The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

“What are we to do, Duchess? After all, she is his mother.”

“Poor James.”

28

JAMES WAS SO surprised, he stumbled over the three-legged stool that stood in front of the winged chair and nearly went crashing to the floor.

He flailed his arms to regain his balance, then stood there rubbing his shin, cursing the stool, and staring at his wife, who sat cross-legged in the middle of their bed, brushing her hair over her shoulder, sending a cascade of red curls nearly to her belly.

She was stark naked.

Not that he could see much of anything. Her thick hair cloaked her white flesh as well as a shawl might. When she raised her arm he could see through the hair to a lovely expanse of white flesh just

over her left breast.

James began to shake. Those glimpses of white skin, visible only now and again, would madden a man, any man, particularly a man who was a husband of only three months who hadn’t touched his wife in two days for fear of inciting another nightmare involving that blasted Mr. Tom. James wanted to jump on her right then, at that very instant. “My God,” he said, taking one step forward.

“Hello, James,” Jessie said with a fat smile. “A lovely warm night, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and for that I’m grateful.” He took another step toward the bed.

She pulled a thick mass of hair away from her body, lifting it to studiously brush the curling ends over her fingers. As she brushed, she said, “James, will you make love to me if I promise you that I won’t dream about Mr. Tom?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not sure I can risk giving you any pleasure. I think it’s connected—the pleasure and your nightmares. Although you didn’t have any bad dreams the first two times we made love. But no, I can’t take the chance. And how can you promise me you’ll not have that hideous nightmare again?”

Jessie didn’t answer. James took another step, then another. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Can I brush your hair?”

“If you like,” she said, and handed him the brush, handle first, as if she were handing him a foil. “I have a strong will, James. I won’t dream about him. I also demand my share of pleasure.”

He sat down beside her. Her white thigh was pressed against his. She was still seated cross-legged. He could slide his hands up her thighs and cup them over her. There was nothing to prevent him from doing that, from touching her intimately. She tilted her head toward him. He stared at all that shiny hair and said, “I think I want you to wear a bun right now.”

She laughed, turning about to face him, her fingers on his face. “I’ve been sitting here for a good fifteen minutes brushing my hair. My hands are tired from wielding the bloody thing. You truly want it in a bun, James?”

“Yes. I want it away from you. I didn’t realize you had so much hair. It covers far too much of your body. Put it high up on the back of your head.”

“If you’ll hand me the pins from atop the dressing table, I’ll do it.”

He was so close to her white flesh, so close to that mouth of hers and her belly and her thighs that he didn’t want to move, but he did. He retrieved the wooden pins and handed them to her. He didn’t seat himself again, but rather stood beside the bed and pulled off his clothes in record time. He even hopped on one foot to get off his boots.

When he looked again at his wife, her arms were above her head, her hands holding up all that hair, and she was utterly and completely white and naked. He thought he’d spill his seed at the sight of her.

“Your breasts are bigger,” he said, and took a step toward the bed.

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” she said proudly. “Did you know that you’re always big when you take your clothes off with intent, James? Just look at you. If I didn’t know already that you did indeed fit, I would be howling with fear and running from this bedchamber.”

James couldn’t help himself anymore. He nearly leaped on Jessie but managed to hold himself back, taking another step toward the bed. He could see the soft flesh between her thighs, open to him. “You don’t mind that I’m all hairy and different from you?”

She grinned and began twisting her hair around her left hand. “I look like goat milk, yard upon yard of goat milk with breasts that weren’t anything at all before you got me with child. But you, James, yours is a complex landscape, all valleys and ridges and beautiful clumps of hair here and there, and your legs are thick and strong. I can see your muscles when you move. I don’t have any hard muscles in my stomach as you do. I very much like to touch your body, particularly your belly, well, and other places.”

“Manly places,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “manly ones.”

He closed his eyes as her breasts rose and fell as she twisted and retwisted her hair. She liked to touch him? He shuddered. He touched his fingers to his belly. He supposed she was right about the muscles, though he’d never thought about it. She liked—very much—to touch him there particularly? She could have all their lives to touch him there, to touch him wherever she wanted to.

“Your nipples are darker. They were a soft light pink before. Now they’re richer, fuller. I want to take you into my mouth, Jessie.”

“Oh. I didn’t think you’d noticed so closely.”