by Karen Ranney
Just as swiftly, the bliss she’d felt turned to discomfort.
“No.”
He halted, staring down at her, gripping the pillow on either side of her head.
“No?”
She nodded.
“For the love of God, Beatrice, you can’t say no now!”
“You won’t fit, Devlen. I know you think you can, but it’s all too obvious you won’t.”
He sighed, and lowered himself until he rested his forehead against hers. “Let me show you, Beatrice. Remember how I said it wouldn’t be very comfortable?”
She nodded again.
“This is the not-comfortable part. But I promise, I shall be very kind.”
“Am I still a virgin?”
“Only half.”
“Then, please, finish.”
“If you’re sure?”
She nodded for the third time and was rewarded by his very determined expression.
He withdrew, and surged forward, and she immediately wanted to scream at him that he hadn’t been kind at all. She felt stretched and invaded, and where he rested it burned. But then he withdrew once more, and this time she did scream, but only a little as he buried himself to the hilt in her.
She closed her eyes and tried to distance herself from what she was feeling.
“Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“Are you crying?”
“A little.”
“I’m very sorry, but I did tell you.”
“Do you feel better being right, Devlen?”
“Not appreciably.”
“Is it very enjoyable for you?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“I don’t think I’m a virgin anymore, am I?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well, that’s done.”
A moment passed, and she realized he was still hard inside her, a state of affairs that surely wasn’t right. Short of asking him to hurry up and finish, however, what did a virgin do?
“Devlen?”
“Yes, Beatrice.”
“Are you waiting for something?”
“For you to grow accustomed to me.”
“I doubt that will ever happen, Devlen. You mustn’t wait any longer.”
“I’ve never been asked to depart with such grace, Beatrice.”
She didn’t have anything to say to that, so she remained silent.
“You’re quite large.”
“That’s a compliment, you know. Thank you.”
“I feel very small in return.”
“You’re supposed to be. You’re a virgin.”
She flexed her internal muscles, trying to ease the ache. He glanced down at her and smiled.
“That feels interesting, Beatrice.”
“Can you feel that?”
“Too much more, and so will you.”
She did it again, and he closed his eyes.
“Beatrice.”
Once more and he moved, raising himself on his forearms and looking down at her as he did so. The discomfort wasn’t quite as bad this time.
Once, twice, three times he surged into her, and when he did, she flexed her muscles. Several more minutes went by, with him moving above and in her. Her discomfort had almost completely eased now, but his, evidently, had not.
Devlen’s expression was almost pained, his eyes closed, his movements more and more forceful and less restrained. She was being moved with each forward thrust, until she placed her hands on the headboard, palms upside down, bracing herself as he surged into her.
Suddenly, he made a sound and collapsed against her, his breathing ragged, his heart beating so frantically she feared for him.
A moment later he raised his head, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling wildly.
“You’re wondering what the hell you’ve done.”
“You were right. It wasn’t very enjoyable. Oh, there was a moment there, but…”
“On the whole, you’d rather not have done it.”
She nodded.
“I very much regret that fact, Beatrice. I shall have to change your mind.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to do this again. Ever.
He lay beside her and held her close, but the comfort of his embrace didn’t make up for her soreness or the lingering discomfort.
However, she couldn’t berate herself until dawn came. She gave up, sighed deeply, and surrendered to sleep.
Chapter 23
The first thing Beatrice was aware of the next morning was Devlen leaving the bed. He went to the window and opened the sash, scooping the snow off the sill and forming it into a ball. He closed the window with his elbow and returned to the bed and did something utterly shocking: he placed the ball of snow between her legs and pressed it against her.
She nearly flew off the bed.
“Devlen! What are you doing?”
“Be still,” he said. “Try to bear it as long as you can. The snow will help the swelling.”
She subsided against the pillows.
“You’ll be sore, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“I think I’m numb,” she said. “Hasn’t it been long enough?”
He removed the snow for a moment, but then when she thought he might cease his ministrations, pressed the snow to her again.
“For someone who has never had a virgin in his bed, you seem to know a great deal about the care and feeding of them.”
“Unicorns,” he said, smiling.
There was nothing else for her to do but lie back and enjoy being cared for, albeit in such an intimate manner. His attitude, his entire demeanor, made it so casual that she couldn’t help but be grateful.
When he was done, and most of the snow melted, he dumped the rest of it in the basin and pressed the towel against her. True to his word, she felt better already.
“I should be leaving,” she said, glancing out the window. Dawn was already lightening the sky.
He nodded and stood, returning to the window.
“It hasn’t snowed for quite a few hours. We’ll be able to travel today.”
She sat up in the bed, folding the towel he’d placed beneath her. The silence stretching between them wasn’t so much awkward as it was filled with unspoken thoughts.
She wanted to thank him for his care of her, and his honesty. She wanted to explain why she’d come to his room, what she’d wanted from him. He’d eased her loneliness and satisfied her curiosity, but in doing so had only incited so many other questions.
If she asked him, would he give her the truth?
Why were men the only ones allowed pleasure? Was it because women were given the greater blessing of carrying a child? Was she odd in wanting to experience the same type of bliss Devlen had felt?
She slid off the edge of the bed and donned first her nightgown, then her wrapper. Still, he didn’t turn from the window, obviously impervious to the cold or to the fact he was naked in full view of anyone who might look up.
What a sight they would see.
“I’m going now,” she said, and only then did he turn. His gaze, when he looked at her, was somber. There was not a remnant of the sparkle in his eyes. His mouth looked like he had never smiled, and his face might have been etched in marble, so stern and unapproachable was he at that moment. If she’d never before known him, he would have given her pause. She might have been afraid of him, or at the very least wary. But they’d shared their bodies the night before, and he’d cared for her only minutes earlier.
“Let me go and dismiss the maid. If you have no care for your reputation, at least I do.”
When he returned, he didn’t glance at her. “Go and wake Robert. Tell him I want to get an early start.” She nodded.
“We’ll break our fast on the road. I’ll have the innkeeper pack us a basket.”
Once again, she nodded, his perfect servant.
She opened the door, glanced at him once more, but he’d turned back to stare out the window again. In the reflection, however, h
e was looking at her. She drew the wrapper closer at her throat as if to hide all the places on her body where his hands had made a mark, where his whiskers had abraded her, where his lips had sucked and his tongue touched.
But she didn’t say a word as she closed the door behind her, regret thick in the air.
The sun was so bright against the drifts of snow that Beatrice had to shield her eyes from the glare.
Robert grumbled as they left the inn and entered the carriage. She ignored his complaints about the early hour, that he was hungry, cold, and tired.
“It doesn’t do any good to complain endlessly. It doesn’t make a situation easier to endure.”
To her surprise, he subsided against the seat, folded his arms across his chest, and remained silent until Devlen joined them.
“How long until we get to Edinburgh, Devlen?”
Devlen closed the door behind him, choosing to sit beside Beatrice. He had never done that before and she rearranged her skirts twice before realizing what she was doing.
“In fair weather, it would be a matter of hours, Robert. But with the snowdrifts, I’ve no idea. If the roads are impassable, we’ll simply have to turn around and come back.”
“But I want to get to Edinburgh.”
Beatrice leveled a look at him, almost daring him to have a tantrum at this particular moment. She was in no mood for petulant dukes, or ill-mannered children.
To his credit, Robert was very good at reading her expression, because once again he sank back against the seat without another word.
Devlen tapped on the top of the roof twice, a signal to the driver. The carriage began to move, the horses evidently restive and willing to show their mettle.
Twice they were forced to stop because of the ice. The driver and Devlen laid down a bed of straw, a large bundle of which had been purchased from the innkeeper and now sat atop the carriage for just such a use. Other than those two occasions, the journey was uneventful. As the day lengthened and grew warmer, the snow began to melt, and the danger was getting trapped by the muddy roads.
Beatrice had heard about Edinburgh all her life. Her father was enamored of the city and once they’d actually had the funds to take a coach there. He’d conferred with an academic friend, and they’d stayed in the man’s narrow little house in a tiny airless room. The discomfort of their visit had never mattered to her father, who’d regaled Beatrice with every single sight of historical interest and the history of each.
As they drove into the city, she experienced an incredible sense of sadness. Her father would have been so happy to have been able to return here. As she looked around, she could almost hear him exclaim at all the changes that had taken place since she was fifteen and a wide-eyed girl.
She knew the city was divided into two sections, called Old Town and New Town, and she wasn’t appreciably surprised when the carriage continued toward the newer section of the city. They stopped in front of a set of iron gates and waited as two men appeared and swung them inward.
Beneath the folds of her skirts, Devlen’s hand found hers. He gave her a reassuring squeeze, as if she were a child frightened of the dark.
She turned and looked at him, but he was staring out the window. She did the same, pretending an interest in the scenery rather than the feel of his warm fingers intertwined with hers.
Here, in the city, the snow had not been so plentiful, but what still lay on the road and on the trees was a sparkling mantle. The carriage turned, traveling down a wide road of crushed shells. A few moments later, she glimpsed his house for the first time, an enormous mansion easily the equal in size to Castle Crannoch, set in the middle of a parkland.
She’d heard Devlen described as wealthy, had known he had some business affairs, but until this moment, she’d not considered exactly who Devlen Gordon might be. As she stared at the house, she realized she’d misjudged him again.
“What kind of businesses do you have?”
He turned and looked at her. “Do you want the types of industries, or a listing of the companies I own?”
“What’s shorter?”
He smiled. “The industries. The companies take up two pages in my ledger. There’s shipping, textiles, import and export. I build things, and I make soap.”
“Soap?”
“The soap making is a new venture, I confess. But we’ve been experimenting with putting all different types of scents into soap.”
“Is that why you always smell so wonderful?”
His smile dimmed, and he glanced at Robert. What would he have done if Robert hadn’t been in the carriage? She didn’t have a chance to wonder, because he continued with his litany.
“I make a great many things as well. Nails, for example. And cotton. There’s a new loom I’m trying out. Do not, I pray you, forget about my ships or my glassworks. Plus, I’m negotiating for a company that makes gunpowder.”
“I had no idea.”
“Did you think me a hedonist?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t thought of him as an industrialist, a man interested in glassworks and ammunition. When she thought of him, it was as he’d first appeared to her, sitting in his carriage, or teasing her in Robert’s sitting room.
Devlen’s house was built of red brick, three stories tall with two wings outstretched like arms around the curved drive. A dozen white-framed windows stretched along each floor. The entrance was a double white door level with the drive, a sedate brass knocker the only ornamentation.
The house was as far from Castle Crannoch as she could imagine.
As she exited the coach, and stood smoothing down her skirts, Beatrice had the oddest notion her cottage could have fit inside his home at least thirty times over. Devlen extended his arm to her and she took it as if she were accustomed to always visiting such a magnificent place on the arm of its owner.
Robert, not content to walk sedately, gamboled in front of them. She didn’t bother to correct him. The last several hours in the coach had only bottled up his energies. Better he should expend them now than when he needed to be on his best manners.
She and Devlen were silent as the door opened. They still had not spoken of the night before. It might not have ever happened except in her memory or except for the small aches and pains reminding her it was all too real. At the moment, Devlen felt like a stranger, proper and hospitable. They might never have talked or shared a meal or been intimate.
She had no inkling of his life, and how could he possibly understand what she’d gone through in the last year? Every single conversation came back to her and replayed itself as she made her way across the gravel drive, still holding on to the arm of the man who’d taken her virginity. The stranger who’d been almost a friend until this moment, until her awareness of the vast gulf separating them.
A man stepped out in front of the door and nodded to two footmen. Like marionettes, they bowed to Devlen before opening the door. Robert preceded them, silent for once.
Once inside the foyer, she stopped and looked around her, her breath leaving her in a gasp. She couldn’t swallow, and she was certain she couldn’t speak. Neither Robert nor Devlen acted as if anything was amiss.
The foyer was three stories tall with sunlight pouring down onto the tile floor. In the ceiling was a rotunda fitted with at least a dozen panes of glittering glass. Surrounding the carved dome were a dozen birds in all shapes and sizes, carved from plaster and incredibly lifelike.
The tile floor beneath her feet was black and white in alternating squares. In a smaller space the pattern would have been overwhelming, but the entranceway of Devlen’s home stretched on forever.
Ahead of them was a massive round mahogany table resting on a single pedestal. In the middle of it was a silver epergne filled with flowers.
“You have flowers,” she said, grateful to note she’d been able to form a coherent sentence. “There’s snow on the ground, but you have flowers.”
“There are greenhouses behind the house. We have flowers year �
�round.”
“Of course you do,” she said, sounding a great deal more cosmopolitan than she felt. “You have a great many parties here, don’t you? Balls, and the like.”
“I’ve entertained some, yes.” He looked amused.
She felt like a country girl who’d never been far from Kilbridden Village. But she’d come to Edinburgh before, had seen the sights. But she’d never thought to stay in one of the wonders of the city, to reside in one of its stately mansions. Devlen’s house was far more grand than anything she could have imagined.
“You could fit an orchestra into one corner of the foyer and it would barely be noticed.”
“Actually, they play on the second floor. There’s a ballroom there.”
She didn’t have a chance to ask any more questions. A woman was walking down the hall, her look smoothing from surprise to one of welcome.
“Sir, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“Castle Crannoch proved to be inhospitable, Mrs. Anderson. I trust you will not be discommoded by our unexpected guests?”
“Of course not, sir. You know our guest chambers are always ready for any of your friends.”
Exactly how many friends did Devlen have? And how often did they stay at his home? That she would even entertain such thoughts was an indication of how disoriented she was. His life was none of her concern.
Mrs. Anderson glanced in her direction, then immediately dismissed her to smile at Robert.
“Your Grace,” she said, performing a very credible curtsy considering the woman was not young. “What a pleasure to have you with us again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” Robert said without being prompted. But his next words were not so polite. “Do you have any of those chocolate biscuits?”
“I believe we can find some for you, Your Grace. Shall I send them up to your room?”
To his credit, Robert glanced in Beatrice’s direction. “Is it all right, Miss Sinclair?”
“Since breakfast was a long time ago, it’s very all right.”
“Perhaps you would like some biscuits as well,” Devlen said with a smile. “Mrs. Anderson?”
Once again the woman glanced at her, then away.
“I can have lunch in the family dining room in a matter of moments, sir.”
