She could not wait.
Growing impatient, she planted her right foot on the mattress and pushed herself upward. Huntingdon had not anticipated her sudden movement. The action lodged him farther inside her.
He grunted, then shifted, thrusting deeper still, and groaned. “Helena, I am trying my damnedest not to cause you pain.”
She did not think pain possible. Discomfort mingled with ridiculous, all-consuming bliss. The feeling of him within her was wondrous and strange and good. So very, very good. But not good enough. Because beneath it all, she could not shake the sensation that he was withholding from her, that there was more to be had, more to be felt. She was not fashioned of porcelain, and she would not break. No, indeed. She was Helena Davenport, and she had been made for this man.
He only had to realize it.
“Just bed me, Huntingdon,” she gritted. “Waiting is more torture than anything you can possibly do.”
As she said the words, she bucked her hips again. The friction of him inside her sent a current straight through her. Rapturous agony. That was how she could best describe it.
“Damn you, Helena,” he growled, and then he plunged inside her.
All the way. Deep. She knew it because of the sharp sting followed by the undeniable rightness. Pain mingled with pleasure, the two entwining into a heady, odd mix.
He felt so good inside her. Filling her. He reached a place she had not realized existed. Sparks skittered. She held him to her tightly when he would have withdrawn, the leg hooked around his waist keeping him lodged within her.
“Make me yours,” she commanded against his lips.
On a growl, he began to move again. His hips withdrew, then slid inside her once more. Between their bodies, his knowing fingers played a steady rhythm on her pearl. All the while, he kissed her. Lips and tongue and teeth. In and out. The pain receded and all that remained was the pleasure.
And it blossomed and grew. Another tremor of ecstasy quaked through her. She tightened on him, kissing him hard as she reached her pinnacle. He groaned into her mouth, his body stiffening over hers, and then he was plunging deep, and a spurt of warmth filled her.
Huntingdon broke the kiss, his face dipping to her neck, his breathing ragged and hot. Helena clutched him to her, heart pounding, love and awe warring within her for supremacy, along with the remnants of pleasure.
Their marriage had been consummated.
He was hers now.
Finally.
Chapter Fifteen
Those who feel women should be denied the Parliamentary franchise because of their intellectual inferiority should, perhaps, have their own mental acuity examined instead.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
He woke to his wife, naked and glorious, sleeping peacefully beside him. Even in her slumber, she encroached upon him, her slim ankle crossed over his calf, tendrils of golden hair on his pillow, her fingers grazing his shoulder. It was, he thought, rather symbolic of their marriage.
A marriage which he had made permanent and inextricable last night.
Excellent restraint, Gabe. Two days into your marriage, and you have already bedded her.
He winced at the realization. It was his fault, everything that had happened over the last few weeks. From the moment he had touched her for the first time, he had been lost. There had never been any hope of this conflagration between them ending in anything other than the rumpled bed upon which they now lay.
Still, as he watched her, slumber softening her lovely countenance, a riotous blonde curl on her cheek, the resentment and shame that had been his almost-constant companion was supplanted by a rush of tenderness instead. He longed to tamp it down, that unwanted emotion. But it had taken hold, like a weed in a garden.
Making love to her had been a mistake.
He never should have done it. He could not wait to do it again.
His morning cockstand twitched at the thought of plunging into her tight, wet heat. Of waking her with kisses and then rolling her to her back…
No.
That would not do him a whit of good. For one, she may still be sore after their lovemaking the night before. For another, it would only further enslave him to her. He could not afford to allow his desire for Helena to cloud his mind. Time and distance, a polite marriage of mutual respect—Shropshire—remained what he needed.
Consummating their marriage did not have to change anything, including his plans. Taking care to keep from waking her, Gabe disengaged from her body and left the bed. His discarded dressing robe was easily found in the early morning shadows, abandoned where he had left it in a heap upon the Axminster. He stuffed his arms into the robe and fastened it, trying to banish the steam from his head, the poison from his blood.
The rustling of bedclothes and her sleepy sigh reached him as he lingered, breathing in the new scent of the countess’s apartments. Bergamot and citrus and something that was purely Helena. Looking back to the bed he had left her in was a mistake. The pale curve of her rump was on display, and one of her full breasts had slipped free of the bedclothes, a pink, pouting nipple taunting him.
My God, how the hell am I going to leave her?
He was not going to.
Realization hit him right in his thudding heart.
He could not leave for Shropshire now. Anything he needed to discuss with his steward there could be conducted from afar. Traveling there had been naught but an excuse, an easy means of escape. After what had passed between himself and Helena last night, he knew he needed to resurrect his walls and sense of duty.
Because his duty was to her as well. When he had married her, she had become his family. She was his countess, for better or worse. Right or wrong, they were forever bound, and he was determined not to make the same mistakes as his parents.
Grimly, Huntingdon crossed the chamber, returning to his own. If he lingered here any longer, the urge to slip back into her bed would be unavoidable. And he could not succumb to his lust again so soon.
No matter how desperately he longed to.
Time and distance could be affected in different ways.
Helena awoke to light streaming through the cracks in the window dressing. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned as wakefulness gradually descended. Her body was sore in strange places, every part of her deliciously aware of her nakedness beneath the bedclothes.
Remembrance hit her.
Huntingdon had made love to her last night.
She sat up in bed, holding the sheets over her bosom, and searched the chamber for any sign of him. There was none.
Of course there was not.
Had she expected any less? Silly Helena. What had she thought, that he would spend the night in her bed and proclaim his undying devotion to her by morning light? The chances were greater that he was already bound for the train station, determined to depart for Shropshire and leave her alone in London.
Grimly, she rose from the bed and found a robe de chambre her lady’s maid had laid out for her the previous evening. She secured each button in its moorings before taking in her appearance in the large, gilt-framed looking glass occupying one of the walls of her chamber.
The woman staring back at her was almost a stranger. Her blonde tresses were wild and mussed with the evidence of what she had done the evening before with Huntingdon. She attempted to smooth the strands down and gather her courage. The mantel clock told her the hour was yet early. Early enough, she hoped, to catch her husband before he attempted to flee her once more.
But a subsequent trip to his chamber—polite knocking which had reduced to rudely poking her head into the room only to find it empty—proved unsuccessful. She rang for her lady’s maid and made haste with her toilette for the morning. On account of her pride, she held her tongue and refrained from asking whether or not Lord Huntingdon had departed for his journey. Helena was sure she already knew the answer.
He had wedded her, bedded her, and left her. The intensity of their lovema
king rendered the resultant retreat all the more insulting.
So it was that when she made her way to the dining room to break her fast and discovered her husband seated at the head of the table, she drew up short. Shock flitted through her. He was handsome as ever this morning, dressed to perfection, his dark hair neatly brushed, his jaw freshly shaven.
He stood at her entrance and bowed. “Lady Huntingdon.”
He was here. Not on his way to Shropshire, but with The Times ironed and spread before him as if this were just another ordinary day. As if he had no plans of leaving her. Was it too much to hope he did not?
Belatedly, she dipped in a curtsy, swallowing her shock. “My lord.”
He nodded to the footman dancing attendance, and the young man quit the room, leaving them alone. Helena’s face went hot as a new awareness of her husband hit her. They had been as intimate as a man and woman could be last night. By morning light, it was almost impossible to believe but for the memory of his touch and lips and tongue.
And him inside her.
At the last thought, her knees nearly turned to water.
“You are off to Shropshire this morning?” She forced herself to ask the question with as much studied nonchalance as she could manage. Quite as if she could not be bothered with his response, she congratulated herself. He could hardly know her hopes hinged upon his answer.
“There has been a change of plans,” he responded with equal smoothness.
A change of plans.
Her puerile heart rejoiced.
She made her way to the sideboard where a dazzling array of breakfast foods had been laid out in generous display. “Oh?”
“Indeed. I will not be traveling to Shropshire today.”
His deep baritone warned her, just before his presence at her side made her body shimmer, that he had come nearer. She told herself she would not look. That she would calmly fill her plate. But when she picked up the china, long elegant fingers were there to pluck it from her grasp.
Startled, she turned to him, finding his bright-blue gaze studying her intently. “My lord?”
“Allow me to assist you,” he said, rather than responding to her query.
“I can gather my breakfast on my own,” she countered, girding her heart against this mysterious new Huntingdon before her.
He did not seem nearly as cold, nor as aloof. And yet, he still held himself apart from her. All had not been forgiven, although he had altered his travel plans.
“Nonsense,” he clipped. “Only tell me what you wish, and it will be my pleasure to get it for you.”
The word pleasure uttered in his silken baritone turned her insides to blancmange.
She swallowed against a rising tide of longing. This would not do. She still had no notion of where she stood with him. “Eggs, if you please. Strawberries and pineapple as well. And a rasher of bacon.”
He carried her plate to the chair nearest his and laid it upon the table linens with care, then held out her chair. Helena sat, acutely aware of his presence at her back. But while the wickedest part of her yearned for him to lean closer and attempt to steal a kiss, she told herself she was relieved when he returned to his chair and resumed his consumption of both his own repast and the newspaper.
Breakfast continued in silence, interrupted only by the clinking of the cutlery on the fine porcelain and the periodic turning of The Times pages.
Helena’s irritation mounted with each passing moment. They had consummated their marriage last night. She had fallen asleep with him by her side. And now, he played the gentleman, as though they were mere strangers meeting for the first time at a ball rather than husband and wife.
“When will you be traveling to Shropshire, if not today?” she asked at last, unable to bear another minute of silence.
“I have yet to decide,” he told her calmly, lifting his gaze to hers.
She pursed her lips. “When will you decide, my lord?”
She did not think she misunderstood that they were speaking of far more than his trip to Shropshire.
He quirked a brow, a slight smile curving his lips. “Are you in a hurry to be rid of me, madam?”
It was not fair that he was so beautiful, and it was also not fair that he seemed no more inclined to forgive her this morning than he had the day before.
At least he is not on a train bound for Shropshire, whispered her heart.
And that was something, she supposed.
“Of course I am not in a hurry to be rid of you, Huntingdon,” she said calmly. “You are my husband. I should like you to stay.”
Because I am in love with you, you dolt.
Naturally, she kept that bit to herself.
His gaze searched hers, probing. “How are you feeling this morning, Helena?”
She knew what he was asking—how did she feel now that they had made love? A flush crept over her cheeks once more as she remembered those blistering moments of passion.
“Quite well, thank you.”
She resumed eating her breakfast.
After an indeterminate span of time, he finished reading his newspaper and took his leave. Helena watched him go, knowing the chasm between them had not truly been breached. Of course it had not. What had she expected? One night of desire to change everything?
He still resented her for forcing him into marriage.
And she still loved him as desperately as ever.
Making love to his wife the night before had given Gabe clarity on two facts: he needed to attempt to make amends with his friend Shelbourne, and bedding her had not quelled his desire for her but rather increased it. He was not certain what to do with the latter, dangerous realization, but he damn well did know what to do with the first.
And that was why he found himself meeting with Shelbourne on neutral territory, their club, the Black Souls. A private room had been arranged, along with a lovely Sauternes courtesy of the club owner, Mr. Elijah Decker, himself a newly married man. Decker’s wife, Lady Josephine, was a member of the Lady’s Suffrage Society and friend of Helena. As such, Huntingdon expected Decker took pity on him.
“How is my sister?” Shelbourne asked coolly.
Gabe took note his friend did not refer to Helena by her new title. “Lady Huntingdon is well, thank you.”
“No honeymoon?” Shelbourne prodded, raising a dark brow.
He drummed his fingers on the polished table. “No fisticuffs today?”
His friend’s eyes narrowed. “You are the one who invited me here to speak. You are also the one who ruined my innocent sister and necessitated a rushed, forced marriage. Am I expected to be entertained by such a quip?”
He was not wrong.
And although Gabe had not lowered himself to the depths which Shelbourne believed he had sunk by getting a child on Helena, he had gone far enough. He had kissed her, been alone with her, touched her.
He took a long, slow sip of his wine, trying to gather himself, before returning his glass to the table. “That is the reason I wished to speak with you today.”
“To invite me to plant you another facer?”
Huntingdon frowned. “To explain myself. To apologize. To make amends.”
But his old friend’s stare was flat, his countenance lined with stark disapproval and anger. “You cannot do so, Huntingdon. That horse is out of the pasture, jumped the fence. All you can do is promise to be a good husband to Hellie.”
At the sobriquet Shelbourne used for Helena, Gabe knew another sharp spear of guilt. His friend and Helena had been close once. Shelbourne had doted upon her, and that knowledge had long been a part of what had forced him to think of her as nothing more than his friend’s sister. A lady he must never want. A lady he could never have.
A lady who was now his.
Irrefutably.
Irrevocably.
He tried to find his place in the conversation. “I am doing my best to be a good husband to her.”
His words were accompanied by the swift sting of shame. Wa
s that true, however? He had been polite at breakfast. He had canceled his trip to Shropshire for the moment. But was that truly the sum of being a good husband? He thought not.
“If you hurt her, I will kill you, Huntingdon,” said his friend as blithely as if they discussed the quality of the wine in their glasses.
The finest, as it happened. Elijah Decker would serve nothing less than the best. But its excellence was lost upon him now. The stuff may as well have been fashioned of sawdust for all he tasted it.
Gabe inclined his head toward his friend in understanding. “I have no intentions of hurting her, Shelbourne. As my countess, she will want for nothing.”
“As your countess.” Shelbourne shook his head. “I can scarcely believe it. You have always been the most honorable man I know, above reproach. You were promised to another, and yet…of all the women in London, Huntingdon, my own sister. It is unforgivable.”
Yes, it was. He could not deny the veracity of his friend’s words. That knowledge, deep-seated, had been one of the reasons Gabe had avoided Helena for so long. He had long been intrigued by his friend’s bold, beautiful sister. The more time he had spent in her presence, the more enraptured he had become. Chance encounters in the countryside where the strict London edicts were not nearly as enforceable, entirely inappropriate. Entirely wonderful.
Until Grandfather had reminded him of the wrongness of his feelings. Until Grandfather had expressed a desire to see Lady Beatrice as the next Countess of Huntingdon. His grandfather had been quick to remind Gabe of the ills that had befallen his parents, and, as a result of their selfishness, Lisbeth as well. The warning had been enough. He had not been willing to travel that same, unwise path.
“I cannot explain it myself,” he said thickly. “I wish to God I had possessed more restraint.”
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 16
