by Sahara Kelly
“What is?” he asked.
“Instead of the usual stuff, marriage of, birth of, death of, and all the associated names and so on, this merely says ‘b’ which I would assume means born, and then a name…Michael Hatfield…”
Her voice tapered off as she raised her head and gazed at Richard. “Hatfield. Could there possibly be a connection?”
Richard’s face betrayed his astonishment. “Good God.” He stared at her. “I suppose there could be, but what on earth are the odds of that happening?”
She shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea. There is nothing else next to that name.” She continued her perusal of the handwritten family records. “I should go back a few years—yes we have several marriages listed. Let me see…Josiah Branscombe, son of John and Mary Branscombe, was married to Susan Alton.”
Richard wondered if he should take notes.
“Wait, John Branscombe wasn’t in the same family line as the ones after Hatfield’s birth. Looks as though he was a cousin of whoever fathered Michael, since his aunt’s sister was…”
“Enough,” groaned Richard. “I’m losing track here.”
Cressida nodded. “As am I. Let’s go back to this mysterious Michael Hatfield.” She frowned over the page. “Now this is odd. A little further down, we have Roger Branscombe and his wife, Ann Siddons, who wed in…” her hand went back up the page, “1679, they’re entered as the parents of one Michael Branscombe.”
Richard met her look and it needed no interpretation because he was thinking the same thing. So he said it. “What the devil?”
A low boom rolled through the room as the storm drew closer, providing some dramatic accompaniment to the puzzle unfolding from the pages of Cressida’s ancestors.
“Let me see if I can follow this line.” She leaned forward. “Could you bring a branch of candles? Those clouds are sucking the light away…”
Richard stood and took the nearest one, standing it next to her on a side table and lighting the candles carefully. Once they had caught, the light brightened the page, and he dragged his chair closer so that he could see what Cressida was looking at.
She moved the book to rest on the arms of their chairs, and together they leaned in.
“See here? This is Roger and Ann. Then we have this odd bare entry about Michael Hatfield, and right after that, Michael Branscombe is apparently born.”
Her finger pointed to the scribbled entries, and Richard nodded. It was exactly as she had said.
“This Michael Branscombe marries Sally Whitchurch in 1712 and they produce an assortment of offspring, the heir being Reginald Branscombe, who was…” she turned the page, “…my Grandfather, born in 1720. He wed Jane Faverton in 1739 and they had a large family by the looks of it, but not many survived. My father obviously did, and his birth is recorded in 1750. The last one was born in 1752.” She glanced at Richard. “I cannot begin to imagine bearing children for that many years, one after another after another, and then losing them.”
“She was probably quite young when she wed,” offered Richard. “If I recall my history books, brides of thirteen and fourteen were common.”
Cressida nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. But still…”
“A different age. And childbirth is still a risk today. Imagine what it was like a hundred or so years ago?”
“I cannot.” She shivered. “Anyway, back to our ancestral tree. Which seems to have more twigs on it than an oak tree in summer.”
“Did you know your grandfather?” Richard asked the question out of casual interest.
“No, I can’t remember him at all,” she answered. “I’m not even sure if he was alive…wait, let’s find out.” She stared over the page once more, running her eyes down the columns of notations. “Here it is. He died in 1783, so no, he was long dead by the time I arrived.”
“Right then,” Richard’s gaze followed the names. “So your grandparents gave birth to your father in 1750. Here he is, Roland Branscombe—married to Elizabeth Charters in 1777.” He paused. “And here you are, arriving in 1795. The only child.”
She sighed. “Yes, I think I must have been quite a surprise to my parents.”
“Given the reproductive enthusiasm of your forbears, I’d agree,” he grinned.
“But we are forgetting something,” she said, her expression blank.
“What?”
“Roland Branscombe was not my father. Or so it’s said. So should my name be in this book at all?”
“If the Branscombe family tree includes an odd branch like this Michael Hatfield, then of course yours should be.”
Richard’s answer was automatic and perfectly logical, but after he’d spoken, they stared at each other as implications swam around them like a cloud of flies on a hot day.
“Illegitimate, he was illegitimate…” she whispered.
A crash of thunder fell into the silence between them, appropriately punctuating her words.
Chapter Fifteen
The notion of an illegitimate child entering the Branscombe family line was an intriguing one and kept Richard and Cressida locked in conversation throughout the evening.
When they finally retired, he allowed his wife to lead him to their new quarters, and was suitably impressed at the refurbished and shining clean Lord’s chambers.
“By rights, you should be in here, and I should be in there as your consort,” he grinned, opening drawers and moving his things around a little.
“Silly. This is your house now, because you married me.” She paused in the doorway between their rooms. “I wonder if we ought to rename it Ridlington Magna?”
He shook his head. “Much too much of a mouthful.”
She chuckled. “Agreed.” Silence fell. “Well, good night then.”
“I imagine you’ll be glad to have a room and a bed to yourself,” he said, unfastening his cravat. “Although I will confess I shall miss the warmth. ’Tis still damn chilly up here.”
She agreed. “The chimneys are to be cleaned soon. Then I can have a fire in my room as well. At the moment, your chimney is clear, but we don’t trust mine. And I’d rather a few extra blankets than a fire in the middle of the night.”
“No arguments there.” He wanted to ask her to stay with him, but the words…they wouldn’t come. And he knew why.
He was afraid she’d say no.
“Well, good night then.” She sounded calm as she pulled the door shut behind her, enclosing him in his own space, leaving him with the flickers of lightning and the fading rumbles of the storm as it moved on.
It was how things were supposed to be, of course. Master and mistress had their own rooms, visiting each other only when the need for an heir arose. Richard had seen it all too often in London; the wife doing her duty and the husband taking his pleasure elsewhere. He deplored the practice, even though his own father had been a prime example.
Going through his evening routine and finally slipping into bed, he admitted he was more than a little afraid of any kind of emotional commitment. Loving someone, giving them one’s heart—it left one vulnerable and open to all kinds of pain. He’d seen that pain on his mother’s face when he was young. He’d never forgotten it.
And when he’d lost her, both he and Kitty had begun to shut off that part of themselves that might possibly lead to love. His twin had obviously overcome her reticence, but he…well, he had yet to discover if he had any of the more tender emotions left.
If he did, then he might well share them with Cressy, but he wasn’t about to open that door yet. He still harbored that lingering fear…
A tap sounded on the connecting door.
He lifted up on one elbow. “Cressy?”
She peeked in at him. “My room is cold.”
He grinned and lifted his quilt. “All right. Come on in. It’s chilly here as well.”
She scampered across to the bed and untied her robe, jumping in beside him and tugging the linens up to her chin. “You’re not cold. You’re never col
d.” She shivered. “You’re always toasty warm.”
“In that case, you’d better come closer so I can share some of my…er…toasty warmth.”
He turned on his side, and she turned on hers, away from him, scooting her bottom backward until they were neatly spooned together.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“You are not wearing a nightshirt…”
“I know.” He tucked her in even closer. “I never do. It’s only since we married I thought I probably should.”
She let out a surprising little giggle. “You know, if anyone else heard you say that, they’d think you were quite odd.”
He thought about it. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I didn’t want you to think—well, that is to say I wouldn’t have wanted to…uh…” He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“I understand,” she sighed. “You didn’t want me to be upset that you didn’t find me attractive—that way.”
“That is utter rubbish,” he expostulated, rising up over her and turning her toward him. “Of course I find you attractive in that way. I’m human. You’re a beautiful young woman.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He glared at her, unable to make out her expression in the light of the single candle he’d left burning.
“But…” her voice quavered, and some tone, some sense of her confusion about her own appeal…it caught at his emotions.
“Cressy,” he said, letting his body lower against hers. “Cressy, we’re married. I’m your husband.”
“I know,” she answered in a whisper. “I know…” Her hand reached across her body and touched his naked chest. “You are the beautiful one, Richard. Not me.”
“Silly girl,” he whispered back. Then he lowered his head and kissed her.
*~~*~~*
This entire kissing business became more wonderful than ever, thought Cressida, as Richard’s lips touched hers once more. He tasted delicious, he never pressed her into doing more than she was comfortable with; in fact, he was the perfect gentleman.
And she was ready for a bit more imperfection.
Tentatively, she raised her arms and looped them around his bare shoulders, unable to prevent a slight moan of pleasure escaping as her cool skin encountered warm and firm flesh.
As if encouraged by that little sound, Richard turned her into his embrace, and this time she had no breath for any kind of sound. The heat of his body was penetrating the thin cotton of her gown and stoking up a furnace within her.
His lips parted, his tongue met hers and she let him toy with it, learning his moves and then mimicking them, finding that the inside of his mouth was every bit as tasty.
The heat between them grew, and he drew back a little. “Cressy…” he said, his face close to hers.
She became aware of the hardness lying against her, his arousal, something which surprised but did not frighten her. Perhaps he was not as physically indifferent to her as she’d hitherto believed.
“Yes, Richard. I like this,” she whispered boldly. “I like kissing you. I want…”
“What do you want?”
She didn’t know how to answer, so she said the only thing that was in her mind at that moment. “More.”
She felt him pause, and breathe in, his chest rising and falling against her. “More kisses?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t know. I just know there’s more…” she touched his face, a shadow in the darkness. “Show me, Richard.”
She felt his nod. “As you wish,” he answered. “Just a little…”
There seemed to be tension building not only in his voice, but in his body. His muscles flexed beneath her hand as he moved, pulling back a little so that he could find the ties of her nightgown. “You will tell me if you dislike what I’m doing, Cressy…”
She sighed as the fabric parted and he touched her neck where it met her shoulder. “Yes,” she said, although if pressed, she couldn’t have told whether it was an answer to his question or an expression of delight at his caress.
“Good,” he whispered against her skin, tickling her throat as he touched his tongue to a spot that made her suck in a breath. And then he continued, easing the fabric away from her, lifting her so he could free her shoulders completely.
Willingly she moved as he directed, releasing him so her gown could slide over her arms to her waist, baring her breasts. This time the tension ripped through her as the cold air of the room hit warm, sensitive spots.
But that was nothing compared to the touch of his hand. He found her in the dark, his fingers learning her shape, her weight and finally teasing the hardened bud of her nipple. Her body moved involuntarily, arching a little as if begging for his soft strokes and tantalizing squeezes. It was divine, this growing delight that burgeoned deep inside.
And then he bent forward—and took her into his mouth.
A gasp, a cry, and Cressida stilled as he suckled, pulling her nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, and then freeing it to the air. He repeated the process on both sides, until she was writhing, moaning with the exquisite pleasure he created, and the increasing sensations that crept over her, upward from between her legs.
This was desire. This was pure physical want, a lust for more driven by her body’s responses to Richard’s lovemaking. She felt this could well be called lovemaking, since his touches were kind, gentle, arousing, and everything a virgin could want.
Except…she was passing the gentle stage. There had to be a next step, one that would raise all these wondrous sensations to a higher level.
Pushing him away, she wriggled free of her nightgown, finally kicking it away. She returned, aware of the hardness that now burned against her thighs. She was wet…she could feel her own liquids on skin that had heated at his skilled caresses.
She let her hands roam over him, enjoying the crisp hairs of his chest, the tiny nipples that hardened just as hers had under his fingers. “You are different to me, and yet the same…” She toyed with his hair, then let her fingers drift down to his navel. “We share some things…” A fingertip ran around the edge, and she smiled at the tiny shiver she sensed run over his skin. “But not others.” Finally, she moved her hand downward even more, feeling the curls from which that firm cock arose.
Clasping her fingers around him, she took a deep breath. It was so strange—like iron covered with the softest silk. He was silent, barely moving as she explored him, her body heating at the thought of what this amazing piece of him would feel like inside her.
“Richard,” she whispered.
“Yes, Cressy. There is the evidence of my reaction to you. It should be proof that I am indeed interested in you that way.”
“I’m glad,” she answered softly. There sounded like there might have been a smile in his words, but she was too busy finding her way around his masculine parts to look up and find out. Besides it was dark. Touching his face would mean taking her hand away from his cock, and since she’d just discovered it, she wasn’t keen to let go of it.
“Cressy,” he said again.
“What?” She moved lower and discovered a soft sac. Knowing this was delicate, she merely cupped it and explored the sensation of the hardness within.
“Enough,” he groaned. “My turn.”
She frowned, unwilling to release the treasures in her hands, but when he moved and his hand found her navel, well she got distracted and released him.
He stroked, tickled, made her smile and ran his hands over her, letting their bodies touch, their legs lock together and eventually pushing the other leg aside, opening her. She found herself groaning as he ran a fingertip over her sensitive belly, which was quite ticklish, and then falling silent as he went lower and ran those fingertips through the curls at the juncture of her thighs.
She knew where he was headed, but the knowing of it couldn’t match the feeling of it.
For the first time, another’s hand cupped her sex,
a man’s hand, large enough to enclose her, warm enough to excite her. He smoothed her, ignoring the hot slickness of her skin.
“So beautiful, Cressy. Soft as a kitten…” His hand gentled her and aroused her at the same time.
“Oh…” She moaned at the pleasure, then let out a little cry as his thumb found an exquisite spot and caressed it.
“There we are, Cressy. Just relax and let it happen, love.”
She wanted to relax, but she couldn’t. His thumb was firm and rubbing a place that sent arrows of sharp and extraordinary sensations through her entire body.
Her hips wouldn’t stay still, her legs moved restlessly and she discovered that one of her hands was clawing into Richard’s back.
And then, to complete her descent into ecstasy, he slid a finger inside her, not too far, but far enough to stretch her opening. Within moments a second finger joined the first.
“Richard…” She could only mumble his name as her body tensed, tightened, shuddered—and when he moved those fingers in and out of her, all the while keeping his thumb on that spot—she broke.
Crying out as the waves swept over her, Cressida lost herself in the maelstrom of bliss. Her body no longer belonged to her, but to a universe of pleasure she could never have believed existed.
Finally, she could breathe again, and her heart thudded in her chest, slowly returning to something approaching normal. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “Richard. Oh my God.”
“I’m here,” he said.
She moved. “You haven’t…”
“No, but that’s not for tonight.” He shifted her slightly. “Let’s go slowly, shall we?”
“But…”
Before she could argue with him that she was quite willing to consummate matters between them, the air in the room changed noticeably and they both stilled.
Cold, vicious biting cold, descended on them both, and Cressida shivered violently. “Can you…” she whispered.
