by Julia Quinn
“I agree,” he replied. This was part of their duet, steps in the intricate choreography that led to them entering the bed on opposite sides and then ended with him pretending he did not wake up each morning with her in his arms. She was checking to see if he was behaving differently, assessing his expression, his movements.
He did not need her to tell him this to know that it was true.
Her eyes were like glass, pale green and luminous, and she hadn’t a prayer of hiding her emotions. He could not imagine her ever keeping a secret. Surely it would show on her face, on those full lips that she never quite seemed to keep still. Even when she was quiet there were hints of motion in her expression. Her brow would draw down, or her lips would part, just wide enough for a breath to pass through. He did not know if everyone else saw this in her. He supposed at first glance she might seem serene. But if you took the time to look at her, to see beyond the oval face and even features that had been captured in that second-rate miniature Edward had studied so many times . . . That was when you saw it. The tiny bits of motion, dancing in time to her thoughts.
Sometimes he wondered if he could watch her forever without being bored.
“Edward?”
He blinked. She was seated at the small vanity, regarding him with curiosity.
“You were staring,” she said. She had taken her hair down. It was not quite as long as he’d thought it might be, back when pieces were falling from their pins that day at the hospital. He’d watched her brush it every night, her lips silently counting the strokes. It was almost mesmerizing how the texture and shine seemed to change as she pulled the brush through the strands.
“Edward?”
Again, she’d caught him drifting off. “Sorry,” he said. “My mind keeps wandering.”
“I’m sure you’re very tired.”
He tried not to read too much into her pronouncement.
“I’m tired,” she said.
There were so many levels to that simple, two-word sentence. The simplest: It was a very long day. I’m tired.
But he knew there was more to it than that. Cecilia was always careful to make sure that he was not overtaxing himself, so there was certainly a bit of: If I’m tired, then you must be too.
Then there was the truth. The simplest, most basic core of it all: If I tell you I’m tired . . . If you think I’m not up to it . . .
“May I?” he murmured, reaching for the brush.
“What?” Her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Oh, there is no need. I am almost done.”
“Just a bit more than half.”
Confusion painted a wrinkle onto her brow. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve done twenty-eight strokes. You normally do fifty.”
Her lips parted with surprise. He could not tear his eyes from them.
“You know how many times I brush my hair each evening?”
He gave a little shrug, even as his body tightened at the sight of her tongue moistening a dry spot just to the left of the center of her upper lip. “You’re a creature of habit,” he said. “And I’m observant.”
She set down the hairbrush, as if cutting off her routine might somehow change who she was. “I did not realize I was so predictable.”
“Not predictable,” he said. He reached across her and took the silver brush in his hand. “Consistent.”
“Con—”
“And before you ask,” he interrupted gently, “that is a compliment.”
“You don’t need to brush my hair.”
“Of course I do. You shaved my beard, if you recall. It’s the very least I can do.”
“Yes, but I don’t—”
“Shhh . . .” he admonished, and then he took the brush and drew it through her already shining and untangled locks.
“Edward, I—”
“Twenty-nine,” he said before she could complete yet another protest. “Thirty.”
He could pinpoint the moment she finally surrendered. Her steel-backed posture softened, and a soft breath—not quite a sigh—crossed her lips.
To himself he counted thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-four. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Mmmm.”
He smiled. Thirty-five, thirty-six. He wondered if she’d notice if he went past fifty.
“Does anyone ever take care of you?” he asked.
She yawned. “That’s a silly question.”
“I don’t think it is. Everyone deserves to be cared for. Some, I imagine, more than others.”
“Thomas does,” she finally answered. “Or did. It’s been so long since I last saw him.”
I will, Edward vowed.
“You took great care of me when I was ill,” he said.
She turned, just enough so that he could see her puzzled expression. “Of course.”
“Not everyone would have done so,” he pointed out.
“I am your . . .”
But she did not finish the sentence.
Forty-two, forty-three.
“You are almost my wife,” he said softly.
He could see only the edge of her face, not even a true profile. But he knew that she had stopped breathing. He felt the instant she went still.
“Forty-eight,” he murmured. “Forty-nine.”
Her hand came over his, held it in place. Was she trying to prolong the moment? Freeze time so that she did not have to face their inevitable move toward intimacy?
She wanted him. He knew that she did. It was there in the soft moans he heard when they kissed, sweet sounds he doubted she even knew she made. He felt her desire when her lips moved against his, artless and curious.
He took her hand, still resting atop his, and brought it to his mouth. “Fifty,” he whispered.
She didn’t move.
On soft, silent feet he made his way around to her side, transferring her fingers from one hand to the other so that he could set the hairbrush back on the small vanity. Again, he brought her fingers to his lips, but this time he gave her a gentle tug, urging her to her feet.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, but the words seemed insufficient. She was so much more than her lovely face, and he wanted to tell her that, but he was not a poet, and he did not know how, especially with the air between them growing hot and thick with desire.
He touched her cheek, marveling at the soft silk of her skin beneath his callused fingers. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide, and he could see that she was intensely nervous, far more than he would have expected, given how close they had become in the past week. But he’d never been with a virgin; maybe they were all like this.
“This isn’t our first kiss,” he reminded her, brushing his mouth gently against hers.
Still, she did not move, but he would swear he could hear her heart pounding. Or maybe he was hearing it through her, from her hand to his.
From her heart to his.
Was he falling in love with her? He could not imagine what else could make him feel like this, as if his days did not truly begin until he saw her smile.
He was falling in love with her. He’d already been halfway there before they had even met, and maybe he’d never remember the events that had led him to this moment, but he would remember this. This kiss. This touch.
This night.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, kissing her again, this time teasing her lips with his tongue.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, in a voice that was somehow just strange enough to give him pause. He touched her chin, tipped her face up to his, and searched her eyes for something he could not even define.
It would be so much easier if he knew what he was looking for.
“Has someone”—he didn’t want to say it—“hurt you?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, until the moment he took a breath to explain further.
“No,” she said suddenly, understanding his meaning just in time to save him an explanation. “No,” she said again. “I promise.”
The relief
Edward felt hit him like something solid. If someone had hurt her, raped her . . . It would not matter to him that she was not a virgin, but he would have to spend the rest of his life bringing the cur to justice.
His heart—nay, his soul—would not allow otherwise.
“I will be gentle,” he promised, his hand lightly tracing the line of her throat to the bare skin at her collarbone. She had not changed from her day dress to her nightgown, and so while the fabric was tighter, with meddlesome buttons and laces, it nevertheless revealed a wider swath of skin, from the curve of her shoulder to the gentle swell of her breasts.
He kissed her there, right where the lace edging of her bodice met her skin, and she gasped, her body instinctively arching toward him.
“Edward, I—”
He kissed her again, closer to the shadow between her breasts.
“I don’t know if—”
And then at the other side, each kiss a soft benediction, a mere hint of the passion he was holding tightly in check.
His fingers found the fastenings at the back of her dress, and he brought his mouth back to hers as he slowly set her body free. He’d thought to distract her with kisses, but he was the one made stupid by desire, because once her lips parted beneath his, he was utterly consumed.
And so was she. What started as something playful quickly burned hot until they were both drinking of the other like this might be their only chance of union. Edward had no idea how he got her dress off without tearing it; probably the last shred of his rational mind recognized that she had only two frocks here in New York, and they needed to keep both of them in working order.
She was wearing a light chemise, knotted loosely at the front, and his fingers trembled as they grasped one end of the tie. He pulled it slowly, watching as the corresponding loop grew smaller and smaller until it finally slid through the knot.
He edged the chemise from her shoulder, his breath quickening as each inch of her peach-pale skin was exposed.
“It goes the other way,” she said.
“What?” Her voice had been soft; he wasn’t sure he’d got her meaning.
“The chemise,” she said, her eyes not quite meeting his. “It goes over the head.”
His hand went still, and he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’d been trying to be so gentle, so gentlemanly, and here she was offering directions for her disrobement.
She was delightful. No, she was magnificent, and he could not imagine how he’d ever thought his life had been complete before this moment.
She looked up, her head tilting to the side as she said, “What is it?”
He just shook his head.
“You’re smiling,” she accused.
“I am.”
Now she was smiling too. “Why?”
“Because you’re perfect.”
“Edward, no, I—”
She was still shaking her head when he pulled her into his arms. The bed was mere steps away, but she was his wife, and he was finally going to make love to her, and by God he was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her there.
He kissed her again and again, his hands roaming over her body, first through the chemise, and then daring their way underneath the hem. She was everything he’d dreamed, responsive and warm. Then he felt her ankle hooking around his leg, drawing him closer, and it was like the entire world had burst into sunshine. This was no longer him seducing her. She wanted him too. She wanted to pull him closer, to feel him against her, and Edward’s heart sang with equal parts joy and satisfaction.
He pulled back, sitting up far enough so that he could tug his shirt over his head.
“You look different,” she said, watching him with passion-glazed eyes.
His brows rose.
“The last time I saw you”—she reached up, touched his chest with the tips of her fingers—“was the day you left hospital.”
He supposed it was true. She had always turned her back when he was changing his clothes. And he had always watched her, wondering what she was thinking, if she wanted to turn around and take a peek.
“Better, I hope,” he murmured.
She gave a little eye roll at that, which he supposed he deserved. He had not yet put on all of the weight he had lost, but he was certainly more fit, and when he ran his hands over his arms, he could feel his muscles re-forming, slowly clawing their way back to strength.
But he was strong enough for this. He was definitely strong enough for this.
“I didn’t think men were supposed to be so beautiful,” Cecilia said.
He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders, bracing himself so he could loom over her as he warned, “If you make me blush I shall have to exert my husbandly authority over you.”
“Your husbandly authority? What does that entail?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’m fairly certain you promised to obey.”
If he hadn’t been so focused on her face, he might not have seen the little twitch in her jaw. Or the awkward swallow that made a trail down her throat. He almost teased her about it. There was not a woman of his acquaintance—at least not one he liked and respected—who actually meant it when she promised to obey her husband.
He wondered if she’d crossed her fingers when she’d said the words on the ship. Or maybe she’d found some way out of saying them altogether, the little vixen. And now she was too embarrassed to admit it.
“I never expected you to obey me,” he murmured, smiling as he went in for another kiss. “Merely to agree with me in all things.”
She shoved him in the shoulder, but all he could do was laugh. Even when he rolled onto his side and pulled her close, he could not stop the silent mirth that shook through his body and into hers.
Had he ever laughed in bed with a woman? Who knew it would be so delightful.
“You do make me happy,” he said, and then he finally took her advice and pulled the chemise from her body, her arms rising up as he slid it over her head.
His breath caught. She was nude now, and although the sheets covered her lower body, her breasts were bare to him. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, but there was more to it than that. It wasn’t just that the sight of her made him dizzy with desire. Or that he was quite certain he had never been so hard with need as he was at that moment.
It was more. It was deeper.
It was divine.
He touched one of her breasts, grazing the pretty pink nipple with his forefinger. She gasped, and he could not help but let out a growl of masculine pride. He loved that he could make her want him, want this. He loved knowing that she was almost certainly growing wet between her legs, that her body was coming alive, and he was doing it.
“So pretty,” he murmured, adjusting their bodies so that she was once again on her back, and he was straddling her. But with her chemise gone, the position took on a far more erotic air. Her breasts flattened a bit with gravity, but the nipples, pink as roses, jutted proudly upward, practically begging for his touch.
“I could look at you all day,” he said.
Her breath quickened.
“Or maybe not,” he said, leaning down to give her right nipple one little lick. “I don’t think I could look and not touch.”
“Edward,” she gasped.
“Or kiss.” He moved to the other breast, drawing the tip into his mouth.
She arched beneath him, a soft shriek escaping her lips as he continued his sweet torture.
“I can nibble, too,” he murmured, going back to the other side, this time using his teeth.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. “What are you doing? I feel it . . .”
He chuckled. “I hope you feel it.”
“No, I feel it . . .”
He waited for a few seconds, and then, his words laced with wicked desire, he said, “You feel it somewhere else?”
She nodded.
Someday, after they’d made love a hundred times, he’d make her say where she fe
lt it. He’d make her say the words that would make his already hard cock turn into something built with steel. But for now, he would be the naughty one. He would use every weapon in his arsenal to make sure that when he finally entered her she was desperate with need.
She would know what it meant to be adored. She would know what it meant to be worshipped. Because he had already realized that his greatest pleasure lay with her finding hers.
He squeezed her breast, his hand molding it into a tiny mountain as he bent down to place his lips by her ear. “I wonder where you feel it,” he said, grazing her with his teeth. He rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as his hand slid from her breast to her hip. “Could it be here?”
Her breath grew louder.
“Or maybe”—he slid across her belly, tickling her navel with his finger—“here?”
Still, she quivered beneath his touch.
“I don’t think that’s the spot,” he said, idly drawing circles on her skin. “I think you were speaking of somewhere a little lower.”
She made a sound. It might have been his name.
He flattened his palm against her abdomen, and with purposeful slowness inched his way down until his fingers met the soft thatch of hair that guarded her womanhood. He felt her grow very still, as if she wasn’t sure what to do, and he could only smile as he listened to the frenzied rasps of air of passing over her lips.
Tenderly he parted her, his fingers flicking over her nub until some of the rigidity left her body, and she fell more fully open to him. “Do you like that?” he whispered, even though he knew she did. But when she nodded he still felt like king of the world. The mere act of pleasuring her seemed to be enough to make his heart swell with pride.
He continued to tease her, drawing her closer and closer to her peak, even though his own body was crying out for satisfaction. He had not intended to see to her completion first, but once he touched her, felt her body singing beneath his fingers, he knew what he had to do. He wanted her to fall apart, to utterly shatter and think there was no greater pleasure.
And then he wanted to show her that there was.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, but he thought the question might be rhetorical. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back, and as her body arched, thrusting those perfect breasts to the sky, he thought he’d never seen anything so lovely and erotic.
