Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

He would have liked to open the windows to air the room, but a fine gray drizzle had become an earnest downpour.

He was not certain why he had come to the family portrait gallery, save that he wanted to be alone. He gazed down the length of the long narrow room, scarcely wider than the second-floor corridors, his eyes resting briefly on the portrait of his great-uncle, haughtily staring at the world beneath the dark flaring Deverill brows, his dark hair covered by a white curling wig. What a proud, lecherous old man he must have been, the earl thought, his mouth twisting unwillingly into a grin.

Both he and Arabella had fallen asleep deep in the middle of the night.

He had awakened first this morning, kissed her, then realized he shouldn’t make love to her again so soon. She was certainly sore—she had to be after they had made love three times during that marvelously long night. He’d left her. God, but it had been difficult. If she had awakened in those moments, he would be willing to wager that he would still be in their bed.

Neither of them had again discussed how to kill Gervaise, since he’d only seen her in the company of Lady Ann and Elsbeth. A pity. Justin wanted to kill him very badly. He had been trained all his adult life in military strategy. He couldn’t escape it now. Never kill an enemy until you have what it is he wants. It was that simple. Arabella had known that without a whit of training.

What to do?

One thing he fully intended to do today was search the comte’s bedchamber. He doubted that the little bastard had left anything about, but search he would. If he had to, he wouldn’t let Arabella kill the comte until he had tried to fetch what it was he had come for.

He looked up to see his wife standing beneath the portrait of a long-dead Deverill of the sixteenth century, the ruff coming to her pearl-encrusted ears.

“My love,” he said, his voice deep and low. It sounded so very natural.

He felt it to the very depths of him. He’d never said that to another woman. He was at her side in a moment, drawing her up against him. “I have missed you.”

“Why did you not awaken me?” Her hands were stroking up and down his back, then lower. He held in his breath. “I woke up and you were gone. I wanted to kiss your mouth and throat. I wanted to kiss your belly, the way I did last night. Remember? You told me you would very much like it.” She grinned wickedly at him. “I seem to remember that you groaned until I drew away, then you sighed in disappointment.” He was trembling. He shook his head, saying simply, “It was difficult to leave you, but you had to be sore. We came together too many times last night and you are too new at this business not to be sore. Were I of a crude disposition I might say that I rode you until you collapsed beneath me.”

“I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, her finger in the cleft in his chin,

“could I perhaps ride you? Is it possible? Is it done? Would it give you pleasure?”

His eyes crossed. His breathing quickened. He looked at the wall. He wanted her desperately. She laughed suddenly. She knew what she had done to him, even though she wasn’t all that certain of how she’d done it. He would teach her all about riding him this very night.

He managed to say, “Tonight. I give you until tonight. Now, before you make me forget my brains, this morning I didn’t want to leave you but I knew that if I stayed with you, I would have come to you again. I didn’t want to rut my wife. Rest today and perhaps tonight—very well, tonight and not a moment later. It’s likely, though, that I will bite my fingers through wanting you so badly during the rest of today.” From one moment to the next, he was deadly serious. He stroked his fingers over her face.

Such a beloved face. “Do you still forgive me, Arabella?” She leaned forward in his arms, looking up at him closely. This was as serious as life got and she knew it. She said slowly, her heart in her words, “You are my other half, so much a part of me that if I did not forgive you, then I would not forgive myself. Yes, I forgive you. I even realized that you and I are so much alike that if I had witnessed you coming out of the barn and another woman following, that I would have drawn the same conclusion. I would have made your wedding night a misery just as you made mine. But it is over now. We have begun again.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Open your mouth.”

She did. His tongue was sliding between her lips and she jumped with the newness of it, the excitement of it. “Justin,” she whispered, kissing him deeply, touching her tongue to his, “You know, my lord, perhaps I’m not all that sore.”

He laughed, then groaned. Slowly, he set her away from him. He was harder than a rock. Jesus, he couldn’t believe how she affected him. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still a croak as he said, “Tonight, not before. I shall be in control here. I know what is best. You are still ignorant, though I pray that will not last long. Actually, I will promise you that it will not last long. Ignorance is not something to be desired when it comes to men and women.

“Now, obey me. Keep your hands to yourself, well, at least keep them above my waist. Shall we gaze at our ancestors together?” The earl said to his wife as they strolled in the parterre late that morning, “I want you to take