Her Convenient Husband's Return. Eleanor Webster
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hands reached for her. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her tight, needing to feel her, to feel something. She stiffened, her shock palpable. Her hands pushed against his shoulders, ineffective like fluttering birds.
He didn’t care. Her futile movements fuelled the angry molten heat.
Her head moved, angling away as she twisted from him. He caught her lips, kissing her with a hard, punishing kiss.
Her fury met his own, her balled fists pushing him away.
Briefly, it was all fire and heat and rage. Then something changed. She no longer pushed against him; instead, her fists opened, her hands reaching upwards to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her clenched jaw relaxed, her lips parting as anger eased, morphing into something equally strong. His kiss gentled. Her fingers stretched across his back, winding into his hair. He held her tight to him, hands at the small of her back.
The anger, the pain, the hurt drained away, pushed aside by a growing, pulsing need. He had wanted this woman for ever—long before he had known about want or lust or need. And she was here now, warm, willing, pliable and giving beneath him. He explored the sweetness of her mouth, shifting her backwards, pushing her against the edge of his desk. He stroked the column of her neck, the smooth line of her spine, the curved roundness of her bottom under the soft muslin gown.
He wanted—he needed—to fill her, to find forgetfulness in physical release, to make her his own. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him and desire him and to forget that annulment was even a word.
One hand pushed at her neckline, forcing the cloth off her shoulder so that his fingers could feel her skin and the fullness of her breast. With growing urgency, his other hand pushed up at the fabric of her skirt, his hands feeling and stroking the stockings she wore over shapely legs.
She said his name.
Something fell.
He stilled. He stared down at her flushed cheeks, tousled hair and bodice half-undone.
Disgust rolled over him.
What, in the name of all that was good and holy, was he doing? He moved from her so suddenly that she almost lost her balance, striking the lamp.
It fell, splintering against the hearth.
‘Ren?’
Self-loathing mixed with frustrated need. She was not one of his doxies. She was not one of the women who populated his London life. Moreover, she had made it quite clear she wanted to end their pseudo-marriage, which could hardly be construed as an invitation to consummate their union.
‘It would seem indeed that, after all, my sense of honour is somewhat impaired,’ he said.
Beth’s confused mix of anger, embarrassment and a new, unexpected yearning was such that she could hardly focus to count her steps to her carriage or later traverse the gravel path to Jamie’s small office attached to the stable. The numbers swam in her head, mixed and mired with darting thoughts and seesawing emotions. It felt as though her heart still beat as loud as thunder. An unusual restless energy filled her body, combined with a hunger which was new to her.
The very contrariness of her reactions irritated her. It was not only that she was shocked by his actions. Rather, she was shocked by her own reactions and by that crazy, contrary part of her that had not wanted him to stop, that feared she would not have stopped him.
She was not a creature of emotion. Her mother and Jamie valued rational thought above all things. It was in no way rational to consummate this marriage. Indeed, had they done so, an annulment might not be possible. Even worse, she might have been with child.
Apprehension snaked through her. She knew she must not have children. She had known that since Jamie had arrived with that prize bull from across the county.
Strength begets strength, he’d said.
So why had she been prepared to put sense and reason aside? From the first moment of her marriage she had been contrary. She should have been thankful, relieved, when he’d disappeared so swiftly back to his London life. Right now, she should be offended by that kiss and furious at his liberty.
She wasn’t. Rather, she was angry that he had dropped her like a hot potato at a children’s game. He’d practically bolted to the door, bellowing for Dobson and sending her with all possible haste back to Allington—
A sudden noxious stench stopped her in her tracks. She gripped the railing which Jamie had installed, wrinkling her nose. It smelled of manure and rotting vegetation.
‘Jamie?’ she called out.
She pushed open the door to his office and heard the rustle of paper from the direction of the desk. She crossed the five steps towards it, placing her hands on the polished wood of its top.
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