“A duke,” he offered, smiling as he remembered the way they had bantered that night. “Also your husband. Who are you?”
“A duchess!” she exclaimed with a mixture of joy and disbelief.
“Also my wife?”
She nodded slowly, her smile widening delightfully. In his mind, Clayton saw the provocative goddess she had been that night with yellow and purple flowers entwined in her hair. At the same time, he beheld her standing there near his bed, and suddenly it didn’t matter that he couldn’t make love to her tonight. All that mattered was that he had finally made her his! He had done it—she really was his wife! He felt exhilarated and triumphant. “My ‘obedient’ wife?” he teased, emphasizing the word obedient.
Whitney nodded again and he could almost see the laughter in her eyes.
“Then come here, my obedient wife,” he commanded huskily.
A shadow of apprehension crossed her vivid features, but she turned fully toward him and began walking to him with that natural, fluid motion of hers. That was when Clayton realized what she was wearing, and he almost groaned aloud. Her dressing robe was made entirely of fragile white lace, revealing glimpses of skin along her arms, her breasts, and even her long legs; and there was enough soft flesh swelling above her bodice to send him into fresh agonies of desire and regret.
She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way but couldn’t make herself. “About . . . about your promise,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Remember?”
Did he remember his promise! “I remember it, little one,” Clayton said quietly. He went to her and gently enfolded her in his arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her almost naked breasts softly crushed against his thin shirt. He wanted to kiss her but she was trembling so violently that he was afraid to, so he just held her with her face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair.
“When I was a little girl,” she whispered unsteadily against his heart, “lying in bed at night, I used to imagine that there were things—in the closets.”
She fell silent and Clayton urged her, “There were toy soldiers in my closets. What were in yours?”
“Monsters!” she whispered. “Huge, ugly ones with claws for feet and enormous, bulging eyes.” She drew a shaky breath and said, “There are monsters in this room too—hideous memories lurking in the shadows and corners.”
Clayton flinched with pained remorse. “I know there are. But you’ve nothing to be afraid of; I’ll not ask anything of you tonight. I gave you my word.”
She leaned back a little and looked up at him, her face so lovely and vulnerable that Clayton wondered for the thousandth time how he ever, ever could have mistreated her that night. She tried to say something and couldn’t; instead she rested her cheek against his chest, sliding her arms around his waist.
After a moment, she began again, “I used to lie in bed at night, afraid of what was in the closet. And then, when I couldn’t endure it any longer, I would run across the room and snatch the door open and make myself look inside.”
Clayton smiled inwardly. It was like her to grow weary of cowering under the blankets and confront the darkness—monsters or no monsters. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it.
“The closet was always empty. No monsters . . . nothing to fear.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Clayton, I don’t want to spend our wedding night lying alone in your bed, afraid of what is in the shadows.”
Clayton’s hand froze in mid-air, then he made himself continue the soothing motion, giving her time to reconsider. “You’re certain?” he asked quietly.
Whitney nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
Leaning down, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the big four-poster where he had taught her how degrading the act could be, promising himself, every step of the way, that this time would be so perfect for her that the other time would be banished from her memory. He slipped his hand from beneath her knees, and the gliding feel of her legs sliding down his thighs made his hands tremble as he untied the ribbons at her breasts and tenderly opened the lacy gown.
Her ivory shoulders and full, rosy-tipped breasts gleamed in the light from the fire across the room. “My God, you are beautiful,” he breathed, and felt her body quiver sharply when his hands slid down her arms, sending the fragile lace gown spilling onto the floor. He took her dewy lips in a long, sweet kiss, then swept the satin coverlet back and lifted her gently, laying her on the cool sheets.
She closed her eyes and turned her head away, and Clayton saw the flush that swept up her long shapely legs and slender curves, staining the glowing ivory skin right up to her hairline. Out of consideration for her obvious embarrassment, he reluctantly extinguished the candles burning on the bedside table. Afraid to leave her alone with the memories she was ready to confront, he undressed there beside the bed, then stretched out alongside her and carefully pulled her into his arms. Whitney stiffened. He ran his hand soothingly over her naked back, and she stiffened even more. Clayton stopped caressing her and lay back against the pillows with her head on his chest.
In the next few moments her breathing went from slow and shallow, to rapid and shallow, and he was not even touching her. Christ, how he hated himself for what he had done to her that night! She was so tense, so taut in every fiber of her body that, unless he could help her relax, he would hurt her no matter how gentle he was.
So that she wouldn’t be overly conscious of their nakedness, Clayton reached down and drew the sheet over them. “I want to talk awhile first,” he explained. Relief flooded her features and he chuckled because she looked as if she’d just been granted a last-minute reprieve from the guillotine. “If you possibly can, I would like you to try to put out of your mind what happened before. I’d also like you to forget whatever you may have heard about what happens between a husband and wife in bed, and simply listen to me.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Expressions such as ‘submitting to him’ or ‘taking her’ should never have been applied to lovemaking, yet I know this is the way you must think of it. The first implies a duty. The second is a selfish act and implies the use of force. I am not going to ‘take’ you, and you are not going to ‘submit’ to me. Nor are you going to feel any pain.” With a tender smile at her upturned face, he said, “I promise you that you are not malformed. You are perfectly and exquisitely made.”
He ran a forefinger over her lovely cheek. “What is about to take place between us is a sharing, born of my desire to be as close to you as I can be, to actually become a part of you. Little one, when I am inside you I am not taking, I am giving. I am giving my body to you as I gave you my love before, and my ring today. When I am inside of you, I will put the seed of my own life into you and leave it there for you to keep and shelter within you—a symbol of my love and need for you, like your betrothal ring.”
In the flickering orange glow from the fireplace across the room, Clayton saw her hesitate, and then imperceptibly tilt her face up, offering her lips for his kiss. Very slowly and gently, Clayton leaned over and began to kiss his wife. He kissed her long and lingeringly, with all the aching tenderness in his heart and she, after a few moments of tense passivity, laid her slender fingers against his cheek and began to kiss him back with all the shy, trembling love Clayton knew she felt.
Her soft lips parted with only the slightest urging from his probing tongue, and her arms went around his neck as she drew his tongue into her mouth, then gave him hers. He teased her, tormented her, offered himself to her by thrusting deep with his tongue, then slowly retreating and thrusting again and again, until Whitney was clinging to him, her mouth moving back and forth over his in passionate surrender to the wildly erotic kiss.
He stroked her hair and slid his hand down over her throat to her breasts, circling the pink crests with his thumb until they stood up proudly. Whitney shivered with delight and
started to fit herself to his hardened length—then jerked away as if she had been scorched. Clayton immediately knew what had terrified her and although she resisted, he moved his arm to hold her hips against his. “No,” he said gently as she tried to pull her lower body away from his rigid manhood. “Nothing is going to hurt you.”
Her long lashes swept up and she gave him such a doubtful, accusing look, that he nearly smiled. “Put your hand on my chest,” he instructed gently. “Only on my chest,” he assured her when she lifted her hand to obey and then hesitated. The instant she moved her fingers over his warm skin, his muscles leapt reflexively. “See how my body responds to your touch?” he told her quietly. “The part of me that you are afraid of is only responding to your nearness, reaching for you.” He gathered her closer against his thighs and hips, but she remained stiff and tensed. “You aren’t still afraid that I am going to hurt you, after I’ve promised I won’t?”
Whitney swallowed convulsively and shook her head against the pillow. If Clayton said this wasn’t going to be painful, she would believe him. Tentatively she moved her fingers over the furring of dark hair on his chest and felt the slight increase in the steady thudding of his heart, the rippling of his powerful chest muscles when she slid her hand a little lower.
Clayton felt it as a flame racing uncontrollably through his veins. “Oh darling,” he half laughed, half groaned, “please feel pride in what you can do to me. It humbles me to know you can make my body respond to your slightest touch, even if I will against it. It humbles me more to tell you so. But I tell you anyway, because if you can take pride in having such power over me, I can find a reason for joy in it, as well. But if it frightens you or makes you ashamed, then our love must be a timid thing, a thing of shame.”
Whitney drew a long, unsteady breath and, reaching her arms around his neck, she pressed herself to the full length of his hard, unyielding contours and began to kiss him. She kissed his forehead and his eyes and his mouth. She slid her tongue over his lips, feeling the warm smoothness of them, and Clayton groaned, his mouth opening passionately over hers. And when he shifted her onto her back and leaned over her, kissing her and caressing her with his gentle, skillful hands, Whitney didn’t know if what she was feeling was pride, but whatever it was, it was drugging and delirious and wonderful.
“I want you,” he whispered against her parted lips. “I want you so badly that I ache for you.” He took his mouth from hers and his hand shook as he lifted it to cup her face. “I’ll never hurt you, little one,” he promised, his voice hoarse with tenderness and love.
Whitney’s answer made his throat ache. “I know you won’t,” she whispered. “But it wouldn’t matter if you hurt me every night—as long as you always say those things—about wanting to be a part of me.”
Clayton couldn’t help himself; he covered her mouth with his and devoured her with tender violence. He fondled her breasts and teased her nipples with his fingers, and she moaned softly when his mouth began retracing the path his hands had taken.
Every slight movement of her awakening body twisting beneath his gentle assault—every sound she made raced through his bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. He could not believe the passion she contained, nor the violence of his body’s craving for her; he was ravenous for her.
Her hands were tangling in his hair, running over his shoulders and back, her nails digging into his flesh. But when he moved his hand down to the soft triangle between her legs, Whitney gave a leap of fear at his intimate touch and clamped her thighs together.
“Don’t, darling,” he murmured hotly, capturing her mouth in a deep, consuming kiss as he gently, inexorably, parted her thighs, his fingers teasing and toying with her, exploring and delightfully tormenting her until she was soft and damp and more than ready for him.
When he shifted up and over her, however, Whitney was jolted from the sensual whirlpool that had been sweeping her toward sweet oblivion. In fright that would not be banished she felt Clayton part her legs, felt her hips being lifted to receive him, and she swallowed back a cry of sheer panic at the probing hardness of him coming into intimate contact with her. Despite his promise, her body automatically braced itself for pain . . . but there was only the proud heat of him sliding slowly into her. Instinctively, she relaxed and opened for him, then gasped with exquisite pleasure as he plunged full length into her welcoming softness.
She wrapped her arms around him, lost in incoherent yearnings to have him stay inside of her like this forever, to draw him somehow deeper. She thought this was how it ended, and she could have wept with longing to have it continue. And then Clayton began to move within her, and Whitney ceased to think at all. Something small unfolded in the pit of her stomach, then spread like a mellow glow, slowly building and gathering force, until it began to race in a trembling fury along her every nerve. Twisting her head fitfully on the pillows, she began arching to meet his deep plunging thrusts. “Please,” she begged him in a whisper, but she did not know what she was asking for.
Clayton did. And he wanted it so badly for her that his own rampaging desire was secondary. “Soon, darling,” he promised and began to steadily quicken the rhythm of his driving strokes.
The volcano that had been threatening to erupt inside of Whitney exploded with a force that tore a low scream from her throat. Instantly Clayton throttled the scream with his mouth. When her tremors had subsided he took her sweet lips in a long kiss, and with one deep thrust, he poured his shuddering warmth at the mouth of her womb.
Afraid that his weight would crush her, Clayton gathered her to him and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Lying there, with Whitney cradled in his arms, his body still intimately joined to hers, he experienced a joyous contentment, a languorous peace, unlike anything he had ever known.
He half expected Whitney to fall asleep in his arms, but after several minutes, she tilted her head back and raised shining green eyes to his. Clayton brushed a wayward curl off her cheek. “Are you happy, love?”
She smiled at him; the sated, happy smile of a woman who loves . . . and who knows that she is beloved. “Yes,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer against him, while he lazily caressed the lovely contours of her back and hip, waiting for her to fall asleep. Instead, she lapsed into silence, tracing small circles on his chest, but she did not seem any more inclined toward sleep than he. “What are you thinking about?” he asked her finally.
Whitney’s gaze flew to his, then she buried her face against his chest. “Nothing,” she murmured unconvincingly.
Tilting her chin up, Clayton forced her to look at him. He had no idea what she could be thinking, but after having just removed the last barrier between them, he didn’t want any new ones erected, ever. “What?” he persisted with gentle firmness.
She bit her lip in a combination of shyness and laughter and admitted, “I was thinking that if it had been like this—that other time—Instead of fleeing from here, I would have stayed and demanded that you do the proper thing and marry me at once!”
She looked so beautiful that Clayton was torn between laughing and kissing her. So he did both. It was heaven to hold her in his arms like this, to be able to talk to her in the darkness and have her bare arms around him. Clayton felt more in the mood for celebrating than sleeping. When he looked down at her a while later and found her still awake, gazing into the firelight, he said, “Do you want to sleep?”
“I don’t think I could. I’m wide awake.”
“Good, so am I.” He grinned. “Will you light all three of those candles on the table beside you?”
“Your smallest wish is my command,” his “obedient” wife told him as she leaned up on an elbow and kissed him full on the mouth, but before she turned over to light the candles, she carefully drew the sheet up.
Clayton’s lips twitched with laughter as she modestly clutched it to the luscious breasts he had just fondled and kissed. He propped their pillows up so that they could
sit back against them, then he relaxed back and pleasured himself with the sight of her. When she turned from lighting the candles and saw him gazing at her, she self-consciously ran her fingers through her tumbled tresses and gave the luxuriant mass a hard shake that sent it spilling down her back. “Madam,” Clayton reassured her with a roguish grin, “you are beautiful en dishabille—if that sheet you are trying to wear qualifies you for being in that fashionable state of partial dress.”
“I don’t think it does,” Whitney mused thoughtfully. “In France and even here, it is all the rage for ladies to receive gentlemen en dishabille, but I’m certain they must be wearing more than this.” Then Whitney realized with a rosy blush that Clayton undoubtedly knew a good deal more about that particular “rage” than she did, and the thought made her feel a little forlorn.
Everyone knew that Clayton had had mistresses before, and married men frequently kept mistresses discreetly tucked away, too. It crushed her to think of him doing the things he had just done with her, with another woman, too. Emboldened by her distress and ashamed of her shocking effrontery, Whitney said hesitantly, “Clayton, I think I would have a very difficult time pretending not to notice . . . no, passively accepting . . . accepting . . .”
“Accepting what?” Clayton whispered, his lips against her temple.
“A mistress!” Whitney blurted.
Clayton’s head jerked up. For a moment he stared blankly at her, then he wrapped his arms around her and burst out laughing. But because he knew she was genuinely distressed, he made his face more appropriately solemn—as befitted the lifetime renunciation he was about to make. Then, gazing into her glorious eyes, he said in quiet earnest, “I will not have a mistress.”
“Thank you,” Whitney whispered. “I’m afraid I would feel very strongly about it.”
“I’m sure you would,” he said, striving to keep his face straight.
A few minutes later, Clayton remembered the velvet box tucked away in the table beside the bed. Reluctantly easing his arm from beneath her shoulders, he explained, “I have a gift for you.”
Whitney, My Love Page 50
