“Don’t be an idiot, Nick. I was simply making an observation.” She tentatively stuck out her tongue and touched it to his nipple.
His manhood, exhausted from its previous exertions, immediately came to life at the touch of her tongue.
“Tell me how it is that your ancestral estate came by a ridiculous name. I did not believe Petra when she told me.” She flicked out her tongue again and watched for his reaction.
“Stop doing that, else you’ll never hear the tale.”
Jem smiled innocently at him. “Continue.”
Nick cleared his throat, attempting to ignore the hand roaming towards his waist. “My ancestor, the first duke, was an English bastard who was gifted land, a days ride from the border in Scotland. The area was remote and inhospitable, owing to the fact he was a bastard. The town there still bears our name.”
“Get to The Egg, Nick.” She stretched, rubbing her body against his.
He rubbed back and continued with his story. “The keep and the surrounding wall were made of dark, almost black rock. The first duke’s given name was Robyn. He was a redhead.”
Jem tugged at a curl of Nick’s hair, rubbing it between her fingers. “Mmm. I see. Go on.”
“Robyn Tremaine possessed a large army, a very fierce army, but he was known as much for being a leader of men as he was being wise in his dealings with the Tudor’s. He protected Henry Tudor’s interests well and the king granted Robyn many favors. So many favors in fact, that Henry’s court whispered that Robyn’s influence was more than wisdom.”
“The Devil’s work.” Jem’s fingers moved to trace the outline of Nick’s ribs. “The start of the curse.”
Trying to focus on the story at hand he said, "Henry was guardian to a young woman, thought to be a witch. She was promised to another, but Tremaine wanted her. Henry elevated him to duke so that he would be of proper station to marry the witch. She was a countess in her own right, you see.”
“He married her to be made duke?”
“No.” Nick brought her wandering fingertips to his lips, kissing them gently. “Theirs was a great love match. I have her eyes.”
Jem looked up at him intently. “No wonder they thought her a witch.” Her hand moved lower and encircled his hardened arousal. “But,” she squeezed gently, and Nick sucked in his breath, “you still have not explained why your family seat is called ‘The Egg.’”
He turned suddenly, rolling her onto her back. “Robyn tore down the old keep and built his bride a beautiful house made of brilliant white stone.” He held her hands to her side and made his way down her stomach with his mouth and tongue. Dear God, would they ever leave the bedroom once married? Nick thought not.
“And?” Jemma’s voice dropped an octave, and she arched her back as his breath fluttered between her thighs.
“And,” he nipped at the inside of her thigh, “the house is so white, and it sits amid the dark rock of the cliffs. I suppose it rather looks like an egg in a nest, and well,” he kissed the downy softness of her womanhood and heard her moan, “the court mocked Robyn behind his back by calling it The Egg and the name stuck.”
“Oh.” Jem said as he hooked her leg over his shoulder and took that most delicate, sensitive part of her into his mouth.
“Yes, indeed,” he breathed against her.
And they ceased talking.
* * *
Hours later Jemma,half asleep, watched Nick dress in preparation for his climb back down the trellis. She hoped the lattice would hold. They had talked and made love at intervals all night, and Jemma thought she would likely sleep past noon. A delicious ache filled her as she watched him climb back out the window and blow her a kiss. Drowsily, she thought of Arabella’s accusations. She’d completely forgotten to ask why he’d told his sister about Jemma’s parents, but possibly he did in his grief and anger. What did it matter anymore, she thought as her eyes closed, and she snuggled under the covers. The past was the past, and she and Nick had the future together.
22
“Lady Arabella! Over here!”
Rowan turned as he heard the name, immediately searching the crowds that roamed Bond Street for a glimpse of that cantankerous female.
“Rowan! Do watch yourself. You almost stepped in a puddle.” Lady Mary Marsh frowned at her son. “You'll ruin those boots.”
“Sorry.” He scanned the crowd and finally spied her, looking like a sparrow in a group of brightly colored birds. As usual, Arabella was clothed in a variation of dull, muted brown, which failed to hide her stern beauty. She was engaged in a somewhat animated conversation with a plump, older woman and a young man. Rowan’s eyes narrowed as he took in the gentleman who politely nodded and brought Arabella’s gloved hand to his lips. He didn’t look familiar, nor did the woman.
“Oh look at these lovely confections.” Lady Mary clapped her hands at the hats displayed in the milliner's window.
Rowan gave his mother a weak smile. His cousin's wedding to the Duke of Dunbar would be taking place within a fortnight, and Lady Mary had no wish to look provincial. She’d spent a small fortune on her gown and had now turned her attention to a hat befitting the aunt of a duchess. His attention returned to Arabella.
