by Cheryl Holt
She wished she could tarry forever on the plush mattress, while he showered her with praise. She was certain he’d never claim he loved her, but she was merrily eager to settle for admiration and regard. It was easy for him to say she was beautiful, and she was ecstatic to let him.
He rolled on top of her again, and he kissed her thoroughly, enticing her until she was baffled over what she’d like to have occur. She was feeling pummeled, her limbs rubbery, as if her bones had melted. She couldn’t slow down what was transpiring, and she wasn’t interested in slowing it down.
Wherever he led her, she was content to follow. In the morning, she’d fret about consequences and wonder if she hadn’t gone mad. But just then, she was thrilled to continue. She was an independent adult who could pick her own path. She’d picked him—to show her how amour could truly be.
Their kisses became more heated. He was driving her up the spiral of pleasure again, caressing her, playing with her breasts. The sensation was so compelling that it distracted her so she didn’t pause to consider where they were headed.
Vaguely, she noted he was unbuttoning the flap on his trousers, then tugging them down to his haunches. He pulled out his cock, the hard male rod that men never grew weary of contemplating. He centered the tip in her sheath, and she took a deep breath and blew it out, determined not to blanch or cower.
For a moment, she frowned, trying to figure out if she was ready. Was she?
Apparently yes. She couldn’t conceive of a single reason to retreat.
“I want to make you mine,” he said.
“I want that too.”
“Do you know what’s about to happen?”
“Yes.”
Her assertion was offered in a hazy manner, from a virgin who’d had it explained verbally, but who wasn’t clear on the details.
“Everything will be perfect now,” he said.
They smiled, then his wily thumb found the spot at the vee of her thighs. He flicked at it, once, twice, and as she soared to the heavens again, he gripped her hips and shoved his phallus into her.
She barely had an instant to brace for what was coming, and she’d assumed it would hurt, but she was wet and relaxed from his ministrations. As he breached her maidenhead, she scarcely felt it.
He immediately realized the import of what he’d done: She’d been a virgin and he’d deflowered her. He halted, frozen in mid-thrust, and he glared down at her as if she’d tricked him.
“This was your first time,” he murmured, and his tone was scolding.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you, over and over, but you’re a man so you never listen. I’m not loose, and I never have been.”
“Then why . . . ? Why me? Why?”
He looked perplexed, and she cradled his cheek in her palm.
“I wanted you to be the one,” she gently replied, as if clarifying a difficult concept for a child.
“But . . . why?” he repeated.
“I like you much more than I should. I predicted it would be marvelous with you, and I was right.”
“I can’t marry you,” he blurted out. “Is that what you’re hoping?”
Trust a man to say exactly the wrong thing! She should have hit him. “Don’t be an idiot. I was never hoping for that.”
“This is too precious of a gift. What am I to do with it?”
“You said you needed me to be yours. Now I am.”
He studied her for an eternity, then he nodded. “You are mine, and I’m not sharing you with anyone.”
“No, not with anyone. Not ever.”
“Swear it to me. Swear you’ll always be mine alone.”
“Always yours,” she vowed, and she meant it.
The joining of their bodies was much more intimate than she could ever have fathomed. She would never attempt it with a subsequent partner.
He kissed her tenderly, saying, “I can’t hold back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“It should be more special for you.”
“It’s special enough,” she responded. “Don’t ever think it’s not.”
With a groan that sounded near to despair, he started flexing into her. He would push in all the way, then pull out to the tip, then push in again. She participated eagerly, following his lead, but then, he made it incredibly easy. She simply held on tight—as if she was on a raft on a rampaging river—and she struggled to keep track of every detail.
Much before she was ready, much before she’d gotten the hang of it, he shoved in, and with another intense groan, he spilled himself against her womb. She was aware that a man could withdraw at the end to prevent a babe from catching. Had he known that? If he had, he certainly hadn’t been concerned about it.
The copulation had spiraled so rapidly and concluded so rapidly that she hadn’t had a second to ponder the problem. Nor had she thought to discuss it with him. How did a passionate couple converse over that sort of topic?
She had no idea, but . . . ?
She wasn’t sorry. In the morning, she’d panic, but just then, she wasn’t worried about any possible ramifications.
He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her down, but he didn’t feel heavy. He felt welcome, and she felt safe and cherished. They rested like that for a bit, then he rolled away and dropped onto his side. She rolled too so they were nose to nose.
“I’m completely flummoxed,” he said.
“Why?”
“I wasn’t worth it.”
She smiled. “Probably not, but I convinced myself to do it with you anyway.”
“You’re deranged, Libby Carstairs.”
“Perhaps.”
He sighed, and she sighed too, then tears flooded her eyes. On seeing them, he appeared stricken.
“Are you sad about this?” he asked.
“No. I’m simply overwhelmed. It was more . . . more . . . personal than I’d expected it would be.”
“You silly girl! You should have told me to slow down. I would have, but I didn’t know I needed to control myself.”
“I didn’t want you to slow down or control yourself.”
He snuggled her closer, hugging her as if she was very dear to him, which was precisely the reaction she was anxious to receive.
“What did you think of it?” he asked. “Tell me the truth.”
“It was different from how I assumed it would be. I had heard it was very physical, but I didn’t understand just how physical.”
“It gets better with practice.”
“I thought it was wonderful this time.”
He snorted at that and said, “I’m glad we did this. I’m glad we got it out of the way.”
“So am I.”
“Maybe now our lust won’t rage quite so hotly.”
“Maybe,” she agreed, but she wasn’t sincere. She’d never stop desiring him.
“No regrets. Promise?” he said.
“I promise.”
“It would kill me if you decided later on that we shouldn’t have proceeded.”
“I won’t ever decide that.”
“Good.”
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We loaf for a while, then we try it again. If you’re not too sore . . . ?”
“I’m not sore. I’m . . . I’m . . .” She broke off and chuckled miserably. “I don’t know what I am, but I’m not sore.”
She hadn’t realized how draining the sexual event would be, and she was growing extremely lethargic. He was too. Would they fall asleep? Was it allowed? Would it be rude or inappropriate?
“You can’t drift off in here,” she said. “If we doze off, I’m afraid we won’t awaken until a housemaid wanders in to open the curtains in the morning.”
“I won’t
let that happen.”
He shifted onto his back, and he drew her nearer so she was draped over him, their feet and legs tangled together, her ear directly over his heart so she could hear it beating.
“I’m happy,” he said. “You make me happy.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you could have told me.”
Those pesky tears bubbled up again, and if she didn’t watch out, she suspected she might cry like a baby.
There were always stories about a deflowering being very distressing, but she’d presumed she was made of sterner stuff than ordinary females. She’d figured she could march through the episode with nary a ripple in her composure. Where was her carefree deportment when she needed it?
“What will become of us?” she asked, working to keep her voice casual.
“I can’t imagine, so let’s just enjoy this moment. Tomorrow, we can talk about where we stand.”
He was so nonchalant, as if he ruined virgins every day. And who could guess? He’d probably had dozens of lovers in his life. He might have had hundreds of them! Of course he’d be nonchalant.
As to herself, she felt raw and disturbed, as if the Earth had shifted off its axis and she couldn’t find her balance.
“I want you to always be mine,” she brashly declared, a huge surge of possessiveness sweeping over her. “I won’t permit any other woman to have you. I couldn’t abide it.”
“I like the sound of that.”
After that comment, she didn’t know if he said anything else. Sleep claimed her, and she plummeted into a deep slumber. Her next cogent thought came in a nightmare, and it was one she’d frequently suffered over the years.
She was little and back in the middle of the shipwreck. It was dark, and she couldn’t see. People were screaming, and she was desperate to stay afloat. It was very cold, and someone was shouting at her: Hold on! Hold on! Then, Grab her! She’s sinking under!
But she couldn’t hold on. Her hands were too small to grip the log, and it was too slippery. Waves were crashing over her head, and she swallowed a gigantic gulp of water. She couldn’t breathe! She was drowning, and she’d never learned to swim!
Help! she pleaded, but the storm was so loud the wind whisked the word away.
Another wave crashed over her, and she reached for a . . .
She bolted upright, her pulse pounding, a moan escaping from her lips. Frantically, she glanced around, several seconds passing before she remembered where she was: in the guest bedchamber at Barrett. She was naked, her robe lost in the blankets, and she clutched them to her chest.
She struggled to calm herself and gain her bearings. In her nightmare, she’d been yelling. Had she called out? Oh, if she’d been overheard, she’d die of embarrassment.
Without peering over, she sensed that Luke was gone. Instead, there was a single rose on his pillow, along with a note that said, Don’t forget we’re having breakfast at nine. Can’t wait until then. He’d signed it with the letter L for Luke.
She wondered when he’d tiptoed out. She certainly hadn’t noticed, and she tried to picture him, roaming through the quiet house, searching for a flower in a vase, locating a quill and ink, then writing her the note.
Out the window, dawn was breaking. It was cloudy, but the rain had stopped. She considered dawdling until nine o’clock, having breakfast with him, chatting over eggs and tea as if all was fine between them, but it wasn’t fine.
She’d given herself to a man who wasn’t her husband, a man who would never marry her, a man who was hoping to betroth himself very soon. What if she was with child? What then?
She’d assumed she understood all she should know about carnal matters, but she’d been so wrong. She hadn’t grasped how intimate it would be, how dear and tender. She hadn’t grasped how profoundly she would be affected.
It was possible she was madly in love with him now. She felt filled up with gladness, which was bizarre. Where was she to put all the feelings that were churning inside her? How could she stagger into a relationship with him when she could never have him for her very own?
She couldn’t meet him at nine. What would they discuss? Would they parlay over the bastard babe he might have planted?
No, she couldn’t tarry. What she urgently needed was to confer with Fish. Immediately. That’s what the situation required.
She threw off the covers and hurried to the dressing room where her borrowed gown hung on a hook. It was a simple garment that she could don without a maid’s assistance. In a few minutes, she’d be on her horse and on her way to the safety of her bedchamber at Roland—with Fish present to tell her what to do.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
Penny had caught him in the breakfast parlor alone, as she’d been hoping she might. She’d gotten up early for that specific purpose. He was seated at the table, and she pulled up a chair across from him.
She’d tossed and turned until dawn, her mind awhirl with problems she’d never contemplated in the past.
Ever since she’d met Simon, she’d been confused about her path. She’d always been a dutiful daughter, and because of her father’s tragedy as a young man—when her little half-sister, Henrietta, had vanished—Penny had grown up with the implicit understanding that she should never upset him.
Yet she’d learned how to coerce him into giving her whatever she desired, and he’d never been able to refuse any of her requests. She’d wanted to become engaged, and she’d begged him to pick a husband for her. Luke had seemed like a perfect choice until Simon had pointed out that he might not be.
Luke was so much older than she was, and he was stern, polite, and unbending. He rarely smiled. He never joined in the afternoon lawn games, never danced at night. No, he lurked in the corner, watching the crowd as if trying to figure out how he’d stumbled into it.
It was clear they had nothing in common except the fact that their families were neighbors. Was that really a viable basis for a marriage? She no longer thought so.
Then there was the other issue about what would happen in the bedchamber. She had several friends from school who were already wed, and they whispered alarming tales about what a spouse expected from his wife. Nudity was required, as were various physical acts that were too shocking to describe.
She pictured herself in a bedroom with Luke, pictured herself removing her clothes and being naked in front of him. The idea was disturbing on every level.
I could do it with Simon though . . .
The wicked notion flitted through her head before she could tamp it down. For Simon Falcon, she might consent to any risqué conduct. She was that fascinated.
Her father had been reading the morning newspaper, and he put it down and grinned at her. “Dear Penny, you’re aware that you can ask me any question you like, and I will attempt to answer it to your satisfaction.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She’d planned to blurt it out, but it was incredibly hard to proceed. She’d been demanding he select a husband for her, and he had. How could she now claim she didn’t want that husband?
Her consternation must have been evident because his grin altered to a frown. “What’s wrong? Is someone vexing you?”
“I guess my topic is more difficult than I realized.”
“Just spit it out. I generally find that it’s the easiest way to begin. Once a subject is voiced, it’s never as tough as we were imagining.”
“You’re probably correct.” She took a deep breath and let it out, then she asked, “Are you sure I should marry Luke?”
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure, so why inquire? What’s this actually about?”
“I recognize that I’ll sound like a spoiled brat.”
“You don’t so far, but keep going. We’ll reassess my opinion after you’re finished.”
“Well, it’s just that Luke is so much older than me
, and we’re practically strangers. What if we’re not compatible?”
“Oh, I see.” He leaned over and patted her hand. “You’re having pre-betrothal jitters. Every bride has them, and I can guarantee they’ll get worse as we march toward the wedding.”
“They’re not jitters, Father. I am having second thoughts.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re having second thoughts? Why?”
“I told you why. You settled on Luke immediately, so you couldn’t have considered whether he’d be a good match for me. What if he’s not?”
He flashed an angry look she’d never previously witnessed from him. “Where is this bizarre sentiment coming from? We’re hosting a party for Luke so he can ascertain what an excellent wife you’d be. You can’t sit here and announce that you’re not interested.”
“He’s in love with someone else!”
“Who is? Luke?”
“Yes. I can’t agree to have him when he’s ardently attached to another. What kind of life would I have? The whole time, there would be a third person in the middle of it.”
“Who is she?” he snapped. “Tell me her name—if you can.”
“It’s Miss Carstairs.”
He blanched. “Where did you hear that?”
She couldn’t decide if she should admit it, but he didn’t appear to believe her. “From her cousin. Mr. Falcon? Apparently, they’ve been involved for ages and Luke has no intention of giving her up after he’s wed.”
A muscle ticked in her father’s cheek. “Mr. Falcon told you that?”
“Yes.”
“If that’s the case, then I fear you are being entirely too cordial with him.”
“Why would he lie about it?”
Her father muttered, “Why indeed?”
“Obviously, you doubt it’s true, but what if it is? I wouldn’t blame Luke. Miss Carstairs is so beautiful and gracious. Who could resist her? But if they’re in love, and I marry him, where would it leave me?”
Her father sighed. “I’ll talk to Luke. I’ll ask him about her and judge his reply.”
She was aghast. “You’ll ask him? You can’t! I’d die of shame!”
