His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3) Page 13

  Once Jake had eaten the sugar, Irene stroked his satiny neck while Jonah curried the horse’s back and barrel.

  “You love teaching,” she pointed out. “Did you know?”

  “Of course. I train horses all the time.”

  “Yes, but you just trained a woman and a girl along with your horse.”

  He hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Did you not like it?”

  “I liked it fine. You clearly respect both your animal and human students.”

  He shrugged. “There’s not so much difference in what people and animals like, is there? We all want to be fed on time. Cared for patiently. Allowed treats and play.”

  Irene laughed. “That sounds wonderful to me. Maybe I need to try giving sugar lumps to my own students.”

  “Why? Weren’t they good this past week?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not particularly. Their minds are already away on holiday. In geography class, some of the oldest students forgot how to put together a dissected map of English counties. But history was even worse. My twelve-year-olds were supposed to list the English monarchs beginning with William the Conqueror, and a shocking number mixed up the order of the Henrys.”

  Jonah pulled the comb through a tangle in Jake’s mane. “The Henrys? The kings that go in numerical order?”

  “Exactly.” Exasperation was clear in her tone, but so was fondness. “My pickpocketing class was the worst of all. I teach the youngest students for an hour each Thursday how to pick pockets, and not a one of them had my reticule off me. They’d all be nabbed by constables.”

  “Why do girls need lessons in picking pockets?”

  “It’s exciting to them, which makes them pay attention. It makes them feel safe and in control.”

  “Ah.” Currying finished, Jonah motioned for Irene to open Jake’s stall door.

  “Yes, ah. In this world, women are neither safe nor in control. The more they notice about their surroundings, the more control they take back. And if these girls think that’s a game and a skill rather than something to fear, so much the better.”

  Jonah guided the horse into the stall, then removed Jake’s halter. As he closed the stall door, he decided, “It must be exhausting being a woman.”

  “Try being a black woman,” Irene said dryly.

  “Double the exhaustion?” He’d no idea what it was like to walk the world in her skin. He hoped it was enough to care about her experience, to know that he didn’t have the only answer.

  “At least double. And that’s why it’s so good to find places and people that make one feel at home.” She touched the bare spot on her ring finger, pensive.

  “Do you feel at home here?”

  “I do if I’m with you.” She smiled up at him, the bridge of her nose crinkling. It was freckled lightly, and how could he resist? He kissed every one of the dark golden flecks. She’d stay tonight, she’d said, and maybe they would be able to—

  “I have a confession.” Irene pulled back, looking Jonah in the eye.

  His mind had begun to meander down a lustful path. He had to halt it, pull it back to the present. Blinking, he nodded for her to explain.

  “I think I’ve found Anne Jones for you. Your half-sister’s mother.” She rolled up the strap of a halter, then let it go. “I think she’s Mrs. Brodie.”

  This was an entirely new and unexpected conversational path, and Jonah felt a step behind mentally. “All right.” Mrs. Brodie. The indomitable headmistress he knew only by reputation…was also the mother of Sir William’s thirteen-year-old daughter?

  Huh.

  “I want to speak to her about it to be sure before you say anything to your father,” Irene continued.

  “All right,” he said again, aware that this was inadequate.

  Irene tilted her head. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you. I don’t have any knowledge of Mrs. Brodie. You do.” And it made sense, didn’t it, that the Bow Street Runner he’d hired wouldn’t know anything about the secretive goings-on in an elite girls’ school?

  “My father,” he added, “probably won’t be in London for several more days. You could speak to Mrs. Brodie on Monday. Decide what you’d like her to know. Or what she’d like him to know.” He shook his head. It was too many secrets, really. “Or maybe everyone could just know everything.”

  She bit her lip. “Not possible. I hold information for others, for my work. But I don’t want any secrets between us. If we’re to live together.”

  If? Not when? “Honesty doesn’t ruin anything that wasn’t already ruined. It brings people closer.” He tried to think of what he could possibly be hiding without realizing it. “I don’t think I have any secrets. And I don’t need to know anyone else’s that you’re keeping for your work.”

  She sighed. “You’re a swell, but you’re nice.”

  He scuffed the toe of his boot into a pile of straw. “You have to stop saying that.”

  “Eli is a wise child.”

  “For trusting you to help her, she is.” Jonah picked up the halter he’d set aside, earning himself a snort from Jake. The cob had been listening calmly, waiting calmly, just as he had when Jonah had found the Bairds’ lodging house.

  Which reminded Jonah. “The day you first came to this house, you said you were afraid. Are you still afraid?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in her reply.

  Well, damn. “I wish I’d greeted you with a grand gesture instead of just turning up on my horse.” Maybe if he’d swept her off her feet, she wouldn’t be so afraid. Maybe she’d trust she could be happy with him. That she could live for them instead of always for the unknown someone else.

  “You offered my mother and brother a home. I thought that was grand.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I want to give you—”

  “What I want,” she said. “That’s what you’ve always tried to give me. And there’s nothing kinder than that.” When she smiled, it was far more than a sliver or a crescent. There was no word for the shape of it, but it warmed Jonah right through. “The things that seem ordinary to you are not ordinary to everyone. Or if they are ordinary…that’s a precious thing.”

  “Such as?”

  “Being together without hearing a clock always ticking away at our few hours.”

  That was ordinary to most people, true. To Jonah, it felt like the culmination of every gift he’d ever been given. “If I’ve got to do something, I’ll do it well. Even if I don’t want to do it at all.”

  “Such as?” Echoing his words, she grinned.

  “Saying good-bye to you. I always wanted to say good-bye in such a way that you couldn’t wait to greet me again.”

  “The only thing I want more than to greet you,” Irene murmured, “is to stay with you.”

  He collected her in his arms. “Then stay with me tonight.”

  Leaning her head against his chest, she said, “Why wait until nightfall?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Irene had invited Jonah to join her in the bedchamber he’d given her to use the week before. It was a room of soft luxury, in every way unlike her shared chamber at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy. There, every possession served a purpose—even to the pictures on the walls, which were gifts from students that reminded Irene why she taught.

  Here, the sole purpose was beauty. Beauty in color, all warm cream and soft green and light purple. Beauty in texture, with silk-papered walls and beautifully carved wood and soft bedcovers and tasseled cushions. Beauty in function, with a vanity table topped by a large glass, a chaise, a writing desk, a wardrobe, a washstand. Everything one needed so one would never have to leave.

  Except food, of course. But there were other sorts of hunger, and at the moment, one of those mattered more. When Jonah’s quiet knock sounded at the door, Irene’s mouth went dry. She rushed to the door, opening it to him.

  By the glow of the room’s lamps, Irene watched the change come over his fac
e when he spotted her. The hard lines of his features relaxed; the stern mouth curved. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.” It wasn’t the most profound conversation they’d ever had, but it was sweet to the ear. When people had been so often separated, saying, There you are, signified that they were together. They had time to spend on words, on enjoying the sound of each other’s voices.

  As he closed the door, Irene felt his presence like a touch. Her skin tingled, sensitive and rubbed by loose fabric. Whatever happened tonight—a little, a lot, everything—would be her choice.

  Irene had donned a dressing gown in a modish style she’d requested from her mother. Susanna sewed similar garments in costly silks and satins for the dress shop’s clients. For Irene, it was fashioned of cheaper glazed chintz, with a lovely purple color and a high sheen.

  It bore the same secret as its more expensive counterparts: it fell apart with a touch and pull of its front laces. The skirts were full and diaphanous, a soft whisper against her bare legs with every movement.

  “Long day,” Jonah sighed, settling himself on the room’s chaise and holding out an arm. “But I spent most of it with you, so that was good.”

  She curled into the cradle of his arm. “Even the part you spent with the mysterious Mr. Jonah? Or the new horse that hates everything?”

  “All of it. And Bridget doesn’t hate everything. But he does hate what he’s been through. I have sympathy for the old boy.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Because he’s missed racing, what he loves best. Just as I’ve missed you.” He stretched out his feet, still encased in snug leather boots, and leaned against the swooping back of the chaise. “Time and again, I’ve missed this. Being together in a home like this.”

  “How could you miss this? We’ve never had the chance to do such a thing.”

  “I know.” Idly, he stroked her upper arm. “I suppose I miss all the things we weren’t able to do over the past four years. I miss things I don’t even know I’ve been robbed of.”

  She knew the feeling. She’d thought the same as she’d washed the dog with Jonah. How many everyday moments had they missed by not being together every day?

  “What do you miss the most?” she ventured.

  “Anything. Everything.” He took her hand in his, then brought it to his lips, breath tickling her fingers with his every word. “The chance to see you comb out your hair. Maybe the chance to smooth it back when you’re ill, then press a cool cloth on your forehead.”

  “Or the chance to learn whether my feet get cold in winter?” she teased.

  “And whether you’d press them against me to warm them.”

  “They do. I would.” As he shared each lost moment, she wanted to wrap him in her arms, wrap herself in his, until there was no telling how to tear them apart.

  “The chance to celebrate a birthday with you on the day itself, not a week before or a month afterward. To learn what your favorite cake is.”

  “Lemon.” As his lips moved over her fingers, her eyes closed. “I wish for those things too. And the things that haven’t happened yet, like the chance to kiss our firstborn child on the forehead.”

  “Or the chance to hear a first word. That, and so many other things. I could torture myself by imagining all sorts of chances lost.” He dropped her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders. “I’d deny myself anything to be with you, Irene. But I cannot deny myself you.”

  Jonah wasn’t one for flowery words devoid of meaning, so Irene thought about this. “You wouldn’t want me to deny myself to be with you, though. And I don’t want that for you either. Love isn’t the abandonment of self.”

  A strong thumb stroked her shoulder. “Do you love me, then?”

  “Why, yes. Didn’t you know?”

  “We don’t often say it.”

  “True. We both seem to ration it, as if saying the word would use it up.” She poked him in the chest. “You didn’t even say it when you proposed to me.”

  “You had a marvelous life without me.”

  “I had a rootless life. I always have. You gave me a home to come back to. Not a place, but a person.” She laid her hand on his cheek, his stubble rough under her palm. “You.”

  “Why are we so shy of the words? I. Love. You.”

  “Those are magical words,” she said. “And I feel the same. I love you for trusting me to do my work. I love you for trusting me to come back to you.”

  I love you for trusting me.

  I love you.

  Love hadn’t been quite enough to negotiate between two opposing points of view: You have to be there, and I have to be here.

  But they were together now, and they had love, and there was still time to pretend that everything else would work out and that the distance between them would never return. There was time for a perfect night.

  She turned toward him, hitching one leg up onto the chaise. “Take me to bed at once.”

  Holding his gaze, she grasped the end of one of the front laces…and pulled.

  His eyes widened. “You’ve talked me into it.”

  And he pounced, gathering her in his arms. Irene laughed as the world dipped, as he lifted her in his strong grasp and carried her to the bed. With its full tester and swagged hangings, the bed was a welcoming cocoon.

  Lord, how she wanted that cocoon. Just husband and wife and no outside world.

  She settled atop the bedcovers with her dressing gown slipping from her shoulders in a riot of fabric about her legs. The gown had parted down the front, revealing a length of bare skin. Jonah couldn’t stop looking at it, at her, devouring her with his eyes as if he’d been starving for the sight of her.

  He still wore his clothing from the stable, his old coat and snug breeches and leather boots. “Come now,” Irene said. “Take off your boots and be comfortable.” Not at all modestly, she raised herself onto her elbows and watched him undress.

  Though his desire was obvious, he was careful in his movements, stripping off his clothing quickly, but setting it aside with care. He treated his belongings with the same gruff respect with which Irene had seen him treat everyone, from her mother to a scullery maid. Everything was worthy of care; everyone too.

  She loved that dearly about him.

  If one considered only his stern expression or his few words, he was a cipher. But in his behavior? That was where one could see a man’s worth. Accepting people and animals into his home. Taking on a quest for his father because he wanted to connect—not only with Irene, but with his unknown young sister.

  There was nothing more seductive than a man who noticed and took action to help. He accomplished it naturally, so one hardly noticed one was being assisted.

  Jonah didn’t leave, didn’t make excuses. He didn’t ignore bad behavior either. Irene loved all the things he didn’t do as well as those he did.

  Stripped bare at last, he returned to the side of the bed. Nudging Irene aside, he pulled back the bedcovers, then settled his long body atop the clean, crisp sheet.

  Irene kicked down her side of the covers, then rolled to face him. She took his face in her hands. “You are lovely.”

  Her big, rough husband looked abashed. “‘Lovely’ is the word for you. You’re supposed to say I’m handsome. Except I’m not.”

  “You’re better than handsome. You’re lovely. All the way through, from the inside out.” He opened his mouth, and she added, “Sorry. You can’t help it. It’s just the way you are.” And then, in case he was planning to protest, she brushed his lips with hers.

  The effect was what she imagined would happen when one of his Thoroughbreds heard the starting shot to begin a race—instant, electric movement. With a sweep of his arms, he caught her about the ribs and pulled her close, body against body from chest to toe. The kiss that had begun as a mere brush of the lips became a whole painting, a masterwork of heat and tongue and lips. One was not enough; two were hardly a beginning. She could kiss him forever as he held her close.


  But her dressing gown slipped over her skin, blocking the lovely feeling of touch, and she squirmed to free herself. Jonah pulled back, smiling as he coaxed the fabric from her shoulders and helped her arms free of the sleeves. His smile was mischief and love and promise, and it was absolutely unfair how dear he was.

  At last, she lay bare upon the splay of soft cloth.

  “It’s fortunate that you don’t smile often,” Irene said. “When you do, you look so delicious that I have to have you at once.”

  His brows lifted. The smile grew. “Then have me.”

  And their limbs were a tangle, their lips together, their hands questing for pleasure. It was a wedding night all over again, the rediscovery of each other in a home. A room that belonged to them both, a night that wasn’t the last for a long time. His mouth traced the line of her neck. His fingertips brushed the peaks of her breasts into tautness.

  Her toes clenched. Her calf muscles bunched. “Touch me some more.”

  That irresistible smile again as he pinched lightly at her nipples, then took one into his mouth. He drew on it, an inexorable pull of lips and a gentle graze of teeth that fired her blood. He supported himself over her on one elbow, his free hand stroking her side, her belly, her legs, everything he could reach. And his mouth, oh! That mouth did wicked and marvelous things until her eyes rolled back in her head, and she flailed to bring him closer.

  When she caught his shoulders, gripping him tight, he went still. Caught her gaze. “Irene. I want you to know our marriage has always mattered to me. We married swiftly not because I took it lightly, but because I was certain of you.”

  She was going to melt. That was that. She was butter, and it was summer, and she was a puddle.

  “I’m here now,” she assured him. “And I’m staying.”

  She didn’t say for how long. She would stay as long as she could.

  As long as her sense of duty to the world outside allowed it. For she wanted to make the world better, and he’d said he found that a worthy aim. Surely they could remain married without giving up the dreams they’d laboriously formed?

  Tonight they could. Tonight they’d come together out of compromise, partnership, desire. Perhaps it took all three to make a marriage.