by Diane Gaston
She had not thought beyond her impulsive yes. Once inside the bedchamber, she was as unsure as a new bride.
He led her to a table where two glasses of wine stood. ‘A toast to you.’ He handed her one of the glasses and lifted the other. ‘And to pleasure.’
‘To pleasure,’ she whispered in return, her heart racing in her chest.
The wine was a strong and sweet sack. She drank it quickly and he poured her another. When she finished that glass she felt as if she were floating.
‘Come to the bed,’ he said.
Acting precisely like an experienced lady’s maid, he unbuttoned the row of buttons decorating the back of her gown. She let it fall to the floor. Next he untied the laces of her corset. Each motion of his fingers made her tremble, more and more unsure of herself. Still, she slipped off her corset, leaving only her shift.
His eyes raked over her, dark as the night and full of desire.
He made quick work of removing his shirt, tossing it aside in a flash of white that tumbled to the floor. Dark hair peppered his chest and his muscles were as defined as those of a Greek statue. He moved slightly and the lamplight caught a webwork of scars on his side.
Her hand reached out to touch them, but he picked her up by her waist and sat her upon the bed. ‘Next your shoes and stockings.’
She could not move. Never had a man touched her feet, nor slipped his hands up her legs to remove her stockings. An ache grew inside her, an ache of want.
Her legs still tingled when he stepped back, removed his trousers and stood before her naked.
She stared transfixed. No mere Greek statue could appear as magnificent.
He climbed on the bed, cupped her face and kissed her.
At first his kiss was gentle, a mere touch, but he pressed harder, moving his lips as if needing to devour her. Such a kiss was not one to be endured, but one that made her want to return such ardour. She kissed him back, daring even to touch her tongue to his. His lips parted and the kiss became something wondrous.
Sensation shot through her and his hands moved to explore her body through the thin fabric of her shift. She could do no more than rest her hands on his shoulders, but even that contact gave a thrill. His skin was warm and slightly damp to the touch.
Not cold. Not clammy.
He bunched the fabric of her shift in his hands, pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Leaning back, he gazed at her, his eyes darkening, his breathing deepening.
Her husband’s gaze always made her wish to cover herself. Rhys’s felt like a caress.
‘You please me,’ he said.
Filled with a delight she’d never known before, she lay back on the pillows.
And he rose over her.
All at once it seemed as if the room grew dark.
Her heart raced so hard that it hurt. Her limbs trembled.
He covered her with his body and she gasped for air.
His male member pressed against her skin—
Panic engulfed her. She cried out and flailed at him, struggling to free herself.
He lifted himself off her immediately, shock on his face. ‘What?’
She was still trapped by his body. She pushed at his chest, but he seized her arms and held her down.
‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Have I hurt you?’
‘Get off!’ she begged. ‘Please get off!’
He released her and moved off her. She scooted away from him, curling up into a ball, trying to hide from her panic and her shame.
‘Celia!’ He sounded as if he’d run a great distance. ‘Tell me. What. Happened.’
She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘I—I remembered.’
‘Remembered what?’
For the second time that night she expected anger from him. Not anger. Rage. Her husband always raged at her if she’d dared push him away.
Rhysdale merely sat up. She braced herself for a blow.
But he did not strike her. He tucked her in front of him, wrapped his arms around her and held her close like her mother used to do when she woke from a nightmare.
‘What did you remember, Celia, that frightened you so?’ His voice was low. Soothing. Comforting.
It calmed her. ‘I—I remembered. The only other man I was with...’ She paused, searching for the right words. ‘He was not gentle.’
The muscles of his arms bunched. ‘He hurt you?’
She nodded. ‘It came back. I thought it was happening again.’
‘Who is this man?’ His voice turned hard. ‘I will pay him a call.’
She did not even think of inventing a story. ‘My husband,’ she answered.
He tensed. ‘You have a husband, Miss Allen?’
She’d misled him on purpose. Now she regretted it. ‘I once had a husband. Not any more. He is dead.’
‘How fortunate for him. And me.’ He laughed as if in relief. ‘Tell me of this husband of yours.’
She owed him an explanation. ‘I was very young when I married him. Younger than—’ She stopped herself. She’d almost said she was younger than Adele, but giving him a clue to who her husband was—who she was—still felt too exposing. She took a breath. ‘It all came back. I am sorry.’
He nuzzled her and rocked her. ‘Do not be distressed, Celia. Lovemaking is not supposed to bring pain. It is supposed to bring pleasure. I will not hurt you, I promise.’ He paused. ‘I will stop now, if you wish it.’
She twisted around to face him. ‘No. I—I want to know what it is like without me being so—so afraid.’
She rose to her knees, as did he. He pulled the pins from her hair and released the ribbon threaded through. When her hair fell about her shoulders, he combed it with his fingers.
‘I will be gentle, Celia.’
Slowly her panic dissolved. He stroked her, like one might pet a cat. Like a cat, she relaxed under his fingers. She lay down again and urged him down beside her. ‘Your touch is gentle.’
He kissed her neck and murmured, ‘Say my name, Celia.’
‘Rhys.’ It was a name to be whispered beneath sheets.
‘See? I am not the man who hurt you,’ he soothed. ‘I will never hurt you.’
He remained beside her, keeping his promise so well her limbs turned to warm butter under his touch. His fingers traced around her nipples and she writhed at the pleasure of it. His hand slipped down her body and rested on her belly.
Aching with need, she pushed it further and still his touch was excruciatingly gentle as he explored her most private of places. Her hips rose to meet his hand, urging him to take greater access.
‘You must tell me when you want me,’ he whispered.
She wanted him at that very moment, but she held back. The fear hovered near, ready to flood her again. He waited and eventually his touch pushed away the fear and replaced it with more need.
‘Now,’ she rasped.
He rose over her again and she opened her legs to him even as she braced herself for the event that inevitably brought her pain.
To her surprise his entry was as tender as his touch. He eased inside her and new, unimaginable sensations flooded her. He moved softly as if she might break beneath him. The rhythm lulled her and slowly a sensation akin to bliss arose inside her, growing more urgent with each thrust.
Suddenly his restraint became torture, albeit an exquisite one. Her hands grasped his backside and a frustrated sound escaped her lips.
He moved faster and she gladly kept up with him. This wonderful new sensation grew. The stronger it became, the more she wanted to rush towards it.
Suddenly pleasure exploded within her. She cried out and, at the same time, he convulsed inside her, spilling his seed, slaking his desire a moment after fulfilling hers.
He did not collapse atop her, as her husband had done, crushing her with his weight. He eased himself off her, settling at her side again. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her bare skin.
‘Rhys,’ she managed to whisper as tear
s formed in her eyes. She blinked them away.
‘We have made love, Celia,’ he murmured, his voice rumbling. ‘Whatever your husband did to you, it was not making love.’
She curled up against him. ‘I did not know of that—that pleasure. It was a surprise. I thought the pleasure was going to be only in how you touched me.’
‘You are built for such pleasure, Celia. Settle for nothing less.’ He cradled her under his arm.
She placed her hand on his chest, relishing the feel of him.
‘Tell me about why you married this husband of yours.’ He placed his hand over hers.
At this moment she wanted to pretend Gale had never existed, but she acquiesced. ‘I was only seventeen.’
‘Seventeen?’ He rose on an elbow to look down on her.
‘My guardians demanded I marry him,’ she explained. ‘I had no other choice. To be fair to them, they thought it a good thing for me. He was quite a bit older and—and of good reputation, at least of what they knew. He wanted a young wife.’
He frowned. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Three and twenty.’
‘And he is dead?’ His voice turned gruff.
‘Over a year,’ she said. ‘He left me little money. That is why I must gamble. So that I have enough to support...myself.’ She’d almost said us. ‘I want to take care of myself, so that I do not have to do what any one else wants me to do. I do not require much. Not a large fortune. Just enough for comfort and security.’ It was not the whole truth, but enough of it.
He kissed her temple. ‘I am glad you came here.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘I am glad of it, too.’ And for more than just the chance to win at cards.
He grinned. ‘It seems to me that you may need many lessons in lovemaking, though. To catch up.’
She smiled in return. ‘I expect I do.’ She feigned innocence. ‘I do not suppose you know of a man who might be willing to teach me?’
‘Only one.’ He lowered his lips to hers for a long, lingering, arousing kiss. ‘It would be my pleasure to teach you.’
He made love to her again, every bit as tenderly. The pleasure of her climax was equally as intense and she was left wanting more.
When they were finished he asked, ‘Do you need to take care of yourself?’
‘Take care of myself?’ Her brows knitted.
‘Do what women do after. To prevent a baby,’ he explained.
Her eyes widened. Women could prevent a baby? She’d had no idea.
‘I do not need to do anything.’ That familiar empty feeling returned. ‘I am barren.’
He peered at her, saying nothing, but gathered her in his arms again and kissed her. ‘We should check the time.’
He climbed off the bed and searched the clothing on the floor. ‘Drat. I left my coat in the drawing room.’ He pulled on his trousers.
She wrapped herself in the bed linens. ‘There is a timepiece in my reticule.’ She scrambled from the bed. ‘Oh, my goodness! I left my reticule in the drawing room. It has all my money.’
He lifted a hand. ‘I will bring it to you.’
He put on his shirt and walked from the room in his bare feet.
By the time he returned she’d donned her shift.
He lifted the reticule before placing it on a table. ‘It feels like you did win a great deal tonight.’
She picked up her corset. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten minutes after five.’
‘I must hurry.’ She turned her back to him. ‘Would you help me with my corset?’
She held it in place while he tightened the laces.
In a reverse of the more sensual undressing, they quickly put on all their clothes.
She felt the floor for her hairpins and quickly twisted her hair into some sort of order. She stuffed the ribbon in her reticule.
As they rushed down the stairs, she covered her face with her hand. ‘My mask.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He bounded back up the stairs.
She waited on the stairs, covering her face.
Xavier Compier entered the hall. He did not speak to her, merely leaned against the wall and watched her. When Rhys’s footfall sounded on the steps, Xavier retreated into the shadows.
‘Here it is.’
She turned away and held the mask in place while he tied its ribbons.
They made it outside and he blew out a breath. ‘I think we made it.’
There was the faintest glimmer of dawn peeking through the darkness. She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for a lovely time, Rhys.’
He put an arm around her. ‘Come to me again tonight.’
She looked up at him. ‘For more lessons?’
His eyes darkened. ‘Yes indeed.’
* * *
After Celia’s coach turned the corner, Rhys re-entered the house and saw Xavier standing in the hall.
‘You are still here?’ He was not particularly pleased. No doubt his friend had known he’d been with Celia.
‘I waited for you,’ Xavier said.
Rhys gestured for Xavier to come up the stairs with him. ‘Well, come upstairs. You might as well have a brandy with me.’
They sat together in the drawing room, a bottle of brandy between them on the table.
‘Do you want to stay?’ Rhys asked. ‘You can use one of the beds upstairs.’
Some of the rooms remained unchanged from when the house’s girls once entertained gentlemen in them.
Xavier shook his head. ‘I’ll go back to the hotel.’ He’d kept his rooms at Stephen’s.
‘Any problems in the game room after I left?’ Rhys asked.
Xavier frowned. ‘We lost at hazard again.’
Here it comes, Rhys thought. Xavier would have noticed Celia’s winning streak. ‘I heard about it. We didn’t recoup later?’
‘Not enough.’ Xavier inclined his head towards the cashier’s room. ‘I asked MacEvoy to count the money right away.’
Rhys tapped his fingers on his brandy glass. ‘It happens sometimes. Luck occasionally turns bad, even for the house. You know that.’
Xavier gave him a direct look. ‘The only time we lost at hazard was when she was winning.’
Rhys met his eye. ‘I know. I watched her, too.’
‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ Xavier persisted. ‘You do not know who she is. What she is about. You don’t know what she wants from coming here.’
‘We’ve been through this already, Xavier,’ Rhys shot back. ‘She wants to win money, like everyone else.’
Xavier’s voice rose. ‘I know you’ve taken her to your bed. Your judgement is clouded.’
Rhys levelled a gaze at him. ‘Stay out of it, Xavier. I mean this.’
But Xavier went on. ‘All I’m saying is, do not close your mind too tightly. Watch her.’
Rhys glared at him. ‘Enough. Say no more.’
Xavier opened his mouth, but wisely closed it again.
He stood. ‘I ought to be going.’ He glanced towards the windows where slivers of light appeared through the gaps in the curtains. ‘It’s morning already.’
Rhys stood, too, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Do not worry over me, Xavier. You are like a mother hen sometimes.’
Xavier merely nodded. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
Xavier would not let this go, Rhys feared. He’d consider it his duty to look out for Rhys, even if Rhys demanded he stop. It was ingrained in Xavier’s character.
Rhys knew precisely what he was doing and had no need of Xavier’s caution. Rhys intended to enjoy this affair with Celia for as long as it lasted, and if Xavier did not like it, it would stand like a wall between them.
Chapter Nine
Celia hugged herself during her short ride back to her rooms. Her body felt languorous, at peace with itself for the first time in her memory.
How could she have ever guessed lovemaking could be like this?
The carriage turned a corner.
She’d turned a corner, too
. She felt free of her husband at last. There was no reason ever again to think of what it had been like being married to him. That part of her life was over and nothing like it would ever again happen to her.
A new door had opened. A door to new experiences and new delights. Celia planned to enjoy every minute of them.
Her heart was as light as gossamer when the carriage stopped. She gathered her mask and her reticule, opened the door and climbed out.
‘Thank you, Jonah,’ she called to her coachman. ‘Get some rest.’
He touched his hat in acknowledgement and flicked the reins. The coach pulled away.
Celia walked to the door and turned the latch. Tucker knew what time to unlock the door for her. He would have risen from his bed and be waiting to attend her in the hall.
How good her servants were to her.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Her butler indeed stood before her, but with an anxious expression and wringing hands.
She tensed. ‘What is it, Tucker?’
He inclined his head towards the staircase. ‘The dowager.’
Was Lady Gale ill? ‘What about her?’
His face turned grim. ‘She awaits you in your bedchamber.’
Celia froze. She was discovered.
She lifted her chin, though. This would change nothing. Her mother-in-law had no control over her life. The woman was dependent upon Celia, not the other way around.
She gave Tucker a rueful, but reassuring smile. ‘Well, this will be unpleasant, will it not?’
‘Quite, ma’am.’ He relaxed a bit at her calm manner.
Celia climbed the stairs, feeling weary and in a great need of sleep.
Her maid stood outside her bedchamber door. ‘She’s in there,’ Younie whispered. ‘Fit to be tied.’
‘So I would expect.’ Celia opened the door.
Lady Gale had positioned one of Celia’s chairs to face the door. She sat on the chair as if it were a throne and wore an outraged expression.
Celia did not give her mother-in-law time to speak. ‘You have not been invited into my private room, Lady Gale. Nor were you given permission to rearrange my chairs.’ When holding a weak hand, it was always best to make a bold move. Celia’s father had taught her that. ‘Leave now and never trespass here again.’
The dowager’s mouth dropped open and it took time for her to find her voice. She rose out of the chair. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you little wretch! Especially when you have been out all night. Where have you been?’
