Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“She didn’t mention that I was going to try to be agreeable to whatever you wanted as well, unless of course I found it repellent and feared for my own modesty?”

“You have no modesty.”

“Anything else from Aunt Maybella?”

“Well, no. She did pat my hand before she left my bedchamber, and said that were she I, she would be content to look at you not wearing a stitch of clothes, and agree to whatever you wanted. Being a very observant girl, I’m inclined to agree with her.”

James gulped. Aunt Maybella looking at him and he was naked? He didn’t want to think about that. He said, “I had a chat with my father as well.”

That floored her, as he’d hoped it would, and James tried not to laugh, when she said, “What? You mean you don’t know what’s going to happen either, James?”

“I have sort of an idea, Corrie. My father drew me some pictures, said to study them closely as he didn’t want me to muck it up.”

She ran her tongue over her lower lip, making it all damp and shiny, and he wanted to drag her down to the floor of the carriage, and he wanted his tongue on her bottom lip, making it shinier, wetter, and then-

“Er, do you happen to have the pictures with you?”

He stared at her, unable to believe what came out of her mouth, and then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

She was tapping her fingers, leaning toward him, all impatient. “Well, James, do you?”

He looked into her eyes, eyes lovelier than he’d believed them to be an hour before, and wasn’t that odd? “No, I memorized them, then burned them, like my father told me to. He didn’t want Jason to see them yet, you know, wanted to preserve his innocence until he was ready to get himself wedded.”

“Hmmm.” Tap, tap, tap, went her fingers. “Perhaps you could re-create them. Do you have any paper? A pencil?”

He slowly shook his head. “Corrie, why are you worrying about this? You already know what’s going to happen and so do I. Now, kiss me, before I shake myself right out of the carriage.”

And so she did, and it was close.

“Ah, thank God, we’re coming into Thirley.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

JAMES SAT BACK in his chair, his fingers against his chin, and tried not to laugh as he watched his wife of not many hours at all trying to play the courtesan. He didn’t know who was having more fun, Corrie or him. He realized she’d been planning this, and he wondered how far she’d go. All the way to her white skin? He hoped so. He hoped so mightily.

He’d dreamed of having her naked within five minutes of arriving at the Gossamer Duck, but it wasn’t to be. The innkeeper, Mr. Tuttle, was voluble in his greetings and insisted that his missus serve them some delightful tea and scones.

When at last he’d gotten her into the large, corner bedchamber, the door locked, she’d told him to sit down and not move.

As he watched her twirl her pelisse around on her finger and send it sailing toward a far chair, he realized that even when she’d begun sneering at him some three years before, mocking him whenever he came close, he’d enjoyed himself. She’d never bored him. He remembered spanking her, feeling the softness, feeling a spurt of lust that had made him feel guilty, because, after all, she was Corrie, just Corrie, the brat.

She pulled off her gloves and tossed them after the pelisse.

James forced himself to sit back in his chair, his chin propped on his steepled fingers, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and said, “Women wear too many clothes, Corrie. You should have begun your seduction when you were wearing only your chemise. What do you say I help you get to that stage?” He was praying that she’d say yes. He was in bad shape, didn’t know, in fact, how much longer he could last. He was going to shake himself right out of his chair and wouldn’t that be humiliating? He really didn’t want to jump her, but it was going to be close. He had to hold himself steady.

He rose slowly, unable to sit there any longer, and stretched, and Corrie, all sense of wicked adventure whisked instantly out the shadowed window, stood there, her hands over her breasts, and looked horrified. What she saw on his face was something she’d never seen before. He looked close to violence; he looked determined; he looked to be in pain.

James wasn’t a clod. He’d hoped she would leave her girl’s modesty at the door, and he admitted that she’d tried, and thus her order to him to sit himself down and not move and she was going to entice him beyond endurance.

Well, he was beyond endurance right now and she’d only gotten rid of her pelisse and gloves.

He had to get a grip on himself. His father had told him that it was best to begin as you meant to go on, and that advice clearly translated to not mauling his wife on their wedding night. And then he’d frowned, shaken his head, and when James wanted to ask him what was wrong, he said only, “Life is a powerful and surprising thing. Unexpected things happen. Enjoy it, James.”

“Why do you have your hands over your breasts and you’ve still got your clothes on?”

She licked her lower lip again and James stared at that lower lip. He was breathing hard, his sex harder than his breathing; he prayed she wouldn’t see the wild urgency in him, he didn’t want to scare her witless. Damn, that lower lip of hers…

“Stop looking at me like that, James.”