Instead fire flamed through him. He was transported to the Caribbean, the South Pacific, to absolute paradise.
Her curves seemed to meld perfectly, alluringly against his form. He delved his fingers in silky locks, the golden color more glorious than the most polished metal or the most glowing flame.
Vanilla and rose wafted over him, and visions of luscious bare skin and intriguing curves danced before his mind.
Chapter Twenty-two
Madeline shivered, and Arthur pulled her closer to him. He didn’t seem to need to ask her any more questions to know exactly how to offer her comfort. Speaking would be too painful, finding words to emotions she barely understood herself, but Arthur seemed to render such striving needless. The man’s presence proved to be a blissful distraction, more comforting than the loftiest selected words.
Arthur was always handsome, but now his eyes blazed a deep blue.
His scent was masculine: pine trees and cotton. It was so different from the French perfumes she adored, but the scent seemed the most wonderful thing in the world.
His broad shoulders filled her view, and she was conscious of a firm chest. The man was half-clothed, and the ends of his unraveled cravat dangled on either side of his neck. Madeline had always expressed a partiality to the elaborate knots of Brummel devotees, admiring the careful folds of linen, and the seeming ability of the men to keep each fold unwrinkled and exquisite. Yet the absence of an elegant cravat in no manner harmed Arthur’s appearance. Instead it revealed dark chest hairs that curled in a manner that shouldn’t make her long to touch them, and certainly shouldn’t make her curious to feel them beneath her fingers, just as the man’s Adam’s apple, once hidden beneath the folds of his cravat, shouldn’t be intriguing.
Arthur wrapped his arms about her waist. The action shouldn’t have made her body quiver, sending sparks through her limbs.
She’d had men gaze at her in adoration, but it had always been in the comfort of a ballroom, before hundreds of other people. She’d known what to say to them. She knew which politicians were en vogue, and which opinions would be just charming enough to make them smile. She’d known which sports champions to remark on. It hadn’t been difficult to learn it—she could read everything in Matchmaking for Wallflowers advice columns, and had scoffed at the women who struggled more.
She’d known better than to allow herself to be lured to a balcony or garden for a midnight viewing of roses or foxgloves, and after she’d married, she’d not succumbed to the flirtations that so many people in the ton in less than ideal matches did.
Shyness wasn’t one of her traits, but now, the emotion seemed to swell inside her.
Arthur was not interested in learning her opinion of Liverpool. Not here. Not when he was gazing at her so intently, and certainly not when his fingers were sliding under her gown.
He was solely interested in her, and it didn’t seem to matter that she hadn’t brought her lady’s maid, and she hadn’t yet brushed her hair the one hundred strokes that Matchmaking for Wallflowers wrote that men expected so that a woman’s locks might be most lustrous.
“You’re lovely.” Arthur leaned toward her, and his eyes closed.
He’s going to kiss me.
The thought soared through her mind.
They’d kissed before, and she knew the fleeting emotion of bliss his lips would inspire. This time though they were alone. In a bedroom. With rings on their fingers.
Her heart beat a nervous rhythm, and she was incredibly thankful for the chair. Should she do something? Reach for water? Not reach for water?
But when his lips met hers, the tension soaring through her body relaxed. His lips pressed against hers, and even though the act was strange and should be distasteful, it seemed the most blissful sensation in the world. Her discomfort eased, and the world seemed to vanish.
The only thing that mattered was Arthur’s lips against hers.
Did he enjoy this too? Was he merely making use of his years of practice to astound her? Was he even attempting to impress her, or was his every movement so perfect that he couldn’t help but do anything else?
She’d heard women praise Arthur. The man was no innocent. Even during her season, other debutantes had confided to her their interest in him. That had been before he was a marquess, when even the least stringent debutante should have realized the unsuitability of a match with him. Few people would wager a marriage on a penniless half-American on the off chance that his cousin might die and he might find himself inheriting vast amounts of wealth. And yet his charms had been evident even then.
Perhaps the man thought her foolish. Perhaps the smile on his lips—and how did his lips ever manage to be so succulent appearing—was simply because she was giving in to his moves, behaving in an utterly predictable manner.
She stiffened. The temptation to yield to his every touch rushed through her, but she couldn’t appear foolish. The man knew she was untouched, and she couldn’t stand the thought of him returning to his club, like every other gentleman of the ton would likely do, and boast about how he’d made her writhe and gasp in pleasure before he’d even led her to her marital bed.
She refused to act predictably, and for a moment he halted his kiss.
She’d thought that that would be an improvement. If they weren’t kissing, she couldn’t succumb to foolishness and dainty dreams of domestic delight.
But now he was looking at her, and those large beautifully wide-set eyes managed to convey worry. He moved his fingers from the bare skin of her neck, and he brushed his hand through her hair.
“I’ve longed for this moment,” he said.
“Oh?” Her voice sounded higher pitched than normal, and warmth rushed to her cheeks.
His lips didn’t flicker into a smile, and he continued to gaze at her gravely. “Indeed.”
She was silent, but her heart seemed to be beating more, as if seeking to speak the words that her throat didn’t know how to do. The room was definitely warmer than it had been when she entered it. Surely Italian nights were not warmer as the sun vanished?
“You are wearing too many clothes,” Arthur said.
Madeline was sure that wasn’t true.
She already felt far too exposed. Her gown might go to her neck, and her sleeves might extend to her wrists, covering a greater portion of her body than any French designed ball gown, but she felt bare in it.
The material seemed unequipped to protect her. Only a single tallow candle might flicker in the room, but Arthur’s eyes seemed to roam over her body, undeterred by the dearth of light.
Arthur smiled. “My shy marchioness.”
Madeline’s heart thudded. She wasn’t shy. Not like other women. Shy women didn’t travel to the continent by themselves.
But where Arthur was concerned…perhaps she was.
Arthur swept her into his arms, settling her easily in his embrace, and he marched to the bed. He dropped her onto the center, and she sank into soft blankets. Arthur climbed over her, undeterred as the bed sank still further, the strings not tightened in a while.
He moved his hand over her gown. “This, for instance, is entirely unnecessary.”
“Oh.”
“Let me assist you.” He pulled her up.
She would have to get used to the man’s strength. Maxwell had never carried her about the room, but then there had been many things that Maxwell had never done.
Arthur untied her shift, and the material hung inelegantly from her body. The loose fabric should not have looked appealing, but Arthur’s eyes still darkened, as if he were contemplating devouring her.
“Take it all off,” he said.
“But you’re still clothed.”
He grinned. “I think I can manage to rectify that.”
Arthur placed his cravat over the bedding and lifted his shirt over his shoulders. Bare skin soon gleamed under the candlelight.
He leaned downward, once again encompassing her lips with his. She wrapped her arms around his b
ack tentatively, but when he moaned in seeming delight she grasped him more firmly.
The man settled between her legs, resting his torso against hers. She was aware of rippled muscles and long legs.
He moved his lips away from hers, and she was filled with an acute sense of loss. She blinked, wondering whether she should pull him back, and tightened her grip on his torso.
Perhaps it didn’t matter if the man thought her uncouth, perhaps the only thing that actually mattered was for Arthur to continue to kiss her.
In the next moment he pressed his lips against her neck. She was certain her throat was not supposed to be an interesting portion of her body, but Arthur’s lips there still sent a pleasurable sensation rippling through her.
He was claiming her with his tongue, as surely as if he’d taken a paint brush. But instead of oily paint or too thin watercolors, he was pressing the sweetest kisses against her. She felt ravished, and he moved his lips downward, pressing on the skin that bordered her stays. He pulled the already loosened stays down lower and pressed his lips over the edge of her bosom.
Fire swept through her, and he pulled her stays down. Her bosom lay bare, and she shivered under his reverent gaze. He moved his fingers over her bosom, seeming to find delight in coursing them over her flesh.
“So beautiful,” he murmured.
He pressed his lips over her breast and captured its center in his mouth. She arched her back as pleasure swept through her.
She’d been worried about consummating the marriage, of doing what her first husband had never been able to do, but the worry began to dissipate.
Arthur did not seem like a man about to abandon his marital bed. His hands still moved over her, as if he wanted to memorize every curve like some sculptor.
Pleasure cascaded through her. The slight frigid temperature of the night had been replaced by warmth.
I love him.
The thought settled in her mind, and she forced her lips shut. She couldn’t lay there, babbling all sorts of sentimentality.
Their marriage had been a bargain. She couldn’t break the very first rule of succumbing to sentimentality, now. She wanted to be the wife he wanted. She would be. She wasn’t going to break her vow to him a mere day after the ceremony, no matter how much happiness moved its way forcefully through her.
“Can I?” His voice was impossibly husky, and his eyes so wonderfully dark.
She knew what he meant.
He wanted to enter her. The act would consummate their marriage. All the kisses, all the compliments, they’d all been leading up to this moment. She’d heard of the importance for a woman to relax during the act, that the pain would be less strong if one did, and she was thankful for his ministrations.
She wouldn’t make the mistake to believe the words had been anything more than the tender declarations of a man eager to ease her pain.
“You better get it over with,” she said.
Hurt seemed to settled over his face, and she blinked. Did this evening also mean something to him? Hope grew for a moment, but his face soon hardened.
Naturally.
Likely she’d offended his masculine pride. She would have to be more careful, and added it to her list of things to master. She never wanted to cause him any pain. The man only deserved happiness.
She lay naked before him, splayed over soft sheets. Her hair lay tousled on the bed. Likely each lock was jutting in a different direction, and she moved her hand up to smooth them.
He caught her hand in his. “You look fine.”
*
For a moment he’d imagined her to enjoy the evening, but he was reminded again that she only saw it as a task, one only slightly different than standing before a vicar.
Never mind.
He was determined to bring her bliss. This was his chance. Perhaps his only one.
He wanted to grasp her in his arms, to marvel at her beautiful form. He wanted to enter her. Devour her.
She was his everything. She’d been his greatest desire for far too long.
He angled himself against her and pressed into utter bliss. She tensed briefly when he broke her barrier and clutched him more tightly.
He held her as she relaxed, stroking her hair until she was ready to continue.
Heavens, she was amazing.
He closed his eyes, imagining that Madeline was truly happy with him.
For now though he concentrated on the sounds of her moans. She met his thrusts, as if striving to meld herself with him just as much as he wanted to meld himself with her.
He gazed at her bosom, her tiny waist, and her long blonde hair. Her cheeks were rosy-colored, more so than he’d ever seen her, and even her lips seemed redder. A sheen of sweat lay on her brow, and she furrowed her perfect eyebrows in concentration as she continued to meet him.
“Let me take care of you,” he said.
Her eyes opened in surprise.” It was painful—oh, so painful to leave the warm blissfulness of Madeline, but he pulled himself from her. He wanted this to last. He kissed her skin, striving to memorize every inch of her with his tongue.
I don’t know when we’ll do this again.
He pushed away the stab of sadness. He was determined to enjoy himself. To have her enjoy herself.
He circled her bosom with his tongue, and she arched closer to him. He trailed his tongue down her stomach, and settled on the space between her legs.
Her scent wafted over him, and he inhaled.
He wanted her to enjoy this.
“I feel so tense,” she murmured.
“Good,” he said, moving his fingers and tongue more quickly over her entrance.
She seemed to shatter before him, curling her toes and moaning. Her long lashes flickered shut and he pulled her into his arms. He wanted to hold her forever.
Finally she turned her head.
She’s going to leave.
But she didn’t leave, instead she pulled his face closer to hers and tentatively, ever so tentatively, kissed him.
His heart sang.
Angels themselves could not be more joyous. She eased over him, once again encompassing him.
They rocked together, grasping hold of one another, and he continued to kiss her until the world seemed to explode and she smiled softly and pulled away.
Chapter Twenty-three
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.
Not so utterly wonderful.
Perhaps she’d been a virgin before tonight, but Maxwell had attempted to bed her. She’d been aware of Maxwell’s compliments, that had sounded as rehearsed as any actor. He’d kissed her perfunctorily, inhaled, and then flung off his robe. The next few moments had been hasty, frantic, and he’d tackled her with the same vigor that she later saw him eat the black pudding her mother served him and the medicine his doctors gave him when they’d attempted to save his life.
That night Maxwell had arranged her in several positions. She’d thought he might succeed when he’d flipped her onto her stomach. She supposed approaching her from the back gave him privacy in an act that was in desperate need of privacy.
He’d murmured polite apologies, and though she was less innocent when he’d given up, she had not been taken.
Maxwell had retreated to his room, murmuring something about letting her sleep and attempting again tomorrow.
Tomorrow though never came. He’d retreated to his London apartment, and when he finally returned after a fortnight, they’d not spoken of it.
Why would they want to attempt something so awkward? Fortunately at some point they’d discovered a friendship.
In hindsight she wasn’t sure if he’d wooed her at all, or if he’d only succumbed to his mother’s marriage-mindedness.
He wasn’t young when she met him. He was thirty-six, young enough not to require a wife, though perhaps old enough for people to start questioning why he’d never been engaged, and had maintained an impeccable reputation even at the balls and house parties where the alcohol flowed most.
She hadn’t wanted romance. She’d prided herself on not requiring it, being cooler and calmer than the other debutantes who seemed to be either a bundle of nerves (à la Fiona), or a bundle of giggles (à la most everybody else).
Maxwell’s cool collected demeanor, his willingness to converse with her mother, and even his discomfort around the handsome, athletic men with their laddish ways had reassured her.
She felt regret for how easily she’d adapted to the rules of their marriage. She hadn’t known to be unhappy with them. She’d thought herself fortunate only to have married, to have been able to have helped her family, and she threw herself into socializing and research.
The secret had burdened her. Her grandmother had hinted at how perfect her manor house would be for young children to run about in, and she’d discussed her favorite names, as if pondering what she’d name her unborn children.
Perhaps some of her friends assumed she couldn’t have children. They didn’t know she’d never even tried, would never ever be able to try to have them. She sighed. Since then she’d done her best to avoid disappointment.
*
The wedding night’s pleasures were not replicated. The next day they set sail for London. Any accomplishments Madeline may have possessed did not extend to having a sturdy stomach, and unfortunately the Mediterranean had decided to be uncharacteristically stormy.
Arthur thankfully retreated to his cabin for most of the journey, though he still visited her several times a day, as if he wanted to ascertain her condition himself instead of relying on the reporting of the quite capable maid.
Madeline didn’t like him seeing her when her hair was messy, and since she’d developed a sudden fondness for lying on her bed while attempting to imagine the world were not swaying in unpredictable directions, she rather doubted her appearance was to her usual standards.
“Next time we’ll go by carriage. I promise you,” Arthur declared one day.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 14
