“Ohhh. Of course,” she said, her breath quickening. “Makes sense.”
She did as he asked, and he nearly erupted right then and there. She was like hot satin, sparking flames, setting him ablaze. He filled his hands with her bountiful breasts—he did love how buxom she was—and thrust up into her, now impatient for her to move faster.
But she didn’t take the hint. And when he saw the teasing smile on her lips, he knew she was doing it on purpose just to torture him.
“You’re . . . enjoying this . . . aren’t you, minx?” he rasped.
“A little.” Squirming atop him, she broadened her smile. “Mostly, I am . . . figuring out . . . what you like.”
“I like faster,” he growled. That was what he got for letting her set the pace.
She gave a throaty laugh and increased her rhythm. Shimmying and twisting, she rode him as if he were a Thoroughbred, seeming to be searching for the best way to find her own pleasure and ignite his. He let her have whatever she wanted. Because he wanted what she wanted.
And because the fact that she enjoyed lovemaking relieved him. He’d been told plenty of respectable ladies did not. But she was a natural-born wanton, driving him slowly insane.
“Oh, Sheridan . . .” she whispered, as she spread her hands over his chest and even thumbed his nipples, giving him a taste of what it must feel like when he did it to her . . . or she did it to herself.
The memory of how she’d looked while touching herself inflamed him even more. She was moving quicker on his cock now, and his hips took over, pumping up into her hard as he gripped her arms and stampeded toward his own release. “Ah . . . my sweet duchess . . . you’re mine now . . . always. Mine.”
“Yours . . .” she breathed. “Forever.”
The words were a vow. They ought to alarm him. Instead, they roused a fierce possessiveness as he neared his release. He felt her tightening around his cock seconds before she uttered an inarticulate cry and he exploded inside her.
As she slumped against him, his seed still spilling into her, and her mass of curls spilling over him, he uttered his own vow. “You’re mine. Under the covers. Over the covers. Everywhere.”
“Yes.” She nuzzled his neck. “Oh, yes, my darling.”
Only later did he realize, after carrying her to bed, that she’d never answered his question about Juncker. Instead, she had tried—successfully—to seduce him. Only later did he wonder, as he threw his arm over his still naked and already sleeping wife, if she’d thought of Juncker while she was making love to him.
God, what if she had? What if Juncker had her heart while Sheridan only had her body? He had to know. But asking her about Juncker again was liable to get him nowhere. She’d already evaded the question of how she felt about the bastard once. Nor did he have the right to ask her, when the memory of Helene still haunted him.
Or rather, the memory of the pain of losing her. After six years, he could barely remember Helene herself. That bothered him. Shouldn’t the woman he’d once been in love with have earned more of a place in his heart than this . . . this faint echo of her presence?
For God’s sake, his own mother had lionized Thorn’s father. Her former love had stood between her and Sheridan’s own father. That was why Mother and Father had never been in love with each other, never even had a chance to be in love with each other . . . because she’d still been clinging to the memory of the man she’d been married to for merely a year. Even after twenty-nine years, that had never changed.
Yet he couldn’t even mourn Helene for more than six years.
You’ll deprive yourself of one of life’s greatest joys out of a determination not to experience the pain love can also bring? That’s like refusing to ride because you fear falling off.
He laid back to stare up at the ceiling. How could Vanessa have the audacity to spout her opinions about love when she didn’t love him either? She certainly hadn’t said she loved him. Did she really expect him to take that leap when she wouldn’t take it herself?
Unless she’d already taken it with Juncker.
And if she had? Then he would have to find some way to tear her from the fellow. Because he refused to be cuckolded—even just in spirit—by that . . . arrogant arse.
As soon as they reached London tomorrow, he would find Juncker and determine exactly how much there had been between the faux playwright and Vanessa. Because Vanessa was his now. He’d meant that when he said it. And no damned poet was going to take her away from him, in spirit or anything else.
Having made that promise to himself, he was finally able to drift off to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
They reached London midafternoon the next day. Sheridan had never been so glad to see the city and rid himself of his new mother-in-law. He’d spent the entire journey watching his wife skillfully manage her mother, and he honestly wondered how she did it without wanting to strangle the woman.
Lady Eustace was a pest, plain and simple. First she was cold, then she was hot, then she needed air, then the air made her cold. The sequence was repeated ad nauseam until he informed his wife that he needed air and intended to get it by riding on the perch with his coachman. When she cast him an apologetic look, he felt guilty about his defection but not enough to offer to stay.
Besides, riding with Vanessa was a torment all its own. Despite the fact that she wore some all-encompassing, dark-green redingote that fastened up to her chin, he could still remember what sweet temptations lay beneath it. He resisted the urge to relive last night’s enjoyments. The last thing he wanted was for his mother-in-law to realize what he had in mind for her daughter. One more reason to sit atop the perch with his coachman, no matter how odd the man probably thought it.
Once they’d left Lady Eustace at her town house and were heading the short distance to Sheridan’s massive, money-eating London manor, Vanessa seemed to revive, at least enough to flash him a cheery smile. “The staff are expecting us, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Fortunately, he’d introduced her to them before the wedding and had watched as she charmed them all with a compliment here and a question for an opinion there. “I do have to pay one call before dinner.”
Her face fell. “It can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not. But it won’t take long, I don’t think.” He lied for all he was worth. “Just a minor business matter I was supposed to handle before I left for Lincolnshire. I’ll be back by dinner, I promise.”
She nodded, though her cheeriness seemed to fade some. “I wanted to have our ‘at home’ day tomorrow. Will you still be able to join me then?”
“Of course.”
Gwyn had already warned him that newly married couples were expected to have a day at home where they could accept callers eager to express their congratulations.
Seeing her fight to hide her disappointment, he shifted from his seat across from her to sit next to her instead and take her hand. “I swear I won’t be gone long.”
He hoped not, anyway. He knew where Juncker lived, and if the arse wasn’t there, he knew to look for him in Covent Garden, though finding the fellow there would take far longer. When she gave him a tremulous smile, he couldn’t resist kissing her. What he’d intended as a quick kiss to soothe her fears rapidly turned into something more passionate.