She jerked her wrist out of his grasp. “What do you expect when you speak of putting me to work?” she asked angrily. “Does a woman go toworkfor a man in bed when she wants him? When you call it work you make a whore of me.”
“You are the one,” he reminded her, his eyes as cold as steel, “who speaks of contractual obligations and rights. What does that make of me? It makes me someone who has purchased access to your body. Someone who has bought the services of a whore. It makes of you a woman who is working when she lies on her back for me. Don’t use righteous anger on me, Jane, and expect me meekly to bow my head. You may go to the devil for all I care.”
“And you may…” But she forced herself to stop and to draw a steadying breath. Her heart was pounding like a hammer. “We are quarreling again. Was it my fault this time? I am sorry if it was.”
“It is that infernal contract that is to blame,” he grumbled.
“Which is my fault.” She smiled briefly at him. “I really am pleased to see you, Jocelyn.”
The anger and the coldness faded from his face. “Are you, Jane?”
She nodded. “And I really do want you.”
“Do you?” He gazed broodingly at her, his eyes very black.
Could this be the Duke of Tresham? Unsure of himself? Uncertain of his welcome?
“I am saying it inside the room where we agreed our contract would bear no sway,” she said, “so it has to be the truth. Come to bed with me.”
“I have come from the theater,” he explained. “I was invited back to Kimble’s for supper with his party and said I would walk there rather than crowd a carriage. But I found my legs carrying me here instead. How do you interpret that, Jane?”
“I daresay,” she said, “you were in need of a sharp quarrel with someone who would not back down from you.”
“But you were the first to apologize,” he reminded her.
“Because I was wrong,” she told him. “I do not insist upon winning an argument at any cost, you see. Not like some I know.”
He grinned wolfishly at her. “Which means, I suppose,” he said, “that as usual you have had the last word, Jane. Come, then. Since it is what I came for and since you have invited me, let us go to bed.”
Physical desire made her breathless again as she stepped past him and preceded him up the stairs. He did not come immediately after her, she noticed. He had paused to set the guard in front of the dying fire.
Which was probably, she guessed with an inward smile, one of the most domesticated things he had ever done.
KIMBLE WOULD TEASE HIMmercilessly in the morning. Jocelyn did not care. When had he ever cared what anyone—even his closest friends—thought or said about him? And the teasing would at least be good-natured.
The truth was he had had to come back tonight. He had been more disturbed by the strange events of the afternoon than he cared to admit. He had had to come back just to get some normalcy back into his relationship with his mistress. To put her to work.
It had been a mistake to use those exact words to her, of course. But he was not accustomed to tiptoeing his way about other people’s sensibilities.
He undressed, doused the candles, and climbed into bed with her. He had instructed her to keep on her prim and pretty nightgown. There was something surprisingly erotic about grasping its hem and lifting it up her legs and over her hips to her waist. He did not want foreplay tonight. He wanted to do what he had come to do before somehow the whole scene became unfamiliar again. He slid his hand between her thighs and felt her. She was ready enough. He turned onto her with his full weight, spread her legs wide with his knees, slid his hands beneath her, and entered.
She was soft, warm, relaxed heat. He began to work her with firm, vigorous strokes. He tried to think of her simply as a woman. He tried to think of his need as simply sexual.
He failed miserably on both counts.
He rarely kissed in bed. It was unnecessary, and it was too personal for his taste. He kissed her.
“Jane,” he murmured into her mouth, “tell me you wanted me to come back, that you have thought of nothing but me since this afternoon.”
“Why?” she whispered. “So that you can warn me again not to become dependent upon you? I am not sorry you came. I am glad. This feels good.”
“Damn you,” he said. “Damn you.”
She was silent while he worked. But just as he felt the climax approach and was about to deepen and quicken his rhythm, he felt her arms close about his waist and her feet slide up the bed and her thighs hug his hips while she tilted her pelvis to allow him deeper access.
“Jocelyn,” she whispered, “don’t be afraid. Please don’t be afraid.”
He was driving toward release and did not hear the words consciously. But after he had finished, when he lay exhausted beside her, he heard their echo in his mind and thought he must have imagined them.
