by Cheryl Holt
Why hadn’t he reached for her and the rapture he knew he would have derived?
He was so conflicted!
Plodding on, slowing, he let the peace and quiet soothe him. Rambling, he trudged down various dim, indistinct streets, unsure of his destination. He couldn’t visit any of his customary haunts, and he couldn’t go home. She was there, and in his disordered state, he couldn’t conceive of venturing inside.
What if she was awake? What if he came face to face with her?
He’d been an ass, had dealt with her as if she were a whore, and he was extremely embarrassed. Gad, but he’d essentially accused her of being a harlot! He’d demanded to know if she was a virgin. On her wedding night!
What sort of despicable cad was he?
In spite of his faults, he had impeccable manners, and he knew how to act the consummate gallant when the situation called for it, yet she’d thrown him totally off balance, swaying from one indiscriminate remark to another when he hadn’t meant any of them.
He’d just been so...so...curious and awestruck and angry and...and...and...
Perversely, he felt a drastic need to persuade himself that he’d behaved appropriately. He never apologized, never expressed remorse, or tried to make amends. As he was a viscount who would inherit an earldom, he was so far above others that, without reflection or recompense, he could harm anyone who got in his way. Yet in this instant, he was besieged with guilt.
Dammit! He’d never be able to look her in the eye again.
After careful contemplation, he could only infer that she’d been intent on beguiling him, then being deflowered. Her tarrying in his dressing room and her propitious disrobing had been a ploy to lure him into debauching her.
But why?
What could her objective have been? They’d discussed their arrangement, had agreed to coexist and go about their separate lives. What was she really after? He’d asked her, and she’d maintained she wanted nothing, which was obviously a lie.
Evidently, she’d concocted a scheme to snare him into a physical relationship, to make their marriage genuine in every sense of the word, and the prospect scared the hell out of him. What kind of a husband would he be to the poor girl? Why should she want him to put forth the effort?
He was a spoiled, pampered ne’er-do-well who did naught but trifle and lollygag. He couldn’t be counted upon, couldn’t be trusted, would do whatever benefitted him—and only him—with no regard to others’ sensibilities.
It was his nature, at the root of his personality, and the reason he’d wed with none of his family in attendance. No one could tell him what to do, coerce his compliance, or quash his stubbornness. He made his own decisions, selected his own path, and if others didn’t like it, they could go hang.
What woman would deliberately bind herself to such a fellow? If she assumed he could make her happy, she was destined for a lifetime of disappointment.
Perhaps, he’d just never go home! He’d spend the rest of his days, roaming blindly through London, too much of a coward to confront his wife, beg her pardon, commence anew, or carry on.
Pausing to get his bearings, he checked out the row of wrought-iron fences, the neatly trimmed hedges, the majestic dwellings, when it dawned on him that he was standing on his own street, his residence down the block. While he’d presumed he’d been drifting aimlessly, apparently he’d traveled in a big circle, and his feet had automatically delivered him back to where he’d begun.
Was this a portentous sign? Had he wanted to return all along?
At his gate, he climbed the steps and lingered on the stoop. No light emanated from any of the windows. He hoped that meant she’d given up on her carnal quest and retired so he could slither to his room and crawl into his bed undetected.
Fumbling with the latch, he slunk into the foyer. The moon was high and flooding the stairs, so he didn’t need a lamp, and he ascended to his bedchamber and sneaked in without meeting another soul.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he shut the door, turned, and...
There she was, dozing in the middle of his bed. She was lying atop the covers, as if she hadn’t been brave enough to crawl under, but she’d staked out her spot in the center, and she seemed to belong just where she was.
Frowning, he dawdled, hands fisted on his hips, not certain of what to do. His first inclination was to march over and shake her, to reignite their quarrel, which wasn’t a good idea. It was blatantly clear that she had a keen wit and could best him in any argument. He didn’t want her here, but chagrin and perplexity forestalled him from barking out her name and sending her scurrying to her room.
He’d married the vexatious lady, and she wouldn’t fade into the woodwork as he’d ordered, so he had to alter his plan of action.
Tiptoeing to the bed, he studied her. She was wearing her scanty negligee, the robe absent, and it had crept up past her knees, revealing her long, slender legs. Her ribs rose and fell in a leisurely rhythm. Dead to the world, she hadn’t roused the slightest upon his entry, and it occurred to him that she was exhausted. It had been her wedding day after all. The stress on her had to have been tremendous.
The entire afternoon and evening, he’d rued and fused over the fact that he’d married a stranger, but he hadn’t taken a second to conjecture as to how she had weathered the ordeal. She’d married a stranger too, then she’d been constrained to host his cadre of daunting, exuberant associates, and she’d done so without a whimper of complaint.
Gracious, charming, she’d mingled and chatted. As his guests had left, he’d been repeatedly patted on the back, while his friends informed him how fortunate he was, what a catch he’d made, how he had the devil’s own luck with women.
She looked young and dear, and his heart seemed to tumble erratically. He massaged over it, trying to ease some of the sudden ache. As she was pretty, smart, sexy, she was everything a man could possibly want in a wife. Why had he viewed her arrival as a millstone, an impediment? Why not dwell on some of the advantages?
He evaluated her a few minutes more, disconcerted, confused about what he wanted, and a soft voice niggled at him.
What if...? it queried. What if he grabbed for what she was offering? What if he forged on and made her his own?
In his prior ribald forays, he’d habitually felt as if he was searching for something, but he’d never found it. He was lonely and had no true friends. The women with whom he consorted were superficial and wanton, benumbed by their wealth and privilege. They had no more emotional attachment to him than he did to them. He was so alone, wanting companionship, craving contentment, but he never attained even a modicum of comfort.
What if the prize he’d perpetually been hunting for was her?
The notion swept over him like a bright ray of sunshine.
Appealing and irresistible, she had faith in him, in the type of spouse he could grow to be. She seemed to be aware of the less savory aspects of his character, yet she liked him anyway. If he dared risk all, he’d gain a confidante, a comrade he could depend on and esteem, cherish and protect, and the concept didn’t sound so bad.
Why...if he treated her decently, if he let her discover the man he was deep down, she might become fond of him. Eventually, she might come to...to...love him.
He smiled. It would be grand to be loved by Ellen Foster St. John.
Quietly, he went to the dressing room and removed his clothes. The tub from her ill-fated bath was in place, the water cooled, and he wondered if she’d washed in it after he’d strode off in a temper.
Taking a cloth, he dipped it and ran it over his heated skin. He hoped she had lain in it, for he liked to suppose that the water coating him had enveloped her too. Finished, he dried with a towel, slipped into his robe, loosely looping the belt around his waist, then he strolled to his room.
He glided to the bed, but she hadn’t stirred. Eager to observe everything that transpired, he lit a candle, watched the flame as it flickered and extended, then he dropped himself down. His hi
p was nestled to hers, his upper torso braced on an arm. He scrutinized her, dissecting her features.
She was so damned enticing, and she was his.
A wave of possessiveness rippled over him, and he was anxious to make her truly his own, to claim her and keep her. Resting a hand on her stomach, he caressed her belly in a languid circle. She smiled in her slumber, some unconscious part of her perceiving that it was he.
Leaning over, he kissed her, a brush of his lips to her velvety cheek.
“Ellen,” he whispered.
Scowling, she rolled onto her back, stretching, gradually awakening. Her eyes fluttered open, but she scarcely recognized that he was hovering over her.
“Oh...I was sleeping so hard.” She blinked, then alertness was restored in a rush. Her smile faltered. Tentatively, she ventured, “Hello.”
“Hello.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
“I was so worried about you.”
“I took a walk,” he inanely mentioned. “I needed some time to think.”
She nodded. Plainly, she’d been endlessly cogitating their impasse as well. “While you were gone, I made myself at home.”
“I see that.” Glancing around, he chuckled. A half-empty glass of wine stood on his dresser. Her robe was draped over a chair, her slippers next to the wardrobe. “It’s quite all right.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“Neither do I. I hadn’t intended to. I was...was...” Was what? Irate? Bewildered? Aroused? Unsettled? All conditions applied. “I’m not sure what to do with you.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Aye, I expect we will.” Abashed, he blushed. “I didn’t mean what I said to you earlier. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and I was distraught. I should have—“
She pressed a finger to his lips, quelling the remainder of his confession. “I said several things I didn’t mean either.” A mischievous grin creased her cheeks. “I might have been goading you. Just a tad.”
“Minx.”
A companionable silence descended as they perused one another, and he was overcome by the most peculiar sensation, that he’d always known her, that he’d been waiting for her forever.
Reeling with amazement and excitement, he kissed her. It was a gentle embrace that went on and on, and he shifted fully onto the bed, so his body was touching hers all the way down. As he broke the kiss, she was gazing up at him so tenderly that he could barely stand to witness her affection. It was perceptible, real, and it poured over him. Like a blind man who’d been wandering in the desert, seeking an oasis and had finally stumbled upon one, he soaked it in, thirsty for what she could give him.
Feeling adored and revered, he luxuriated in the possibility that she might have married him for himself, that she’d wanted him and no other.
“Let’s start this night over,” he suggested.
“I’d like that.”
“Could we commence with your calling me Stephen?”
She quivered with mirth, a delectable rumbling shaking her tummy and chest. “You don’t care for Lord Banbury?”
“I you milord me one more time, I just might strangle you.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
She laughed again, then it tapered off, and there was only the two of them, in the hushed, shadowed room. The moment grew intimate, agonizingly so, and a thousand words were perched on the tip of his tongue.
He wanted to make love to this woman—his wife. The proof was explicit by the cockstand that was wedged to her thigh, but he also wanted merely to talk with her. Surprisingly, he was desperate to learn all about her. Every detail, tiny and large, was abruptly paramount.
What was her favorite food? Her favorite color? What were her hobbies? He was curious about her home and life in America, why she’d journeyed to England in pursuit of a husband, why she’d chosen him over the others. Did she like to ride? To read? Could she play the pianoforte?
As fervently as he craved knowing about her, he was dying to prattle on about himself, and he was frantically praying she would inquire so he could explain the forces that had molded him. He longed to unburden himself about his horrid childhood, his deceased mother whom he didn’t recall, his undemonstrative, aloof father, who had chastised and berated him at every turn, the parade of apathetic governesses and tutors who’d flowed past in a steady stream.
He wanted to tell her about the sweet-tempered nanny he’d had when he was eight or nine, how the woman had been fired for holding him as he’d cried after his kitten had been trampled by a horse.
His father had insisted she was transforming him into a sissy, that he’d develop into a gay blade under her tutelage, and he’d sent her away, had thrown her into the streets without permitting her to pack her bags. Stephen had never seen or heard from her again, and to this day, over twenty years later, he still speculated as to what had become of her.
Numerous events had coalesced to shape him into a harsh, indifferent man, and he was convinced that—if he apprised Ellen of his background—she would grasp why he was so impossible, so detached and solitary in the midst of so many. With an abiding certitude, he knew that she would understand and, absurdly, her knowing would correct many of his afflictions, would cure much of what ailed him.
Detestable, forlorn memories were crowding into his head, so many of them that he couldn’t keep track, and he felt nine years old once more. He was positive that if he uttered a single comment, he’d blubber like a baby, so he kissed her instead, needing to be close, to surround himself with her essence and femininity.
Her proximity was a healing balm and, instantly, he was pacified.
“I would be most honored,” he cautiously posed, “if I could make you my wife in every way.”
“You’d like us to be lovers?”
“Yes.”
“What brought about your change of heart?”
He couldn’t elucidate the arduous rumination in which he’d engaged during his walk, or the stunning conclusions he’d reached. Before their wedding, he’d thought he could frivolously take a bride, that he could pick someone to flaunt at his father, but now that he’d done it, his perspective had been altered.
She was his, despite his idiotic state of mind when he entered into the union, and he was duty-bound to succor and preserve, to respect and treasure.
It was those accursed vows! he grumbled to himself.
He’d recited them before God and the assembled company, so he’d been obligated and, for once, he didn’t chafe at the responsibility. A small part of him, one that seemed to be expanding with alarming rapidity, was excessively delighted that she’d waltzed into his life, but he’d never acknowledge so much. Not yet anyway. A man had to be allowed some secrets.
“Let’s chalk it up to temporary insanity,” he said.
“Let’s do.” She chortled, then laid her palm on his cheek. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then so am I.”
“Have you ever...?” he indelicately probed. After their previous bickering, he didn’t know what he would encounter. If she was a virgin, he didn’t want to rush or overwhelm her. If she wasn’t? He’d be disappointed, but they’d deal with it, and he had to admit that her missing maidenhood would definitely make things easier.
“No. I never have.” Genuinely chaste, she blushed prettily.
He hadn’t anticipated being so exhilarated by the news, but his relief was so enormous that he felt as if he’d been hit with a battering ram. The air hissed from his lungs, and his pulse raced. He wanted to whoop with joy, but he managed to hide his exuberant reaction.
“I’ll be your first.” He couldn’t keep from preening.
“I’m glad it will be you.”
“Oh, Ellen,” he murmured happily.
He was promptly panicked. What had she envisioned gaining in a husband? Would he match up? Would he compare with her maidenly fantasies?
H
ow he yearned to satisfy her! To enchant her beyond measure!
“Do you know what’s about to happen?” he asked.
“My sister Alice told me.”
Briefly, he’d met her sister, and she’d seemed like a no-nonsense sort of individual, like Ellen herself, but what would Alice have imparted as wedding night advice? Concerned that he might have to rout imprudent apprehension, he asked, “Are you worried about what will transpire?”
“A little. But mostly, I’m excited.”
“We’ll take our time. “I’ll—“
“Don’t hold back on my account,” she interrupted. “I want you to show me how it can truly be.”
How had he gotten so lucky? A beautiful, captivating bride who was wanton as hell! What a wedding night this was going to be! He was elated that he’d tossed aside his asinine reservations. Only a fool would have passed up this chance.
He searched her eyes for vacillation, anxiety, or dread, but he saw only curiosity and an eagerness to please that stirred his manly appetites and made him wild to proceed, mad to ascertain how glorious it could be.
Slow down! The warning rang out.
He as so provoked he felt he could spill himself against her leg like a callow boy of fourteen. His cock surged to attention, pushing at the front of his robe, intent on being immediately serviced, but he couldn’t progress as swiftly as his anatomy was ordering him to go. He needed to familiarize her, to let her become accustomed to his masculine physique.
Sliding over her, he covered her with his body, so his weight pressed her down, his thighs cradled hers. He was hard, his cockstand excruciating, and she splayed her legs, so she was open, adjusted. At her core, the fabric of her night rail and his robe provided a cushion, and he held his hips stationary and began kissing her in earnest.
It started tamely, mildly, but his passion for her escalated, and he tantalized her, his tongue mating with hers in a torrid dance. His hands went to her breasts, kneading the soft mounds through the sleek material. He teased and toyed with her nipples, impatient to suckle at one of them.
