by Julia Quinn
“I did.”
“But not now?”
She shook her head.
“You will.” He moved his fingers and was rewarded by another rush of heat. “You’ll want even more.”
“Another finger?”
He smiled deviously. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shall we try it?”
She nodded.
He slid another finger in. “As you command, my lady.”
“Oh my God!” she shrieked. But it wasn’t with pain. He could see that on her face.
He could bring her to completion like this. It had not occurred to him that he could do so; truly, he’d only been trying to ready her body for his entry. But if she climaxed, if she experienced the womanly “little death” he’d heard so much about, surely that would make their inevitable joining all the more pleasurable, wouldn’t it?
“You like being stretched, don’t you?” he murmured.
It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, her words were clear. “I do.”
“Do you like it when I move like this?”
Her breath became shallow.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Nicholas . . .”
“Do you like this?” He crooked one finger, tickling her on the inside.
She liked it. She didn’t say anything. He suspected she couldn’t. But it was clear she liked it.
He moved his thumb, caressing her outer lips, the little bundle he’d heard was so sensitive. “What about this?” he whispered devilishly.
Her lips parted and she began to pant. Somewhere in it all, he saw her nod.
“More?”
She nodded. Urgently.
“Someday I’ll kiss you there,” he said, his words the naughty lyrics to the song of his fingers. “I’ll take my tongue and—”
“Oh!”
She arched beneath him, her body coiling tight. Her inner walls spasmed around his fingers, and dear God he almost came all over her right then.
“What was that?” she gasped.
“The French call it le petit mort.”
“I can see why.”
He slid his fingers out of her, and her eyes flew to his. “Now I do feel empty,” she whispered.
He moved into place.
“I think you’re going to fit,” she said.
He nodded. “Oh yes.”
Her body was more than ready for him now, her muscles still warm and flushed with pleasure. Three strokes and he was fully seated, and all he could think was that this was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life.
And he hadn’t even started to move.
“Does that hurt?” he asked, all the while thinking please say no, please say no.
“No,” she said. “It feels very strange, but it doesn’t hurt.” She looked up. “Does it hurt you?”
He grinned. “Oh no.”
“What happens now?” she asked.
He put a little more weight on his elbows as he started to move. “This,” he said.
Her eyes widened with surprise.
“Please tell me if it hurts you,” he begged, because he knew that her words were the only thing that could possibly have slowed him down at that point. His hunger for her was taking over, and he just wanted to pound into her, to make her feel him. He wanted to mark her, to claim her, to know that it was his body inside of her and only his, that he was the one to bring her such pleasure, that he was the one who would—
He came so fast he didn’t even see it coming.
He let out a cry as he slammed forward, again and again and again until he didn’t think there could be an inch of her womb that wasn’t coated with his seed.
And then he collapsed.
He couldn’t believe he had waited so long to try this.
Except he could. Because it would never have been like this with another woman.
It was Georgie.
There was only Georgie.
Chapter 20
Three weeks later
Georgie had been none too pleased at how quickly Nicholas had left Scotsby following their arrival.
They’d had one evening together.
One.
Mrs. Hibbert had prepared a simple but lovely dinner. She’d fussed and apologized that it was all she was able to pull together for their first night in the newly opened home. She assured them there would be proper menus moving forward. Georgie had not minded. They could have had tavern fare of brown bread and end-of-the-night soup for all she cared. She just wanted to be with Nicholas.
Alone.
The trip north had been glorious. It hadn’t seemed to matter that Cat-Head howled half the time or that Sam’s affection for Marcy (or was it Darcy?) hadn’t been returned, and then it was, and then not, and then—well, honestly Georgie had no idea what had happened except that there seemed to be an awful lot of drama surrounding it all, culminating in Mrs. Hibbert giving her daughter a tongue-lashing to end all tongue-lashings, only to discover she’d told off the wrong girl.
Georgie noticed none of this. She’d been lost in a blissful haze of new love, of shared conversation and laughter, of soft, quiet moments, and nights of erotic discovery.
Marriage, she’d decided, was turning out to be a most splendid institution.
But then they’d reached their destination.
Georgie had known that things would change. She just hadn’t anticipated how fast.
One night. That was all.
She’d had a proper bath, which had been nothing short of bliss after so many days of traveling. She’d even washed her hair, a process that for her took an inordinately long time. She’d always been envious of her sister Billie, who could scrub her hair clean, apply a bit of apple cider vinegar mixed with lavender oil to her wet, straight tresses and then simply comb it out and be done with it.
For Georgie, however, there was no simple about it. Her curls were tight, overly plentiful, and of a delicate texture. Taming them was, as Marian said, “a minister’s own penance.” Her hair had to be dried very carefully, or else she’d wake the following morning with a bramble on her head.
Or she could just braid it. It didn’t turn out as nice as when she so carefully combed, treated, and air-dried it, but it was a lot quicker. And had she known that Nicholas was leaving the next morning, that’s what she would have done so that she might join him sooner in their new bedroom.
She smiled, despite her current ire. He’d been undone when she let her hair down for him, all damp and silky. It had been quite the most innocently executed move; her pins had simply loosened under the weight of it. She reached up to fix it, doing what she did when alone: tossing her head upside down, shaking it out and then flipping the whole mass of it back. She’d never not resented her curly hair quite as much as when he gathered fistfuls of it in both hands, uttered “Jesus,” and pulled her to him.
They’d made such a mess of her hair that night Marian had nearly made the sign of the cross when she saw her the next morning. Georgie might have laughed—Marian wasn’t even Catholic—but she was in far too despondent a mood to muster humor.
Nicholas was gone.
He’d awakened her to say good-bye, at least. A gentle kiss to her cheek and then a soft shaking of her shoulder. Georgie had looked up at him sitting on the side of the bed, gazing down at her as shafts of weak sunlight drifted down from the high window.
She’d smiled, because such a sight would always make her smile now, and she’d shamelessly scooted herself up to sitting and pressed her naked body to his clothed one and then—
And then he said his horse was saddled and he’d be off as soon as he kissed her. He’d been playful and sweet, but the reality of his oh-so-imminent departure was like a cold, wet wind.
He kissed her, and he was gone.
And he’d stayed gone for almost a week.
Georgie had pouted off and on for days. There had been a lot to do, so she stayed busy, but she did not like tha
t he’d left her behind.
Yes, she knew she could not go with him to Edinburgh, at least not yet. He was still living in a rooming house, one not suitable for women.
And yes, she was fully cognizant of the fact that he hadn’t left her. He had to go back to school. As was necessary. He was a student, and he’d already missed several examinations.
And yes, fine, she’d known this was coming. It wasn’t a surprise, and she had no right to be petulant.
But she was. She was in a new place, a new country for heaven’s sake, in what felt like the wilds of Scotland, and even though she knew Nicholas had behaved exactly as he must, she felt abandoned.
So she’d thrown herself into getting Scotsby up and running. Georgie had never quite subscribed to the belief that idle hands really were the devil’s playthings, but busy ones usually worked well to keep one’s mind off the unpleasant.
But there was only so much to do. Mrs. Hibbert had also taken up the task of getting the house in order, and to be frank, she was better at it than Georgie. Furthermore, it was Georgie’s aim to not be living at Scotsby very long—weren’t they planning to lease a house in Edinburgh, after all? How much work did she really wish to put into a house that would soon sit empty?
She was bored.
And she was lonely.
And Nicholas was hours away, learning all sorts of interesting things.
Now, nearly a week after he’d left for Edinburgh, she tried not to look impatient as she waited for him to return. There was no getting around feeling impatient, but she didn’t need to be obvious about it.
As it turned out, when one was the mistress of a house it was not as easy to blend into the woodwork as when one was merely the daughter. At Aubrey Hall she’d curled up on a window seat with a book, or retired to her room and no one thought twice.
Scotsby was much smaller, though. And as the only family member in residence, she had the undivided attention of the staff.
All of them.
It was impossible to get a moment of true solitude. Georgie had tried to feign not feeling well, but the looks of concern were immediate and obvious. Clearly her mother had sent them all off with strict instructions not to endanger her “delicate health.”
So that hadn’t worked.
But it was finally Friday, the day Nicholas had said he’d return. He had no classes on Saturday or Sunday (although he’d warned her this was not always the case), and he’d promised to ride home that evening. Georgie had no idea what time to expect him. By her calculations it could be anywhere from four hours past noon into the late evening.
She hoped it was on the early side. The cook Mrs. Hibbert had hired from the village was a veritable fount of dire stories of highwaymen and mischievous fairies. And while Georgie was not too worried about fairies, the idea of highwaymen did make her concerned for Nicholas’s status as a solitary rider.
Maybe he should have used the carriage.
It would have made his journey all the more slower, though.
Georgie sighed. She was literally waiting by the window.
“I am pathetic,” she said to no one in particular.
No, she wasn’t pathetic. She was just lonely. Which was startling in its own way. She’d always been content when left to her own devices. Certainly she enjoyed gatherings with friends and family, but she’d never been the sort of person who could not get along on her own. She liked the quiet. She enjoyed solitude.
She just hadn’t realized it was possible to miss someone quite so much.
At nine that evening she was back at the window, back to feeling pathetic. To her credit, she hadn’t been there all day. After feeling sorry for herself earlier that afternoon she’d got up and found some mostly unnecessary household tasks to complete. Then she’d had her supper. She was hungry, and she knew Nicholas would not want her to wait.
But now she was back to waiting for him. The days were still growing longer; they were almost to the solstice, and the sun would not set until nearly ten. And it would not be true dark until a good hour after that. Although Scotsby was in a fairly wooded area—it did make the night seem darker than it really was.
But apparently the old saying about a watched pot was true, because the minute Georgie got up to use the chamber pot was the minute Nicholas rode into the drive, and he was already in the front hall by the time she’d come back from her room.
“You’re home!” It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms. She would have done, had he not looked so tired.
And wet. It wasn’t raining at Scotsby, but clearly it had been somewhere between there and Edinburgh.
“I’ll have Marcy draw you a bath,” Georgie said, reaching for his hat before Wheelock-the-younger could take it. “You look terribly cold.”
“Summer in Scotland is like winter anywhere else,” Nicholas said, giving a little shiver as he shrugged off his coat.
“How was your week? Did you learn anything new?”
He looked at her with faint surprise. She supposed he was not used to such interest in his studies. “Yes, of course,” he said. “We’ve been focused on the properties of circulation primarily. Plus a bit on—”
“And did you meet with the land agent?”
Nicholas handed off his coat to Wheelock, who’d practically jumped in front of Georgie to get it. “The land agent?”
“For the house,” Georgie said.
“The house,” he repeated.
“In which we might live.”
He blinked.
She told herself that he was tired. That she must be patient. So she said, “In Edinburgh. Surely you don’t want to remain at Scotsby any longer than we must.”
“No, of course not. It’s only I hadn’t the time.”
“Oh.” Georgie followed him into the dining room. This was not what she’d been hoping to hear.
Nicholas looked around. “Is there anything to eat?”
“Yes, of course, we’ve been keeping it warm for you.” Georgie motioned to a chair. “Sit.”
He did, and she took a seat next to him. “Lamb stew,” she told him. “It’s very good. With freshly baked bread and raspberry trifle for dessert. I’m sorry I did not wait for you.”
“No, no, don’t be silly. I was delayed.”
Georgie waited while Mrs. Hibbert brought out supper. Then she waited while Nicholas ate a few bites. But then she couldn’t wait any longer. “So you didn’t even contact him?”
He looked at her blankly.
“The land agent,” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes.” He wiped his mouth. “Sorry, no.”
Georgie did her best to keep her disappointment off her face. He was busy, she reminded herself. He was learning how to save actual lives.
Nicholas reached forward and took her hand. “I’ll do it this week, I promise.”
She nodded, then managed to wait five whole seconds before asking, “Once you do contact him, how long do you think it will take to find a house?”
“I don’t know,” he said with the beginnings of impatience. “I’ve never leased a house before.”
“But didn’t your father say he was sending notice ahead? So he’ll be expecting you.”
“It’s possible.”
“Perhaps by the time you meet with him it will all be settled.”
Nicholas scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m dead on my feet, Georgie. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
She smiled tightly. It felt like all her smiles were tight this evening. “Of course.”
He ate, and she watched, and then, because the silence was making her itchy, she asked, “Did you learn anything new this week?”
He looked at her. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”
“You didn’t answer.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, unable to keep all traces of sarcasm from her voice. “I was preoccupied by the fact that you haven’t been to see th
e land agent.”
“I’m sorry I was too busy to see to it,” he snapped. “I spent the entire time dealing with everything I missed traveling down to Kent for you.”
There it was. The expectation of gratitude. She’d almost forgotten that she’d been waiting for it.
“Thank you for marrying me,” she said, shoving her chair back so she could stand. “I am sorry it has made your life so difficult.”
“For God’s sake, Georgie. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know it’s not what you thought you meant.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he warned, rising to his feet.
“I knew this would happen.”
He rolled his eyes so hard she wouldn’t have been surprised if he saw his brain.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. She walked to the door, hoping he’d try to stop her, hoping he’d say something, say anything.
“Georgie, wait.”
She turned just as he laid his hand on her arm.
“I don’t want to go to bed angry,” he said.
Something inside of her softened. “Nor do I.”
“I don’t even know why we’re angry.”
She shook her head. “It’s my fault.”
“No,” he said, and his voice was firm even as his weariness seemed to cloak them both. “No, it’s not.”
“I missed you,” she said. “And I was bored. And all I wanted was to hear that I would be able to move to Edinburgh so I could be with you.”
He pulled her into his arms. “That’s all I want too.”
A part of her wanted to ask why, then, hadn’t he gone to see the land agent, but she knew that would be petty. He was exhausted, and he had every right to be.
“I don’t want you to feel grateful that I married you,” he said.
“But I do,” she admitted.
“Fine, then. Feel grateful.”
She drew back. “What?”
“If you want to feel grateful, feel grateful.”
She blinked. This was not what she’d expected him to say.
Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “But I get to feel grateful too.”
That was when she knew. She loved him. How could she not?
“Can we go to bed now?” he asked. “I’m so tired. I don’t even know how I’m still standing.”
