In the Barrister's Bed. Tina GabrielleЧитать онлайн книгу.
had been overcome by the beauty of the landscape, the comforting warmth of the sun, and the virile man stretched out on the bank beside her. She had been entranced by the bitter sadness of his face—however brief the flicker of emotion—when he had mentioned his family’s abandonment. And when his arms had wrapped around her as he had demonstrated how to skip a stone, she had been foolishly swept away by an awakening yearning.
He was a skilled kisser, and no doubt a skilled lover. She couldn’t help but wonder—what would it be like to bed the duke? Her experience was limited to Roger, and based on James’s kiss alone she suspected the experience would be vastly different.
But Blackwood’s motives were questionable. He was devastatingly attractive and unscrupulous enough to take any woman. Combined with his title, she suspected females would be attracted to him in droves. Bella was nothing more than his opponent.
So why kiss her?
Harriet frowned, her eyes level under drawn brows. “Did the duke hurt you?”
Hurt her? Heavens, no.
James hadn’t even held her as he kissed her. It had been marvelous, gentle, and thrilling, and the degree to which she had responded stunned her. She could never admit, even to Harriet, that it had been he who had broken their kiss.
“No, he did not hurt me,” Bella said. “Yet he is trying to manipulate me. He wants me gone from Wyndmoor Manor.”
“You may be right. But how was the kiss?”
Harriet could be as tenacious as a terrier when she sought information.
“It was pleasant,” Bella answered.
Harriet eyed her as she had when Bella had stolen a sweet from the pantry. “You feared he’d be like Roger? You shouldn’t. Roger was nothing but a sick bastard, he was.”
Bella’s gut clenched just thinking of her deceased husband’s sexual attentions. Roger had only approached her after he had drunk no less than four tankards of ale. He had been mean without alcohol, but combined with spirits he was downright cruel.
It was then that he’d demand his marital rights. He’d douse the fireplace, insist she disrobe before him and stand still in the center of their bedchamber. She’d often tremble from the cold and dread, knowing what was to follow. As a young bride, she had been horrified to discover that he needed to inflict pain and fear in order to stimulate himself.
Bella was prideful by nature, and she had glared up at Roger in hatred. Often his frustration and ire would take control, and he would wrench her arm, push her to the floor before him, and strike her. After the first months of their marriage, he was unable to perform sexually, and he’d viciously berate her, repeatedly ranting that she was inadequate as a woman and not worthy to be his wife. She had prayed his visits to her bedchamber would stop, but to no avail. Her only consolation was he’d not been able to bed her.
She’d soon heard of whispers from the servants that Roger had whores enter through the kitchen door. Rumors abounded that the women were skilled at dominating Roger, inflicting pain upon him. That he’d paid to be whipped with his own riding crop.
Bella had been shocked, for Roger had always seemed to thrive on enforcing his power over her, whether by isolating her on the estate grounds or coming to her bedchamber. If only she had known of his sick deviancy, she would have gladly offered to whip him for free.
Harriet reached out and took Bella’s hands in hers. “What I’m saying, luv, is that there is nothing wrong with you as a woman. I always worried your husband’s sickness and belittling had wounded you more than any physical abuse. Despite the circumstances that brought the duke here, I’m glad he kissed you. A little attention from a handsome man like Blackwood proves my point. Not all men are like Roger.”
“What about our fight over the manor?” Bella said.
“One kiss doesn’t mean you’re handing it over to him,” Harriet said.
Bella kept her features deceptively composed. “I do not trust him.” I do not trust myself with him, she thought. Any more attention from James could put her future plans at perilous risk.
James sat at the head of the table in the formal dining room as the footman delivered the first course. The new cook, the servant Bella had hired, had prepared a delicious turtle soup.
Even after Coates had handed him the note from Bella, James had decided to remain and dine at the manor rather than at the Twin Rams Inn. He needed to stake his claim, both with the servants and the striking woman upstairs.
Which led James to thinking about Bella Sinclair for the hundredth time that evening. He wondered what she was eating, and if she was dressed in the same pristine nightgown that covered every inch of her body down to her pretty feet that she had worn the first time he had seen her.
Was she sitting in bed enjoying the same soup or eating cold roast beef instead? And why did he give a damn what she was consuming? Except the thought of her in bed doing anything made him feel hot and heavy all over again.
One kiss. One kiss and he felt like a randy schoolboy with his hand caught beneath a girl’s skirt.
He dropped the spoon and it slid into the soup. This wouldn’t do. He’d have to get out despite his intentions. He threw his napkin on the table and rose. He would go to the Twin Rams, where strong spirits, a lively conversation with Anthony and Brent, and maybe the coy smile of a willing barmaid could distract his mind from the woman who slept under his roof.
Sleep eluded Bella that night. Her blood soared with unbidden memories, and her mind relived the velvet warmth of James’s kiss. The gentle persuasiveness of his lips had been as unexpected as her lustful response. She raised her fingertips to her own lips and imagined his perfect, firm mouth exploring hers.
It was well past midnight and her bedcovers were a tangled mess from her fitful tossing and turning. In the quiet solitude of her room, her thoughts ran free. She was helpless to stop herself from pondering the scandalous. What would it feel like to have him kiss more of her skin?
She fantasized about just that—his lips urgent and exploratory, searing her neck, her shoulders. He would leisurely lavish attention on her breasts, her nipples firming instantly under his touch. His touch arousing, but never painful. His tongue would lick a path down her ribs to her stomach, his hands roving lower still, to the pulsing ache between her thighs.
A moan slipped through her lips. She sat up and pushed the twisted covers aside. Scrambling to her feet, she flung the window open wide and inhaled deeply, hoping the cool night air would quench her overheated skin.
What had overcome her? James Devlin had come to Wyndmoor Manor and in a day he had succeeded in driving all logic and caution from her head. She was twenty-four years old, a widow of a seven-year marriage, and she had never truly experienced passion. For the first time, she suffered the dull ache of desire at the thought of a man.
But why in heaven’s name did it have to be for this man? She was a nuisance to him, and he had clearly stated his intentions toward her.
I always win in the courtroom.
She gripped the windowsill, her body suddenly engulfed in weariness and despair. Her eyes burned dryly from sleeplessness. She needed to sleep for whatever hours were left of the night. She needed to be prepared to face him tomorrow.
Harriet had always fixed her a cup of warm milk laced with brandy when she had difficulty sleeping after Roger had left her room. Bella’s hand reached for the bell pull, but she hesitated.
She didn’t want to wake the old woman. There was no longer the risk that she would run into Roger walking the halls at night. The first and last time that had occurred, Roger had flown into a jealous rage and had accused her of meeting a lover. He had locked her in her room for a week. Even Harriet was prohibited from attending to her. Bella had almost gone mad, and she had never again ventured out at night without Harriet beside her.
But life was different now. Harriet had overheard Blackwood tell