by Anna Small
She hid her disappointment. “I don’t mind.”
He fumbled with his coat. “We can make ourselves comfortable, at least. Do you want to change out of your frock? I can send for one of the girls downstairs…”
His words hung between them. It didn’t seem right to have a stranger help her out of her garments, especially on this night of all nights. “I can manage.” She patted his chest. It was solid, immovable. “May I help you with these buttons?”
Strange how she could not look up into his eyes. She’d assisted him at the Parkers’ home the night of the ball and had even lain beside him the night she found him in a stupor. He’d taken her in his arms on numerous occasions, and she knew the taste of his mouth as well as she did her own.
“Yes, thank you.” His voice had dropped to a low tone to match hers, as if there was a sudden reason they had to be quiet. The buttons slipped easily through the holes, and she tugged his coat free and draped it over a chair. She spent more time than was needed brushing the soft wool with her palms, as if the cleaning of it could not wait until morning.
“My waistcoat, too, if you’d be so kind.” He sounded more like the teasing lover she’d become used to. “Mrs. Blakeney.”
Her face heated with another blush. The crisp damask fabric slid beneath her hands as she touched his chest again, relishing the feel of him beneath the exquisitely embroidered fabric. The gold threaded buttonholes had tightened around the buttons, and she struggled to free them.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?”
She ducked her head again, carefully arranging his waistcoat over the back of the chair. “My sisters did my hair. And the gown is lovely. I meant to thank you.” A nervous tingling had started in her arms and now spread throughout the rest of her, ending in her middle, which quivered like Cook’s best aspic.
“You’ve already thanked me. Besides, I wasn’t talking about your hair or your gown.” He walked the few steps to her, and she relinquished her hold on his clothes. He traced his finger down her cheek to her throat, pausing above her tight collar.
His eyes smoldered like coals on the hearth. She was about to step over the abyss into something mysterious, but was unafraid.
“You are the handsomest man I have ever seen.” She bit her lip, laughing a moment later at the funny quirk of his eyebrows. “Truly, Frederick. I thought so when we met at the musicale in Shropshire.”
“Ah, yes. When you allowed your maidenly prudence to vanish for a moment and spare a talk with a stranger.” The tip of his finger lightly caressed the same spot. “I’ve hardly kissed you all day, Jane Blakeney. Ask me why.”
He said her new name possessively. She gulped. “Why?” Her voice came out in a strangled whisper.
One corner of his mouth lifted. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, draw him close, and feel that wonderful mouth on hers, but hesitated. He didn’t seem very anxious or rushed at all; rather, he looked as if he had all night at his leisure. His head lowered, and his warm breath tickled her cheek as his lips moved nearer to hers.
“Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started.”
Every touch of his lips burned her skin. The breath caught in her throat as she counted the seconds for his kiss. She clutched his shirt, her hands pressed upon his chest. His heartbeat vibrated against her palms.
When it came, the kiss was a mere whisper on her lips, as soft as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. She wanted more. A wave of desire flooded her all at once, and she clung to him, her hands sliding over his heated skin and up the back of his head, where his hair whispered through her fingers like strands of silk.
The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and her own murmured gasps. She was vaguely aware of his hand on her throat, and then her tight collar eased open when he freed the topmost buttons. Warmth flooded her as he caressed her exposed skin, sliding up to below her ear and then down to her throat again.
He started walking, forcing her to take a few hesitant steps backward, her arms still locked around his neck. She bumped into the edge of the bed and lost her balance. They fell together, his laughter mingling with hers.
“I thought we were going to rest before going on to London.”
“I believe I’ve reconsidered the charms of this room.” He held her hand. “You have a strange effect on me, Jane. Whenever I kiss you, the pain vanishes.” He settled back against the pillows and opened his arms.
At last, the moment had arrived. Without hesitation, she lay beside him. The fragile silk gown was no protection against the heat from his body, which filtered through his breeches and soft shirt. She untied his cravat from her awkward position, pulling it free and tossing it over the bed, making him laugh. The collar of his shirt flared open, and she stroked his chest, marveling at the prickly hair tickling her fingertips.
Her touch seemed to rouse something in him. His lips skimmed her eyelids and cheek, until he finally ended her torment and kissed her.
Lying in his arms heightened her desire. One of his legs slipped between hers, and the wedding gown gave in protest. The tiny buttons at the back of her neck popped like pomegranate seeds under his fingers. He pulled her arm free of a sleeve. His mouth never left hers, and the kiss deepened until she was lost in him.
“I don’t want to wrinkle this,” he murmured, his eyes alight with mischief.
She laughed in surprise and sat when he did. One-handed, he fumbled with her gown, pulling it over her head and dropping it to the floor with a triumphant cry. She impulsively crossed her arms over her chest, but he gently pulled them away.
“I want to look at you, my darling.” He traced the row of embroidered daisies on her chemise, a gift from Rosalind. Her chest rose and fell with each anxious breath. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” he murmured.
Some of the daisies rested on the slope of her breast. His fingers lingered there, making her tremble.
“Is that Byron?” She wondered what had happened to her voice, as it shook in an odd, quivering way. “I remember your quoting it to me when we walked to the sweet shop.” Ridiculous she could converse about such an ordinary memory, but common sense had failed her. Her hands remained clenched in her lap when all she wanted to do was clasp him to her as she had done before.
“It is. He must have been writing about a bridegroom’s feelings on his wedding night. Of course, you are not, at this moment, walking. I could say ‘She sits in beauty, like the night.’” His expression softened. “Good evening, Mrs. Blakeney.”
A nervous laugh broke from her. “Good evening, Mr. Blakeney.”
His mouth possessed hers again, moving from slow and sweet to more demanding in seconds. His fingers floated lightly across her collarbone, just above the swell of her breasts, sheathed tightly in her corset. Tiny hairs on her skin rose with his touch. She wanted to touch him, too, and skimmed her hands across his chest, the fine lawn shirt sliding beneath her palms. She’d felt his chest before, when he’d lain in wretched sleep at Everhill, and she’d taken advantage of the darkness to touch him. She wondered how it would feel lying naked in his arms, and a new rush of desire burned through her.
He broke the kiss and held her away from him. She imagined her flesh burning with every scorching glance of his eyes.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“You are beautiful, too.”
He snorted, but his gaze continued to rake over her. “I could quote a thousand poems to you all night, but none would truly express what I’m feeling at this moment.”
“It’s what I feel about you. All the time.”
His lips brushed her forehead. “Do you?”
She nodded. Her mind swam with emotions and desire she’d never felt before. Every time he touched her, she longed to bury her head in his shoulder and whisper with all her heart, “I’m yours, I’m yours.”
“Never stop feeling it, Jane.” He only needed one hand to unlace her corset and made quick work of it. The
corset out of the way, he twined his fingers around the ribbon ties of her chemise. She clutched his wrist, stopping him for a panic-stricken moment when her shyness returned. He dropped the ribbon and stroked her cheek instead.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He spoke the words against her quivering lips.
She shook her head, her chest so constricted she could hardly breathe. Perhaps it wasn’t normal, being so anxious. Before she could respond, he released her, only to start unbuttoning his shirt.
“Will you help me with this? Confounded buttons again.”
His smile reassured her, and she deftly unfastened the smooth shell buttons of his shirt, hesitating when she came to the very last of them. Now there was nothing else to do but remove his shirt, which was tucked tightly into his breeches. With a slight yank, the shirt came free, and she slipped it over his arms and broad shoulders, watching the heavy muscles flex as he moved.
She slid her hands over his chest, pulling the thick hairs through her fingers while he regarded her with a mildly amused smile.
“I touched you like this before.” She’d tried not to whisper, to sound more confident, but her voice came out hushed.
“I know you did.” He closed his eyes while she continued to explore him. “You thought I was asleep.”
A blush rose to her cheeks. “You should have stopped me.”
“Far be it from me to prohibit an innocent maiden in pursuit of other hobbies besides playing Mozart and sorting hair ribbons. If I had known you would use me for your shocking explorations, I’d have conjured up my demons every night.”
The muscles in his left arm had withered somewhat from his injury. He flinched when she ran her hand all the way down to his wrist, his breath hitching while she held the stump in her palm. Tears pricked her eyes, and her heart swelled with the force of her love.
“You said you’d had a strange dream. What was it about?”
“It was very wicked, indeed. I won’t shock your little pink ears with the details.” He clasped her hand over his pounding heart. “Perhaps when we’ve been married twenty years, and you’ve produced several little Blakeneys, I will tell you.”
“Do you think I won’t blush after twenty years with you, Mr. Blakeney?”
“Ah, Jane.” He kissed her palm. “I hope you will always blush. Even when you’re plump and gray, and your sweet voice grows as shrill as your dear mamma’s.” He winked. “I want you to blush when I take you to bed.” He enfolded her in his arms and leaned back into the pillows, taking her with him. “I want you to tremble when I kiss you.” He kissed her and she did tremble. “And I want you to always know how much I love you.”
He slid his hand down her thigh to grasp the end of the quilt, which he pulled over them both. The mattress sagged in the middle, bringing them together. She huddled even closer until his body heat burned through her chemise and seared her flesh.
He’d held her close before, but through layers of clothes and the veritable armor of her corset. Not like this, with only his breeches and her thin chemise between them. His chest hair grazed her skin through the flimsy cloth, and she wriggled against him.
“I could kiss you all night,” she said.
“While that sounds delightful, I would rather spend the remainder of this night making love to you.” He slowly removed the pins and ribbon from her hair, and fanned the long waves over the pillow.
She longed to be as calm and cool-headed as he was but could barely control the sudden whirlwind of emotions rising in time with her pounding heart.
“Frederick…”
“Hmm?”
“I want you, too.” This last was a mere whisper.
“In that case…”
His hand trailed a burning path from her calf to her knee, to the front of her thigh, pausing at her navel. A shiver blew across her flesh, which was odd, because she wasn’t cold. Quite the opposite, as their shared warmth nearly made her kick off the quilt.
“I want to possess every inch of you…to make you mine.”
“I am…I am yours.” She ran her hand from his arm to his chest and back to his neck. She couldn’t stop touching him. How would she function in the morning without being able to touch him all day long…for every moment of the rest of her life?
“And I am yours.”
He trailed soft kisses down her throat to her cleavage. The solid curve of his cheekbone pressed against the side of her breast, and she was torn between pushing him away and holding him there. His hair brushed over her skin in a silken caress and her back arched as she realized with a mild shock she liked it.
“As fond as I am of daisies, I would prefer to see this garment on the floor with the others.”
With a gentle tug, the ribbon drawstring of her chemise released, exposing her to the cool night air. His warm breath was moist on her skin, and she stiffened, shocked and captivated by what he was doing. She bit her lip to stifle a moan. His tongue on her nipple was hot and slippery, and he suckled her until she gasped.
His mouth moved to her other breast, and he showed it the same distracting attention. Just when she feared she’d die from lack of breath, for she’d stopped breathing long before this, his hand slipped down her ribs to her waist, pausing at the band of her under drawers. The fabric released as he pulled the tapes free. She hesitated, lifting her hips while he slipped the garment from her.
His hand slid up her bare leg to her hip. It was one thing to be touched through her clothes. Quite another to feel the soft pads of fingertips playing her as if she were an ivory keyboard. She trembled violently and arched against him when his hand slid across her abdomen, and dipped lower still. Her legs clenched together, but his urgent kisses and soft whispers relaxed her. She clutched his hair too tightly; he winced, and she released him.
“My Jane,” he murmured, with a hint of a smile. His mouth captured hers, and she was helpless.
His hard flesh pressed against her in silent demand, even while he pulled the chemise over her body and dropped it to the floor. She quivered uncontrollably, half-fearing, half-desiring him to continue his fervent exploration. Taking refuge in the sweaty comfort of his shoulder, she held onto him as if she were lost at sea and he was the lifeline to bring her back to shore.
Shyness and modesty vanished. Instead of feeling vulnerable, she was liberated from the deprivation she’d always forced upon herself.
She sensed a subtle change in him, as well. While tender, his kisses grew deeper, more insistent, and he wasn’t content to accept her meek response. His hand splayed over her navel, and she moved it higher, almost panicking for some ridiculous reason. He gave a slight shake of his head and replaced his hand a moment later. After a brief hesitation, she touched his leg, growing bold enough to stroke the length of his thigh.
The taut muscles rippled beneath her fingers. He clasped her wrist, slowly dragging her hand toward the apex of his thighs, where the intriguing pressure had grown. With a strangled gasp, she pulled back, but his grip was firm.
“Please,” he breathed, “touch me.”
“I…I don’t know…what to do.” Her face burned with the same intense fire as the rest of her.
“I’ll show you. It’s like playing an adagio…slow and sweet.” Heat rose between them, turning the bed into a damp cocoon. A fine dew of sweat broke out on her chest. “Trust me,” he whispered.
He stroked the back of her hand, dragging it forward against the fall of his breeches. The buttons strained to contain him. Adagio. Her mind swirled with desire and uncertainty. She danced her fingers up and down the length of him, all the while gazing into his eyes, which burned with a smoldering fire.
His eyes fluttered closed, and his lips parted with a rush of breath. He released her hand, leaving it in place, only to skim his fingers back to her navel, but lower than before.
“I must touch you,” he said.
He pressed his forehead to hers, and she inhaled sharply, her pulse racing, as he slid between her thighs as if it were
the most natural place for him to be. She clenched and quivered, rocking involuntarily toward him.
His kiss grew more demanding than before. His tongue broke through her tightened lips and stroked hers. He tasted of wine and desire. He’d never kissed her like this, with so much passion and heat she felt him in every part of her being.
At first, she was almost afraid of this transformation. He was no longer the twinkling-eyed suitor stealing tender kisses while holding her at bay. In the darkness of their wedding bed, he was both seducer and lover, commander and slave. Every hesitant motion on her part seemed to stir his arousal even more. Her anxiety and restraint melted away as she allowed herself to enjoy the moment without reservation.
As rough as his kisses had grown, his touch on her gentled. He was silent now, and all she could hear was her own quickened breathing coming in short gasps and a strange roaring in her ears.
It seemed almost indecent to lie thus, and she closed her legs around his hand for some measure of propriety. This only increased the sweet agony, and she clutched his shoulders, even as his head lowered and he pressed burning kisses on her exposed throat and breasts.
He sucked her nipple into his mouth, and she cried aloud, gasping for air as her soul flew out of her body in a dazzling torrent of white-hot flames. She rocked wantonly against his hand, thrusting against his strong, callused fingers, barely aware of the words slipping from her lips, urging him not to stop, to never stop…Gasping his name with a cry until she nearly forgot how to say it, and only kept repeating the first syllable, over and over…
She fell back to earth.
He rubbed his rough cheek against hers, chuckling deep in his throat. His mouth was soft and light, his tongue stroking a lazy pattern on her lower lip.
“That…that wasn’t an adagio.” Her voice shook with emotion and amazement. “That was a crescendo.”
He laughed and clasped her in his arms. “I suppose it’s why Shakespeare wrote, ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ And you know how dearly I love to play.” He dipped his head again, a breath away from her lips. “Especially with you.”
