Brent regarded her carefully, so ready for her that his body ached against the tightness of his breeches. After a minute of strained stillness, he inhaled deeply and began to walk toward her.
“There’s passion between us, Caroline, and it might be best just to quench it by bedding you now rather than waiting for to night.”
She turned her face up to his.
He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll admit it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman, but I think I’ll remember how to perform well enough to satisfy you.”
Instead of calming from the comfort of his words, she gasped audibly, stood abruptly, and fairly raced to the other side of the room.
Brent groaned, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned his hip on his desk.
Once again, as he did so often with women, he had spoken without thinking how his words would be taken. And once again, things weren’t going in his favor. He’d frightened her, he could tell, as she looked at him through big, ambivalent eyes, fidgeting nervously with her skirt, and strangely he wanted to soothe her, to be delicate with her feelings.
“Caroline,” he started again, standing erect and sauntering toward her, “I’m simply trying to help you relax before we become intimate—”
“I cannot be intimate with you, sir,” she interjected with newfound strength.
He stopped abruptly and stared at her. “Of course we will be intimate.”
She backed up as far as she could, her bottom pressing against a bookshelf. “I’m sure we will eventually, but not for a while.”
He grinned. She looked so adorably terrified. Moving toward her once again, he reached up to untie and remove his cravat, dropping it onto the settee as he passed it.
“I want you in my bed, Caroline, and primly bred or not, I think you want it, too.” He stopped in front of her as he began to loosen the buttons on his shirt. “I promise to make our couplings as gentle—”
“I’m bleeding.”
He looked at her, confused. Then he noticed the faint traces of color gracing her fine, delicate features, and he was suddenly shocked to the depths of his being.
He was fully aware of women and their monthlies, but in all of his life no woman had ever mentioned or discussed the topic with him. It was just one of those little issues that men knew about but discreetly ignored, and until exactly this moment he’d never given it a thought. It wasn’t something that mattered to him, though, when all he could think about was spreading her thighs, entering her heated softness, and finding the release his body so desperately craved.
Brent gave her what he thought was his most charming, comforting smile and reached up to tug at the pins and pearls holding her hair in place. That caused her to stiffen, but she couldn’t budge because he moved quickly forward, trapping her firmly between his body and the bookshelf.
“I know, little one, that most men would gracefully step aside to let that particular force of nature run its course. I, however, am not like other men.”
She gaped at him, deeply mortified.
He continued to free the pearls, laying them on the bookshelf behind her, allowing her dark, shiny locks to tumble loosely down her back. Then he drew his fingers over her scalp to intertwine with her hair, placed both palms on her cheeks, and gently lifted her face to within inches of his.
“I want you, Caroline,” he whispered, “and you want me.”
“No,” she countered in a tone so low and sexy it made his blood race through his veins.
He closed his eyes and slowly lowered his head to brush her lips with his.
Since Caroline had no experience in the art of kissing, she truly wasn’t sure how to react to the insistence of his mouth on hers. She pushed against his chest, but that didn’t seem to deter him in the least. If anything, it made him all the more aggressive as he started applying full pressure of his mouth in such a demanding action that it made her heart speed up and her legs turn to liquid heat.
Dazed, she began to wonder if it was really so bad. She knew she would need to assuage his male appetite to some extent, so with that rational thought, she closed her eyes and relaxed against him, allowing him better access.
He moved his lips in rhythm with hers, a rhythm gradually becoming as natural to her as breathing. He felt so warm beneath her palms, his broad chest hard and strong. She moved her fingers in a slow circular pattern against his muscles, granting herself this one opportunity to drink in his very maleness with every sense she possessed.
He coaxed, teased, toyed with her mouth until at last her resistance gave way to his gentle urging, and as he flicked his tongue back and forth across her tightly closed lips, she slowly started to open to him.
He groaned when she finally closed her palms around his neck, pulling him close, and the sound of his deep, husky voice, the feel of him, the touch of every part of him made her come alive with something she couldn’t understand, something marvelous. Where his massive frame came in contact with hers she tingled, and when he finally raked his strong fingers through the loose strands of her hair to grasp her head and hold her even tighter to him, she found herself actually moaning softly against the force of his urgent, unrelenting mouth.
That lovely, womanly sound of pleasure, of unashamed arousal, caught Brent completely by surprise because he hadn’t really even touched her yet. He found himself desperate almost, and with the feeling came the ardent need to caress, to taste, to please as his tongue came into intimate contact with hers, flicking back and forth, up and around inside her mouth.
Oh, God, she was so soft, so dainty and feminine, smelling vaguely of violet water and cool afternoon rain. Having her so near and inviting him with her actions made it unbearably difficult for him to hold back. She was responding to him with more of herself than he could have hoped, and with the feel of her silky hair intertwined with his fingers and her supple warm body against his, he knew he had been blessed at last.
With that thought he lost his reason. He embraced her fully, clasped her lower back to free her from the bookshelf, placed his palm on her bottom, and pulled her against his fully engorged member, the feel of her hips against his sending an explosion of fine, erotic sensations through his body.
“You’re going to be so good,” he whispered raggedly against her mouth. “You’re so hot already—”
Suddenly she was wiggling against him. “Don’t move like that, sweetheart. I won’t last until we get upstairs.”
Brent immediately knew something was wrong when she not only kept wiggling, but started pushing with all her strength against his chest. She was moving her head as well, pulling away from him and attempting to brush his face aside.
“No—” she choked out, her voice pained, frightened.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened as he opened his eyes and looked down to his new bride, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, eyes glowing, hair shiny, framing her face as it fell to her waist. And she was very definitely trying to break free of him.
“Please—let go of me.”
He gradually released her, feeling at once like a poor actor in a badly played Shakespearean tragedy. She moved with amazing speed to the other side of the room, next to the fireplace, to stand rigidly, eyes closed, chest heaving, breath coming in rasps. He wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring forehead, attempting to control himself long enough to understand what had just happened.
And what the hell did just happen? One minute she was responding, the next she couldn’t get far enough away. He might have moved a bit too fast, but she had to have known what was happening between them.
He took a reluctant step toward her, which she obviously heard, for her eyes flew open to look into his with nothing short of fear in their dark depths.
He wasn’t sure how to handle such a delicate situation, but he knew he had to say something. Composing himself, he straightened and placed his palms on his hips.
“Caroline, would you mind telling me what you’re thinking?”
She inhaled sharply and looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to consummate our marriage, my lord,” she said very quickly, “and I respectfully request that you placate your sexual needs elsewhere.”
He had never been more astounded by a statement in his life, but what infuriated him suddenly was the insensitive manner in which she brushed him aside. He would have placed a generous wager on the fact that Caroline desired him as much as he did her, so how could she, a newly married lady, and after the passionate moment they’d just shared, tell him to go find himself a mistress? It made no sense, and as he struggled to understand it, his frustration fueled his anger.
Slowly he began to walk toward her. “You are my wife, Caroline, and you are rightfully mine to bed,” he cautiously, icily challenged.
She stood her ground, holding his gaze defiantly. “And you would seduce me in your study in the middle of the afternoon, while your housekeeper wanders about—”
“I wouldn’t have taken you here!” he shouted, noticing a stricken look slicing through her eyes.
He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. As calmly as he could, he said, “I’m sorry, Caroline, but please understand that as a man I have…certain needs.”
“And I am now giving you permission to satisfy those needs elsewhere,” she rebutted quickly, matter-of-factly.
Brent couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Taking a mistress would have been, he surmised, an expectation of his class. But being given permission to do so from his bride of less than three hours, who liquified in his arms with one little kiss, seemed uniquely absurd, and it almost made him laugh.
“Do I understand, madam,” he finally remarked, “that you want me to take a mistress?”
She nodded.
He grunted and gave her a puzzled smile. “May I ask why?”
She stared at him, brows creased in thought. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and looked down to her blue, mud-stained slippers.
“You have no love for me,” she stated nonchalantly.
Of course he didn’t, and she knew that, which made her words even more unusual. And suspect. It was a rather slippery excuse, too, but alas, she was a woman, and he couldn’t begin to imagine where her little female mind was roaming with it. He decided just to take the logical approach. “Caroline, we’ve only known each other for one day—”
“I don’t love you either, so please don’t ask me to come to your bed,” she cut in sharply as her eyes shot back to his.
His countenance became dark with the fine line between aching passion and burning rage. “I don’t think I’ll need to ask, little one. You melted in my arms, and love had nothing to do with it.”
She said not a word in reply, but her cheeks became rosy, which gave him encouragement as he began to saunter toward her.
“I had you moaning with one innocent kiss,” he added in a husky timbre, “so think how I’ll make you feel when you’re lying naked beneath me.”
She gasped, took a step back, and blurted, “I refuse to allow you liberties with my body. If I am forced, the result will be nothing short of rape, regardless of whether I’m your wife.”
Her statement stopped him dead. He couldn’t believe she would say that to him with such coldness, such disregard for his husbandly rights and his feelings as a man. Never in his life had he been so insulted by a woman, and his entire body suddenly shook with tightly contained fury. He clenched his jaw, tightly fisted his hands, and took two great breaths to keep his anger in check before he unleashed it in the only room in his home that carried anything of value.
And still she stood there, defensively, eyes blazing, waiting and saying nothing. Then reality took hold, and he understood at last.
Once again it was him. His words weren’t sweet; he didn’t know the first thing about flirting, or seducing, or creating an atmosphere of slow burning passion. And as he stood only ten feet from his bride, who had stressed her fear that he might actually rape her, it all finally hit him with shocking clarity.
For most of his life, Brent had seen very little admiration or respect between the few married couples he’d known, and certainly nothing akin to love. Love was a physical sensation, which had been proven to him conclusively one dark, rainy afternoon three years ago when he’d found Pauline, a woman who had claimed to love him beyond life, in her stables and intimately engaged with the boy who cared for her father’s innumerable hunting dogs. At that moment he knew that love was nothing more than a word said to manipulate others, which was exactly what he’d seen between his parents. They carried no affection for each other, just the acquired skill of manipulation for personal gratification. He could accept it in his marriage as well, for realistically, he should feel nothing special for Caroline.
But now, as the idea engulfed him with a burning desire he didn’t fully understand, he wanted a son. If he and Caroline went their separate ways emotionally, it mattered naught to him as long as she gave him a son who would respect him, perhaps grow to admire him, to whom he could leave his title, his estate with a restored Miramont, and a stable full of prized Arabians. If nothing else, she owed him that. And wasn’t that what her father had said? Caroline would indeed give him a strong, sturdy son, and he knew she wanted him with sufficient desire to succumb to his lovemaking long enough to get her pregnant.
Now that his mind had cleared, Brent stood fully erect and masked his face with indifference.
“I have only two things to say to you, Lady Caroline,” he fairly whispered, his voice hard as granite. “The first is that I would never, under any conditions, force a woman to have sex with me.”
He paused to watch her face turn as white as winter snowfall.
“The second is that although you may take a liberal view of married life, I don’t. I fully intend to consummate this marriage, and I do not, at any time, expect to have a mistress in my bed. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to afford both of you, with what little time and money I actually have.”
He turned and walked swiftly toward the door. “And one more thing, Caroline,” he added, looking back in her direction, his expression darkly angered, sarcastic. “If I ever find you in the arms of another man, or learn that you’ve taken a lover during the course of this marriage, I shall damage him where it counts—and you, my lovely little wife, will never look at a flower quite the same way again.”
He opened the door.
“Nedda can show you to your room. I have more engaging things to do.”
Chapter 3
Caroline sat at the kitchen table, a mug of strong tea in her hands and a bowl of sliced apples in front of her. It wasn’t yet seven, and already she’d spent two hours in her new garden.
This was now her routine at Miramont, as it had been at home. She would work while the ground was moist and soft, then take a break for breakfast, then move to the greenhouse during the day. The trouble, however, was that Miramont had no greenhouse, which was something she needed to discuss with her husband.
Caroline took a long swallow of the hot brew, then plopped a slice of apple into her mouth. She, Nedda, and Davis had been meeting in the kitchen for breakfast for the last four mornings. She’d been at Miramont for less than a week and she’d seen more of them than she had her husband, for he, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with her. And that was fine with her.
After the row they’d had the day of their wedding, she’d felt a bit hesitant about being near him. She’d said some cruel things that afternoon, but they were words that had to be said, and better to get them said quickly and without pretense. He apparently now understood, for her husband of five days had spoken fewer than as many words to her.
But their private quarters were separated by only one wall and a small, nonlocking door. Not even a dressing area sat between them, and that made her anxious. It didn’t surprise her, though. All married couples had adjoining bedchambers, and naturally hers and Brent’s wouldn’t be any different.
Actua
lly, although modest in furnishings, her room was also lovely with bright yellow lace curtains, two yellow reading chairs across from each other and next to the fireplace, a small dressing table, and a comfortable bed covered with a quilt of peach lace. The floor was noticeably bare, needing rugs for warmth and atmosphere, and those she wanted to add as soon as possible.
Perhaps requesting them from her ever-distant husband would crack the ice barrier between them, for he had rugs on the floor of his bedchamber, as she’d briefly seen. She probably shouldn’t have, but to satisfy her curiosity, she’d sneaked into his room just yesterday to take in the surroundings, finding furnishings as simple and sparse as hers although decorated with the masculine flavor of rich mahogany and deep royal blue. He also had a much bigger bed, but she refused to consider something that was none of her concern.
Caroline sighed, resting her elbows on the table, watching Davis pick at his dirty nails and Nedda scurry about the kitchen, her frizzy hair flying around her chubby, wrinkled face as she hunted for suitable foodstuffs.
“Eggs for you this morning, my lady?” Nedda asked with a smile.
Caroline glanced at Davis, who sat across from her at the small oak table, then took a quick drink of her tea to hide her choked expression. Their housekeeper was, by all accounts, the worst cook in En gland.
Straightening, she answered pleasantly, “I don’t think so, Nedda. Perhaps just toast.”
“Toast it is.”
Nedda turned her back on them to slice the bread.
“I dunno, ma’am…” Davis drawled, teasing. “Seems a fine lady like yourself needs some meat on her bones. You’re too skinny as it is.”
Caroline gave him a hard stare, for she was hardly skinny.
“My thoughts exactly,” Nedda agreed, searching for butter. “I think I’ll scramble a few anyway, in case his lordship is hungry this morn.”
Caroline grunted. If his lordship actually ever awakened before noon, he certainly never made his presence known.
My Darling Caroline Page 4
