Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady

by Louise Allen

  ‘Which nightgown tonight, my lady?’

  ‘The fawn one with the copper ribbons,’ Bella decided at random. At least it did not clash as unpleasantly with the pink draperies as the green had done.

  It was, if anything, more revealing than the green. There seemed to be an inadequate amount of fabric in the bodice and very little substance in the skirts unless she stood stock still. ‘And the négligé, please, Gwen.’

  The maid brought the robe, which did little for decency other than add another filmy layer, and placed the slippers on the floor by Bella’s bare feet. ‘Scent, my lady?’

  ‘I do not have any.’

  ‘There was this in the cupboard, my lady.’ Gwen produced a gilded flask and took out the stopper. Both women bent over to sniff.

  ‘Phew! Certainly not that, it belongs in a—’

  ‘It certainly does.’ Gwen wrinkled her nose. ‘One of his late lordship’s fancy pieces left it, I’ve no doubt. I’ll pour it away outside, shall I, my lady? The flask is pretty, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bella said. Fancy pieces? They were back to the orgies again. Would Elliott like this scent? She decided she did not care whether he did or not, she was not going to wear it. ‘Keep the flask, Gwen. You may go now.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. Goodnight, ma’am.’

  Bella sat and wrestled with the images that the perfume and this chamber conjured up. A man would have certain expectations of a woman dressed as she was in a room like this one.

  ‘Arabella?’

  Elliott had come into her room without her hearing him. She shot to her feet like a startled partridge with an entire shooting party after her.

  ‘I beg you pardon, but I did knock.’ He was smiling slightly at her discomfiture as he stood there in the same blue silk robe he had worn two nights ago. Only there was no glimpse of nightshirt at the throat and his feet were bare. Now under the thick silk he was naked, she realised, feeling as though all the breath had been sucked out of her lungs.

  She had to say something. ‘I was thinking about clothes and wondering if you would like this ensemble.’ She twitched the skirts a little. ‘I think the colour very pretty, don’t you.’

  ‘I think the wearer very pretty too,’ he said, walking up to her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Elliott, you know I am not!’

  ‘I must confess that cold, hungry, frightened and feeling sick, you can look a trifle drawn and wan,’ Elliott admitted. ‘I did not see the true you. Our wedding day was a revelation and I should have told you so. Now I see big hazel eyes, with long lashes, perfect skin, a mouth that was made for eating strawberries—’

  ‘It is too wide.’

  ‘All the better for kissing. Your nose—’

  ‘Is too long and straight.’

  ‘All the better for looking down in a provocative manner. Your hair—’

  ‘Is perfectly straight and mouse-coloured.’

  ‘A very pretty mouse, for all that. And when I see it loose…’ his hand sifted through the weight of it on her right shoulder ‘…I think of all kinds of things I would like to do with it.’

  Bella could not think what Elliott meant, although from the glint in his eyes whatever it was involved sex.

  ‘Oh, yes, and you blush delightfully.’ He watched her for a moment. ‘Arabella, I would like us to be…open with each other in bed. More relaxed. I want you to feel free to express what you feel and need.’

  ‘Yes, so do I, Elliott.’ It was a lie. In fact, it was a wonder he did not hear her knees rattling together like castanets, but she could not go on like this. She had made her wedding vows and she must keep them.

  ‘Good,’ he said, his deep voice huskier than usual as he bent his head. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he held her a little away and brushed his mouth against her throat, nudging gently until she tipped her head to give him better access.

  Then his mouth trailed down to the edge of the négligé and his fingers found the ribbons and tugged until it opened. ‘Ah,’ he murmured, the vibration quivering against her skin. Bella swallowed, fighting to stand still as his lips followed the curve of her breast and his hand cupped the weight of it. Then the flickering exploration of his tongue found her nipple through the gauze.

  ‘Sweet.’ The satisfied sound seemed to come from deep in his chest as Elliott settled her firmly in his arms and began to torment the tight bud with tongue and lips and teeth, tugging and sucking and nipping, saturating the fabric until it might as well not have been there.

  Elliott! Waves of sensation, not quite pain, too much for pleasure, pulsed through her. He had not done this before, only kissed her mouth and caressed her body gently with his hands.

  Rafe had not touched her like this. He had handled her with what she had thought was the impatience of desire, squeezing her breasts, hurting with a pain that was nothing like this exquisite torment. Elliott moved to the other nipple as Arabella writhed in his arms. The négligé had gone, somehow, and so had the nightgown, slithering down to his imprisoning arms where it caught, the silken folds brushing and teasing around her legs.

  ‘Elliott.’ She managed to say it out loud this time. A protest, a plea, a gasp of embarrassment? All three, perhaps. Arabella could not understand what he was doing to her body, but it was sending her rapidly past the point where shyness was even an option. ‘Elliott, what are you doing?’

  He looked up, his lips curving. ‘Making love, Arabella.’

  ‘You are making me…I do not know. I want…’

  ‘This?’ He kissed her on her mouth, one hand still cupping her breast, his thumb fretting hard over the impossibly tight knot of the nipple while his other smoothed down over her hip, pushing the nightgown aside. She became aware again that his hands were hard, as though he worked with them.

  His mouth was demanding, his tongue thrusting, insistent that she open to him, insistent that she tangle her own tongue with his. He sucked it into his mouth, holding her when she would have withdrawn, nervous of this intensity and the knowledge of where it was leading, then nipping at her lips with tiny, biting kisses.

  In the pit of her belly there was heat and an ache and a pulse that had her pressing against him in a blind search for relief, only to find that she was straining against the blatant jut of his erection through the heavy silk of his robe. But there was no room to withdraw her body, hardly any room in her head for the confusion of thoughts. How could she feel like this for a man she scarcely knew yet and did not love? Was she utterly wanton or was Elliott a warlock, conjuring lust out of her ignorance and shyness? But perhaps, just perhaps, it would be all right…

  He moved, scooped her up and laid her on the bed, naked, exposed and quivering with shock. ‘Don’t cover yourself,’ he ordered, his voice almost harsh, as she reached for the covers to drag them across her body. He kicked off his slippers, shrugged out of his robe, then stood, his hands on his lean hips, looking at her. And Arabella stared back, seeing him naked for the first time, breathless with discovery and terrified desire.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rafe had taken her virginity in the hayloft of the parish tithe barn. It had been shadowed, the gloom pierced by shafts of sunlight where roof tiles had slipped, the light full of floating dust motes. Bella had hardly been able to see his face, or the details of his body as he stripped her, undid his breeches and pushed her on to his coat spread on the pile of loose hay. He had kissed her, ravished her mouth, handled her breasts with avid hands, pressed her legs apart and taken her with the unsubtle urgency of need.

  She had not seen then, not really understood his body, but now, in the warm glow of a dozen candles, she could see very clearly the anatomy of a fully aroused man. It took her breath away with a mixture of fear and desire and shock at just how beautiful Elliott was. How hard and lean, how fit. How did he get those muscles, that flat belly, those calloused hands?

  He knelt on the bed beside her, his hands skimming down over her body, making her catch
her breath. Then he placed his hands on her thighs and eased them apart and she shut her eyes, shamed by the heat and dampness that betrayed her arousal.

  ‘Arabella, look at me.’ She felt his weight coming down over her and shifted her hips instinctively to cradle him. Of their own accord her hands curved over his shoulders, and she made herself open her eyes. She thought she was a little more relaxed this time—did Elliott notice? His face was shadowed as it hung over her, the candle flame sharpening the cheekbones, sending blue sparks from his eyes. The image of Rafe slid over his features like a mask and she closed her eyes again to shut it out. She would not let that spectre ruin this, not now. ‘Bend your knees up to try and relax,’ he urged and she struggled to obey, feeling him nudging closer into her slick, hot folds. ‘We have as much time as you need.’

  Now. I must not cry out however much it hurts. I must try to forget that, caress him, discover what he likes, stop being so passive…

  ‘Arabella!’ Elliott’s voice was so sharp that her eyes flew open. She found his intense gaze locked on her face. ‘Why are you crying? What is it?’

  ‘I…I’m not.’ He rolled off her and she rubbed her hand across her eyes. It came away smeared with moisture. ‘Oh. I am sorry, I did not mean to. I was trying so hard not to—’

  ‘Hell and damnation.’ Elliott sat up. ‘No, I’m sorry. I did not mean to shout at you, let alone swear. Arabella, I thought you were responding to me.’

  She felt her face flame. ‘Yes. I was. I was determined. It is just…’ How could she explain her cowardice? It was her duty to lie with her husband. And she wanted to. She could not allow the fear and the pain to prevent her. Every other wife managed it. Perhaps they allowed themselves to be swept up in that turmoil of feeling before it happened. If only that was all there was to it, that heat and desire and longing.

  But she owed Elliott an explanation and then, no doubt, he would do as his brother had done and ignore the cries she tried to stifle and take her.

  ‘Arabella?’ He reached out and touched her face, his big hand gentle as the fingertips caressed her cheek. ‘Tell me.’

  It was so difficult. His tender gesture made it worse, somehow. She did not deserve that he touch her like that, reach out for her when she was rejecting him. ‘I can’t explain,’ she blurted out. ‘I cannot…’

  The soft light faded from his eyes. ‘You must try, Arabella.’

  ‘I am trying so hard,’ she protested. ‘You don’t understand. Let me—’

  ‘I understand perfectly well that you are not ready to be my wife, despite what you say,’ he said harshly, getting off the bed and scooping up his robe. ‘When you are, then perhaps we will have a marriage. Until then, Lady Hadleigh, I will not trouble you.’

  The door to his dressing room clicked shut with controlled care. He was angry, she realised. Very, very angry. She had made him think she was ready and she had not had the courage or the self-control to convince him when it came to it or the words to explain what had happened before.

  It hurt, apparently, when a man was very aroused and then denied satisfaction, so she had gathered from Polly the vicarage laundry maid’s cheerfully robust chatter. So there was physical discomfort for Elliott to add to the realisation that he had married a woman who could not even be relied upon to do her marital duty.

  I cannot bear this, Bella thought. She sat up and looked at the closed door. Sooner or later we must talk. After all, he knows now how useless I am in bed. I must get it over now.

  ‘Damn and blast and bloody hell!’ Elliott belted his robe, stalked across his bedchamber and splashed brandy into a glass. Arabella had been ready for him, her body had shown that. She had finally responded to his lovemaking with a sensuality that had surprised and delighted him—and then she had become stiff as a board and started weeping. He added a few more choice epitaphs and swallowed a mouthful of fine French spirit as though it were cheap ale.

  She was trying so hard. Her words jabbed into his brain like hot pins. He had almost forced himself on her. And he had been angry with her. Called her Lady Hadleigh in that cold, hard voice. Damn. He had made a mull of this and it was not going to be easy to make it better, restore her confidence in him. Why couldn’t he have married a trusting little virgin who would be easy to tutor, or a widow who knew what she was doing? Because this is your duty, his conscience told him. He had not chosen this wife, but she was the one he had and he must make the best of it.

  Elliott went back to the door and leaned against it, listening for the sound of sobs. But it was too well made for sound to carry. And what if she was in there, weeping her heart out? She would not welcome attempts at comfort from him, of all people.

  Against his shoulder the panels moved. Startled, he looked down and saw the handle turn. He stepped back as the door swung open. ‘Please, Elliott,’ Arabella said, standing shivering in her flimsy scrap of a négligé. ‘Please do it.’

  ‘Do it?’ He must be gaping like an idiot. Elliott took her hand and drew her into the room, closed the door and snatched up a blanket that was draped over the back of a chair. ‘Here, you are cold.’ He tried to wrap it around her shoulders, but she wriggled free, walked to his bed, threw off the négligé then climbed on to the wide expanse of green satin and lay down.

  ‘Elliott, I am determined. I must accustom myself and learn. Please—’ She gave a gasp as her head met the pillow and she looked up at the mirrored underside of the canopy. ‘That is indecent!’

  ‘I didn’t put it there,’ Elliott said, goaded. ‘Arabella, I am not going to do it with you on the verge of tears and lying on the bed like a virgin sacrifice in some pagan temple.’

  ‘It is my duty,’ she said. ‘And—’

  ‘Well, you certainly know how to reduce a man to the state where he couldn’t if he wanted to,’ he interjected bitterly, aware of his aching erection subsiding in discouragement.

  ‘Please, Elliott, let me say this,’ Arabella said with a desperate earnestness that cut through his own preoccupations and silenced him. ‘I know I am a coward. It will hurt, I expect that, but it was a little better last time. And the more I think about it, the worse it is going to be. So, really, I would much rather you just did it again now. I will get accustomed, honestly I will.’

  ‘Hurt?’ He stared at her, then picked up the blanket and laid it over her cold white body. The brandy was still on the nightstand. He took another swallow, handed her the glass and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Drink. Arabella, were you so stiff because you expected it to be very painful? Is that why you were crying? Did I hurt you on our wedding night?’

  ‘Yes, but it was not your fault.’ She sat up, dragging the blanket to cover her breasts. ‘I am such a coward. I knew it would hurt. It was just that the first time…I hadn’t expected it to be so bad, you see. And so much blood was frightening.’

  Dear God. Elliott closed his eyes. You selfish, randy, thoughtless swine, Rafe. A notch on your bedpost, that is all this girl was to you. A virgin and you brutalised her for sport as though she was a hardened whore, left her torn and pregnant. Had he damaged her permanently?

  ‘Have you healed?’ he asked gently when he managed to open his eyes with some confidence that the blazing anger would not show in them.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did. I am fine now, truly, Elliott.’ The wide hazel eyes fixed on him, determined, and, through the fear, trusting. ‘It really was not so bad the other night.’

  If Rafe had come back to life and walked through the door at that moment, Elliott realised, he would have punched him on the jaw. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, making up his mind. ‘You are cold and upset. I am…tired. But I promise you that next time it will not hurt. Not at all. And you will enjoy it.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’ She looked so bemused by the concept that he almost laughed.

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘But you do not understand.’ She bit her lip, then took a deep breath. ‘You see, even before he…before I was expecting it to hurt, I was n
o good. I am clumsy, you see. Inept. Probably frigid.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am very sorry. I am trying, but it is difficult, knowing that whatever I do you will be disappointed. I expect you had a mistress who was very skilled and beautiful—that’s why I wouldn’t mind if you went back to her.’ He saw her throat move convulsively as she swallowed. ‘Well, no, I would mind, but I know it is my fault so I would never reproach you.’

  ‘Who told you that about yourself? Rafe, of course.’ The anger became a red haze, then he saw the look in her eyes and made himself be calm.

  Bella saw the fury in Elliott’s eyes subside and drew in a shuddering breath. She must not cry, that would only make him angry again. She had told him, confessed to her failure as a wife and now he had the worst confirmed. No, not quite that—soon she would be as big as a whale, even clumsier. He had been kind about her looks, but then he was a kind man and had been trying to put her at her ease.

  ‘Arabella,’ Elliott said, ‘Rafe was selfish, grasping and insensitive. He set out to seduce you with every intention of abandoning you, right from the first. He did not care about you, not one iota. When he had what he wanted, the last thing he needed was a woman who thought herself in love, who expected things from him, who clung. And the easiest way to prevent that was to be as cruel as possible, to hurt your heart and your mind as he had already hurt your body by his heedlessness.’

  ‘He was lying?’ But Rafe had lost his temper with her—could that have been feigned?

  ‘Yes. That is what Rafe did. I do not. I will not lie to you, Arabella. You are not a classical beauty, but I think you lovely, graceful and charming. I desire you. When I tell you that you must believe me or call me a liar.’