Good lord, he wanted to fuck her to pieces. He wanted to fuck her inside out, and then all over again. “Then you must decide what to do, if you wish to stop me.”
He was bursting to be inside her. He ached beyond any ache he’d ever felt. It took an excruciating amount of control to hold himself over her, and press his cock inside her inch by meager inch while watching to be certain he didn’t hurt her more than “a little bit.” But the oil seemed to ease her sufficiently. She spread her legs and opened her arms and held onto him.
“Oh,” she said. “That feels very warm and fine.”
He could say nothing for long moments. The feeling of being inside her after the wait, and the teasing, and the bondage—he could barely catch his breath as sensation rocked up to his chest and down to his thighs. Heavy need weighed in his balls. He tried to be slow, to bring her along with him, but her wildness sapped his control.
“You’re full of me, aren’t you?” he growled. “You like me inside you, filling you up.”
“Yes. Oh, how lovely it feels.”
She clung to him tighter, so her breasts were crushed against his chest. His hands were slippery from the oil. He massaged her back and her bottom, and squeezed her tensing cheeks. Then he dipped his fingers between them and massaged her bottom hole, slipping the tip of his finger inside.
“Goodness. Did you mean to do that?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe the oil—”
“I meant to put my finger in your bottom.” As if to emphasize his words, he pressed it deeper. The oil eased the way inside her tight passage. “You’re mine, little kitten. I like to be inside you everywhere.”
“Do all married couples—”
“Yes, hush. Everything I do to you is perfectly all right.”
She gave a little gasp as he moved his finger in and out of her arse. Her hips arched in a sinuous way that drove him mad. “I can’t believe these honeymoon activities,” she said in a hushed voice. “They are so…”
She never finished her sentence, but he knew what she meant. They were so intense and risky, and so abandoned, and so magnificent. He came before she did, exploding into an oblivion he couldn’t hold back anymore, but she came too as he bucked through the aftershocks. He felt her clench around his cock and the finger buried in her bottom, and he thought how lucky a man he was, to have ended up shackled to this woman who had no understanding of propriety, or honeymoons, or what was normal between men and women.
Lord knew he himself had never really cared.
*** *** ***
Josephine ate dinner in bed with her husband on the third day—or was it the fourth? She had rather lost track of the days in their unclothed and libidinous existence.
Lord Warren had been correct on the subject of honeymoons. They were nice and relaxing, and even better, they did not involve anyone but the two of them. No eyes to judge, no gossip to worry about. Even the servants made themselves scarce, only appearing when she and Lord Warren needed to eat or bathe.
Her husband made love to her in a surprising variety of ways, and then they slept, and then they woke and talked together, and had wonderful meals like this. Fresh bread, meat and fish, cheese, wine, and fruit that he fed her in little bits. There were cakes and tea twice a day, and more cakes at night if he rang the bell for it. Sometimes they stayed too busy doing other things.
Josephine felt perpetually shocked at the things she hadn’t known about her body, that her new husband taught her with his hands and his mouth, and his own body, which was perpetually shocking as well. She had been walking around for nineteen years, the entire time capable of enormous pleasure. If only she’d realized it.
“Not everyone appreciates these things,” he said, pouring her more wine. “You see, some people, especially English people, are frightened of sex. You were frightened by things your mother had told you.”
“But those things weren’t true.”
“Your mother probably said such things so you would keep yourself decent until you were married. Older ladies will spread stories to frighten young girls for the same reason. Unfortunately, the stories are told with such regularity that women come to believe them.”
“I believed,” she said, feeling rather disgruntled about it. “I shall tell every young woman I know the truth about things, and all the ways men and women might touch each other and make one another feel glorious.”
She thought he’d be the first to agree with this plan, but instead he gave a little frown. “My dear, that would not be advisable. Only because the things we do to one another are private. They’re too intimate to share with others. Some might even find them improper, the people I told you about, who feel threatened by sex. It’s best to let each husband teach his wife what he would like her to know.”
Something in his tone made her suspicious. Had he taught her improper things? “You told me that everyone does the things we’ve done. Is that not true?”
He pushed the tray away and pulled her close, fastening fingertips about one nipple and pinching it to an exquisite peak of pleasure and pain. He had explained about that too, about intensity and sensation. “Do you enjoy the things I’ve taught you?”
She squirmed at the pressure of his pinching fingers. “Yes, of course I do. But if they’re improper…”
“That depends on whom you ask.” He released her nipple and bent to tease it with gentle strokes of his tongue. Her hips tensed, the lower part of her body coming to life as she arched against him. “But if you think they’re improper,” he said, “I won’t do them to you anymore.”
“I think…oh…” She let out a gasping breath as his fingers found the secret part of her that ached so shamelessly for his caress. “I think you had better continue to do them. If you like.”
“Do you like?” he murmured, tracing a path over and around her center. “Shall I touch you, then, wherever I please, whether it’s proper or not?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” He had a way of taking over her with pleasure and sensation until she couldn’t string two thoughts together. “You must do as you wish. I—I do enjoy it.”
“That’s what I like to hear. You must let me have my way with your body, hmm? Because I know how to make you feel wonderful.”
Yes, he certainly did. In some part of her brain, she realized he’d never answered her question about the decency of their activities. But since he was so skilled at those activities, she soon forgot to care.
Chapter Eight: Rubble
Josephine turned as Lord Warren leaned over the bed. Fingers twined in her hair, and gentle teeth nipped at her lips. “It’s you,” she said drowsily, reaching to touch his cheek.
“Did you think it might be someone else?” He arched his brow in that way that always made her laugh. Then she noticed something quite strange about him. He was dressed. Not just dressed to loiter about the house or wander in the woods as he had that day, but dressed quite formally, in a deep blue ensemble with an intricately tied cravat.
She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, for she was still quite naked. “Is the honeymoon over?” she asked.
“Almost. But not quite. We’re going somewhere today. It’s a surprise, and I’ve another surprise for you too. Get out of bed, darling.”
She gazed at the whole of him. “You look very handsome.”
Now his brows drew together in a line. “You’re not going to tempt me back to dissolution. We’ll never rejoin society at this rate.”
All the warm, fuzzy feelings of contentment bled away. “I don’t want to rejoin society.”
“Yes, I know, but we, in particular, do not have that choice. There will be gossip after our sudden wedding at Baxter’s. We’ve got to get back to London and plan some grand, notable entertainment, and invite hordes of people to our home to see that we adore one another.” He bent down to kiss her again. “You do adore me, don’t you?”
“What kind of grand, notable entertainment?” she asked, feeling a fris
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A ball, I suppose, with music and food. We’re on Park Street, you know, in a big house with a ballroom twice the size of Warren Manor’s. I think it’ll be the easiest way to make everything right. I’m a little put out that you haven’t answered my question. I’ve spent this entire honeymoon trying to win your heart.”
“What was your question?”
“Do…you…adore…me?” he asked, pausing between each word to kiss her.
“I do adore you.” Heat colored her cheeks. “Of course I do, but I don’t want to have a ball.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. You only have to be there and gaze at me lovingly, so Stafford can choke on his blasted rings and all the gossip can be put to rest. Now, please, get up. We’re riding an hour away.”
He said he would take care of everything, but he wasn’t the one everyone would be staring at. He wasn’t the one everyone thought strange and daft. “I don’t know how to ride very well.” She knew she sounded sullen, but she couldn’t help it. “Maybe you ought to go without me.”
“No, you must come because I’ve a surprise, as I told you. We’ll take the curricle.” He whipped off the sheets and picked her up, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Come and see what else I’ve got you, lazy miss.”
She clung to his coat, bouncing along through the passageway between their rooms and into her dressing room, which was previously quite empty for honeymoon purposes. He set her down and gestured proudly to a row of lace- and ribbon-trimmed gowns. One was of pale gray, another lavender, and the other two cream and white, embellished with pastel flowers.
She looked about for her mourning wear. “Those are pretty, but where are my gowns?”
“These are your gowns, silly. I sent your black ones into town and had the seamstress do up these new ones based on the measurements. Of course, you shall have more once we get to London, in all sorts of colors, but these will do for a start.”
“But…where are they? My black gowns?”
His lips tightened a little. “I don’t know. I told her to give them to the poor house when she was finished. You don’t need them any longer.”
She stared at him. “I’m in mourning.”
“For whom? For your parents? They died over a year ago, and anyway, you said you hated them.”
“I want my black gowns back.”
She felt curiously close to tears. It seemed a betrayal, for him to take them away without even asking first. They were the mourning gowns the Baxters had so kindly provided when she first arrived from India, the first proper English gowns she’d had. Perhaps they had grown a bit worn, but they suited her and allowed her to avoid such horrible things as grand entertainments.
“It was very wrong of you to give away my clothes,” she said. She couldn’t bear to look at the ones he’d gotten her. “You didn’t even give me a choice.”
“Because you don’t have a choice.” He sounded as irritated as she. “A countess cannot alternate three plain black gowns interminably, and avoid becoming the subject of gossip.”
“I was in mourning!”
“You weren’t in mourning, Josephine. You were in hiding, and you can’t hide anymore. The gray and lavender might be considered half-mourning, if you must cling to this nonsense.”
Nonsense, he said. It wasn’t nonsense, and the gray and lavender looked nothing like mourning gowns, with their fine trims and ruffles and lace. She needed to hide, or else she’d be studied and scrutinized as she was in India for so many years. She stared at the loathsome, beautiful things until tears blurred her vision.
“I thought you would be happy,” he said in a hurt voice. “I thought the dressmaker did very well in the colors, for your eyes and your hair. You’re going to wear these gowns, Josephine.”
He said it in the same way he had said poor behavior has consequences that day in the woods. She put her face in her hands and tried to master her feelings, but the tears overflowed anyway. That tone of his frightened her. Balls frightened her, and society, and finely dressed husbands, and exquisitely crafted frocks.
“Wear the gray, if you’re going to get upset,” he said gruffly. “It’s the closest to black. There are new stays too, and stockings, and slippers to match.”
“Thank you,” she choked out.
“I’ll send one of Minette’s maids to help you dress. I suppose you must have your own lady’s maid when we get to London.” She heard him turn to go, but then he came back and took her arm. He embraced her, pressing his cheek against hers while she stood there feeling naked and scared. “I’m sorry. I never imagined you’d react this way.”
That only made her feel worse. Yes, she was so hopelessly strange. He dug in his pocket for a square of linen and dabbed at her cheeks. “Perhaps you only need some fresh air and sunshine. I’ll have them put a team to the curricle, if you’ll come down when you’re ready.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
He tipped her chin up. “Don’t ‘my lord’ me right now, if you please. I’m not scolding.” He bit his lip, staring at her in a disconcerting way. “I’m only trying to understand you.”
Josephine wished him the best of luck with that. Most times, she couldn’t even understand herself.
*** *** ***
Soon afterward, they set out in the curricle on his “surprise” journey. Lord Warren took the ribbons, since there was no room for a groom on the sleek conveyance. He handled the spirited horses with the same nonchalant expertise he displayed in everything else. She sat beside him in her elegant new silver dress. He had called it gray to make her feel better, but it was silver, with iridescent pearl trim. It must have cost a fortune, and she’d sobbed over it like some sort of madwoman.
She still felt unsettled by his words. You weren’t in mourning, Josephine. You were in hiding. He dissected her so easily, with his blunt, blasé facility. He dug down to her truths and flung them at her, but she had no such ability to understand him.
No, she only knew that he was rich, and skilled at bed play, and good with horses. Now and again he looked down at her and smiled, but most of the time he kept his eyes on the bumpy country roads. It was a pleasant spring day, not too chilly, but not too warm either. It seemed all of England waited to bloom, with unexpected color peeking out here and there.
“We’ve nearly arrived, I think,” he said, after an hour or so had passed.
“Where are we going?”
“Shall I ruin the surprise?”
“I’m curious,” she said in a pleading tone.
He smiled. “We’re headed to Maitland Glen and the surrounding barony, if I haven’t lost my way.”
She was too shocked at first to respond. “Maitland Glen? My father’s home?”
“Your home now. It’s not so distant from my country estate. Close enough to visit, on any account. Don’t you wish to see it?”
She blinked at him. “Of course I do. I just didn’t know it was so close.” Her voice trailed off at the end. How paltry, to not know where her holdings lay, when she had been the baroness for over a year. She only had the vaguest notion to what part of England Lord Warren had brought her when he married her, but now she realized that yes, their properties must be in proximity. She remembered Lord Warren lecturing her about the Maitland title and holdings. She wondered who had been managing the estate while her father was away.
“It’s not a vast holding,” he said, as if to answer her thoughts. “I could find no record of a steward, nor extended family interest, but perhaps it wasn’t warranted. You’ve ten acres and a manor house, and no tenants I could find.”
“You looked?”
“I had someone look into it, yes. The Maitland barony is a modest estate, but it’s your own, and I thought it might be pleasant to see it before we head back to London.”
The surrounding countryside seemed different now that he’d said where they were headed. She had a house nearby, and no idea what it looked like. She hadn’t been back to Maitland Glen since she was a very young child. She was excited to see it, and scared, and nervous that she wouldn’t remember anything about it. Wasn’t ten acres awfully small for an estate? By the time he slowed and started looking in earnest for the boundaries of her property, her mind was a muddle of hot, anxious thoughts.
He stopped for directions in a village, and was motioned a little ways on, to the rim of the valley beyond the old barrow. It was there they came upon a very decrepit and crumbling manor house on the edge of an overgrown field. It was fenced, with an iron gate and a weather-pocked sign bearing the Maitland family crest.
She had hoped this wasn’t it, that there was some mistake. This couldn’t possibly be her ancestral home, not this sad little pile of rocks. The walls, where one could see them, were light brick, bleached by decades of sun. The cobbled roof looked overtaken by moss, and only half the small, leaded-pane windows were intact. A dense wooded area stretched behind the manor, having encroached along both sides so that the walls and eaves of the house abounded with vines.
“Shall we have a look inside?” he said in a bright voice, as if the home were not a complete disaster. Part of her loved him for it. Part of her felt cold and ill and sickeningly disappointed. Baroness Maitland indeed.
“I thought the estate house would be bigger. That there would be more land,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I gather it’s been sold off in parcels.” Warren whacked at weeds and shrubs as they traversed what used to be a courtyard. “But you’ve plenty of money in the bank. If you like, we can set about buying them back.”
She cast a look at the appalling house. “I don’t know why we would.”
She stopped at the great wood door. They hadn’t a key, but Warren gave a smart shove to the lock and the door’s frame gave way. Windows threw light onto dusty stone floors and disarranged furnishings. White covers glowed ghostly in the dim interior, draped over tables and sofas. Chairs were stacked in corners, and half burned candles waited in lamps, their wicks obscured with many years’ worth of dust. Josephine looked around and tried to remember it, any of it.
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