His cock, which had appeared so daunting, now seemed the ideal size for her, and she moved with greater abandon, twisting and circling her hips as she discovered not only what pleased her, but him as well.
“I told you the pleasure would come,” he growled, his breathing harsh. “You’re all I want, Serena. All I need, ever.”
There was a growing urgency to him now, his back arching and muscular thighs flexing with each driving thrust. She moaned his name, and didn’t try to keep back her little mewling cries as the pleasure built, her core tightening around him in intimate embrace. Faster, harder he drove into her as she held tight to his shoulders, her fingers digging deep into his muscles as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it did: the tension was coiling in her body until she feared she could bear no more, yet still he took her further.
Then, abruptly, the tension broke and her release came and she cried out with the force of it, her core convulsing rhythmically around him. He growled her name and followed with a roar, pumping furiously as he emptied himself into her, then shuddered and buried his face in her tangled hair.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, she lay with her legs still tangled with his and his cock still buried inside her. Lightly she smoothed her fingers across the back of his hair, and kissed his forehead, turned toward her. She felt weightless and free, and glowing from the inside out with happy contentment. The stories she’d heard of this moment had been almost right, but not one of them had been able to capture the magic of it, and the closeness she now felt with Geoffrey.
Her lover, her husband: what beautiful words those were! The tears that trickled down her cheeks weren’t from pain, but from emotions that had no other way to escape.
“I love you,” she whispered, so softly that she doubted he’d hear her. She couldn’t keep the words back, not now, not after he’d just made her his wife in the most primal of ways. “I love you.”
He lifted his head, their faces only inches apart. He seemed years younger now, his face relaxed and his smile slow and satisfied.
“My own Serena,” he said, kissing her lightly. “I love you, too.”
She went very still. “You didn’t have to say that just because I did.”
“And I didn’t, because I wouldn’t, unless I did,” he said. “I said it because it’s true. I love you; I’d be the greatest fool in Christendom if I didn’t.”
She desperately wanted to believe him, even as a fresh trickle of tears began to slip from her eyes. “I love you, too. It has nothing to do with being foolish.”
“No, we’ll leave the fools out of it for now,” he said. “But I’m endlessly fortunate to have you as my wife, and you’ve already made me most happy. Why shouldn’t I love you as well?”
She tried to smile. He’d said he loved her. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?
He frowned, and touched a finger to her cheek. “What is this? Did I hurt you? I tried to take care with you, but if I—”
“I’m happy, too, that’s all,” she said quickly. “You’ve made me happy.”
He reached to the table beside the bed and handed her two of his seemingly inexhaustible supply of handkerchiefs. He shifted just far enough from her that his cock slipped from her body, and with it a gush of wetness. To her mortification she now realized the purpose for the second handkerchief, and she used it to clean herself while he turned away to give her a bit of privacy.
Somehow that tawdry proof of what they’d done—a quantity of his seed streaked with the blood of her maidenhead—made their marriage more sharply real, and put an end to the last of the glowing well-being she’d felt from his lovemaking.
“I am happy,” she said again, too late realizing she was also striving to convince herself. “And if you’re happy as well, then I pleased you?”
She wished she’d kept the question from her voice. He turned back and looked at her, his expression mystified.
“Of course you pleased me,” he said firmly. “Serena, I have never been more pleased in my entire life than I am at this moment with you.”
Settling on his side with his head resting on his bent arm, he reached out and pulled her close to fit beside him. He cupped her breast, feathering the nipple with his thumb until it stiffened for him and she sighed restlessly, and then he kissed her lightly, almost sweetly, as he held her.
She liked how different his body was from hers, how his hard-packed muscles seemed so strong even when at ease. Daring, she wriggled a little more closely against him, and to her relief he tightened his arm around her waist, clearly wanting to keep her there. She liked lying with him like this, in the center of the large bed, and the intimacy of it made her feel safe.
“I wanted to please you,” she confessed, reassured enough to link her fingers into his. “I know how important that is for a gentleman. My father’s first wife was often quarrelsome and unwell, like many of the English ladies who go out to India. She forbade Father from her bed, until in retaliation he brought a bibi, a mistress, to share his quarters, and give him pleasure, as any gentleman would do. That bibi was only the first of many.”
“Your father’s wife?” he repeated, curious. “You mean your mother, don’t you?”
She froze, staring at their joined hands and realizing too late how badly she’d just betrayed herself. They’d been married only a matter of hours, yet already her secret was forcing her to make a choice.
She could now begin their married life together with honesty and trust, as Aunt Morley had advised. She could tell him the entire truth of who she was and who he’d married. She could stop hiding, stop pretending, stop lying, and trust that he loved her enough to accept her for what she was.
She could …
“Of course I meant Mama,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze. “How addled I must sound to you!”
“No, you don’t,” he said indulgently, brushing the back of his fingers over her cheek. “After all that’s happened today, it’s a wonder we’re not both babbling like incoherent Bedlamites.”
There it was, her first lie to him and already she felt the dreadful burden of it on her conscience. It wasn’t that she hadn’t trusted Geoffrey to love her as she was. No, she didn’t trust herself to be strong and honorable, and accept the risk of losing him if he didn’t. She was a wretched coward, and so she’d lied, and how she hated herself for doing it.
But Geoffrey wasn’t done yet. “Do you mean that because your poor mother was unwell, your father used that as justification to keep his mistress in your home, in your company?”
“I have no memory of my mother,” she said, taking more care with her words. “She died when I was very young. But I remember Father always having a bibi, and sometimes two. Every Englishman there did, and I thought nothing of it.”
“They were likely poor, low Indian women, too, who had no choice in life.” The disgust in his voice was clear. “I’m sorry you were forced to witness that, Serena. What an unforgivable thing to do to a daughter! To see your mother put aside like that, and be expected by your father to keep company with his whores—no wonder you’ve no wish to speak of your past.”
“It wasn’t like that,” she protested. “The bibis were always nice to me. It was the best possible childhood, and Father the merriest, most loving of parents.”
“I’ll wager he was merry,” Geoffrey said drily. “Men as cavalier as that always are.”
“He was a good man, Geoffrey,” she insisted. “He was clever and funny, and he loved me. If you’d met, I’m sure you would have liked him.”
“Perhaps,” he said, unconvinced. “Regardless, know that I’ll never treat you as your father did your mother, or subject our daughter to such a circumstance. Never. You have my word of honor, and my word as your husband. You must bear with me through sickness and health and all the rest, for I won’t cast you away. I’ll be your husband for the rest of our lives.”
She was crying again, but this time her tears sprang not from joy, but anguish. It would have been one thing to he
ar such a promise from him if he’d known the truth about her, but not like this.
“Oh, Geoffrey,” she whispered. “You are far too good for me.”
“Hardly,” he said, with a ruefulness to his voice that touched her even more. “I rather believe I’m not at all good enough to deserve such an angel as you for my wife.”
He kissed her again, and with a contented sigh, he tucked her more closely against his body. Soon she heard his breathing slow and his arm relaxed around her, and he slept.
But Serena did not. The peace and security she had felt earlier was gone, and despite the warmth of Geoffrey’s skin against hers and the love she now knew he felt for her, deep inside she was cold and bereft.
Soon after she’d been brought to London, her governess had told her about a common English bird called a cuckoo. The woman had paid little attention to the bird’s plumage or calls, instead concentrating on its habit of laying its eggs in the nests of other birds. The cuckoo’s egg would hatch first, and the abandoned fledgling would kick the other, rightful eggs from the nest, claiming all its unwitting adopted parents’ food and attention as its own. The cuckoo, her governess declared, was a most vile, selfish, and deceitful bird, perhaps the most despicable in the entire avian community.
But Serena had understood the cuckoo’s plight. She, too, had done what was needed to survive, flying from one unsuspecting sanctuary to another. Thanks to Geoffrey, she’d landed now in the most lavish of nests, one that was filled with devotion, kindness, and a nearperfect man who she loved beyond all others. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder how long she could remain here before she was discovered, and, like the cuckoo, forced to flee again to save herself.
“I love you,” she whispered, even though he slept. “I love you.”
CHAPTER
12
Geoffrey wasn’t sure whether it was Serena’s cries that woke him, or the terrified way she was tearing at the bedsheets.
“Serena,” he said firmly, taking her by the shoulders to wake her. Her skin was hot, and she was soaked with sweat, her long hair plastered across her shoulders and breasts. “Serena, it’s only a dream. Only a dream.”
But the dream or nightmare held her tight in its spell. The candles had long since guttered out, and the only light in the room came from the coals in the fireplace, yet still he could make out the abject terror that contorted her features. Her head whipped from side to side, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her face, and she babbled scraps of Hindi and English that made no sense.
“Serena, please,” he said loudly, striving to rouse her. “Serena, it’s only a dream.”
Yet still she thrashed about, every muscle taut. Perhaps this wasn’t a nightmare, but some sort of paroxysm or seizure. He must summon a physician to bring her ease with bleeding or a draft. He released her and ran to the door, shouting for his manservant.
“Allen!” he roared. “Allen, here, at once!”
The man came stumbling down the stairs, groggily stuffing his shirt into his breeches.
“Allen, listen to me,” Geoffrey said. “Lady Geoffrey is unwell. Send a footman at once for Dr. Partridge. Tell him that—”
“Forgive me, my lord, but she won’t want a physician,” said an unfamiliar young maidservant, curtseying as she joined them with a candlestick in one hand and a small blue bottle in the other. She was fully dressed in the same clothes she’d worn yesterday when she’d greeted them in the hall. Geoffrey realized she must be Serena’s lady’s maid, Martha, who’d doubtless been waiting in Serena’s rooms all night in case her mistress needed her assistance undressing. “Forgive me, but I could hear Lady Geoffrey from down the hall. One of her bad dreams, my lord, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Geoffrey said curtly. It was unnecessary to elaborate. Serena’s cries could be heard by them all, and by the other servants, who were sleepily appearing in their nightclothes, roused by the noise. Allen stepped forward, holding out Geoffrey’s dressing gown, and for the first time Geoffrey realized he was standing before his household staff completely naked. He yanked the dressing gown over his shoulders and around his body, tying it closed as he strode back to the bed. “Come with me, Martha. This has happened before?”
Martha nodded, her round face twisted with concern. “Yes, my lord,” she said. “I have the decoction that the physician made up for her.”
Geoffrey stared down at Serena, feeling utterly helpless. “Will that help?”
“Sometimes, my lord,” Martha said. “Mostly she has to wake, and then the worst will be over.”
Serena remained in the grips of the nightmare, fighting the dream as well as the sheets that were tangled around her limbs. Martha lit more candles, and by their light Geoffrey saw not only the fear that twisted Serena’s face, but also the tears that streaked it. It was unbearable for him to see her like this, and he hated being unable to do anything to release her, and once again he bent close to try to rouse her.
“Serena, listen to me,” he said. “You’re safe. No one can hurt you. You’re safe.”
She muttered something incoherent, her head twisting against the pillow. On impulse he tried the same words in Hindi.
“Serena,” he said. “Tuma surakita hō. You’re safe.”
At once she gulped and shuddered, and her eyes flew open with a startled cry. Her golden eyes were unfocused and filled with panic as she stared about the unfamiliar room.
“Hush, hush, Serena, you’re safe,” Geoffrey said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Nothing is going to hurt you now.”
He saw the moment she realized where she was, who she was, and the moment, too, that she understood what had happened.
“Oh, Geoffrey, I’m sorry,” she said, her chest heaving, still struggling for breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense,” he said gently. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for.”
Under the circumstances, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do, and it was only now, when she seemed to be coming back to herself, that he realized how alarmed he’d been for her sake. He’d gone to sleep blissfully sated and in love, congratulating himself on marrying a beautiful, charming lady who had also turned out to be stunningly sensual, only to be awakened to this.
“Of course I should apologize,” she protested with a wistfulness that touched him deeply. “It’s our wedding night, and I’ve spoiled it. What must you think of me?”
“What I think is that I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said firmly. He glanced back at Martha, standing respectfully to one side of the bed. “Your maidservant has brought your medicine, too.”
“No,” she said sharply. She pushed herself upright, modestly pulling the sheet up over her bare breasts. “That is, thank you, Martha, but no laudanum. It only makes things worse. You see I’m better already. Besides, it must be nearly dawn.”
“Oh, my lady,” Martha said, and the sympathy in her voice told Geoffrey that this had indeed happened before. “It’s only half-past three. Surely if you go back to sleep again you won’t—”
“No more sleep,” she said, and Geoffrey caught a shade of the earlier dread flicker across her face. No matter how exhausted she looked, she wouldn’t want to return to whatever demons had plagued her dreams.
“I’m not sleepy, either,” he declared heartily, wanting to put her at ease. “But I am quite ravenous, considering how we managed to overlook supper last night. Allen, ask Mrs. Potter to assemble a light supper tray for us. A little cold beef, cheese, buns, that sort of thing. Serena, is there anything in particular you would like?”
“Tea,” she said. “Tea would be lovely. And Martha, please bring me a dressing gown, and then you may go to bed. I shan’t be needing you further tonight.”
The servants left, closing the door and leaving them alone.
Serena sighed, still clutching tightly to the sheets. Her new wedding ring gleamed in the candlelight. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey. Truly.”
He reached out and gently pried her hand from the linen, raisi
ng her fingers to his lips. “No more apologies, Serena. I told you before. There’s no need.”
She shook her head, her fingers tightening unconsciously around his. She’d warned him she was complicated. Perhaps this was what she’d meant.
“I cannot help it, you see,” she said. “I have bad dreams, and—and they frighten me.”
“Everyone does, once in a while,” he said, even though they both knew that what he’d just witnessed was no ordinary bad dream. A childhood in India would have been enough to raise nightmares in any gently bred English girl, but after what she’d told him earlier about her wretch of a father, he could imagine all too well how much worse that childhood must have been. “It’s over now.”
“Yes,” she murmured, clearly struggling to convince herself. “And it’s only the one dream.”
“Only one?” he asked, surprised. “The same dream every time?”
She bowed her head, pointedly avoiding his gaze, and slipped her hand free of his. “I’d rather not speak of it, Geoffrey.”
He rose from the bed, frustrated by her refusal. “Often the best way to conquer a fear, Serena, is to address it head-on.”
“No,” she said vehemently. “I’m awake, and the dream is done. If I’m fortunate, I won’t have another like it for months, even years.”
She raised her face, shaking her hair back from her shoulders. She was smiling: not the strongest of smiles, but through sheer will, she’d managed to muster a semblance of one. He’d seen her do this before, composing her features into a beautiful mask to keep the world at bay, and he guessed she did it from habit.
But he didn’t want her doing it now, not with him. He couldn’t begin to help her, as he longed to do, until she trusted him.
“Serena,” he began. “I vowed to be your husband in all things, and that includes this. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”
“I wasn’t hiding from you, Geoffrey,” she said softly. Her eyes were so bright that he was sure that tears lurked within them. “I love you far too much for that.”
A Sinful Deception Page 23
