The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(10)

Her gaze returned to the man and she frowned. “You are not worthy of her, sir. I vow, your legs would crush the poor thing.” She chuckled at the thought then sobered as something occurred to her. Perhaps she was going about this all wrong, trying to perfect each of them individually. If she drew them together, would not the proportion work itself out naturally?

Anxious to see if the theory was correct, she retrieved a fresh sheet of drawing paper and her charcoal and began to sketch, concentrating carefully, memory her only guide –and even that couldn’t be very dependable. She’d never actually seen a man and a woman coupling. It wasn’t as though she’d ever had the ability to see herself while engaged in the act. It was entirely up to her imagination to determine how she and Matthew had fit together.

As the drawing took shape, her memories threatened to overwhelm her. Despite more than a year gone since last he’d held her in his arms and made his body a part of hers, she remembered with aching detail how it had been, and how much she had loved him.

Her core flooded with desire, hot and needful. She continued to draw, first their heads, lips meeting in a passionate kiss, downward to their necks and torsos. Here, she stopped. Face to face, body to body, what was there to see? Hmm.

She started again, this time drawing the woman’s head and body turned forward and the man’s face just behind, peering over her shoulder, eyes cast downward. Yes, that was good, for he would surely be fascinated with her round, perfect breasts. His hands would be caressing them . . . no, only one hand, caressing one breast. The other would be just there, at the apex of her thighs, touching her as his very impressive cock slid between her legs, up and into her.

Legs. They had no legs. She eyed the drawing carefully, determined to get it right. Where would her legs be, if she were in front? Perhaps he was sitting, and she in his lap? Inspired, she hurriedly sketched their legs, and the legs of a chair, beneath them.

She spent another hour filling in details, concentrating carefully on her task, getting up to poke the fire when it burned down and her light dimmed.

She heard the clock strike five just as she finished. Holding the drawing up, she gazed at it with a critical eye. She still needed to work on his legs, but they were much better proportioned than her earlier attempts. Perhaps she could get the hang of this, eventually. She had no notion what she might do with her erotic drawings, would likely keep them locked away, only to be brought out and viewed for her own enjoyment. She was never quite sure where her imagination might lead her and had no notion how or why her mind insisted on such startling mental images, but she felt a need to draw what she imagined, to give her carnal thoughts shape and form, a reality of charcoal on paper, because reality in truth would never come to pass.

Sighing, she locked away her night’s work and returned to her bed, slipping out of her dressing gown, pulling her night rail over her head, sliding naked beneath the covers. In the darkest hour of night, just before dawn, she closed her eyes, caressed her breasts with one hand and reached between her thighs with the other. Swollen and slick, begging for a deep, filling thrust, her core, the center of her, sometimes her only source of pleasure, was once again resigned to naught but her fingers.

Afterward, she rolled to her side and wept. God, how she missed him.

***

Jane had not attempted sleep, certain she was far too agitated. Instead, she spent the remaining hours of the night packing and making out a list of manly attributes she would search for in a prospective spouse. When she was done, she looked it over and determined Blixford had none of them, with the sole exception of his looks. He was a fine figure of a man. Pity his body housed such a despicable person.

The sky was pearl gray with the beginning of dawn when she let herself out the garden door and strode toward the stable. She would ride and vent some of her anger, then change into a morning gown and await Sherbourne in the dining room. As soon as he appeared, she would plead some female malady and ask him to accompany her home, back to Hornsby Grange in Oxfordshire. He would do so, without question.

A sleepy groom was already up and about and made little comment when she requested he saddle the mare she’d ridden since arriving at Lady Bonderant’s house party. Clattering out of the stable yard, she turned toward the lane that crossed the hayfields, speaking to her mount in quiet tones.

The lane stretched enticingly before her and after a short canter to warm up the mare she urged her into a full out run. Her thoughts were a tangle, far from the lane, the hayfields, or the run itself. Lack of concentration, coupled with the pounding of the mare’s hooves was the only explanation of how she failed to notice another rider approaching from behind.