“Take care, Devereaux,” Julius murmured. “Your lady has teeth.”
* * * *
After dinner, they returned to the drawing room where Sophia set them working. One sang; another played the harpsichord. Since they were now joined by a stream of guests who arrived to wish the married couple well, this worked. At about ten, the company began to drift away.
Sophia kept her expression firmly in place, despite feeling like a doll tricked out for the amusement of the visitors. More would arrive in the days to come. How would she bear it? Whatever happened, she must. First impressions counted, and her acceptance into society was important to her husband.
Lady Devereaux mentioned her appearance at court during dinner. “For of course I will sponsor your appearance. I believe we should arrange a date for next month. Do you have a court mantua?”
Sophia shook her head. She’d never needed one. King George was old and a widower. Since the death of the Prince of Wales, Prince Frederick, the Duke of Cumberland and his wife had usually done the honors. Sophia knew that much because she read the newspapers. But before last week, she had no notion she would have to undergo the ordeal. With the gown.
Court dresses were hideous affairs that gave the wearer the appearance of a walking sofa. A huge flat hooped petticoat, the likes of the ones worn by the previous generation, and the mantua, long superseded in normal life by more modern styles.
“I’ll visit a mantua-maker next week.” Her usual dressmaker would probably not serve. Although she liked Mrs. Dormer’s work as it was neat and fast, the fashioning of a mantua would take an expert.
“I can take you to mine,” the dowager said. “You will probably find yourself in need of other items.”
A slow tide of anger rose inside Sophia. How dare her ladyship assume, as if Sophia had come to this house in sackcloth? She wasn’t without fashionable clothes, but she’d been aware she might need more. Armor. But to have her mother-in-law state the fact baldly made Sophia appear rustic and ignorant. Two things she was far from being.
“I appreciate the offer, ma’am, but I am not without resources of my own.”
“Still,” the dowager said, spreading her hands wide, “I would help you if you wish it.”
“Thank you. I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Without meaning to, Sophia had drawn battle lines. Her lamentable temper! What was worse, Devereaux glared at her, his green gaze cold enough to send a breeze down her spine.
She spent the rest of the day in a miserable mood, but that at least enabled her to assess what was needed after dinner and to ensure it took place. All the time she was aware of her ladyship’s icy regard, silent but deadly as a dagger between her ribs.
Girding her spirits, she decided to face this as she did everything, with serenity and dignity. Nobody should know her heart was quaking and her knees knocking under her elegant pale blue skirts.
She’d learned that lesson a long time ago; if she didn’t show it, nobody knew. She had the kind of face that would conceal her anxieties, such that many people assumed she was cool and in control. It helped, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t vomited in private before public functions. As she had this morning, for instance.
So now she lifted her head and offered her ladyship the baked mushrooms, secretly hoping that they didn’t agree with her and feeling guilty about the puerile wish.
Then finally, when the guests had departed, came her worst trial.
Predictably, Sophia lost most of her dinner before she left the powder room to take her place in the impossibly grand bed in the terrifyingly elegant room that would be hers. She had to rinse her mouth and clean her teeth all over again, but at least that deferred the moment.
The décor in her room was fresh and new, and as she’d feared, cream brocade predominated. For someone of her coloring—dark hair and skin some called creamy and others called sallow—it was the worst possible choice. But very elegant, nonetheless.
Her maid, French, helped her disrobe in near-silence. After all, what was there to say?
Sophia ordered tea. Always her first line of defense. She drank two dishes while French brushed out her hair and plaited it into its night-time braids.
Without her grand gown, Sophia felt smaller and without shields. Open, in a strange way. Nobody except her maid had ever seen her in her night clothes before, even though she wore a voluminous night rail and a robe over the top. But without her stays and hoop she felt raw, naked, and she disliked the vulnerability such a lack of garments brought to her.
Devereaux’s deep voice shocked her. She hadn’t heard him or seen him come in from her vantage point in front of the draped dressing table.
His first words were for French. “You may go. I’ll see to her ladyship’s needs.”
He wore a robe too, and the white folds of a male nightshirt were visible above the deep crimson brocade. Sophia swallowed and pressed her fingertips on the table to still their trembling.
She’d known matters would come to this, but she couldn’t still her shaking hands. Or put completely out of her mind what had happened when she’d last allowed a man this close. He’d hurt her, enough that she’d borne the marks for weeks and had to stop French helping her undress at night for fear she’d gossip. All servants gossiped. What they didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing.
John had damaged her pride, destroyed her confidence in her body. She recognized that, but it didn’t help her overcome it.
She pushed the memories aside. That happened, and it was gone. Max wouldn’t do that to her. Would he?
He smiled gently as the door closed behind French and held his hand out to her. “Come, my wife. Let’s to bed.”
Sophia ensured she locked her knees as she stood, or she might have fallen to the floor. She hated herself for this weakness, but she couldn’t control it.
Concentrating on the face before her, she stepped forward and placed her hand in his. He drew her closer, slowly urging rather than dragging her, and gazed into her face.
“How long since that man put his hands on you?” he asked.
Shocked that he was thinking about the same thing, she gasped, the sound echoing around the room. “John, you mean?”
“Yes. Him.” He sounded rough, but perhaps that was his way. Or he was concerned about her. She could trust him, tell him everything that had happened, but would he react in the same way her father would have? She’d never told her father for his own protection. If she’d told him the whole, he would have caused serious damage to John. While her father wasn’t demonstrative, he did care for his own. Fear for her parent, not for her would-be lover, had driven her actions then.
In law, she belonged to this man now. Not something she liked, but she was never one to shy away from the facts. By signing the marriage contract and the marriage lines, she’d given herself to the Marquess of Devereaux. Willingly.
“Three months,” she said. Should she tell Max it was a trivial event, that she’d exaggerated it out of proportion? No, because that would be to deny herself.
In a swift, decisive movement, he lowered his head and kissed her.
Totally shocked, unable to respond, she stood still and let him kiss her. She tried pursing her lips. He made a small sound, half gasp, half moan, and kissed her harder.
Her mind flashed back to that other experience. She frowned and pushed it away. Not here, not now. Not her.
Concentrating, she remained where she was, still, but she stiffened and her arms clamped her thighs. Reaching down, he touched her knuckles, eased them away, and guided her hands to his shoulders.
He was strong, his muscles flexing under her hands. When he drew his lips away from hers, he opened his eyes. “We must do this,” he said. “You understand?”
She smiled, afraid it was more than a grimace.
“I won’t hurt you. By all that’s holy, I swear it. Come, then.” He slid his arm around her waist and walked her to the bed. It was
a grand construction, fashioned from mahogany with elaborate cream brocade drapery. By drawing back the covers, he revealed crisp white sheets. The sight seemed far too intimate for her liking. Would he want her naked? John had wanted it, although he hadn’t succeeded.
No, she wouldn’t think of that man. Absolutely not. Just that—she was afraid she didn’t know if what John did was usual, normal for a man.
She was about to find out.
The bed was high and she needed to use the footstool to climb up. But before she did, he loosened the sash on her robe. The garment fell open, revealing her ankle-length white night-rail. It fastened with tapes at her neck, the sleeves came down to the middle of her forearms and the hem halfway down her calves, but for all the fullness, she felt bare. The fact that she was naked underneath made her fidgety.
Heat rushed through her body and she gazed at his feet, his shoulders, but not his face.
He undid the frogged fastenings at the neck and chest of his robe. When he held out his hand, she gave him hers. He took them to a chair set before fire.
Taking the opportunity of his turned back, Sophia scrambled into bed. By the time he turned back to her, she was sitting up with the candles in the inner sconces snuffed and the covers up to her neck.
He said nothing, but strolled across the room as if he had all the time in the world, and this was merely another social event. She hated that he seemed so at ease and she was eaten up, her breath short, her heart beating as if trying to find its way out of her chest. He showed no sign of agitation or excitement.
John had wide eyes, the pupil large, and his cheeks had flushed red as he tried to persuade her to do more than she wanted.
She swallowed, and did her best to control her rising panic.
Chapter 6
Max appeared perfectly calm. Those green eyes were bright, and he breathed in a steady rhythm that moved his chest under his nightshirt. Sophia had seen bare male legs before. She told herself she was seeing no more than she should.
But these legs belonged to a man who was about to get into bed next to her. And stay there, for she didn’t know how long. Perhaps all night.
He might want to do it more than once. Was that possible? Not for the first time she cursed that she didn’t know more, that she had no idea how to discover what she wanted to know. If she had, would she be so damnably afraid?
Probably. It might make this ordeal worse.
The mattress depressed when he got into bed, urging her to move toward him. Sophia fought to stay upright and keep her position straight. But when he reached for her, she didn’t resist.
Gazing at her face, he seemed close to kissing her again, but then he sighed. “I’ll make this as easy for us both as I can. I want heirs, Sophia. You understand?”
“Yes.” She wet her lips and tried again. “Of course.”
Gently he laid her down and watched her as he slid his arm to one side of her waist. “I must ensure you’re ready for me. But before I do, know this. At any time if you are uncomfortable or you don’t want me to do something, say so. I have never imposed myself on a woman without her agreement, and I won’t start with my own wife.”
During the service, they’d promised to worship each other with their bodies. That meant they had to undertake this act. She wanted this marriage to continue. She’d taken oaths and signed contracts, and to Sophia, that meant she had to go forward and fulfil her part of the agreement.
He stilled and gazed at her face. “Should we leave this for another time?”
Vigorously, she shook her head. She wouldn’t be able to face this uncertainty any longer. She had to get it done now. “It’s just anxiety.”
He smoothed one hand over her waist. “I understand. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable. I’m guessing you’ll be easier in your mind if I explain what I’m going to do. Am I right?”
She nodded.
When he eased her down she did as he urged and lay on her back. Watching her face, he slid up her night-rail, right up to mid-thigh, and then touched her bare skin.
She flinched. He stopped, but she forced a smile. “I’m not used to it, that’s all.”
He paused, examined her face with a look that said he could see through to her soul with little effort. “I should stop.”
“No, please.”
With a sigh, he moved his hand, and a pleasurable shiver followed. “Your skin is soft. Warm.”
Wasn’t all skin? But he was trying to relax her, so she concentrated on his face and watched him as he touched her.
Nobody had touched her there. When she bathed or washed she treated the area exactly the same as she did the rest of her body, rinsing it thoroughly but not lingering. French helped her by washing her hair and her back, but she never allowed any intimate touching, although she knew some women didn’t care. Sometimes she’d experienced strange feelings, stronger than usual sensations, but she hadn’t lingered to discover.
Max’s strong fingers grazed her most sensitive flesh, but he didn’t stop there. He slid a finger between her folds and stroked down toward the opening. She swallowed but remained still for him.
Bringing his fingers to his mouth he wet them.
Had he really done that? Her moisture must be on his fingers. Was that what men did?
It was what this man did.
Then he slid his hand back there and touched her, stroked up and down. He moved easier now, and he hadn’t pushed her night-rail up all the way, exposing her to his gaze. If he kept it like this, he wouldn’t open her completely. She could pretend it was happening to somebody else. That way she could cope.
He touched her more intimately, deeper, and slid a finger inside her body. She gasped and bit her lip.
He paused. “Try to relax. It won’t hurt as much.”
“It will hurt?” Her alarm rose, and she must have tightened, because he withdrew.
“Yes, it will hurt a little. It usually does the first time, or so I’m told.”
“You’ve never done this before?”
He shook his head. “Not with a virgin.” At the word he stilled, gazed at her face. “You are a virgin, aren’t you?”
She nodded, but she couldn’t be certain. How could she know? John had hurt and frightened her, and made her furious with herself for not making him stop sooner. Had he taken her virginity? She hadn’t bled much, more as if he’d scratched her. And she hadn’t felt so stretched as she did when her husband moved his finger inside her.
“Of course you are,” he said grimly. She kept her attention on his face as he adjusted his own clothing, but thank God, didn’t take anything off. Then he moved over her.
He kept his weight off her, but his thighs nestled next to hers, straddling her. Sophia concentrated on keeping her breathing steady. Slowly he lowered his body until he—that—touched her. He was dry but soft, silky. His breathing deepened. Hers quickened.
With an abrupt movement untypical for him, he lifted himself off her. “No,” he said. He dragged her night-rail back down her legs and pulled the covers over her before he took her hand. “You’re tired. It’s been a stressful day and you’re not ready.”
Afraid, uncertain, she grasped his hand. “I’m fine, truly. Please do this.”
“Get it over with?” he said with a wry twist of his lips.
“Yes. I can’t bear not knowing. Not—I don’t want you to stop.” So afraid that if he left now she’d never let him back.
He gazed at her, his face so serious but closed-off. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You’re unwilling.”
“I’m not.” Tears nestled in her eyes but she ignored them. They were only a reaction, nothing of importance. But she would not allow them to fall. She hadn’t cried since—no, she wouldn’t think of it. “Please, Max.” She’d used his name. The word dropped from her lips without conscious thought. A spark of courage returned.
He searched her face again as if he could read the truth there. Perhaps
he could. “You promise to tell me if you’re uncomfortable or you want me to stop.”
She swallowed again and clutched his sleeve. “Do this. I want to be a proper wife to you.” Whatever it took.
His face relaxed a little, enough to allow him to smile. “We’re both novices at this.”
“But you’ve…done it before.”
The smile broadened. “Yes, I have. But not with you.”
When he straddled her again, she knew what he’d do, and she could relax until he was once more settled between her thighs. This time he grasped his member and guided it closer. Then he touched her opening.
Sophia was proud of herself. She didn’t flinch and kept her expression steady. Dry-eyed, she met his green gaze. His eyes were almost uniformly green, the lighter sparks unnoticeable, a darker ring surrounding the iris, but the shade was as remarkable close-up as it was at a distance.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He withdrew his hand. Then pushed.
He grunted low in his throat but he didn’t press harder. That would definitely have hurt.
“Lift your knees.”
She did. He moved a little farther inside. Not far, she could tell, but enough to lodge the very tip at her entrance. Was that enough?
He nudged again. This time the resistance gave slightly. His next move was to rotate his hips. His member shifted. Sophia bit her lip, but lifted her hands to hold on to his upper arms. Under the fine cloth of his nightshirt, his muscles were hard as iron, which surprised her. To know her husband was stronger than she’d imagined should have given her pause, but it reassured her. He could have used that strength to take her as he wanted, but he chose to introduce her to this as carefully as possible.
Keeping his weight off her, he raised his body and straightened his arms. “Hold on,” he said, and he thrust hard.
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