Hint of Desire (The Desire Series)

by Lavinia Kent

  Still, too many similarities existed between this wedding and her first. Neither had been her own free choice. She shivered as she awaited her cue. The flimsy ice blue silk of the gown they had quickly put together for her only made her feel as frigid as its hue. She peered down the long aisle.

  Her prince awaited, but this was no storybook. She rubbed color into her pale cheeks. She knew there could be no happily-ever-after promise in this story. To be sure, Arthur had been kind and gentle, and he had taken a warm interest in Simon – but he still did not know the full truth.

  Lily caught Lady Smythe-Burke’s gaze. The older woman nodded, not a trace of doubt in her glance. Lily had come to admire the lady over the past weeks and took comfort in that small exchange.

  When the cue finally came, she took that first step with grace and care, her features schooled to hide her terror. Despite her worries, her silk-slippered feet trod the best path.

  Arthur Alexander DeWolf gazed with awe at the vision sailing towards him down the aisle. Where a moment before he’d been aware of the church filled with guests and the vicar ready to recite the vows, now he saw only Lily. The light fabric swirled around her like a fine mist and the ducal diamonds dotted her hair like ice crystals. And her eyes called to him, sending messages of passion and desire.

  He could hardly wait for the ceremony and reception to end, and for the wedding night to begin.

  He his plans were once again a success.

  Lily stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was married. Again. Her eyes looked dark and deep above a skin so pale that no amount of pinching would redden it. The calm she had summoned, knowing Simon was safe, had dissolved. She still had a price to pay for that safety.

  Standing, she brushed at the silky flounces of the almost transparent French negligee in which they had dressed her. Her nipples peeked from beneath the thin silk, and even the dark triangle of curls between her legs cast an unmistakable shadow against the fine fabric. A shudder ran through her.

  She knew Gertrude and the other maids had meant well with their giggles and comments, but she felt more like a virgin sacrifice than a new bride. Yet she was no virgin. Therein lay the problem. She knew what would come, and what would be expected of her.

  She walked to the small table, which held a decanter of brandy and a couple of cut crystal glasses. Lily had never enjoyed spirits, and observing Worthington’s state whenever he drank deterred her further, but now she filled a goblet almost to the brim, but did not drink.

  Instead she turned and went to stand by the large bed. She stroked the rich brocade cover and sought to calm herself. He was not Worthington. He would keep both her and Simon safe, for as long as he could. And he would never hurt her on purpose. But how could she let him know that in consummation she found only pain?

  She would not let him know. She would repay him for his kindness in the ways expected of a wife. She would not shirk duty now.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, Lily turned back the bed and then blew out all but one candle. With Worthington she had become expert at giving just enough response to satisfy her husband. Mostly she lay still and silent. Maybe if she did the same with Arthur, he would end the business as quickly.

  Then, perhaps, they could become friends. That didn’t seem a bad thing. In fact, the notion of befriending her husband seemed like a return to her fairy tale. So what if she had to submit from time to time to his baser requirements? If Arthur would but be her friend, certainly she could muddle along well enough.

  Unless the magistrate learned more – what if he learned that there had been no mysterious attackers? Arthur could not want a murderer for a friend. Or a wife.

  Lily heard the handle turn. Arthur stood in the doorway, wrapped in the same deep velvet robe as before. She had found reassurance in his arms then. Perhaps she could do so again.

  She was exquisite. Arthur’s mind emptied of every other thought and competing sensation as he gazed upon this lovely apparition – his wife. He was suffused with heat as he moved closer to the fragile woman standing beside the bedstead. Light shone through her sheer dress, outlining every curve for his delight. Her high, pink-tipped breasts tightened under his gaze, the beaded nipples rising sharply beneath tissue-thin silk. His hands ached to feel them, his lips to taste them. Sweeping lower, his eyes took in the willowy form, the curve of womanly hips, the velvet skin, the soft curve of her belly and the wondrous secrets beneath. He grew tight and hard as he stared at the treats he was about to unwrap.

  Silently, he trod the thick carpet. He watched a shiver sweep through her and smiled inwardly at the sign of her equal desire. He dismissed a momentary concern that perhaps it was too soon after the birth of her son; the doctor had said sufficient time had passed, and Arthur trusted his opinion. As her shivers increased, Arthur’s excitement rose.

  Reaching out, he trailed his fingers through her long silken locks, enjoying each quiver of her anticipation. He had to force himself to move slowly. He wanted nothing more than to crush her body to his, to push her down into the billowy bed and bury himself within her, but he knew restraint was required.

  He brought her burned palm to his lips and kissed it. Then, running his fingers deeper into her hair, he pulled her forward. She came willingly. He could feel the fullness of her breasts, the pebble hard nipples pressing into his chest. Lowering his mouth to hers he stroked his tongue over her lips, struggling not to push too fast. He felt her tremor before she parted beneath him, inviting him in. He wrapped his hands tightly in her hair, anchoring her still, before delving into that sweet mouth. She tasted of sweets and spice, and the very flavor of femininity. He breathed deeply, inhaling the lavender that clung to her, before giving up all thought as he plundered her delicate lips. She melted against him like beeswax in the sun.

  He held her from him for a moment, striving to find control. He picked up the brandy from the table and swigged it, wishing for the fortitude to proceed with care.

  Unable to control himself longer he turned back to her and slipped the gown from her shoulder and pushed her back on the bed. As she fell beneath him he moved his lips down her throat, tasting her, devouring her, loving her. He could not hold back any longer. He let his passions run free in a wave of such desire as he had never felt before.

  There was brandy on his breath.

  The taste of brandy overwhelmed Lily. She fought the panic. She had to stay in control. For a moment she had hoped this night would be different. The fire in Arthur’s glance ignited something within her; the passion of his kiss shattered her preconceptions of what a kiss should be.

  But now her memories overwhelmed her. She remembered the pain, the degradation. How could she forget?

  Now Worthington’s rough fingers dug into her flesh. It was Worthington inside her chamber, and terror immobilized her. The smell and taste of him surrounded her. She froze as she felt her gown shorn away and Worthington’s lips ravaging tissues still sore from nursing. She longed to cry out – to beg him to stop – but she had a duty to fulfill. His fingers slipped between her thighs. Worthington, Worthington. He was a scoundrel, he was leering as he ravished her.

  She thought of Simon. Yes, that was it; she would concentrate her mental forces on her gratitude for Simon’s safety, and for his sake would drive the terrors from her mind.

  Lily forced her body to be still and to give no hint of her discomfort. She could not let Arthur know her terror as his hands invaded her inmost secret places. She turned her face away and tried to remove herself from the situation, to pretend it wasn’t happening. She fought to deny all sensation. If she denied the trickles of pleasure she could also deny the agony that would come soon enough.

  ###

  Arthur lay back beside her, limply. His physical needs, vanishing, left only emptiness in their wake. Even in those first frenetic, fumbled teenage attempts, he had never felt so lacking in skill or in ability. His body’s drive for release had urged him to the victory of completion, but it had been an empty w
in.

  From the first moments of the kiss, he felt the beginnings of the passion for which he had hoped and longed, but just at the moment a mutual fire should have burned between them he felt Lily stiffen; he heard her little gasp of pain.

  The fires had died within him, leaving his heart racing, his body still rigid, at her side.

  A cruel sneer of self-loathing curved his lips. His body felt damp and sticky, and was rapidly cooling. Lily lay silent at his side. After that tiny gasp of pain, she had not stirred. Arthur reached out and drew the blanket over her. She started at his touch and turned towards him with huge, darkened eyes glowing in the candlelight, glancing timidly at his face.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, in a tone so morose it filled him with an inexplicable empathy.

  “Whatever for?”

  Lily drew back, startled, and he knew his personal bitterness had leaked into his tone. Arthur reached out to comfort her, but she withdrew from his touch.

  “I should have told you before, I am not a normal woman.”

  He continued to stare, cocking his brow.

  “I am not normal. Wor . . . Worthington always told me I was fri . . . gid. An icicle. I never wanted to believe it, but I think he spoke true. I should have told you.”

  Arthur rose up on one elbow, so he could look at her more clearly in the dim candlelight. Almost as if trying to hide from him, she turned her face away.

  “I wanted it to be different, hoped it would be different. But it’s not.” She choked a little. “I am not made to be a wife, but I couldn’t say no.”

  Arthur let himself fall back into the pillows beside her as he considered this painfully revealed secret.

  “I, too, am sorry if I caused you such displeasure, my lady. I did not mean to trap you in this situation. I thought it would be best for both of us. It seemed to solve all problems. Now it is clear that is not so.”

  He knew that he had spoken too formally when she turned and shrank further from him.

  She whispered, “I didn’t mean to do this. There was no need for you to stop. Please don’t worry that I’ll try to keep you from my bed. I know my duty. You needn’t worry about me. I am more than capable of doing what is needed. All you have to do is tell me what you want and I’ll do my best.”

  Cold fury rose up within him. Did she think he was some type of animal to assuage his lusts on any warm body nearby?

  Arthur knew his voice sounded cold and flat as he answered, but he felt so demeaned and affronted that he did not care. “I am not sure I understand.”

  Lily stiffened. Deep shivers shook her, and she turned her face back towards him, her eyes large and dark. Arthur softened, remembering that she had good cause to be afraid. Her husband had been killed, she and her baby had been attacked, and the culprits had not been caught. Only two days ago she had admitted she believed herself so utterly alone that it had not even occurred to her to summon help in a fire.

  “I am sorry, your grace. Worthington often explained to me that men like certain things, things a wife must do to keep her husband pleased.” Lily reached out and drew one shaking hand down his chest. Her fingers rubbed through the hair on his chest, circling one nipple, before slowly moving down past his navel to lightly stroke his now soft manhood. She wrapped her fingers around it, and with an expertise that contrasted with her seeming innocence, began to massage him.

  Arthur might have come fully aroused were it not for the trembling of her fingers and the frozen stillness in her eyes. He had seen that same expression on the face of a doe when he’d chanced upon her one night with lantern held high, an animal caught without knowing in which direction safety lay.

  “Please, your grace, just tell me what you want. I’ll do anything. Please.” As she spoke she lowered her head again. Her body jerked slightly before her lips followed the trail of her fingers across his chest.

  Surely she wouldn’t. She couldn’t mean to. She did. He drew away before she could close her lips around him.

  What madness possessed her to think she had to compel herself to do what she so clearly found distasteful? Yet Arthur knew he would have responded very differently if she had been motivated by desire.

  His guts clenched. He had not forced her to the altar, would never have married a wife who could not provide an heir. Why hadn't she simply told him the truth? Surely, she realized he would have found some other way to protect her, if only she’d revealed how repugnant she found him. He turned back to her, ready to make his emotions very plain.

  Then he saw her. She’d drawn herself up on her knees, dark hair swirling around her, her skin glowing like pearls in the dim light, and tears streaming in endless trails down her cheeks.

  Carefully, he moved towards her. He reached out an arm and, slowly, and keeping his eyes locked with hers, drew her firmly towards his chest. He could barely remember his anger as she held herself taut for a moment before, with a further release of tears, she melted against him. Her body molded to his like butter in July. She turned her face into his chest and burrowed against him. With great caution, afraid to spook her further, Arthur wrapped his arms around her and held her safe.

  He didn’t know how long they reclined like that. It could have been only a moment or an hour; all he knew was the gradual easing of her breath as her sobbing subsided. Finally, they resolved into the deep, even breathing that he took for sleep. He prepared to ease her down into the pillows.

  “What did I do wrong?” He barely heard the mumbled words.

  The briefest flash of irritation flared and died. She really didn’t know. She had no idea what she’d done wrong.

  Wrapping his fingers under her chin he raised her face to meet his gaze. Lily resisted slightly, clearly more comfortable with her face buried against him, her thoughts unreadable.

  “Do you really not know? Do you think any man wants to be approached in fear and terror?”

  Bafflement shadowed her face. “But, I thought men . . . well, Worthington – he never cared. I . . . I think he actually liked when I was frightened. He responded faster . . . I mean his . . . it grew –.”

  “Most men aren’t like that. We want a woman to enjoy herself, to want us.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Do women really like that? I can’t imagine.”

  As if realizing the potential for insult in her words, a delicate red flush rose up her breasts and into her face. She snuggled against him again, unaware of her own nakedness. “I just mean it always hurt, that’s why I froze. How could that be enjoyable?”

  “It doesn’t normally hurt. If a woman is excited and desires a man, it can be very pleasant.”

  “I always wondered why the maids giggled when they talked about . . .” Lily shut her mouth suddenly and he could see the cogs moving in her mind as her eyes darted back and forth. “Not that your maids gossip, your grace.”

  “Can’t you call me Arthur any more?”

  The flush darkened. “I am sorry, your grace. Arthur. I just hope to be a proper wife to you.”

  Arthur carefully laid his lips against her brow and laid a gentle kiss upon her velvet skin.

  “Did you enjoy the kiss? Not this one, but the one before.”

  If possible, she blushed even more deeply. She lowered her eyes from his.

  “I don’t know. It was nice at first – more than nice. It was wonderful. But then I started to feel strange, to tingle and ache. I am not sure that I liked it. It was hard to remain still under it.”

  “Who said you were supposed to remain still?”

  She answered without looking up. “I thought, well Worthington said . . .”

  “I think you need to forget what Worthington said,” Arthur interrupted, as his hands softly stroked her cheeks. “Well, perhaps first you’d better tell me what Worthington said. You’d better tell me everything he said. Tell me about your other marriage, so that I can understand.”

  Lily tightened. He could feel her withdraw from him, not just physically but emotionally, as well. She pulle
d her head from between his fingers, and wrapped her arms tight about herself.

  “I guess I owe you that,” she replied, in a flat, dull voice.

  Arthur wanted to assure her that she owed him nothing, but before he could find the words she slipped from the bed and wrapped a coverlet tightly around her body. Her features were unreadable. “I didn’t want to marry him. I did everything I could to avoid it, but in the end I had no choice.”

  “Explain.”

  Lily grew silent for a long interval and Arthur feared she might stop her narrative. He wanted to encourage her, but dared not speak. He had already botched the evening, from beginning to end. Finally, with a sigh, she turned toward the window and resumed.

  “I was fifteen when I met Worthington. My mother had been dead more than half a dozen years and I’d been living with my uncle. My uncle was not fond of the responsibility, but he was not one to shirk duty, either.”

  Arthur saw nothing blameworthy in this.

  “He didn’t believe, though, that any kindness or care must attend that duty. I hardly ever saw him in my childhood. From the moment I arrived, I was shut in the nursery, and only let out for scheduled walks and lessons. Uncle didn’t want the inconvenience of a child about the house. I never tried to escape his nursery.” Her words echoed.

  The one simple phrase told Arthur how alone she must have felt. The minx he remembered would never have let herself be contained.

  “The year I turned fifteen,” Lily continued, “he decided I should be allowed to attend certain social events he was hosting. He wouldn’t have wanted anybody to say he wasn’t caring for me properly, preparing me for society.”

  She turned back towards Arthur, her eyes cold and remote in the candlelight, as if she were miles away.

  “It was at Martinmas that, for some reason, Uncle decided to host a soiree. I was expected to attend, but I hugged the shadows much as I had as a child. I didn’t know how to mingle with guests, and paid only the barest attention to introductions.