by Anne Stuart
He couldn't. He wasn't prone to kindly gestures, but her first time should be in a bed. Hell, her first time should be in her new husband's bed, but he wasn't going to give her that.
He also wasn't going to give her a baby. He would pull out, and her cousin would be able to provide the remedies most of their set used to prevent unwanted conception just in case. She would emerge from his little cave minus her innocence but not much more the worse for wear. She'd still be the same prissy old maid, and she'd conveniently forget her night of love in the bed of London's most notorious rake.
If he ended up letting her stay that long. Virgins were tedious—they cried and then professed themselves to be in love with their heartless seducers, because God forbid they should find any sexual pleasure that didn't come with a lifelong guarantee. Charlotte already thought herself in love with him, whether she admitted it or not. And she would most certainly cry.
Twice should be enough. Once to deflower her and take the edge off his suddenly overpowering need. A second time to go slowly and explore alternatives.
He could make her come, quite easily, but that might be a mistake. She was probably better off not knowing what she was missing, since her future wasn't likely to offer many opportunities. Most men wouldn't be able to see past the glasses and the scowl, they wouldn't appreciate her creamy, gold-flecked skin and rich mouth. If she ever married it would doubtless be to some widower or elderly bachelor who knew nothing about pleasing a woman and cared less, so she'd be happier without too many fond memories. Besides, it would take a lot of work bringing a newly deflowered virgin to completion. He'd be better off moving on to the next partner, sending this one back to the city.
The others wouldn't like it. They'd want to share. Innocence was a highly prized commodity—there was nothing the Mad Monks liked better than to open the eyes of some starry-eyed virgin. They would expect him to pass her along, to be sampled in turn by lechers and degenerates and sodomites...
No, he wasn't going to let that happen. She would be his, and his alone, and once he tired of her he'd make certain she was out of reach of his more twisted compatriots.
He thought all this as he kissed her, as his erection pulsed at the front of his breeches, as her hands, trapped between their bodies, slowly began to move, sliding up his chest to finally clutch his shoulders. He thought all this, and then he stopped thinking at all, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds of her breath catching in her throat.
And he wanted, needed to hear the sound she made when she climaxed.
He moved her, slowly, carefully, against the door to his hidden room. He turned, leaning against it so that it opened, and he pulled her inside with him as the heavy door swung to a close with a satisfying thud.
Charlotte's senses were flooding her, a delicious cascade of taste and touch, of sounds and scent in the shadowy darkness. She knew she shouldn't let him, but for just this brief moment she couldn't bring herself to resist. This was Rohan, the man in her shameless dreams, the unconscionable rake who'd haunted her waking hours as well. She'd heard the salacious stories—she knew just how depraved he was. She'd read the carefully shielded reports in the newspapers about the Villainous Viscount. His father had been just as bad—it was no wonder he was totally without conscience of decency.
He was also a master at kissing. Even with her total lack of experience she could tell that much. Adrian, Viscount Rohan, was kissing her, tall, gawky Charlotte Spenser, when there were easily a dozen beautiful women who'd doubtless warm his bed quite happily. But he had followed her, somehow divining who she was. Knowing she was plain, spinsterish Charlotte, and he'd come after her, and now he was kissing her with such single-minded attention that he must like it, at least a little bit.
As far as she knew. Viscount Rohan never did anything he didn't find enjoyable.
His arms were around her, holding her against him, and her knees felt weak. She wanted to sink against him, just let go and have him gather her body against his. What harm could it do?
Very real harm, she thought dazedly as he kissed the side of her mouth, slow, lingering kisses. In another moment she'd shove him away, in another moment she'd run away, she'd find Lina, she'd...oh, God, if he'd only stop she could be strong. But as long as he held her like this she couldn't resist. She'd had so little, and her future was so bleat. Couldn't she have this much?
She felt him shift, turning her around, felt them both move away from the moonlit sky and the cool night air. She felt dizzy, and she tentatively lifted her hands to hold on to him, afraid she might fall, as darkness closed about them and she could hear the sound of a heavy door closing, and then an odd, clicking sound penetrating the haze of longing that suffused her. Almost like the sound of a lock being
Alarm spread through her, and she tore her mouth away, shoving him. He released her this time, moving away in the pitch darkness, and she knew a sudden panic. She hated dark, enclosed spaces, and for the moment she felt trapped, smothered.
And then a light flared in the darkness as he lit one taper, another and another, a candelabrum bringing blessed, welcome light to the darkness, slowly illuminating every corner. Until he started in on the next branch of candles, and she could see all too clearly, and her panic was back, this time rooted in real, not imagined, danger.
It is a small room, cut in to a wall of white rock that was so prevalent in the area. A fireplace at one end, with what looked like a fire laid, ready to be ht. Logs to one side, enough for a day or two, but someone like Adrian Rohan would never load his own fire.
There was a sturdy table which held the candelabrum, a bottle of wine and two glasses. A thick rug covered the floors, newer tapestries hung on the wall. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her glasses, probably when she'd fallen, but she could tell, even in the shadowy lights that they portrayed no innocent wolf hunt or Norman Conquest.
They were sexual scenes, woven into the fine threads. Someone had spent years on this blatantly erotic tapestry that now adorned the walls of Rohan's cavelike retreat.
And there was a bed. How could she have doubted otherwise? It was set up against the wall, covered with velvet bedding and a rich fur throw. A bed for indecent activities, not a bed for sleep.
He was watching her from across the small room, still and silent, yet she couldn't rid herself of the sense that he was a predator, waiting.
She turned around, looking for the door. Why hadn't she run when she had the opportunity? She'd stood a good chance of taking him by surprise when he was kissing her, and instead she'd melted like the love-addled idiot that she was, and now it was too late.
Or maybe it wasn't. She was much closer to the carved wooden door than he was, and she leaped for it, afraid he might reach it first and stop her.
He didn't move, and she told herself it was relief that flooded her when her hand found the doorknob.
He was letting her go. Until she tried to turn the knob, and it held fast. She yanked, but it was immovable.
She was locked in. With the man of her dreams, the worst libertine in all of England.
"Bloody hell," she said weakly. And she slid to the floor, her back up against the wall, feeling like cornered prey.
When Lina awoke, the early-morning sun was peeping in the window. She sat up quickly, her thin silk nightgown, made for lovers rather than for a comfortable night's sleep, falling down around her shoulders. For a moment her mind was a blank, yet she was conscious of a sense of happy anticipation. It came back to her in pieces—the aborted evening at the Revels, Monty's collapse. And yet her anticipation held. She yawned, then cursed. She'd only meant to rest for an hour or so, but she must have fallen into a deep sleep, leaving Monty in the hands of his unsympathetic vicar. It was the challenge, she realized. Monty's odious friend, the vicar, had arrived and laid down the gauntlet.
And she had snatched it up quite eagerly. Monty needed coddling, not scolding. He needed love and entertainment and distraction from his ills, not some prosy minister r
eading the riot act over him. She couldn't imagine why in the world Montague would invite him to stay at Hensley Court in the first place.
If he'd provided his old friend with a Jiving, why hadn't he simply gone to the manse?
"You're awake, then," Charlotte's maid said in a caustic tone, setting down the tea tray. "What are you doing up so early, and you not in bed till half past three?" Meggie was not looking pleased at starting her duties so early.
Lina pushed the pillows up behind her in preparation for her breakfast. "Did anyone mention that a proper lady's maid does not chastise her mistress for her sleeping habits? You're just lucky I'm alone. My bed in Grosvenor Square might be sacrosanct, but I've come to Hensley Court with the express intention of sin, and it wouldn't do for a gentleman to hear you being so pert."
"I doubt I'd consider your sort of friends to be gentlemen," Meggie said, unchastened. "And there's no one around here to romp with—you know you're safe as houses with Lord M. And your parson isn't going to give you a tumble. Mark my words, he's got a wife and seven children coming after him on the stage."
"If he does it's no wonder he looks so grim," Lina said, breaking apart a light croissant and slathering it with totally unnecessary butter. She was hungry, actually ravenous, yet she'd done nothing to work up an appetite. She finished the croissant in three greedy bites and went to work on the fresh strawberries. She would have happily done with a full breakfast, with eggs and fat sausages and fried toast and mushrooms, when usually such heavy stuff made her faintly nauseous.
-You've never been one for a roll in the mud," Meggie continued critically, "so it's not likely you'll find one of Lord M.'s very handsome footmen in your bed, either. Lord, that man!" She seemed suddenly forgetful of her lecturing mood. "Every single man in this place is bloody gorgeous. From the gardener's boy and the underchef up through the majordomo himself. He certainly liked to surround himself with pretty men. It quite gives a girl pause."
“Likes,” Lina corrected quickly. "Likes. Present tense. At least I assume…”
"I'm not up with your fancy literary terms, my lady, but if you mean is he still alive, then yes. Mr. Pagett is with him now."
"Oh, Lord," Lina said. 'That's all he needs when he's feeling wretched. Get my clothes. Quickly."
"And what clothes might those be?" Meggie said. "The nun's habit again? Or something more transparent?"
"It's never good to educate the lower classes" Lina grumbled. "You shouldn't even know that word."
Meggie grinned, unrepentant. "I listen well, my lady. You were the one to use that word in the first place. I asked Miss Charlotte what that meant, and I was some disappointed to find that it didn't mean something obscene. Just see-through."
"Well, see-through can be quite obscene, depending on what is on the other side." She slid out of bed. spilling her tea on the tray. "The green dress will do."
Meggie's shock was overplayed but nonetheless genuine. "The green dress that you were going to give to Miss Charlotte?"
"Well, I can't very well give it to her now, can I? She's half a foot taller than I am—the hem would be above her ankles."
"It's no dress for an orgy," Meggie pointed out sagely. "The neckline's too high, the cut too refined. What about your red dress?"
"Do you see any orgies around me, Meggie?" she inquired. “I’ll be spending the next few days, perhaps longer, looking after Lord Montague. As you sagely pointed out, seductive clothes would be wasted on him, and that prude of a vicar as well. The green dress proves even I can be demure."
"The green dress proves even you can have a sense of humor."
In fact, Lina had ordered the dress from her modiste on a whim. The cut and line of the garment was simple, charming, but most definitely unalluring. It had reminded her of a gown she had worn before she was married, when everything was new and fresh and she still believed in happy endings.
Henry had cured her of that particular notion. He'd been a full forty years older than she was—fifty-eight to her eighteen—but so enormously wealthy her father had been aux anges. Henry had already buried three wives and two stillborn heirs, but he hadn't given up hope. A young, nubile beauty should have been just the thing to stoke his fires, he used to tell her, filled with disgust at her ineptitude. His efforts had been desultory, more often spilling his seed outside her in his inability to get hard enough for penetration.
It was a great deal too bad that he accidentally discovered the cure for his affliction. His frustration and contempt for his young wife grew until one night he'd slapped her, so hard she'd fallen against the bed. temporarily seeing stars.
His excitement was immediate and powerful, and the next thing she knew, he was on her like a wild dog, puffing and sweating, hurting her so that she cried out in pain. When she did, his excitement reached a fever pitch, and he spilled his seed deep inside her.
He'd been so rough she'd bled the next day, and he'd been furious, thinking her menses had started early. It had been a blessing. Henry had been a fastidious man and never liked to come near her during her courses.
But a week later he was on her anew. It had taken more and more pain to inspire him. In the beginning he avoided marring her face, but as time passed he enjoyed that most particularly. Seeing the evidence of his brutality seemed to make him feel more virile. Eventually he took his dazed young wife to one of his remote country estates, so no one could witness his increasingly dangerous pleasures.
The only thing that would have stopped him would have been a pregnancy. He wanted an heir with a ferocity stronger than his twisted needs.
In the end it had been her fault, Lina thought. She'd begun to stretch out the time of her menses for as long as possible to avoid the increasingly nightmarish couplings Henry forced on her. She knew full well there was no one she could turn to—a wife's duly was to submit. The only one who would have come to the rescue was Charlotte, and while she would have moved heaven and earth to help her, there would have been nothing she could do.
So Lina had told no one. And one summer her courses were late. Days passed, when her body had been as regular as clockwork no matter what indignities Henry had subjected her lo, no matter how brutal his assaults. She lied, of course, lo keep Henry from her, anything to have an extra day or two of reprieve.
A week passed, with Henry growing more and more impatient. By the time two weeks had gone by, her breasts were full and tender, her stomach was queasy, and she knew, she simply knew, the old man's foul ruttings had finally taken root.
She'd thought she'd be disgusted, hating what had begun in her belly. She was wrong. The thought of a baby changed everything. He would leave her alone now, and she would grow large and placid, and by the time she gave birth to his son he would have turned elsewhere for pleasure. He would leave her and her son alone, and sooner or later he would die. He was old and fat, and when he hit her his face would grow purple with rage and excitement, and exhaustion.
She waited too long. Her fault, her fault. She'd wanted to cherish her secret for just a little while longer before she had to bring him into it.
She remembered that day far too well. He'd appeared in her dressing room, sending the servants away.
"Your maid tells me you've been lying about your monthly courses," he said, his voice deceptively quiet. "Haven't you?"
She flushed. "Yes," she admitted. "In fact, I—" That was as far as she'd gotten. His fist had connected with her face, splitting her lip, and after that there had been no chance of speech.
She made the mistake of crying out, enraging him further. The small blessing was that this time he didn't rape her. He simply beat her, with his fists, kicking her with his booted feet when she fell to the floor.
She curled in on herself, trying to shield her body from his blows, but she'd already felt the fierce tearing in her belly, the wetness of blood gushing between her legs. He'd destroyed the one thing he'd wanted most in the world.
He finally stopped. She moaned, and clutched her belly. She c
ould hear him gasping for breath, and she struggled to sit up, knowing the danger any sign of life might bring.
It took her three tries. She could barely see out of her swollen eyes, and the pain in her belly was a ripping, vicious one, but she managed to see Henry half lying on her bed, his legs twitching as he made hoarse, gasping noises. For one moment she thought his sexual excitement had been unbearable and he was using his fist to bring on his own climax—she'd heard those gasping, grunting noises far too many times.
She managed to pull herself to her feet, using a nearby chair for support. She would need a doctor, she thought, dizzy. Would he allow her one?
She could see Henry on the bed, gasping for air like a landed fish. His handsome, florid face was a deep purple, and she realized with almost detached interest that he'd finally gone too far. He was having a fit of apoplexy.
She struggled toward the bed, using various pieces of furniture to support herself, until she reached his side. He managed to focus on her for a moment.
"Get...a doctor," he wheezed.
She could feel blood dripping down her legs, into her slippers. She looked down at him. "You sent the servants away, Henry," she said with deceptive gentleness. "They won't hear me if I call for help. You're dying. No one could help you anyway. But I want you to know one thing before you go to the hell you so richly deserve." She moved closer. "I was finally pregnant, and you kicked me in the stomach, Henry. You killed your unborn child. Your heir."
His eyes bulged out, and she could see he understood her. She was unable to walk, so she pulled herself onto the large bed, far enough away that he couldn't touch her with his desperate flailing. She lay there and watched him die, a deep, cold satisfaction filling her. And she didn't allow herself to pass out until he was gone.
There was no scandal, of course. No one mentioned the widow's bruised face and broken arm, and her pale, bloodless complexion they attributed to grief, not blood loss and fever. By the time she called Charlotte to her side, her body, at least, had healed.
