His Christmas Countess

But this wonderful physical experience—where had that come from? She had known Jonathan a little, liked him, thought she loved him, considered him a handsome man and had been eager to go to his arms. Yet his passion had left her strangely untouched, unsatisfied, confused. I talked myself into love with him, didn’t I? Kate told herself. But she did not love this man, either, so what was the difference? Why did I not burn up in Jonathan’s arms as I did with Grant?

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.