“Ah.” A muscle tightened in his cheek. “I don’t suppose they’ll be missed in this mob.” For an uncomfortable moment she was afraid he would probe more deeply. She had no explanation, not for him or for herself. She had yet to understand why her father had been as uncaring, as cruel as he’d been. She told herself that Devon was not like him at all.
To her relief, her delight, he merely said, “You look very pretty today, by the way. More than pretty.”
The dark gleam in his eye made her believe he meant it. “Thank you,” she murmured. “And you look quite handsome.” But then he always did. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“Nary a wink. Did you?”
“Less than a wink.” She drew a breath and gripped her small bouquet of white snowdrops.
“Are we planning to attend the reception together?” he asked as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Isn’t it tradition?”
“I…I don’t attend many weddings, but I’d guess we’re obligated to attend.”
Obligated. What a heavy, somber word.
“Unless you don’t want to attend,” he added.
She stared straight ahead. She doubted that anyone watching them could guess their whispered conversation consisted not of prenuptial banter and underlying declarations of love as much as it did the practical concessions of two military generals forced together to declare a truce. They were little more than a pair of strangers standing at the altar.
“It occurs to me that one of us could still run away at any time after the wedding,” she said thoughtfully.
“Only if one of us has not conceived a child,” he replied imperturbably.
She glanced up at him in astonishment. “What did you just say?”
He shrugged, a mischievous smile lurking in his eyes. “Well, it’s to be expected.”
“What else is to be expected?” she whispered after a moment.
He looked at a loss. “If I am ever unfaithful to you, I promise you will not hear of it, and I will be discreet.”
She fumed for another moment. “If you are unfaithful you will hear from me, and you’ll most likely be dead, not discreet.”
He looked down at her with one brow lifted. “Have we not agreed that this was to be a marriage in name only?”
“I don’t recall that either of us had much chance to agree on anything.”
He turned his attention back to the altar, nodding as if in appraisal. “What on earth possessed me to ever believe you were shy?”
“I don’t recall you ever paid me enough notice to perceive what I was.”
“I shall have to pay notice now,” he mused.
“What kind of notice?” she whispered.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice wicked. “The kind of notice that a lady likes.”
Her fingers curled inside her white kidskin gloves. A loveless marriage of convenience to a man who took a mistress when it pleased him might have been acceptable in her mother’s eyes. Certainly more than one wife turned a blind eye on her husband’s philanderings. Perhaps if Jocelyn had married into a conventional family she would have resigned herself to accept that untempting fate.
But one of the admirable, albeit scandalous, traits of the Boscastles was their stubborn refusal to swim with the tide.
Neither would she, even if she had not quite figured out how to swim at all.
The minister stood before them, his book open, and there was a rustle of noise from behind them as everyone settled down expectantly.
“You could probably still catch a ship to India if you hurried to the wharves,” she said under her breath.
“Probably.” He took her hand in a firm grasp. “But it’s not a pleasant voyage.”
“Do you think the voyage before us will be any smoother?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never taken it.”
I don’t want to love him, she thought. I can’t. I won’t. I refuse.
And then the minister gave her an encouraging smile and she answered that she would. At least it was her voice that replied. And it was her heart that quickened as Devon’s lips touched hers and set off a fierce tremor of longing that seemed to start at the base of her spine. She could only hope that no one noticed how her lips parted on an involuntary gasp when he kissed her.
He noticed, her husband. His strong hand pressed the small of her back. His perceptive eyes sparkled in brief acknowledgment before the demands of convention forced them apart. Well, perhaps it was not so much convention as the Boscastle family en masse.
She was so warmly welcomed into the clan that it almost made up for the fact that her father and brother had chosen not to attend.
There was little time to regret their absence, as Devon, her husband, had said.
She was summarily kissed, embraced, pinched once by a middle-aged uncle full of amorous mischief, hugged by sticky-faced cherubs, and swept into a general gala of mayhem and heartfelt wishes for happiness.
So began her first day as a Boscastle bride, a day of pleasant confusion and warm acceptance, of silent yearning and uncertainty.
But her wedding night—she’d sipped just enough wine to give her false courage when Devon whispered that it was time for them to go home. Home. A place she had never seen. Her husband. A man to whom she had committed herself today. It remained to be proven how seriously he had taken his vows. It was always different for a woman, wasn’t it? But he had shown himself to be a man of honor, and passion.
He swept her up into his arms in the hallway of his house and bore her with apparent ease up the stairs. “My servants are in a snit. No one forewarned them I was bringing home a wife.”
She laced her arms around his neck. He smelled deliciously of soap, starch, and champagne, and he had stood at her side today before God and man. “No one warned you, either,” she whispered, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder so that he could not see her smile.
He carried her up the stairs to his room and laid her across his bed. The last time he’d left this house he had not thought to return with a permanent resident. Perhaps he had not thought at all.
But he couldn’t help noticing how natural it seemed to see Jocelyn reclining on his four-poster. Their four-poster now, he amended silently. It was going to take him a long time to get used to having a wife.
And yet she had a way of warming a room. Not to mention what she did to his body temperature. In truth, he’d found himself looking forward to their sexual union since their last encounter in the castle. She had beguiled him with her response, and having been fool enough to fall into a trap, he did not intend to waste time in self-pity.
He knew of better ways to spend his time.
He turned to pull off his waistcoat and paused as he heard her rise from the bed. A moment later he felt her gentle white hands slide around his waist to the buttons of his shirt. He drew a breath and waited. She had pleasantly surprised him at each turn.
“May I help?” she asked, already at work on the task of undressing him.
He went still, his cock hardening at her eagerness to participate. This was a far but welcome cry from the woman who’d refused to talk to him when he was nude from his bath. “Be my guest,” he murmured, drawing her hand to the waistband of his tight black pantaloons. “But don’t stop at the shirt.”
She wavered for an instant, then obeyed, her breathing noticeably uneven as she unbuttoned, then rather inexpertly tugged his trousers over his lean hips to the floor. Her gaze flickered to his rigid erection and lifted swiftly to his face. Her lips parted, moist, inviting. He noted the blush that tinted her creamy skin.
“Now undress yourself for me,” he instructed her with a smile.
She hesitated before backing toward the dressing screen. He stepped over his discarded clothing and caught her elbow. “No, not behind there. I’ve a wish to see what my wife looks like.”
He walked to the bed and waited.
She lowered her eyes and slowly peeled off her ivory-gauz
e wedding dress, then unlaced her chemise and short corset. Her breasts sprang free, the nipples puckering at his unabashed perusal. “You may leave on your garters and stockings,” he said. “Take off your slippers and come to me.”
“Shy at giving orders, aren’t you?” she queried under her breath.
“I won’t be at all shy when it comes to giving you what you need,” he replied, his heated gaze scrutinizing her with raw sensuality. “Come here and let me show you.”
She stared at him, her blood pulsing thickly through her limbs.
“I can wait all night,” he murmured. “After all, we’re married. I can wait…forever.”
He lay stretched across the bed on his elbow, his pose languid, his body’s response to her naked vulnerability revealing he was nowhere near as detached as his voice portrayed. Hard as steel. Her husband. He had a license to be licentious, and she had promised only hours ago to obey him.
She walked slowly to the bed, her breasts tightening, her body tingling in anticipation. “And now?” she asked softly, meeting his gaze.
He uncurled his long body and sat with his powerful thighs splayed. “What you are going to do,” he murmured, his eyes smoldering with lust, “is to learn about love.”
Her gaze widened. “At your feet?”
“Or at yours,” he said, his broad shoulders lifting in an imperious shrug. “I have no objection to taking turns. I enjoy any number of positions. So will you, I’m sure.”
The flagrant pleasure he implied made Jocelyn wonder how long she would be able to withstand his scrutiny before she lost the ability to stand at all. It was a question she would not be forced to answer. He reached out without warning and gripped the soft globes of her bottom, drawing her beneath him onto the bed with a single-mindedness that put an abrupt end to her dilemma.
Once again he gave her little chance to retain even a modicum of modesty. Ever so slowly he trailed his fingertips across her face, tracing the vein that pulsed in her temple, the contours of her cheekbone and jaw. She sighed with pleasure, seduced by his touch. Warm and strong, the power subdued; this was the way a man’s hands should feel when he touched a woman.
“Close your eyes, Jocelyn,” he instructed her in a languid voice.
She did, craving more. His fingers drifted down her throat to her shoulder. She waited for him to stroke her breasts, the rest of her body. She gave a little moan of impatience.
He laughed quietly before capturing her mouth in a kiss. “I know what you want.”
“And?”
His breath shuddered against hers. “I want it even more than you.”
She opened her eyes. The desire on his face sent a bolt of electricity down her spine. Made her breasts swell and her sex moisten in anticipation. Her hips shifted, and he smiled a devil’s smile.
As if it were the most natural act in the world, and perhaps to him it was, he slipped his fingers between her thighs and petted the pouting lips of her cleft.
“Drenched,” he murmured in satisfaction. And pressed his glistening fingers to his lips. “Delectable. I don’t have to do anything to arouse you.”
She ground her teeth to suppress a groan, but could not control the shudder of desire that went through her. He was a highly sexed man, experienced in the erotic arts, and unapologetic of the fact; she should not be surprised that he knew instinctively how to disarm her. The tender recesses of her body throbbed in anticipation of the pleasure he promised.
“Jocelyn,” he said hoarsely, allowing his iron-hard body to settle against hers. “How you tremble so. I could make you come without any effort at all.”
She lifted her head. “I hope I shall be able to say the same to you one day.”
“You might be closer than you realize. Until then, it would appear that I have you under my thumb.”
To prove his wicked claim had merit, he stroked his callused knuckles teasingly across the tips of her breasts until she was almost panting, desperate for release. He caressed the curve of her belly, plucked shamelessly at her pubic hair and the tender bud it concealed until she conceded he was her master and that she would do anything for the pleasure he withheld.
He bent to kiss her softly on the lips, whispering, “How are you enjoying your lesson so far?”
She turned her face into the pillow. “My teacher is the cruelest of taskmasters.”
“But a diligent student does not complain of her practice.”
Well versed in the ways of lust, he teased her without mercy and exploited every sign of vulnerability that she revealed to him. She could not resist his devouring kisses, could not keep herself from responding to the touch of his strong hands over her body. She spread her thighs without inhibition and thrust out her breasts to invite his seduction, wondering if she would shock him by obeying what her body told her to do, knowing by his deep-throated growl of encouragement that she had not.
He was beautiful, aroused, and dedicated to arousing her.
He was the type of man whose magnetic charm she had assiduously resisted since her coming out. How she had looked down with scorn at other women who had fallen under a rogue’s spell. Now she was married to one and should not expect an ounce of sympathy from either family or friends. Indeed, there were women of her close acquaintance who would envy her fate.
She was the wife of a sinful man, one of the wicked, warm-blooded Boscastle brothers. She glanced up at his shadowed face and felt her heart tighten at the dark eroticism in his gaze.
“I want to know everything,” she whispered.
For an instant she thought she had displeased him; he did not react for so long a time that she wondered whether a woman should not admit her desires so freely while a man recognized no such restriction.
Then he rose up over her with a fierce look that stopped her breath. Before she understood that she had caused this loss of control, he had positioned her legs over his wide shoulders, grasped her bottom, and began rubbing his thick erection between the plump folds of her passage.
Her body rose to meet his in uncurbed eagerness. He ran one hand down her belly to the hollow between her thighs and deftly pinched the sensitive pearl of flesh above her sex. Her nerves tightened at the raw sensation, and she could sense him smiling down at her, although she had squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed by the pleasure that flooded through her.
“I believe you’ll teach me a few things of your own before we’re done,” he murmured.
Her breath rushed out; he bent his head and kissed her, capturing her soft cry, plunging his tongue deep inside her mouth as he eased his swollen penis into her damp sheath. She was startled at the stinging pain. The pressure that stretched her until she thought she would be split asunder. To her relief her body seemed capable of accommodating his size. The pain receded to a burning friction that was not altogether unpleasant. Some part of her seemed eager to accept the invasion.
He took advantage of her breathless discontent and pierced her on the next thrust, impaling her with such force that she froze beneath him, her hands gripping him in protest. She should not have been surprised at the discomfort, considering he had forced his large organ into so tight a space. But how a single act could feel at once carnal, shocking, and so necessary to her being she could not say.
It mattered not. This was an act of nature’s design. She was his wife, and her woman’s body welcomed him, moved against him with an instinct she could not deny. Her muscles clenched him, contracted, coaxed him even deeper. He thrust so forcefully she felt the impact all the way to her spine.
She lost herself in her husband. Her mind swam, her muscles coiled, her hips lifted, and still she ached, wanted more. More. His movements quickened. Her frustration grew.
She thought he must understand how she suffered. He groaned and arched his back, pressing her yet deeper into the bed. Her heels dug into his thrusting buttocks. He pumped harder, faster, and the world dissolved as he, too, convulsed, his body covering hers.
She broke into pieces, could not b
reathe. She was afraid to move. Afraid to open her eyes again for fear she would not see returned what she felt. Moments passed before he rolled onto his back with his arm across her quivering belly, and a peace sweeter than anything she had ever known stole over her, quieting the doubts and questions that clamored in the back of her mind.
A wife well-pleased on her wedding night. His reputation as a lover has not been exaggerated, although even to a woman as inexperienced as she had been until now, it was obvious that she had given him pleasure in return.
He lay in the untidy bed and watched breaking shafts of sunlight play upon the curve of his wife’s shoulder. His wife. He said the word in silence and discovered it unfamiliar but not as displeasing as he’d anticipated.
Indeed, nothing about her had displeased him.
She was completely unlike the demi-reps who’d indulged his wicked desires and come back for more. Not that he had never played with debutantes. He had.
But with the innocents it had been a different game. There had been rules to follow, consequences to consider. A man could end up getting married.
He reached out to caress the sun-heated spot on her shoulder. Was this the guileless young girl he’d avoided four years ago? Who was this warm-blooded woman who had become a temptress, his wife?
She was dangerous, whoever she was. Delectable, at turns shy and bold, not afraid to give herself to him completely.
The next thing he knew they would have a child. After last night’s lovemaking, after years of care to prevent such an occurrence, he would be a fool not to acknowledge the possibility. He could not imagine it. He was not vainglorious enough, however, to be misled into thinking that nature would be interrupted for his lack of vision.
She shifted onto her side with a sigh. The counterpane creased against her ribs, revealing the contours of one creamy breast. He could see the damning imprints of love bites on her neck.
He swallowed hard and looked away, his mouth suddenly dry with desire.
Rarely in the past had he lingered in the early hours with a lover. The dawn offered more dangerous intimacies than the dark. He had given her his name. He had fulfilled his duty. No one could ask more of a man who had never even considered settling down. He’d thought he had time to pay off a few old debts, pursue more worthless pleasures before he came to this.
The Sinful Nights of a Nobleman Page 13
