”
He stopped a few inches from her. Brushing back the sides of his black velvet jacket, he put his hands on his hips, his booted feet planted apart, his legs spread in a decidedly aggressive stance. “You could say that,” he drawled in an awful voice. “Where the hell have you been?”
“At—at Lady Dunworthy’s ball.”
“Until dawn?” he sneered.
“Yes. There’s nothing unusual in that. You know how late these things go—”
“No, I don’t know,” he said tightly. “Suppose you tell me why the minute you are out of my sight you forget how to count!”
“Count?” Victoria repeated, growing more frightened by the moment. “Count what?”
“Count days,” he clarified acidly. “I gave you permission to be here for two days, not four!”
“I don’t need your permission,” Victoria burst out unwisely. “And don’t pretend you care whether I’m here or at Wakefield!”
“Oh, but I do care,” he said in a silky voice, stripping off his jacket with slow deliberation and beginning to unbutton his white lawn shirt. “And you do need my permission. You’ve become very forgetful, my sweet—I’m your husband, remember? Take off your clothes.”
Wildly, Victoria shook her head.
“Don’t make me angry enough to force you,” he warned softly. “You won’t like what happens if you do, believe me.”
Victoria believed that wholeheartedly. Her shaking hands went to the back of her dress, awkwardly fumbling with the tiny fasteners. “Jason, for God’s sake, what’s wrong?” she pleaded.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated scathingly, tossing his shirt on the floor. “I’m jealous, my dear.” His hands went to the waistband of his trousers. “I’m jealous, and I find the feeling not only novel, but singularly unpleasant.”
Under other circumstances, Victoria would have been overjoyed at his admission of jealousy. Now it only made her more frightened, more tense, and her fingers more awkward.
Seeing her lack of progress, Jason reached out and roughtly spun her around, his hands unfastening the tiny loops at the back of her gown with an ease that spoke of long experience in undressing women. “Get into bed,” he snapped, giving her a shove in that direction.
Victoria was a mass of quivering rebellion and jellied fear by the time he joined her and pulled her roughly into his arms. His mouth came down on hers in a hard, punishing kiss and she clamped her teeth together, gasping at the harsh pressure.
“Open your mouth, damn you!”
Victoria braced her hands against his chest and averted her face from his. “No! Not this way. I won’t let you!”
He smiled at that—a hard, cruel smile that chilled her blood. “You’ll let me, my sweet,” he whispered silkily. “Before I’m done with you, you’ll ask me.”
Furious, Victoria shoved against his chest with an unexpected strength born of fear and rolled out from under him. She had almost got her feet to the floor when he caught her arm and yanked her back onto the bed, jerking her hands up and pinioning them above her head, then throwing his leg over both of hers. “That was very foolish,” he whispered, and slowly bent his head.
Tears of fear sprang to Victoria’s eyes as she lay pinned on her back like a trussed hare, watching Jason’s mouth descend purposefully toward hers. But instead of a renewed, painful assault like the last one, his mouth took hers in a long, insolently thorough kiss while his free hand began roving up and down her body, his fingers cupping a rosy breast, lightly squeezing the thrusting nipple, then drifting lower down her flat abdomen, stroking and caressing the triangular mound of curly golden hair, until her traitorous body began to respond to his skillful hand. Victoria squirmed in frantic earnest as his fingers moved lower yet, but it was no use—he wedged his leg between her knees and his fingers gained entry to the place they sought.
Liquid heat began to race through her, eventually sapping her strength, melting her resistance, and her lips parted beneath his. His tongue drove into her mouth, filling it, then withdrawing, while his fingers within her began to match the slow, driving movements of his tongue. The incredibly erotic onslaught of her senses was more than Victoria could withstand. With a silent moan of surrender she gave herself up to him, turning her face fully toward him and returning his kiss, her body pliant beneath him. The moment she did, Jason released her hands.
His head dipped lower and he nuzzled her neck as he sought the rosy ripeness of her breasts. His tongue drew tiny circles on her heated skin; then his mouth closed over her nipple, wringing a gasp of pure pleasure from her as she clasped his dark, curly head and held it to her. With an odd little laugh he moved lower, his tongue tracing a hot path down her taut abdomen until Victoria realized what he meant to do and tried frantically to wriggle away. His hands caught her hips, lifting her to him as his mouth closed aroun
d her. By the time he stopped, white-hot sensations were screaming through Victoria’s entire body and she was desperate for release.
He raised himself up over her, his hot engorged manhood probing lightly, teasingly at the place his hands and mouth had been. Moaning softly, Victoria arched her hips, her hands pulling his hips to her. He eased into her wet warmth with tormenting slowness, then moved gently backward and forward, thrusting himself into her a fraction deeper each time, withdrawing slightly, then driving deeper, until Victoria was half-mad with the need to be completely filled by him. Her legs gripped him and she lifted to meet each thrust, her face flushed, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Suddenly he drove into her with a force that sent a scream of pure pleasure through her—and just as suddenly, he pulled out.
“No!” Victoria cried out in surprised loss, wrapping her arms around him.
“Do you want me, Victoria?” he whispered.
Her dazed eyes flew open and she saw him, his hands braced beside her head as he held himself away from her, his face hard.
“Do you?” he repeated.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Victoria choked.
“Do you want me?” he repeated, circling his hips provocatively against her sensitive softness. “Tell me.”
Passion was raging through her body, battling against her weakened will, arguing in his favor. He was jealous. He cared. He was hurt by her long absence. Her lips formed the word “yes,” but not even raging desire could make her voice it.
Satisfied with that, Jason gave her what she wanted. As if to atone for humbling her, he gave of himself with unselfish determination, moving his body in the ways that gave her maximum pleasure, fighting down the demands of his rampaging desire as she shuddered beneath him with each plunging stroke. He brought her to a tumultuous climax, holding her impaled on his throbbing staff as spasms of pleasure shook her. Then he crushed her to him and finally allowed himself release.
When it was over, there was complete silence between them. Jason was still for a long minute, staring at the ceiling; then he got out of bed and walked into his own rooms. Other than their wedding night, it was the first time he had ever left her after making love to her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
VICTORIA AWOKE WITH A HEAVY, aching heart, feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. A lump of harsh despair grew in her throat when she remembered Jason’s humiliating, unprovoked revenge on her last night. Shoving her tousled hair off her face, she leaned up on an elbow, her gaze drifting with numb abstractedness about the room. And then her eyes fell on the leather jewelry case beside the bed.
A rage unlike any she had ever experienced exploded in her brain, obliterating every other emotion within her. She hurtled out of bed, pulled on a dressing robe, and snatched up the box.
In a furious swirl of pale green satin, she flung open the door to Jason’s room and stalked in. “Don’t you ever give me another piece of jewelry!” she hissed.
He was standing beside his bed, his long legs encased in biscuit-colored trousers, his chest bare. He glanced up just in time to see her hurl the box at his head, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle to avoid the heavy leather box that sailed by, missing his ear by a hairsbreadth.
It hit the polished floor with a loud thud and slid beneath his bed. “I’ll never forgive you for last night,” Victoria blazed, her nails digging into her palms, her chest rising and falling with each furious breath. “Never!”
“I’m sure you won’t,” he said in a flat, expressionless voice and reached for his shirt.
“I hate your jewelry, I hate the way you treat me, and I hate you! You don’t know how to love anyone—you’re a cynical heartless bastard!”
The word flew out of her mouth before Victoria realized what she had said, but whatever reaction she expected, it was not the one she received. “You’re right,” he agreed tightly. “That’s exactly what I am. I’m sorry to have to shatter any illusions you may still have about me, but the truth is, I’m the by-product of a brief, meaningless liaison between Charles Fielding and some long forgotten dancer he kept in his youth.”
He pulled a shirt on over his muscular shoulders and shoved his arms into it, while it slowly began to register on Victoria that he thought he was confessing something ugly and repugnant to her.
“I grew up in squalor, raised by Charles’s sister-in-law. Later, I slept in a warehouse. I taught myself to read and write; I didn’t go to Oxford or do any of the things your other refined, aristocratic suitors have done. In short, I am none of the things you think I am—none of the good things or the nice things.”
He began buttoning his shirt, his hooded gaze carefully lowered to his hands. “I’m not a fit husband for you. I’m not fit to touch you. I’ve done things that would make you sick.”
Captain Farrell’s words sliced through Victoria’s mind: The hag made him kneel and beg for forgiveness in front of those dirty Indians. Victoria looked at Jason’s proud, lean face, and she felt as if her heart would break. Now she even understood why he wouldn’t, couldn’t, accept her love.
“I’m a bastard,” he finished grimly, “in the truest meaning of the word.”
“Then you’re in excellent company,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “So were three sons of King Charles, and he made them all dukes.”
For a moment he looked nonplussed; then he shrugged. “The point is that you’ve told me you loved me, and I can’t let you go on thinking that. You loved a mirage, not me. You don’t even know me.”
“Oh yes, I do,” Victoria burst out, knowing that whatever she said now would determine their entire future. “I know everything about you—Captain Farrell told me more than a week ago. I know what happened to you when you were a little boy. . . .”
Rage blazed in Jason’s eyes for a moment, but then he shrugged resignedly. “He had no right to tell you.”
“You should have told me,” Victoria cried, unable to control her voice or the tears streaming down her cheeks. “But you wouldn’t because you’re ashamed of the things you should be proudest of!” Brushing furiously at her tears, she said brokenly, “I wish he hadn’t told me. Before he did, I only loved you a little. Afterward, when I realized how brave and—and how strong you really are, then I loved you so much more, I—”
“What?” he said in a ragged whisper.
“I never admired you before that day,” she said hysterically, “and now I do and I can’t stand what you’re doing to—”
Through a blur of tears she saw him move, felt herself crushed against his hard chest, and her pent-up emotions broke loose. “I don’t care who your parents are,” she sobbed in his arms.
“Don’t cry, darling,” he whispered, “please don’t.”
“I hate it when you treat me like a witless doll, d-dressing me in ball gowns and—”
“I’ll never buy you another gown,” he tried to tease, but his voice was hoarse and raw.
“And then you drape me in j-jewels—”
“No more jewels either,” he said, hugging her tighter.
“And then when you’re done p-playing with me, you t-toss me aside.”
“I’m an ass,” he said, stroking her hair and rubbing his jaw against the top of her head.
“You’ve n-never told me what you think or how you feel about things, and I c-can’t read your mind.”
“I don’t have a mind,” he said harshly. “I lost it months ago.”
Victoria knew she had won, but the relief was so painfully exquisite that her slim shoulders began to shake with wrenching sobs.
“Oh, God, please don’t cry like this,” Jason groaned, running his hands helplessly over her heaving shoulders and down her back, desperately trying to console her. “I can’t bear it when you cry.” Threading his hands through her hair, he turned her tear-streaked face up to his, his thumbs moving tenderly over her cheeks. “I’ll never make you cry again,” he whispered achingly. “I swear I won’t.” He ben
t his head, kissing her with gentle violence. “Come to bed with me,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and urgent. “Come to bed with me and I’ll make you forget last night. . . .”
In answer, Victoria wrapped her arms fiercely around her husband’s neck and Jason swung her into his arms, driven to try to make amends to her in the only way he knew how. He put his knee on the mattress, lowering her gently and following her down, his lips clinging to hers in an unbroken, scalding kiss.
When he finally lifted himself off her to tear off his shirt and unbutton his pants, Victoria watched him unashamedly, glorying in his magnificent body—the long, muscular legs and narrow hips, the strong arms and broad shoulders, the heavily corded muscles that rippled in his back as he turned onto his side—A strangled cry tore from her chest.
Jason heard it and his whole body stiffened at the realization of what she was seeing. The scars! He had forgotten about the damned scars. Vividly he remembered the last time he had forgotten to hide them—he remembered the horror of the woman in his bed, the scorn and revulsion in her face when she saw that he had let himself be whipped like a dog. Because of that, he’d always kept his back turned away from Victoria when they were making love, and he’d always carefully extinguished the candles before they went to sleep.
“Oh, God,” Victoria choked behind him, staring in horror at the white scars that crisscrossed his beautiful back. There were dozens of them. Her fingers shook as she reached out to touch them; the moment she did, his skin flinched. “Do they still hurt?” she whispered in anguished surprise.
“No,” Jason said tautly. Shame washed over him in sickening waves as he waited helplessly for her inevitable reaction to the stark evidence of his humiliation.
To his utter disbelief he felt her arms encircle him from behind and the touch of her lips on his back. “How brave you must have been to endure this,” she whispered achingly, “how strong to survive it and go on living. . . .” When she began kissing each scar, Jason rolled onto his side and jerked her into his arms. “I love you,” he whispered agonizedly, plunging his hands into her luxuriant hair and turning her face up to his. “I love you so much. . . .”