Michael grinned his wicked pleasure at her reply. “Would you care to find out, my love? I would be thrilled to show you.” And why shouldn’t he show her? It was clear that he was now well enough to do so, though whether his renewed vigor was due to Eadon’s treatments or Rebecca’s spell, he couldn’t say. And it didn’t matter. Medicine or magic, he was now able and eager to introduce his darling Emily to the joys of the marriage bed. Who knows? He might even plant the babe she so desperately desired while he was at it.
Emily flushed furiously at his offer. “I—I would like that very much,” she replied in a shy whisper. It was the truth—there was nothing she wished more than to be intimate with Michael. Before she quite knew what was happening, he had removed her modest dressing gown and the equally prim night rail beneath it, and was kissing her all over, erasing the last of her maidenly inhibitions as he seductively coaxed her untried senses to life.
Now his lips were on hers, in turn worshiping and ravishing her mouth. Now they were on her breasts, teasing and tweaking her nipples until she thought that she would die from the bliss of it. And now he was between her thighs, kissing and exploring her in a way that made her squirm and moan with pleasure.
She was so sweet, so very sweet in her fervently virginal response, arousing and inflaming Michael all over again. She was also beyond beautiful. Oh, he’d suspected that her body was lovely beneath her clothing; he had just failed to envision its true splendor, perhaps because he never would have believed that any woman could be so very perfect. Her breasts were by far the most magnificent he had ever seen, full and round and soft. Her waist was long and narrow, curving into provocatively feminine hips. Then there was her delectable backside— Ahhh! How he loved clasping and kneading it.
When Michael had explored every silken curve and responsive crevice of Emily’s body, and had prepared her to receive him, he gathered her into his embrace, holding her close as he slowly entered her. Pausing at every inch to allow her to adjust to his legendary size, he crooned, “Relax, love. Just relax. It will be easier if you relax.”
To his surprise she moved impatiently against him, wrapping her legs around him to urge him deeper. “Michael—oh! That feels wonderful,” she gasped.
Smiling his delight at her wanton greed, Michael slipped his fingers between her legs and lightly teased the core of her womanly pleasure, hoping to ease her coming pain as he poised himself to respond to her body’s brazen demands. When she moaned and strained against him, delirious with need, he thrust deep inside her, rending her virginity in one smooth stroke. Her eyes widened and she cried out, her thighs clamping around him to prevent him from moving within her.
“There, there, love. I know it hurts,” he soothed, dipping his head to kiss her. “I shan’t move again until you tell me that you are ready.”
She gazed into his eyes, her expression dazed and full of wonder, then she glanced down at where they were joined. A faint frown creasing her brow, she whispered, “I never thought that you would fit. You are so large.”
He couldn’t help chuckling at the amazement in her voice. “Of course I fit. Do not forget that our babes shall spring from that same place, and they are much larger than I shall ever be.”
She froze at his words. “Then we are making a baby?”
“I am most certainly doing my best to give you one, though it might take several times of doing this to plant one.”
She seemed to consider his words, a slow smile curving her lips as she slanted him a sultry look. “Good. I am finding that I rather like the feel of you inside me. Indeed, it does not hurt so very much now that I am growing accustomed to your size.” She relaxed her thighs a fraction to move experimentally against him, then nodded. “Mmmm, yes. In fact, it feels nice.”
“I promise that it shall feel much, much nicer—better than nice. I promised you ecstasy, and you shall have it.”
“Always a man of your word, eh?” she teased, pressing a kiss to his lips.
“Always,” he countered, again parting her thighs to resume stroking her. When he sensed that she was almost to her climax, he clasped her close and thrust yet deeper. She moaned and clung to his neck, her hips rising up to meet him. When it was apparent that she was experiencing nothing but pleasure, he took her the way he had longed to take her from the very first moment he’d seen her, eagerly yet tenderly, plunging again and again until she shuddered and cried her rapture.
The feel of her rippling and contracting in her climax instantly brought forth Michael’s release, and together they thrilled to the culmination of their passion.
As they lay warm and drowsy in each other’s arms in the aftermath of their ecstasy, Emily breathlessly exclaimed, “Oh, Michael, how can you not believe in heaven when you have experienced this?”
He smiled gently and dropped a kiss to her smiling lips. “Perhaps because I had never experienced it with you. Now that I have, I do believe.”
She twined her arms around his neck, amorously kissing him back. “You do?”
He nodded. “Yes. I have discovered it in your arms.” With that, he took her again, once more touching heaven.
Chapter 20
Windgate Abbey, 1830
“I do believe that he is as pretty as Michael was at his age,” Adeline proudly declared, nodding down at her six-month-old great-grandson, Andrew Michael Merriman Vane, the fifth marquess of Dartnell, who sat on her lap single-mindedly masticating the coral teething stick that hung suspended around his neck by a gold chain.
The boy paused mid-chew at the sound of her voice, his jade eyes wide and his expression comically surprised as he stared up at her, looking astonished to see her there.
Euphemia, who sat beside her friend doting over Andrew’s twin sister, Lady Aurora Vane, glanced at their mutual great-grandson with a beaming smile. “Indeed he is. He is quite the handsomest boy in England, just as our Aurora”—she shifted her adoring gaze back to where their great-granddaughter lay in her own arms surveying the crowd around them—“is the most beautiful girl child ever born into the ton.”
“Beautiful,” Adeline agreed, lightly touching one of the soft sable curls that peeked out from beneath Aurora’s bonnet, “just like her great-grandmother Effie.”
“And clever, too, like her great-grandmama Addy. Remember how she said my name this morning? Gre-gran-Eff, she said.” Effie nodded. “She said it just like that, clear as you please.”
Had Aurora been anyone else’s great-grandchild, Adeline would have skeptically pointed out the fact that she had been fed shortly before she’d emitted the utterance and that it was most probably the product of gas. Since, however, the child in question was of her flesh and blood, she was more than willing to believe Effie’s questionable claim. How could she not when Andrew had said gre-gran-Ad, which in her mind translated to great-grand-mama Addy, just last night?
Thus satisfied that their great-grandchildren were indeed extraordinary in every way, she snorted and tossed back, “Of course she is clever, and charming, and everything else that makes for a remarkable child, as is Andy. They are of our blood, after all, and no child with both Vane and Merriman blood flowing in their veins could ever be anything less than perfect.”
“Mmmm, yes. They are perfect, are they not?” Euphemia marveled, glancing from one dark-haired, jade-eyed babe to the other, both of whom were dressed in white muslin gowns with blue satin sashes and elaborate, lace-trimmed caps. The only concession made to their differing sexes was the placement of the blue rosettes adorning their caps. Aurora’s was in the center front, proclaiming her a girl, while Andrew’s graced the left side of his face, as was proper for a boy.
“They are perfect babes born of perfect love,” Adeline pronounced with a nod. The instant the words escaped her, she smiled wryly. Perfect love? Such sentimental blathering made her sound like one of those mawkish old gooses that she and Effie had vowed never to become. Noneth
eless, it was the truth, and she always prided herself on speaking with veracity. Emily and Michael had indeed found perfect love, the rare, miraculous kind that charmed everyone who saw them together and prompted them to remark upon the uncommon depth of the couple’s affection for each other.
Thinking of Michael now, she glanced across the sun-dappled Windgate park to where he stood before a long, feast-laden buffet table, which had been set beneath the bud-starred branches of the leafing oaks, laughing as he shared in some sort of joke with Lords Gilcrest and Kevill. Her smile grew tender, her heart rejoicing at the sight of his merriment.
As she had hoped, Emily had been his salvation. Her strong, stubborn spirit had reached through the midnight of his misery and pulled him from the brink of despair, luring him back into the light of life where she had healed him with her love. And it seemed that he was truly healed. Not only had he been free of spells for over a year now, he was strong and healthy and happy, like the Michael before his illness, only better.
As if reading her thoughts, Euphemia softly remarked, “Our Michael looks well, does he not?”
“Well? Bah!” Adeline snorted, her gaze never wavering from her beloved grandson. “He looks better than well. He looks bloody splendid.”
Euphemia sniffed her disapproval of her use of the word “bloody.” “You really must strive to guard your tongue when you are around the babes, Addy. As you know, children learn from the example set by their elders, and it would never do for Andy and Aurora to lay hold of inelegant language.”
Adeline shrugged, unperturbed by her friend’s lecture. As always, she had only spoken the truth. Michael did look bloody splendid, the word “bloody” being instrumental in conveying the satisfying magnitude of his improvement. Indeed, not only had he regained most of his lost flesh, his eyes sparkled, his skin glowed, and he smiled with a spontaneity that bespoke a soul-deep contentment. Most wonderful of all, he had recaptured the easy, genial confidence for which he’d once been so admired, something that she had begun to fear he had lost forever. As Adeline watched, he said something that made the other men laugh, displaying the wit and charm that had made him such a favorite with the ton.
Smiling at his obvious enjoyment of his companions, she slanted a glance at a nearby cluster of gossiping noblewomen, all of whom ranked among the finest London hostesses. Judging from the fawning glances they now darted in Michael’s direction coupled with the snatches of flattering conversation she’d overheard earlier, it seemed that he was well on his way to regaining his throne as society’s darling. That is, if Emily didn’t beat him to it.
She shifted her fond gaze to where Emily stood surrounded by an assembly of ton leaders, who laughed and clapped with abandoned delight as the extraordinarily lovely, but decidedly eccentric, Lady Rebecca Dare played a helter-skelter game of Graces with her pet goat, Magellan. Adeline had to admit that their performance was diverting, especially the way the beast danced around on its hind legs as it scrambled to catch the hoop that they tossed between them with sticks.
She had just become engrossed in the spectacle herself, a chuckle escaping her as the goat reared up and jerked its head, launching the hoop from the stick it held in its mouth, when Euphemia whispered in a scandalized tone, “Have you noticed the way Lords Bedell, Uppington, and Edmundson are ogling that Dare chit?”
Adeline glanced at the gentlemen in question, snorting when she noted their gawking fascination with the girl. “Egads. One would think that they had never seen a woman before.”
Euphemia sniffed. “Well, they have never seen that particular woman before, and you know how men are when they catch the scent of fresh prey.”
“Mmmm, yes. Indeed I do. And I suppose it is only natural that prey like Lady Rebecca should excite such interest. Between her fetching looks and her father’s plump pockets, I daresay that she will create quite a stir when she finally makes her bow to society.”
Another sniff from Euphemia. “Well, she’d best do it soon if she wishes to make a decent match. She isn’t exactly in the first blush of her youth, you know.”
Adeline smiled down at Andrew, who had begun to make soft cooing sounds, his head drooping drowsily in the warm, late-afternoon sun. “I would hardly call twenty-five past one’s prime, though I must confess to being at sea as to why she hasn’t had a Season yet. Her father is the duke of Wreford, after all, one of London’s most prominent citizens, so it isn’t as if she lacks the funds or the connections to enter the ton.” She paused a beat to ponder the puzzle, then theorized, “You don’t suppose that Wreford forgot to bring her out in his grief over his wife’s death, do you? I seem to recall that she died eight or nine years ago, which was about the time the gel should have come out.”
There was a short silence, as if her friend contemplated her hypothesis, then she replied, “Perhaps. However, I tend to believe that if such were indeed the case, the oversight would have been rectified years ago.” A nod. “If you ask me, I think that Wreford decided the chit to be far too eccentric to be offered at the marriage market, what with her fondness for goats and other such queerness, and decided it best to simply give in to her desire to rusticate here in Dartmoor. After all, he does have his younger daughter to consider. Perhaps he didn’t wish to risk her chances for an advantageous marriage by allowing the older one to taint the family name with her oddness.”
“Hmmm, yes,” Adeline mused, seeing merit in her friend’s reasoning. “Now that you mention it, I did hear something about plans for the younger chit’s coming out.”
“Indeed?”
Adeline nodded. “Lady Calthrope was complaining just last week that her dressmaker, Madame Minott, had turned away her request for a new ball gown, saying that she was too busy preparing a wardrobe for the duke of Wreford’s daughter’s coming out. I daresay that it is his younger daughter her ladyship was referring to, because she confided that the poor gel is going to need all the help she can get in compensating for her freckled nose and unfortunate red hair. I hear tell—”
“Poor chit,” interjected Michael’s voice, his tone laced with wry amusement. “And whose reputation are you wicked old dragons ruining today?”
The two women looked up with a start, both having been too engrossed in their speculation over the duke of Wreford and his daughters to note his approach. Quickly recovering herself, Adeline tartly retorted, “I daresay that you would be able to guess had you and Emily come to London for the Little Season, as Effie and I begged you to do.”
Michael shrugged and reached for his daughter, who chortled and eagerly stretched out her chubby arms to him. Handling the babe with practiced ease, he swung her high into the air, making her shriek with delight as he replied, “In case you have forgotten, Emily gave birth to your grandchildren in early September. She was hardly in any condition to go gadding off to London so soon after lying-in.”
Adeline emitted a derisive snort. “Stuff and nonsense! I have never seen a woman have an easier time of it than Emily did. She was more than fit by the beginning of the Little Season.”
“And eager to go to London, I might add,” Euphemia corroborated with an affirmative nod. “Indeed, I seem to recall her begging you to go.” A head shake accompanied by a clucking noise. “The poor dear! I can only imagine how hungry she gets for company, living in this godforsaken place.”
Michael dipped his head to kiss Aurora, who giggled and clung to his neck. It was true that Emily had begged him to go to London, but not because of any eagerness on her part for the society of the ton. No. She had wished him to go for his own sake, knowing, as they both did, that he would never be completely healed until he faced and conquered the last of his crippling fears. That fear was, of course, returning to town and reentering the ton, though he no longer dreaded doing so for the same reason he had before meeting Emily.
Where he had once been frightened for his own pride, shrinking with shame at the remembrance of the humi
liation he’d suffered in London, loving Emily had prompted him to put aside his worry for himself and to fear for her instead. She loved him so much, fiercely and with such staunch loyalty, that she couldn’t help but be hurt by the mocking smirks and stinging cuts that he knew would greet him were he to try to regain his standing in the ton.
When he had confessed his fears to Emily, she had hastened to reassure him, holding him close as she gently coaxed and reasoned with him. But her tender urging had been to no avail. He’d held firm to his resolution. And so they had remained in Dartmoor, passing first the fall and then the winter in the quiet bliss he had come to cherish.
Truth be told, he had thought the whole matter of London and the ton to be settled until he had stepped outside with Emily earlier that afternoon to greet their arriving grandmothers. Today was his thirtieth birthday, and like the twenty-seven preceding it, his grandmother and Euphemia were to be present to help him celebrate it. What he had found awaiting him was not only his expected guests, but an assembly of London’s finest society with the makings of a lavish gala set up in the Windgate park.
Though he had wanted nothing more than to flee, uncertain what to do, or say, or what to expect from the silent, watchful crowd, he had allowed Emily to lead him down the front steps to where their grandmothers sat enthroned on a pair of gilt-wood armchairs, both visibly pleased with their day’s work. What followed was still a bit of a blur in his stunned mind, though he did seem to recall that it was his boyhood chum, Viscount Langcliffe, one of his few friends who had remained loyal after his fit at Lady Kilvington’s picnic, who had come forward first.
Warmly clapping Michael on the back, he had grinned and murmured, “Missed you terribly, Sherrington. London is a dreadful yawner without you. Do remind me to take you to task later for refusing to receive me when I tried to call.”
Bewitched Page 36
