It was growing rather warm in the coach. She noticed it at about the same moment that he did, since he began removing her coat and then his own, and she could only nod mentally in approval. It didn’t really help much, though, with her long sleeves and the thick material of her dress, so she gave another mental nod a while later when her gown came off as well—and his shirt.
Oh, my, what she wouldn’t have given for a candle just then, or the moon’s appearance, any kind of light really, but there was none. Viewing the bare chests on statues, which was as close as she’d ever come to seeing one, just wasn’t the same as experiencing the warm male skin under her fingers, which she craved to see as well as touch.
She had to wonder if he felt the same way, because he seemed to be trying to imagine what she looked like by touch alone, since he was touching her everywhere. The length and breadth of her arms, over her shoulders, around her neck— down her chest.
Her gasp was merely in surprise when both his hands covered her breasts. There was still the thin material of her chemise between them, yet there might as well have been nothing, so hot were his palms, so firm was his grip. And when his mouth came back to claim hers as he began to knead the plump mounds, a surge of heat shot deep within her, coiled, spread, and escaped in a long moan of pleasure. And yet that was nothing in comparison to the intensity of sensations that followed as he laid her down on the seat and continued to educate her in the delights of amour.
The coach was large and luxurious, but then it would be, being the vehicle that carried the marquis’s coat of arms. The seats were wide, plushly comfortable in soft velvet and thick padding, the windows tightly sealed against the cold, like a small room in a house—with narrow beds. It still wasn’t where she would have chosen to lose her virginity, but there really was no choice involved for either of them. What was happening was a matter for the moment, not for careful thought, or it might not be happening.
And deep down, she was afraid he was going to stop, afraid that at any moment he would come to his senses as he had after that kiss on the terrace, or that she would awake from the dream if it was a dream. This fear lent a very real urgency to the emotions that were churning around in her. She wanted to slowly savor, and yet she wanted to hurry so that she could experience it all.
If he had simply said, “I’m going to make love to you,” she could have relaxed and enjoyed every moment of it. But she suspected that this impulse of his was just that, an impulse, and thus could be terminated at any time if thought did intrude. She wished she knew how to prevent that, but in her innocence, she had no idea how to make him hurry other than to say so, and that was out of the question, any words from her probably the very thing that would shatter the magical moment and bring reality crashing back upon them.
His hands continued to shape an image of her for his mind, or so it seemed, spanning her waist, her hips, sliding down each thigh. On the return path, her petticoats caught on the backs of his hands and rose to her hips, but she barely noticed that, when she could now feel the heat of his palms directly on her skin. He shaped and molded her thighs, her calves, behind her knees, lifting, moving, even removed her shoes and massaged her feet. He was leaving no part of her unexamined and was very bold in his touch, with none of the hesitancy that she felt in returning his caresses.
She wondered if it was a Highland trait, that boldness. But no, she was being silly. Englishmen, she supposed, could be as bold, and yet some were so painfully correct in their etiquette that she imagined they might ask for permission before kissing or touching a knee or ...
It just happened, before she even realized or guessed where he was going to touch her next. Suddenly his hand was just there, cupped firmly at the apex of her legs, his palm pressing, rubbing, and he was kissing her deeply again, capturing her gasps. Expecting a protest perhaps? Oh, no, no protest over what she was feeling now, no indeed, just amazement over yet another new sensation, when she thought she must have felt everything possible by then.
Still he wouldn’t hurry. Still she wanted him to, so she rejoiced when he finally joined her on the seat again and filled her senses with his overwhelming presence. The heady male scent of him, so different from a life of rosewater, powder, and sweet spices in a household of just women. The hard texture of his skin, muscles that wouldn’t give, coarse hair that tickled on his chest, the very expanse of him that made her feel so small and feminine. And his weight as he slowly covered her skin with his, the velvety thickness filling her, the...
She cried out, not so much from the sudden thrust of pain, but from the surprise of it. And he was immediately making amends, raining kisses on her face, swearing that it couldn’t be helped, but that it would never hurt again.
She believed him, of course, because the pain was already gone, leaving her to experience only the fullness deep inside her, and those other sensations again when he started moving, the pleasant ones, swiftly taking over, as swiftly growing in intensity, tantalizing, enthralling, rushing her to a soaring peak that was so shockingly exquisite she could barely take in the full beauty of it.
He was kissing her tenderly now. He had climaxed, too, though she hadn’t noticed, so overwhelmed had she been by her own experience. She thought she might become embarrassed, now that it was over, but no, she just felt a tremendous lassitude that might have put her fast to sleep if he weren’t still keeping her attention with his kisses.
He helped her dress, which was fortunate, because she could barely keep her eyes open now. The long day was catching up to her, and the many turns it had taken. It had been the most unusual, amazing, shocking, and finally wonderful day of her life, yet she could barely stay awake to savor it.
Duncan made no excuse this time for what he’d done. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything about it, other than, “We’ll talk in the morning,” before he left her alone in the coach so he could drive her home, which only took a few minutes, so she managed to stay awake for it.
He did walk her to her door, though, and he gave her one last gentle kiss and the admonishment to get some sleep. Her aunts weren’t home yet, probably wouldn’t be for another few hours, since the party would go on for at least that much longer. Sleep? She was probably asleep before her head touched her pillow, because she was never to recall getting into her bed that night.
Chapter Thirty-two
Sabrina woke with a smile, still savoring her dream. It had to be a dream, making love with Duncan MacTavish. Anything that wonderful, yet that unlikely, couldn’t have been real. She continued to think so until she noticed her clothes in a pile on the floor, and on top of the pile, her petticoat spotted with blood.
She sat down then in amazed wonder and continued to sit there on her bed in a near daze, remembering, and experiencing such incredulous delight, such utter ... happiness. She might have spent the entire day in her euphoric stupor if the rap on her door hadn’t signaled the arrival of the maid she shared with Hilary and Alice, causing her to make a mad dash to hide her petticoats before the door opened.
She couldn’t imagine how she managed to get through dressing and meeting her aunts downstairs without letting on that her life had changed or that she was so happy she could barely stand it. She wanted to share that happiness, to confess everything that had happened, but of course, she couldn’t. They might understand. They might get as excited as she was and expect an immediate announcement of marriage. And therein was why she would say nothing.
Duncan hadn’t asked her to marry him, though he did say they would talk this morning, which implied that he would. She did expect him to now, which was one reason she was so deliriously happy, but she would also make it clear to him that he wasn’t obligated to. If it had been just an impulse on his part, she wasn’t going to force him to marry her by letting others know about it. She wouldn’t regret it either way. How could she, when she loved him? But if he was going to ask her to marry him, it had to be for the right reasons, not because her aunts would demand it.
She co
uldn’t wait to get to Summers Glade to see Duncan this morning, and hurried her aunts out the door to the waiting coach. It was a bit disconcerting, though, to sit in that particular vehicle with the memories she now had of what had happened in it, and if her cheeks got a little red on the ride, at least her aunts didn’t notice.
They arrived in time for breakfast, which Hilary and Alice both promptly went off to have. Sabrina, hoping to find Duncan first, declined to join them. However, she ran into Raphael instead, who was determined to detain her.
She supposed she ought to tell him that he’d been right, at least partially. Duncan hadn’t needed “waking up” as Rafe had suggested, he’d merely needed opportunity, and she had certainly provided that in her mad dash from the mansion last night, which had prompted him to follow her. It just went to show why young women needed chaperones, when being alone with a man they were attracted to presented temptation in its purest form, which could very easily be impossible to resist.
But distracted as she was in searching the crowd in the drawing room for Duncan, she was only half listening to Raphael, though she did vaguely recognize the dryness of his tone and the distinct edge of disgust in it.
“The theme of this gathering has changed to one of celebration,” he said. “Course, it would depend on the individual, and come to think of it, I doubt either camp would have much reason to celebrate. Any fool madly in love with the ice queen won’t feel like celebrating, though they certainly ought to, since they’ve been saved from a fate worse than death, they just don’t know it yet. And any young lady who fancied she had a chance with our esteemed newcomer, yourself included, m’dear, will now be sadly disappointed.”
That last remark did manage to get Sabrina’s attention, enough to ask, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about happy tidings that don’t make a bit of bloody sense.”
“Well, thank you kindly for not making sense in explaining what doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t mind me, Sabrina. I’d just prefer not to be the one to break the news to you,” he said with a sigh just before he walked off.
“Well, that was certainly enlightening,” Sabrina mumbled to herself.
She considered going after him for a better explanation, at least one that made sense, when she saw Hilary charge into the room, spot her, and march to her side to say, “I don’t believe it!”
Sabrina recognized the signs that Hilary was about to have a ranting fit, and by habit, tried to abate that. “I don’t either,” she agreed with an emphatic nod, but then with a grin, “What is it we don’t believe?”
“Don’t bother trying those tactics on me, dear, this is just too incredulous to shrug off. And I was so sure this time that I had the right of it. Just goes to show that speculating should be left to the London stockbrokers.”
Sabrina blinked. Had her aunt just made a joke, or was she serious? “You bought stock in something?”
Hilary made a snorting sound. “I’m not talking about stock, I’m talking about the vagaries of romance. I know that you maintained you were only friends, but I was certain there was more to it—”
“Wait a minute,” Sabrina interrupted in amused exasperation. “How did I get involved in this? Which of my friends are you talking about?”
Hilary frowned at her. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard yet? It was announced last night right after Alice and I left, apparently, which is why we didn’t hear about it until just now. You, of course, had gone home with your headache, but surely someone has told you by now? It’s all anyone is talking about this morning.”
This was starting to sound exactly like the nonsensical conversation Sabrina had just had with Raphael, enough to start a premonition of dread. “What announcement was made?”
“That the ex-engaged couple have made up from the tiff that caused them to get unengaged in the first place, and are happily engaged again.”
The color drained from Sabrina’s face. The moment of dizziness that caused had her reaching for Hilary’s arm to steady herself. Hilary didn’t notice; she continued to expound on her disbelief.
“It just doesn’t make sense to me, indeed it don’t. Why go to all this trouble and the expense of this gathering, get all these young women here for the boy to make a choice from, if he knew all along that it was no more’n a tiff they’d had that could be repaired?”
“If who knew?”
“Neville, of course. I hope he realizes how much disappointment his announcement has caused. Celebrate indeed. It’s a bloody tragedy.”
Tragedy, no. Shock, yes. Unexpected, not really, merely forgotten for a short time, that it was the more likely outcome. So Ophelia had been right all along, and unfortunately, so had Sabrina. Last night with her and Duncan had merely been an impulse for him, an opportunity a healthy male wouldn’t pass up, and she certainly hadn’t tried to prevent it from happening. Nor could she regret it even now.
What hurt, though, what was devastating to her, was that he went from making love with her directly to making amends with Ophelia and asking her to marry him. A little time in between, even if only a week, would have lessened the blow. But apparently his making love to Sabrina had been the catalyst that made him realize where his true feelings lay.
Ophelia entered the room just then and was met with halfhearted congratulations from a few people, though she didn’t seem to notice, was radiating with triumph. Raphael had been correct in one thing, at least—no one really felt like celebrating this particular engagement. The young men there, with the exception of Raphael, who seemed to really not like her, were no doubt disappointed, if not brokenhearted, that Ophelia was officially unavailable again. And there was at least one female with shattered hopes . . .
Sabrina really couldn’t bear to listen to Ophelia gloat, yet knew she would if given the chance. And she suspected the only way to avoid that was to leave, and very quickly, before the London girl noticed her.
“I’m not feeling too well, Aunt Hilary.”
“Don’t blame you a’tall, m’dear. Feeling rather sick to my stomach myself. Shall we go home?”
“Yes, please.”
Chapter Thirty-three
The pounding on the door finally woke Duncan, enough to growl that he’d help whoever it was to roast himself over some hot coals if he didn’t take his pounding somewhere else. The person outside didn’t. He opened the door instead. Duncan didn’t notice, sitting there in the middle of his bed trying to hold his head together, since it truly felt like it was coming apart.
“You don’t look too good, old chap. Imbibe a bit too much while celebrating last night?”
Duncan opened one very bloodshot eye, pinned Raphael Locke with it, and said, “I’ll have tae find a vat o‘ oil tae boil. Hot coals just willna do it for you.”
Raphael chuckled and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Duncan, seeing that his unwelcome visitor wasn’t getting the message that he was unwelcome, groaned and buried his head under his pillow.
Unfortunately, though Rafe’s voice was now muffled, it was still heard. “I know why I would be sick unto death this dreary morning, all things considered, but what’s your excuse? Since you’ve changed your mind about marrying Ophelia—”
“Why the devil would I do that?”
“Possibly because she’s so beautiful she takes your breath away?”
Duncan sat back up with a snort. “What an Englishmon may find fashionably beautiful, a Highlander might find pale and sickly. A Scotsmon would want his lass tae have a sturdy constitution and enough meat on her bones tae wi’stand a northern winter. D’you ken that Ophelia would ne’er survive in the north country, that she’d wilt at the first sign o‘ bad weather? And bad weather is a constant there, no’ the exception. I would have realized that, e’en if she hadna turned me again‘ her wi’ her vicious tongue.”
“But you will be living in England now, won’t you, so what’s the difference?”
“If I thought I’d ne’er see the h
omeland again, I’d wither and die m’self.”
“Then how is it, old chap, that you happen to be engaged to her again?”
It was there on the tip of Duncan’s tongue, an automatic answer, but this being the second time Rafe was implying that Duncan had changed his mind about Ophelia, it jarred a vague memory of why he had gotten falling-down drunk last night.
And that stirred another, even more elusive memory of both his grandfathers confronting him with the news that he now had to marry Ophelia, and he was too drunk to care at that point. Had he really told them that? That he didn’t care?
Trying to remember it all was stabbing even worse pains through his head, so he finally gave up and replied, “No‘ by my choice, I assure you.”
“Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” Raphael said, disgust and disappointment mixed equally in his tone. “Somehow I thought you would have a bit more of an independent nature, rather than jumping to do the old man’s bidding.”
“When did it become your bluidy concern, what the hell I do?”
“When I decided to take you under my wing, of course,” Raphael replied.
“Take your wing elsewhere, I’m no‘ wanting it.”
Raphael chuckled. “Too late. I don’t abandon my friends just because they turn out to be absolute imbeciles.”
“Your last warning, friend. If you dinna get oout o‘ here and let me die in peace—”
“Now, now, don’t make threats you cannot possibly carry out in your present condition.”
A good point, Duncan realized belatedly, so he simply gave up trying to oust the fellow and opted to bury his head again under his pillow. Ignoring whatever else Raphael had to say would get his point across, he hoped. Amazingly, he even managed to fall back asleep for a bit, which was a blessing, considering how much pain he was in.
When he woke the second time, he had no idea how much later in the day it was, but at least his head wasn’t pounding so viciously now. But if he thought Raphael Locke would be long gone, he was much mistaken. The Englishman was still sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading from a book he must have pulled from the small shelf of books in the room. They weren’t Duncan’s books, had just been there as part of the room’s decor when he’d moved in.
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