Because Grant is the better lover, of course. So it was all a matter of technique, of arousal, and in her imaginings when she met Jonathan she had told herself the romantic lies that it was all about love.
Kate turned away from the comfort of the warm, strong body beside her to lie on the edge of the bed on cold sheets. I deserve the chill, the nagging little voice of her conscience chided. Wanton. ‘Jonathan,’ she whispered. What a fool she had been, how eager to experience love, when really what she had been seeking was this, this physical delight. And as a result of her naivety and Henry’s cynical scheming she had been ruined and was now hundreds of miles from home, living a lie.
*
That had been…incredible. Grant let himself drift in utterly relaxed drowsiness, his body boneless with sensual pleasure. He had never expected it, never thought that Kate would catch alight in his hands, that her body would answer his with that joyful, urgent sensuality.
She curled against him now, warm, soft. Kate, his wife, who did not react to his kisses and caresses as though forcing herself to yield to her duty, but as though she wanted to join him in creating magic. To find a compatible lover was not such a novelty, but to find that, quite by chance, he had married a woman who took and gave with such sweet, almost innocent, eroticism, that was a miracle.
Kate moved, turned away, and he woke fully to see she was lying, her back to him, on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, Jonathan…’ He caught the faint whisper and even with that thread of sound, the unhappiness.
Something cold and heavy lodged in his stomach. Disappointment? Jealousy? So, Kate was still in love with Anna’s father, still mourning him, which must explain her shyness and confusion earlier. Now she was feeling guilty for enjoying making love with her husband.
Because she had enjoyed it, that was not arrogance on his part—even the most accomplished courtesan could not have feigned that reaction. Grant reached out his hand to touch her shoulder, then drew it back before his fingers reached the curve of exposed skin. Reluctant to intrude, he turned on his side away from Kate’s tense body and pulled the covers up over both of them. If he touched her now, she would think it was a demand for more sex. If he tried to console her, then she would know he had heard that whisper. He had no idea what to say to make things any better. At least now he understood her strange mood, the evidence of interest, of arousal, and yet the fear that forced her to ask for his presence in her bed had driven her to want to get it over with.
Grant got up, went to snuff the candles, doused the bedside lamp, pretended that he believed Kate was fast asleep as he fought down the dark mood that threatened to grip him. It was unreasonable, to feel…hurt. He was not in love with Kate and she had made no pretence of marrying him for anything other than the protection of his name for her child, so in no sense was he betrayed or deceived. She did not dislike him, he was certain, and she was certainly not repelled by him. It was simply that she had been in love with someone else, someone for ever out of her reach. And now she was making the best of the circumstances. In effect he had married a widow and done so before she’d had a proper chance to mourn.
But how to mend this marriage? He had the summer and the autumn, that was all. Then they must go to London, he would take his seat in the House of Lords and Kate must learn to be a peer’s wife, a society hostess. They could do it as virtual strangers—after all, many marriages functioned like that—but it was not how he wanted his marriage to be and it was not how he wanted the children to grow up, in a household with parents who were distant and cool with each other.
A hideous accident had taken Madeleine before Charlie’s life could be blighted by his parents’ unhappiness, but Grant was not prepared to risk it again. He could live without a wife’s affection, certainly without her love, but somehow, for the sake of the children, he was going to have to make this work and make Kate happy, or, at the very least, content.
Chapter Eleven
When Grant opened his eyes on to the dawn light he found that, against all expectation, he had slept without his dreams being full of heat and flames and he had woken knowing how he was going to deal with his marriage. He would not let Kate guess he had heard her last night, he would not mention her lover, he would apologise for his long absence in London and then he would simply carry on as though everything was normal. He would make love to his wife, he would talk to his wife, he would ask his wife’s opinions—and he would keep her so busy out of bed, so well satisfied in it, that she would not have the energy to mope over the man who had fathered Anna.
Beside him Kate stirred. He curled his arm around her and pulled her round to face him. She mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed, hair tousled, but she did not resist. Grant tightened his grip and bent to kiss her. ‘Good morning, Lady Allundale.’
If she seems the slightest bit reluctant, then we’ll have to talk… But Kate’s lips opened under the pressure of his and her arms came up around his neck, her fingers sliding into the hair at his nape in a way that made him shiver with anticipation. It was a start. Make love to her until she’s dizzy, he told himself, inhaling the scent of warm, sleepy woman. That would be no hardship.
*
Kate woke, stretched, blushed. She was alone in her bed, but Grant was still a powerful presence in the room. Her body ached pleasurably in the most intimate places, the musk of their lovemaking was heady in the air, the bedclothes were a tangle and, when she turned her head to look at the pillow where his head had rested, there was a single dark brown hair that curled around her finger when she touched it.
So, last night had not been a dream. They had made love twice and Grant had seemed to be very satisfied with the result. She most certainly was—physically satisfied, that was. Mentally she felt happy, guilty, confused and apprehensive. Happy, because to take that much pleasure in one’s husband’s arms must be a blessing—and the greatest good fortune. But she did not understand how it could be that she could do so. She did not love Grant and he did not love her. Would this last, or had it been a fluke? She wished she could talk to him about it, but how could she?
The conversation would be impossible. I am overwhelmed by how good it is to make love with you. But why did I not feel like that with the man who took my virginity? Is it always going to be like that? Am I very ignorant and unskilled? Will you become tired of me soon? Am I disgracefully wanton?
What if he agreed that, yes, she was lacking skill and sophistication, yes, the experience had been nothing out of the ordinary for him? ‘I would sink with shame,’ she murmured.
‘My lady?’ Wilson had entered from the dressing room with her usual quiet efficiency. The mistress of the household might have had the most wonderful and confusing night of her life, but the routine continued as usual.
‘Nothing.’ Kate cast a despairing glance around the bedchamber as the curtains were drawn back and light flooded in, revealing the wrecked bed, the sash of Grant’s robe, her own nightgown tossed to the floor. Wilson merely glided around, gathering things up. She folded the sash neatly and set it aside.
‘Would you care for breakfast here in your room, my lady? Or will you be taking it in the breakfast parlour?’ That was where Kate normally took it, along with Charlie and his tutor.
‘His lordship—’
‘His lordship rode out about an hour ago, my lady. I understand from his man that it is his usual habit when in residence here.’ There was not the faintest suggestion in her voice that his wife might be expected to know this. But of course, Grant had spoken of it last night and she had forgotten. For the past few months she had felt in control of herself, of this household. Now the arrival of one man meant, it seemed, that she could not even recall last night’s conversation.
‘I will take breakfast as usual in the parlour, after I have seen Lady Anna.’ And Grant had suggested that they meet at ten to discuss practical matters. That had seemed an excellent idea at the time, now she could not imagine producing one coherent word when she had to face him again.
&n
bsp; *
The harmless meeting still did not seem anything but an ordeal to be survived when she tapped on the study door on the stroke of ten.
‘Come in!’